shoulder to cry on? Could she bear to be relegated to that status, considering
her own, simmering resentment over the way he’d dumped her for that sexpot?
But then again, she supposed that she had to go to him. She’d said that she’d come, so now he was expecting her, she told
herself as she got out of the Triumph. And anyway, she’d already arranged for one of the other girls in the department to
cover her telephone until she got back …
Lyndon Tower was a Spanish-influenced, art deco building, rising up eight stories behind the palm trees lining the boulevard.
The apartment house was painted a pale lavender, and frosted like a wedding cake with statues and modernistic friezes. It
was a ritzy address, with all the amenities, including a uniformed doorman who tipped his cap to Susan as he held the door.
The lobby was done in an Oriental motif by way of
Terry and the Pirates
and the Technicolor division of the prop department at MGM: Everything was brilliantly lacquered orange and red, with lots
of green porcelain dragons and burnt sienna lions cluttering up the place. There were groupings of armchairs and low tables
with fanned-out arrangements of newspapers in the lobby, and as Susan strode past on her way to the concierge a couple of
men looked up from their reading to watch her go by.
Susan smiled. When Don had jilted her it had made her feel drab and frowsy, but in her saner moments she was objective enough
to know that she was a pretty, brown-eyed blonde. It was true that she was a big girl, with a full figure, but she’d always
been big, just as she’d always been athletic. Now, at thirty-one, her body was still as sleek and youthful as when she’d been
a teenager, thanks to a rigorous routine of tennis, swimming, and golf. Strangers she met were always shocked to find out
that she had a ten-year-old son.
She knew she looked especially good today, thanks to her new suit. Its gray silk ankle-length skirt and belted jacket fit
her curves so well that she’d made the quickest little detour home in order to change into it before seeing Don. (She was
not above rubbing salt in Don’s wounded heart by showing him just what he’d missed out on by taking up with that skinny little
Linda Forrester who was giving him so much grief.)
At the front desk she said that Mr. Harrison was expecting her, and then waited as the concierge telephoned upstairs.
“Sixth floor, apartment D, miss,” the concierge told her. “The elevators are just around the corner…”
She had butterflies in her stomach as she rang for the elevator, and then during the ride up.
What the hell was she going to say when Don started in whining about his beloved Linda—?
“Sixth floor,” the operator said, sliding open the elevator door, and then Susan was walking like a condemned prisoner on
the last mile down the carpeted, sconce-lit corridor to apartment D.
When she got there she found that the door was ajar. It squeaked somewhat on its hinges as she pushed it open.
“Susan?” she heard Don call out.
“Yes—”
“Come in …”
She entered through a short hallway, going past the coat closet, into the large living room. The walls were painted pale gold
with white trim, and dotted with tasteful landscapes in ornate, gilded frames. There was light blue wall-to-wall carpeting,
and furniture upholstered in a cabbage rose chintz, arranged around an oval coffee table with a mosaic top and curved, brass
legs. The room was tasteful and immaculate, but obviously unlived in, like a display behind the plate glass window of a furniture
store.
Susan smiled, thinking that she knew Don well enough to guess that cabbage rose chintz was beyond him. He must have sicced
an interior decorator on the place, and now poor Don probably felt like a guest in his own home; and yet the notion of having
everything “just so” because it was the proper thing to do fit Don to a tee.
“Don?” she called.
her own, simmering resentment over the way he’d dumped her for that sexpot?
But then again, she supposed that she had to go to him. She’d said that she’d come, so now he was expecting her, she told
herself as she got out of the Triumph. And anyway, she’d already arranged for one of the other girls in the department to
cover her telephone until she got back …
Lyndon Tower was a Spanish-influenced, art deco building, rising up eight stories behind the palm trees lining the boulevard.
The apartment house was painted a pale lavender, and frosted like a wedding cake with statues and modernistic friezes. It
was a ritzy address, with all the amenities, including a uniformed doorman who tipped his cap to Susan as he held the door.
The lobby was done in an Oriental motif by way of
Terry and the Pirates
and the Technicolor division of the prop department at MGM: Everything was brilliantly lacquered orange and red, with lots
of green porcelain dragons and burnt sienna lions cluttering up the place. There were groupings of armchairs and low tables
with fanned-out arrangements of newspapers in the lobby, and as Susan strode past on her way to the concierge a couple of
men looked up from their reading to watch her go by.
Susan smiled. When Don had jilted her it had made her feel drab and frowsy, but in her saner moments she was objective enough
to know that she was a pretty, brown-eyed blonde. It was true that she was a big girl, with a full figure, but she’d always
been big, just as she’d always been athletic. Now, at thirty-one, her body was still as sleek and youthful as when she’d been
a teenager, thanks to a rigorous routine of tennis, swimming, and golf. Strangers she met were always shocked to find out
that she had a ten-year-old son.
She knew she looked especially good today, thanks to her new suit. Its gray silk ankle-length skirt and belted jacket fit
her curves so well that she’d made the quickest little detour home in order to change into it before seeing Don. (She was
not above rubbing salt in Don’s wounded heart by showing him just what he’d missed out on by taking up with that skinny little
Linda Forrester who was giving him so much grief.)
At the front desk she said that Mr. Harrison was expecting her, and then waited as the concierge telephoned upstairs.
“Sixth floor, apartment D, miss,” the concierge told her. “The elevators are just around the corner…”
She had butterflies in her stomach as she rang for the elevator, and then during the ride up.
What the hell was she going to say when Don started in whining about his beloved Linda—?
“Sixth floor,” the operator said, sliding open the elevator door, and then Susan was walking like a condemned prisoner on
the last mile down the carpeted, sconce-lit corridor to apartment D.
When she got there she found that the door was ajar. It squeaked somewhat on its hinges as she pushed it open.
“Susan?” she heard Don call out.
“Yes—”
“Come in …”
She entered through a short hallway, going past the coat closet, into the large living room. The walls were painted pale gold
with white trim, and dotted with tasteful landscapes in ornate, gilded frames. There was light blue wall-to-wall carpeting,
and furniture upholstered in a cabbage rose chintz, arranged around an oval coffee table with a mosaic top and curved, brass
legs. The room was tasteful and immaculate, but obviously unlived in, like a display behind the plate glass window of a furniture
store.
Susan smiled, thinking that she knew Don well enough to guess that cabbage rose chintz was beyond him. He must have sicced
an interior decorator on the place, and now poor Don probably felt like a guest in his own home; and yet the notion of having
everything “just so” because it was the proper thing to do fit Don to a tee.
“Don?” she called.
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