"As opposed to what? To stupid? I hope I was conditional. Everything intelligent is conditional."
"That's a strange thought."
"So, to summarize: I'm emasculating, calculating, and unloving. What a nice portrait. If I was any of that stuff, it was inexperience. I was in my twenties. But," she continues, "I have to wonder if you're not being slightly naive here. I mean, are you saying you want nothing from people? You have no motives? Everybody has motives. Name the person, the circumstances, I'll name the motive. Even saints have motives-to feel like saints, probably."
"That's pretty cynical."
"It's realistic."
"Which is what cynics always say. But honestly, Kath, do you calculate everything? Even in your private life?"
"Maybe not. Not like I used to. I was a bit bad that way with you, I admit. But still, the point of any relationship is obtaining something from another person."
"I can't see it that way."
"So why do you kiss someone?" she asks. "To give pleasure or to take it?"
At dinner that evening, Nigel irritates her. The paper, he complains, has already published a look-ahead to the World Economic Forum in Davos, though it's weeks away, while there hasn't been a word on the World Social Forum in Nairobi. The mainstream media care only about rich white guys, he says. She notes that the paper has no reporters in Africa and so couldn't cover the World Social Forum. He opens his mouth to contest the point, then closes it.
"You are allowed to disagree," she says.
"I know."
"That's all you're going to say? How about: 'The fact that you don't bother to hire anyone in Africa only proves what I'm saying'? Or, 'A setup story doesn't need to be written with a Kenya dateline'? Both of which would be pretty good arguments. You could even roll out your thing about the paper's European-to-African ratio. What is it? 'One dead white man equals twenty dead Africans'? None of that tonight? Just because you're feeling guilty doesn't mean you have to be a pushover, Nigel."
"Feeling guilty?"
"I'm guessing it's over your girlfriend."
"What are you talking about?"
"The English girl. Right?"
He goes into the bathroom. After a few minutes of silence, the faucet runs. Once it stops, he remains there, in hiding. She takes this as confirmation. When he emerges, a conversation will ensue. He must be sitting on the edge of the bathtub, hunting for a way out of this mess. What will result from the coming confrontation? What if he's seriously entangled with this English girl? Kathleen is annoyed with herself-she's still raw from Dario's critique and has misplayed this exchange.
Nigel emerges and makes coffee. She watches his rigid movements around the kitchen. He acts as if he's not within his own home but trespassing in hers. He's lazy, Kathleen thinks. He dreads employment more than he dreads humiliation. He'll cling to this marriage.
"I know," he says. "I know."
"You know what?"
He won't look at her.
Before marrying, they set a policy on adultery that sought to be as grown-up as they considered themselves to be. Statistically, at least one of them was bound to cheat. So, they decided, when it happens the guilty party is categorically forbidden to let on.
"This is exactly what was not supposed to happen," Kathleen says. "I actually feel more hurt by this than I expected. Idiotic."
"It's not. You're not idiotic."
Dario's description of her sexuality crosses her mind. She won't degrade herself by demanding details from Nigel. "I want to ask you details," she says.
"Don't."
"I won't. But I keep wanting to."
"Don't. It's stupid. Of me, I mean. Not you."
"We agreed this wasn't supposed to happen, but never worked out what to do if it did. Unless, of course," she says, "you intend to make this important. Ending-marriage important."
"Don't be insane." He opens and closes the fridge for no apparent reason. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm an asshole. It was such a total nothing. If you'd let me tell you the details, would you feel better? To see how dumb it was?"
"I'd feel worse."
"So what do we do?"
She shrugs.
He tries to lighten the atmosphere. "Now you have a fling and we'll be even."
She isn't amused. "Me, have sex with someone else?"
"I'm kidding."
"Why kid about it? Maybe it's a good idea."
"I didn't mean it."
"Look, I don't want to have an affair. For God's sake. I'm just more hurt than I expected."
"Than you expected? You expected this?"
"I knew this was happening. You're easy to read," she says. "And who knows-maybe I'll take you up on your idea of a free affair, maybe I won't. You can wonder sometimes."
"Are you kidding?"
"No."
"What can I say-if you want to be that way, fine. I can't stop you, but I really regret it."
"You regret it?" she says, raising her voice. "I fucking regret it. I didn't precipitate this. I fucking regret it."
In the coming days, she is rude to the interns-always a litmus test of her mood-and seeks confrontations with reporters, then batters them. She phones the publisher, Oliver Ott, and leaves another message on his answering machine, demanding an increase in the budget, implying that her resignation is not unthinkable. She sends an email to the Ott Group board in Atlanta with a similar warning.
The way she left matters with Nigel disgusts her. A free affair-what kind of people are we?
Later that week, she turns up at Dario's office in Berlusconi's party headquarters on Via dell'Umilta. He meets her downstairs. He is more lordly than he used to be, has more confidence; his colleagues clearly respect him. He ushers her into his crimson-carpeted office, a muted flat-screen TV on the wall playing an all-news network, a Napoleonic cavalry battle frescoed on the ceiling. "Maybe you're right about Berlusconi if he hands out office space like this," she says, leaning out the open shutters over a courtyard four floors below.
"Can I order you a coffee?"
She sits. "Don't have time, I'm afraid."
"This is just a quick hello, then?"
"Just a quickie," she says. "Funny, isn't it-our offices are so close, but we never bumped into each other around here."
"I knew you were back at Corso Vittorio, so I steered clear."
"You shouldn't have."
"I know-it was stupid."
"Anyway." She stands.
"That was quick." He rises, rounds the desk.
She touches a hand to his neck. She moves to kiss him.
"That's actually not a good idea." He pats her hand but does not remove it from his neck.
"One kiss? To remind myself what it's like?" She's kidding-she releases him. "Sorry. I couldn't resist you."
"Nice to be irresistible."
"No, then?"
"Not a good idea."
"If we closed the shutters?" She raps suggestively on his leather-topped desk.
He laughs. "You're crazy."
"What time do you finish here?"
"We have a dinner strategy session after work."
"What time does that finish?" She cuts the distance between them and rests her hands on his shoulders. He places his palms on hers. While they kiss, she looks at him. His eyes are closed. They step apart, their hands sliding down until they find each other's hips.
"That was."
"Strange."
"Very strange."
"You. Again."
"Yes. You, again."
She buttons her coat. "I'll return after the paper closes tonight. A little after ten, say?"
"It'll be in the middle of this dinner thing."
"So come back here for some reason. I'll be downstairs."
She arrives as planned, and he escapes from his dinner. He leads her up to his office.
"I have one demand," she says.
He is uncertain whether to sit behind his desk or remain standing.
"I don't want to be like I was before," she continues. "I sounded awful the way you described me."
"I'm not like I used to be, either," he says, sitting. "Which is maybe why this doesn't make sense."
"We'll just talk, then. But can we at least talk on the same side of the desk? Or are you afraid you're going to launch yourself at me?" She comes around, leans down, and kisses him. She sits on his lap.