Milly often wondered with vague incuriosity why it was that she, who managed her office life – and James Howden's – with machine-like efficiency, almost never carried the same process through to her life at home. On Parliament Hill she was punctual to the second; at home, seldom so. The Prime Minister's office suite was a model of orderliness, including neatly arranged cupboards, and a file system from which, in seconds Milly could whisk a five-year-old handwritten letter from an obscure individual whose name had long since been forgotten. But at the moment, typically, she was rummaging through untidy bedroom drawers in search of an elusive fresh brassiere.
She supposed – when she bothered thinking about it – that her own mild disorganization out of office time was an inner rebellion against having her private life affected by outside habits or pressures. She had always been rebellious, even perverse at times, about extraneous affairs, or the ideas of others which spilled over, embroiling her personally.
Nor had she liked others planning her own future, even when the planning was well-intentioned. Once, when Milly had been in college at Toronto, her father had urged her to follow him into the practice of law. 'You'd be a big success, Mill,' he had predicted. 'You're clever and quick, and you've the kind of mind which can see straight to the heart of things. If you wanted to, you could run rings around men like me.'
Afterwards she reasoned: if she had thought of it herself she just might have followed through. But she had resented -even from her own father, whom she loved – the implication that her personal, private decisions could be made by someone other than herself.
Of course, the whole idea was a contradiction. You could never live a wholly independent existence, any more than you could separate your private and your office lives completely. Otherwise, Milly thought, as she found the brassiere and put it on, there would have been no love affair with James Howden, and no Brian Richardson coming here tonight.
But should there be? Should she have allowed Brian to come? Wouldn't it have been better if she had been firm at the beginning, insisting that her private life remain inviolate: the private life she had carefully created since the day she learned finally that there was no future for herself and James Howden together?
She stepped into a pair of panties, and again the questions troubled her.
A self-contained private life, reasonably happy, was worth a good deal. With Brian Richardson was she running the risk of losing her hard won contentment and gaining nothing in return?
It had taken time – a good deal of time after the break with James Howden – to adjust her outlook and mode of living to the permanence of being alone. But because (Milly imagined) of her deep-rooted instinct for solving personal problems unaided, she had adjusted to the point where her life nowadays was content, balanced, and successful.
Quite genuinely, Milly no longer envied – as she once had -married girlfriends with their protective pipe-smoking husbands and sprawling children. Sometimes, in fact, the more she saw of them all, the more boring and routine their lives appeared compared with her own independence and freedom.
The point was: were her feelings for Brian Richardson inclining her back towards thoughts of conventional involvement?
Opening the bedroom closet door, Milly wondered what she should wear. Well, on Christmas Eve, Brian had said she looked sexy in pants… She selected a pair of bright green slacks, then searched through the drawers again for a white, low-necked sweater, she left her feet bare, slipping them into slim white sandals. When she had the slacks and sweater on and the light make-up she always wore, day or evening, it was already ten past seven.
She ran her hands through her hair, then decided she had better brush it after all, and went hurrying to the bathroom.
Looking in the mirror, she told herself: There is nothing, absolutely nothing to be concerned about. Yes, if I am honest I could fall in love with Brian, and perhaps I have already. But Brian is unavailable, and he wants it that way. So no question arises.
But there is a question, her mind insisted. What will it be like afterwards? When he has moved on. When you are alone again.
For a moment Milly stopped. She remembered how it had been nine years earlier. The empty days, desolate nights, the long weeks creeping… She said aloud: 'I don't think I could go through that again.' And silently: Perhaps, after all, I should end it tonight.
She was still remembering when the downstairs buzzer sounded.
Brian kissed her before he took off his heavy overcoat. There was a slight stubble on his face and a smell of tobacco. Milly had a sense of weakness, of resolve vanishing. I want this man, she thought; on any terms. Then she remembered her thought of a few minutes earlier: Perhaps I should end it tonight.
'Milly, doll,' he said quietly, 'you look terrific.'
She eased away, looking at him. Then, concernedly, 'Brian, you're tired.'
'I know.' He nodded. 'And I need a shave. And I just came from the House.'
Not really caring at this moment, she asked, 'How did it go?'
'You haven't heard?'
She shook her head. 'I left the office early. I didn't turn on the radio. Should I have?'
'No,' he said. 'You'll hear about it soon enough.'
'The debate went badly?'
He nodded gloomily. 'I was in the gallery. I wished I hadn't been. They'll slay us in tomorrow's papers.'
'Let's have a drink,' Milly said. 'You sound as if you need one.'
She mixed martinis, going lightly on the vermouth. Bringing them from the kitchenette, she said almost gaily, 'This will help. It usually does.'
No ending tonight, she thought. Perhaps a week from now, a month. But not tonight.
Brian Richardson sipped his drink, then put it down.
Without preliminary, almost abruptly, he announced, 'Milly, I want you to marry me.'
There was a silence of seconds which seemed like hours. Then, this time softly: 'Milly, did you hear me?'
Tor a minute,' Milly said, 'I could have sworn you asked me to marry you.' The words as she spoke seemed airy, detached, her voice disembodied. She had a sense of light-headedness.
'Don't make a joke of it,' Richardson said gruffly. 'I'm serious.'
'Darling, Brian.' Her voice was gentle. 'I'm not making a joke. Really I'm not.'
He put down his glass and came to her. When they had kissed again, long and passionately, she put her face against his shoulder. There was the tobacco smell still. 'Hold me,' she whispered. 'Hold me.'
'When you get around to it,' he said into her hair, 'you can give me some sort of an answer.'
Every womanly instinct urged her to cry yes. The mood and the moment were made for swift consent. Wasn't this what she had wanted all along? Hadn't she told herself, just a few minutes ago, that she would accept Brian on any terms; and now, unexpectedly, she could have the best terms of all – marriage, permanence…
It was all so easy. A murmured acceptance, and it would be done; with no turning back…
The finality frightened her. This was real, not dreaming. She was assailed by a tremor of uncertainty. A voice of caution whispered: Wait!
'I guess I'm not much of a catch.' Brian's voice rumbled in her hair; a hand caressed her neck gently. 'I'm a bit shop-soiled, and I'll have to get a divorce, though there won't be any trouble over that. Eloise and I have a sort of understanding.'
There was a pause, then the voice continued slowly. 'I guess I love you, Milly. I guess I really do.'
She lifted her face, her eyes full with tears, and kissed him. 'Brian, darling, I know you do; and I think I love you too. But I have to be sure. Please give me a little time.'
His face twisted to a rugged grin. 'Well,' he said, 'I rehearsed all the way over. I guess I loused it up.'
Maybe, he thought, I left it all too late. Or handled everything the wrong way. Or maybe it's a retribution for the way we started: with me not caring, cagey against involvements.