I did not particularly want it to begin now. And I certainly did not want it to start with something about Louisa.
At the desk Harry swung himself around toward the Watney-Mann dartboard and looked at it a moment. Then he swung back, and placed the soles of his black short-boots on the desk’s edge, jackknifing his long body. His eyes had become brilliant, and curiously shallow, like jewels. The leathery soles of his shoes stared me in the face, framing his head. This was grinning at me in a super-diffident way, which at the same time was oddly conceited and quite proud. I realized I was on the brink of some revelation.
Harry said from between his feet, “You see, I haven’t slept with another woman except Louisa for six years. Not since McKenna was born. Not since she was conceived, in fact.” He peered at me between his boots as if I were expected to react to this in some way.
I on the other hand did not know what to say to this statement, so I said nothing.
Harry shifted his position to stretch out his long legs, and crossed his ankles on a corner of the desk while he lit a cigar. He poured more straight whisky into his glass. “You may not know it, but I used to be quite a rounder. I was quite a womanizer at one time. Before McKenna. For quite a long time. All my life, in fact. You probably never guessed that.” He paused.
I still did not know what to say, so I coughed—but politely—to show my continuing interest. I had a hunch he would continue anyhow, whatever I did. I somehow knew somewhere inside myself that at this point nothing was going to stop him. I also knew, to give Harry his due, that in fact in that six years since McKenna Harry had spent several quite long periods away from home, working in Rome or in London.
With his jewelly eyes, Harry said, “I don’t think I’m inordinately attractive to women. I mean, no more than some other. So I don’t take credit. But I’ve had more cunt in my time than most fellas ever get. Twice more, probably. I’ve just about done them all. I’ve fucked the great and the near-great.” He paused and grinned diffidently at me. “You never even imagined that about me, I suppose.”
It was not quite a question, but it almost was. And I felt I was expected to answer. Since I couldn’t, I leaned forward suddenly and held out my glass, to dissipate his attention; and he poured for me, straight whisky, from the bottle on the tray among the manuscripts. I put in the Perrier myself.
Harry said, “I’ve found, in general, that most girls will put it out, and think nothing very much about giving a little bit of it away, if it’s to their interest. After all, there’s always more of it left. And girls learn that, fast. And they do like writers, especially script-writers. So I don’t take credit.”
I cleared my throat, cautiously. I felt we were fast reaching the point where I must answer with something. “I think that’s pretty damned magnanimous of you to say so, Harry,” I said; and peered again down at my ice, which was shrinking.
He waved his hand, as if shooing an irksome fly. “Anyway, Louisa came to me about it. About my other women. Well, I was flabbergasted. I had no idea that that meant anything to Louisa. Hell, I didn’t even know she was upset about it. But she was. Upset, and mad. Shi- it , was she mad! She wanted to divorce me. She was going to leave me. She wanted to take Hill and go back to America. To her family.
“Some sense of her own inadequacy, you see. She felt she had failed as a wife. She felt she alone wasn’t enough for me. She couldn’t satisfy me enough to keep me at home. She felt I didn’t love her. Or no longer loved her. Or, had never loved her. All that stuff, you know.
“—All of which, of course, was absolutely untrue.
“I don’t mind at all telling somebody close like you, Jack, that Louisa has always been more than adequate in the bed with me. She’s basically a real woman, which means she’s basically a
At the desk Harry swung himself around toward the Watney-Mann dartboard and looked at it a moment. Then he swung back, and placed the soles of his black short-boots on the desk’s edge, jackknifing his long body. His eyes had become brilliant, and curiously shallow, like jewels. The leathery soles of his shoes stared me in the face, framing his head. This was grinning at me in a super-diffident way, which at the same time was oddly conceited and quite proud. I realized I was on the brink of some revelation.
Harry said from between his feet, “You see, I haven’t slept with another woman except Louisa for six years. Not since McKenna was born. Not since she was conceived, in fact.” He peered at me between his boots as if I were expected to react to this in some way.
I on the other hand did not know what to say to this statement, so I said nothing.
Harry shifted his position to stretch out his long legs, and crossed his ankles on a corner of the desk while he lit a cigar. He poured more straight whisky into his glass. “You may not know it, but I used to be quite a rounder. I was quite a womanizer at one time. Before McKenna. For quite a long time. All my life, in fact. You probably never guessed that.” He paused.
I still did not know what to say, so I coughed—but politely—to show my continuing interest. I had a hunch he would continue anyhow, whatever I did. I somehow knew somewhere inside myself that at this point nothing was going to stop him. I also knew, to give Harry his due, that in fact in that six years since McKenna Harry had spent several quite long periods away from home, working in Rome or in London.
With his jewelly eyes, Harry said, “I don’t think I’m inordinately attractive to women. I mean, no more than some other. So I don’t take credit. But I’ve had more cunt in my time than most fellas ever get. Twice more, probably. I’ve just about done them all. I’ve fucked the great and the near-great.” He paused and grinned diffidently at me. “You never even imagined that about me, I suppose.”
It was not quite a question, but it almost was. And I felt I was expected to answer. Since I couldn’t, I leaned forward suddenly and held out my glass, to dissipate his attention; and he poured for me, straight whisky, from the bottle on the tray among the manuscripts. I put in the Perrier myself.
Harry said, “I’ve found, in general, that most girls will put it out, and think nothing very much about giving a little bit of it away, if it’s to their interest. After all, there’s always more of it left. And girls learn that, fast. And they do like writers, especially script-writers. So I don’t take credit.”
I cleared my throat, cautiously. I felt we were fast reaching the point where I must answer with something. “I think that’s pretty damned magnanimous of you to say so, Harry,” I said; and peered again down at my ice, which was shrinking.
He waved his hand, as if shooing an irksome fly. “Anyway, Louisa came to me about it. About my other women. Well, I was flabbergasted. I had no idea that that meant anything to Louisa. Hell, I didn’t even know she was upset about it. But she was. Upset, and mad. Shi- it , was she mad! She wanted to divorce me. She was going to leave me. She wanted to take Hill and go back to America. To her family.
“Some sense of her own inadequacy, you see. She felt she had failed as a wife. She felt she alone wasn’t enough for me. She couldn’t satisfy me enough to keep me at home. She felt I didn’t love her. Or no longer loved her. Or, had never loved her. All that stuff, you know.
“—All of which, of course, was absolutely untrue.
“I don’t mind at all telling somebody close like you, Jack, that Louisa has always been more than adequate in the bed with me. She’s basically a real woman, which means she’s basically a
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