Finally, he had gotten her to bed, so to speak. The woman he'd never really wanted to take to bed-- well, she was there now. He could hear Pamela's muffled sobs through her closed bedroom door. Tightly closed: he had heard it slam. He had never seen her so angry. And now the tears were coming freely.
Listen, old man, he told himself, don't start feeling sorry for her. You didn't hurt her. She's crying over her hurt pride, not her smarting bottom. You've put up with quite enough from her over the past two years. She's a woman who'd finally gotten what she deserved; of course, there were going to be tears!
He rubbed his own stinging part, his palm. He would wait till she calmed down, he decided, then leave quietly. After a cry and a sulk she'll be fine, on the phone to Janet, or Phyllis, or Molly. I guess I'll come off as the heartless brute, he thought, but maybe one of them would help her see the humour of it all.
What a strange evening, though. He wished he had stayed home, with a volume of Trollope and a glass of good port! Oh, well, what's done is done, he thought, but how had things come to this particular pass?
It had all started innocently enough. Pam had called that afternoon and reminded him it was her fortieth birthday, a milestone. How about dinner at Le Chateau? Great, he had said, glad she wasn't letting forty get her down, and it was just like her to arrange her own celebration.
Wait a minute-- had she been angry because he hadn't remembered her birthday? No, it wasn't like that. They weren't sentimental--they had come to know each through work and, though there had been the briefest of dalliances at the beginning, nothing had developed. They were still friends, but they were so different. Pam was outspoken, brassy, ambitious. He was sober, reflective, content with the position years of quiet hard work had won. It was Pamela who had left the firm to set up her own business, Pam who relished the challenge, Pam who had lived hand-to-mouth till the contracts started coming in. Even now she went through rough spots--he knew that firsthand, for he often helped her through them. It seemed he was always going out of his way to provide a lead or arrange a meeting. He had even, on more than one occasion, seen Pam's rent through to the end of the month.
So, what then? How had a companionable evening turned into a farce?
The events of the past hours tumbled through his agitated mind. The meal had been pleasant enough. True, he would have preferred a steak at Baxter's (his usual Thursday night) to the artfully arranged concoction on his plate at Le Chateau, but he had gone along with her choice without complaining. Too many ruffles at Le Chateau, too many flowers, a place you took a date.
A date!? The thought brought him up short. Had Pam actually had romance on her mind?
Of course not, he told himself. Pam? The bold, confident career woman? Pam, who turned to staid, dependable Ian only when she needed a favour? Nothing more was involved. Besides, it was probably Molly who had picked the restaurant, not Pam. Why else had Pam spent ten minutes on the phone with his secretary before Molly finally gave him the call?
Of course it was Molly, he thought, trying to calm himself. Le Chateau was Molly's kind of place. Sweet, silly Molly. Yes, it was Molly, all right. Suddenly he froze, then jumped from the sofa with a start. Sweet, silly, romantic Molly! Happily married Molly, the kind of young wife who thinks everyone should marry, including her boss!
He had to find the liquor cabinet. Romance? At his age? His hand was shaking as he poured himself a good, stiff Scotch. A middle-aged man in an affaire de coeur engineered by his secretary? Impossible, undignified, out of the question!
He began to pace the room, but quickly forced himself to stop. Settle down, old man, he admonished. Don't make a fool of yourself. Be objective. What do you and Pam always argue about? The answer to that was easy: money. And what was this row about? Money. Romance wasn't in there at all, see?
All very well so far, he thought, but how had he wound up spanking her, for God's sake? He couldn't get the sight of her soft, delicately-pantied bottom, lying like a rare flower before him, out of his overheated mind. Pretty pink panties they were, softly tracing the curve of her shapely cheeks above the dark stocking tops. Love had nothing at all to do with how that vision stuck in his mind, of course, but he had to be sure. He would reconstruct the last half-hour, bit by excruciating bit.
Part II
(Photo: London Streets by Nokia N95 User)
