Charles is holding forth by the fireplace, in high spirits, thank God. She knows he needs this social contact, this chance to shine. Dinner parties are one of the linchpins of their marriage and, in spite of Charles’s recent railings against them, she knows how good they are for his ego-not to mention hers. At these parties they’re a team again, an unbeatable team, two talented, generous people who are madly in love.
“The end absolutely justifies the means. What matters is the final work of art, not what it took to create it,” Charles says, his hair falling boyishly over his forehead, his voice passionate.
Nina sits up and leans forward. “Oh, come on, Charles, that’s absurd. Are you saying it would be all right to commit a murder so someone could write a great book about it?”
“If one sad, starving old peasant woman had to be murdered so that Dostoyevsky could write Crime and Punishment, so be it,” Charles answers, raising a murmur around the room. Anne loves seeing him like this, in his element, the center of attention, tossing off ideas like shiny pebbles.
The female half of the cultural-critic team stiffens and says, “You’re placing the artist on a different moral and ethical plane than the rest of humanity.”
Charles is not deterred. “What would life be like without Mozart, Michelangelo, Shakespeare? What separates man from beasts? Art. It elevates us, illuminates our souls. Whatever the artist has to do to create is allowable.”
Anne sees her opening and leaps in. “One thing we can all agree on: you can’t create on an empty stomach.”
The soup is a smash, of the earth, earthy, yet “somehow Parisian,” the socialite announces. Charles and Anne sit at opposite ends of the table. The screenwriter, who is at Anne’s left, has twinkly eyes that make Anne wonder if on her last trip to the loo she powdered her nose with something that packed a little more kick than talc. “What do you think, Anne?” she asks with a mischievous grin. “How would you feel if Charles were having an affair and justifying it by saying he was working on a book about adultery?”
“That would depend on whether or not I thought it was a great book.”
“Let’s assume it is,” says the home shopping honcho.
“In that case, I’d expect him to be discreet enough to let me pretend I didn’t know what was going on.” Anne and Charles lock eyes as she speaks, both of them smiling tightly.
“But according to Charles’s theory, he’d have every right to flaunt his affair,” the honcho presses.
“Announce it over dessert,” the annoying screenwriter adds.
“Well, this is only the soup course. But don’t keep us in suspense, darling. Do you have any announcements?”
All heads turn to Charles. He slowly takes a sip of wine.
“I have two announcements,” he says in a measured tone. The table grows silent. “First, I believe I am working on a great book… And, second, it isn’t about adultery.”
Amid the general laughter, Anne is sure no one notices how forced hers is.
After the guests have left, Anne supervises the cleanup and then runs herself a hot bath and soaks for ten minutes. She assumes Charles is in his office, working. She puts on her nightgown and goes to say good night. She walks down the hallway and through the living room and dining room, turning off lights as she goes. The large apartment seems to grow cavernous in the dark. She crosses the kitchen and walks down the long hall that leads to his offices. They’re dark.
“Charles?” she says tentatively, standing in the doorway of the outer office. There’s no answer. She turns on the light and looks around the room, the room where Emma works. She goes over to her desk. It’s neat and ordered, with a pile of letters, a list of things to do, a glass filled with pens and pencils. There’s no idiosyncratic trinket, no picture, no struggling plant, not even a coffee mug. Anne slides open the top drawer. There’s a box of Marlboros, a worn paperback copy of Heart of Darkness, a pack of chewing gum, paper clips, rubber bands. Anne sees the corner of a newspaper clipping that has been pushed to the back of the drawer. She reaches in and lifts it out. It’s a photo of her and Charles, taken at the library’s Literary Lions dinner. There’s an X scrawled across Anne’s face.
Her heart pounding, Anne quickly replaces the clipping, closes the drawer, and leaves the room.
“Charles?” she calls from the foyer. There’s no answer, yet she feels his presence in the apartment. She walks down the hall and checks the guest bedroom. Empty. Then she looks into the study. All the lights are off, but as her eyes grow accustomed to the dark, she makes out a figure lying on the couch. “Charles?”
“Don’t,” he answers.
“Don’t what?”
“Turn on the light.”
Anne suddenly wishes she’d put on her slippers; her feet are cold on the wood floor. She takes a cautious step onto the edge of the carpet. It’s a moonless night.
“I just wanted to say good night,” she says.
There is a long silence before Charles says, “It was a nice dinner. Thank you.”
“Did you like everyone?”
“Sure. Swell crowd.”
“You’re mad at Nina, aren’t you?” Anne waits for an answer, and when she doesn’t get one, she adds, “You barely said three words to her all evening.”
“Anne, she should have seen the paperback sale coming. She should have had a strategy.”
“I agree it was disappointing, darling, but-”
“It wasn’t disappointing, it was a disaster.”
“Charles, I’m sure Nina-”
“It’s always a mistake to mix business with friendship.”
“Well, isn’t that what you’re doing with that secretary?”
Charles sits up, turns on a lamp, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “For Christ’s sake, Anne, don’t bring that up.”
“I have a right to know what’s going on between the two of you.”
“What’s going on is that I find, for some strange reason, that having her around is good for my work right now. When that ceases to be the case, she’ll be gone.”
“I don’t like having her in the house. I think she’s dishonest.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
Charles gets up and crosses to Anne, puts his hands on her shoulders. “You’re kidding, of course.” When she doesn’t answer but just keeps looking at him, he adds, “No, I’m not sleeping with her.”
Anne almost believes him. She suddenly feels terribly sad.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Charles drops his hands. “You’re not sure?”
“No, Charles, I’m not sure.”
“Well, then. When will you find out?”
“Are you happy?”
“I will be. Of course. The timing is… it’s fine. When will you know for sure?”
“I’ve been putting off finding out. Maybe the timing is wrong.”
“I don’t have to tell you how preoccupied I am.”
“I’m cold.”
“Let me close the window.”
After he does, he comes back and kisses Anne on the forehead. “We’ve wanted a baby for so long, haven’t we? It’s wonderful news.”
“I suppose I should find out.”
“Yes, Anne, do that. Find out.”
“We’ll have to think of a name. Do you like Eliza? Or Luke?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Charles walks Anne back to the bedroom, and she climbs into bed.