This Sweet Sickness by Patricia Highsmith

herself and continued across the dining room toward the storeroom that led into the kitchen.
    â€œMrs. McCartney,” Effie called out. “I’ve been told that if you put a little peanut butter in burned potatoes, you can’t taste the burn.”
    Mr. Harris chuckled appreciatively.
    â€œOh. Why, thank you, Effie. I’ll tell the cook,” said Mrs. McCartney, her exit spoiled.
    â€œJust keep some peanut butter on the stove at all times,” Mr. Harris said, and laughed loudly again.
    David pushed his chair back, ready to get up.
    â€œCan I talk with you for a minute?” Effie asked.
    â€œWhy, yes.”
    â€œIt’s about your friend Mr. Carmichael—Wes. He’s a married man, isn’t he?”
    â€œYes,” David said.
    â€œWell, it’s a little awkward. I mean, I don’t like to make dates with married men. I don’t think I should go to their room, if they’re in a hotel or something, and have a drink with them. I don’t want to be rude to him, but I just don’t do that,” she said solemnly, shaking her head slowly for emphasis. “Not that I want to make an issue of it,” she added with a little laugh. “I thought maybe you could kind of let him know. Only don’t tell him I said anything to you. Will you?”
    â€œNo,” David said, in a different tone from any he had used to the girl before. He suddenly felt friendly toward her and almost liked her.
    â€œSee, I had the idea you didn’t intend to come tonight,” she said nervously.
    â€œCome where?”
    â€œTo his room. He asked us both, you know.” She smiled her wide, hectic smile. “Didn’t you hear him? He said he was going to get champagne and ice. That’s what he’s doing now.”
    David shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear anything about the champagne.”
    Some of her amused smile lingered. “But you’re going, aren’t you?” she asked hopefully.
    David knew there was no getting out of it, even though Wes would have preferred to see the girl alone, Wes would take it amiss if he declined tonight. “I’ll go tonight, but not the other nights,” David said.
    â€œWhat other nights?” Effie stiffened in her chair. She blinked her eyes. “Listen, I hope you’re not trying to insult me, Mr. Kelsey. I don’t have to go at all.”
    David bit the inside of his cheek. He had not meant to be insulting, only honest.
    â€œAfter all, I think he’s your friend, not mine.” She got up, and left the dining room.
    David was in his room, reading, when Wes knocked on his door a little before eight.
    â€œEffie wants to know if you’re coming,” Wes said. “Come on, old man, you’ve got every night in the year to read.”
    David tossed his book on his bed with a smile. He gave his hair a couple of strokes with a comb, standing before the mirror inside the door of his wardrobe.
    On the way out, Wes stopped at Effie’s door and knocked. “Are you ready? I’ve got David.”
    â€œI’m ready. Just a sec,” she said, and Wes smiled confidently at David. She opened the door a moment later. She carried a tiny pocketbook, and David smelled more strongly the pleasant, not too sweet perfume.
    Wes had filled his basin with ice cubes and half immersed two bottles of champagne in it. He told his guests to be seated, then turned the bottles a few times, pulled one out to feel it, and put it back. Effie sat down primly in one armchair, David on Wes’s bed. Wes served the champagne deftly—he had borrowed some sturdy stemmed dessert glasses from the kitchen—and they toasted Wes’s room and his sojourn under the roof of Mrs. McCartney. Wes poured a second round.
    Effie’s cheeks began to pinken, delicately as the rose. They talked nonsense, and at last David neither joined in nor listened. Wes had opened the second bottle,