What Do Women Want?

On the last day of May, precisely three weeks before his 40th birthday, Lance Lerner realized with suffocating clarity that his wife was having an affair with his best friend.

He had once too often walked into a room where the two of them were chatting together sotto voce and had abruptly and awkwardly fallen silent at his appearance. He didn't need a house to fall on him.

His first reaction was disbelief--it wasn't possible. His second reaction was belief--it was possible. His third reaction was rage; his fourth was a profound sense of having been betrayed; his fifth, a horrid feeling of having been abandoned; his sixth, a brief but overwhelming attack of nausea.

His seventh and most enduring reaction was something approaching calmness and acceptance. It was, he reasoned, after all not really so odd that his two favorite people in the world should be attracted to each other. He did not think that Cathy would want to leave him--he'd given her everything; what more could she want? He did not, he was sure, want her to leave him. And yet....

And yet this knowledge of his cuckolding--for, everything else aside, that is what it was--had made his marriage disconcertingly lopsided. For a man as compulsive, as fanatical about order and balance as was Lance Lerner, this lopsidedness could not be tolerated. It would have to be corrected. Balance would somehow have to be restored if the marriage were going to continue, but what was necessary to tip the scales back to flatness? Some kind of equal and opposite reaction was clearly called for, but what?

And then he knew. It was so simple, really. Even a child could appreciate its simplicity and its appropriateness: to redress the balance of their relationship (a term he hated), he would simply have a brief affair with his wife's best friend. The only problem, really, was in determining which of two quite different women that person might be:

Cheryl, the blonde TWA stewardess, distrusted all men because of the ease with which she drew them to her side. Like Groucho Marx, she scorned membership in any club that would have her as a member.

Margaret, the junior C.P.A., had already been spinsterly at 23, distrusted all men because of the difficulty with which she drew them to her side but used the guise of sexless frump to hide her true identity--a closet sensualist who secretly believed no man was good enough for her.

Lance had always been willing to flirt with other women but never more. He was afraid of wounding Cathy, of being caught and damaging his marriage, although the prospect of exploring an unfamiliar female body was so exciting to him, he sometimes found it hard to breathe, and although the prospect of conceiving and executing a secret plot to bring it off was possibly even more exciting to him than that of the adulterous act itself.

For now, though, what he had to do was determine who was Cathy's closer friend, Margaret or Cheryl, and then steer that person into the sack at the earliest possible opportunity. That was the only course of action that seemed likely to bring peace to his fanatic, compulsive mind.

If Lance had been less of a compulsive, less of an extremist, less of a fanatic, the choice would have been easy: He would simply have begun plotting the seduction of the blonde TWA stewardess. But because of his fanaticism--his conscientiousness, as he chose to view it--he suspected that Margaret was actually the closer friend and therefore the more appropriate target of his retaliatory mission.

To settle the issue, there was one way to find out whom he would pursue.

•

"Hey, Cathy?"

"Hmmm?"

"How's your old friend Cheryl these days?"

"Cheryl? I don't know. OK, I guess."

"She still living with that male stewardess of hers?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Oh, no reason, no reason. I was just thinking. Cheryl is a pretty good friend of yours, isn't she?"

"Sure. Why?"

"She's probably your best friend, wouldn't you say?"

"My best friend? Oh, I don't know. Certainly one of my two best. Her and Margaret, I mean."

"Mmmm. You know, I always thought you liked her just a tiny bit more than Margaret, somehow."

"Really? I don't know what would have given you that idea."

"I don't know. Maybe it's just that I sense that you admire her more than Margaret or something."

"Admire? Cheryl? No, I really admire Margaret a lot more than Cheryl. What's this about?"

"Wouldn't you say, though, that it's pretty much of a tossup? That Cheryl and Margaret are about equally close to you?"

"Not really, no. I'm really closer to Margaret. What's this about, Lance?"

"Nothing, really. It just happened to cross my mind that you were pretty tight with both Cheryl and Margaret, and I started wondering who you liked more, that's all."

"I see."

"Funny how I always thought you liked Cheryl better."

"Yes, it is. I don't know why you would have thought that."

"Mmmm. Let me ask you this: Did you ever like Cheryl better than Margaret?"

Cathy burst out laughing.

"Lance, will you tell me what this is all about?"

"Nothing, honey. I was just wondering, that's all. Can't a person wonder about his wife's best friends and not have it be about something?"

"Sure, but it's sort of weird, that's all. Spending that much time thinking who I like better, Cheryl or Margaret. It just seems kind of weird, you know?"

"I don't see what's weird about it. Why do you think it's weird?"

Cathy looked at him strangely.

"If I didn't know better," she said, "I'd say you were deliberately trying to get me to say that I liked Cheryl better than Margaret."

He had gone too far.

"Why would I ever want you to say a thing like that?"

"I don't know, Lance. You tell me."

"Forget it," he said.

The choice, willy-nilly, had been made. In order to save his marriage, he was now forced to sleep with Margaret.

•

One particularly balmy day in early June, Lance decided to call Margaret. He chose a pay phone in the street. He dialed the number, and as it started to ring, his pulse suddenly started pounding in his throat. He realized he was seven years removed from the practice of calling women for dates, and he had forgotten what the rhythms sounded like. When he was in college, he often wrote out entire scripts before phoning girls for dates, usually reading his lines right off the paper. Happily, he'd outgrown the practice when he graduated.

On the fifth ring, somebody answered, but the voice didn't sound familiar.

"Is, uh, Margaret there?" said Lance.

"This is Margaret," said the unfamiliar voice. Was it really Margaret or was it somebody masquerading as Margaret?

"Margaret?" said Lance.

"Yes?" said the voice.

"Oh," said Lance, "hi, Margaret, it didn't sound like you."

"Who is this?" said the voice.

Sweat suddenly prickled his forehead and the space between his shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry," said Lance, "this is---"

At that moment, the driver of a passing cab gave in to the accumulated frustrations of having been able to move only three blocks in the past half hour and leaned on his horn for approximately 60 seconds.

"What did you say?" said Margaret.

"I said this is---"

The cabdriver, clearly an emissary from a god who did not approve of adulterous affairs, no matter how justifiable, gave the horn another 30 seconds.

"I can't hear you!" yelled Margaret.

"I'm sorry. This is...." Lance eyed the cabdriver warily, then screamed: "Lance!"

"Jesus Christ," said Margaret, "I think you punctured my eardrum."

"I'm sorry," said Lance. "I thought he was going to honk again."

"Where are you calling from, Lance, the Holland Tunnel?"

"Ha-ha. No, from the street, actually. I just happened to be walking along Madison Avenue and I thought I would call you up and say hello."

Now, there's an assholic way to start a conversation, he thought. Maybe I should go back to writing out scripts.

"I see," said Margaret. "Well, then, hello, Lance. How's Cathy?"

"Cathy?" he said. The sweat began flowing out of glands he didn't know he had, drenching his clothing.

"Your wife?" said Margaret helpfully. "Tall, good-looking woman with large breasts and dishwater-blonde hair?"

"Ha-ha. Yes, I know the one you mean," said Lance, trying to get into (continued on page 112)What do Women Want?(continued from page 102) the spirit of banter. "Cathy is fine. Saw her only this morning, as a matter of fact."

"Tell her I couldn't find the Ralph Lauren blouse she wanted," said Margaret. "Bloomingdale's had it in beige but not in mauve. Ask her to call me if she wants it in beige."

"I, uh ... don't know it I'll be able to do that," said Lance. What was he supposed to say: "Oh, Cathy, when I was phoning Margaret to see it I could get into her pants, she gave me a message about a blouse ..."?

"You what?" said Margaret.

"I mean, I ... might forget," said Lance. Then it occurred to him that Margaret would now phone Cathy and repeat their conversation, and Cathy would ask Lance why he was calling Margaret, and....

"On second thought." said Lance hurriedly, "I'm writing it down. Here...." He pretended to write on a piece of paper. "Bloomie's had ... blouse in beige ... not in mauve ... call Margaret if ... want in beige."

"Good boy," said Margaret.

"Listen, Margaret, the reason I'm calling--how's about lunch tomorrow?" Lance blurted.

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow's OK, I guess," said Margaret. "Just you and me and Cathy, you mean?"

"No, no, no," said Lance nervously, "not Cathy. You and me and ... nobody."

There was a puzzled silence on the other end.

"Is this a surprise for Cathy?" said Margaret.

"In a way," said Lance.

"Well, sure," said Margaret. "Why not? Where do you want to eat?"

Lance was almost overcome with gratitude.

"How's about Maxwell's Plum? Sixty-fourth and First. About twelve thirty?"

"Fine," said Margaret.

"Oh, and don't mention this to Cathy," he said. "I mean, it would spoil the surprise."

When he hung up the phone, Lance was so drained of energy, he could scarcely walk.

•

Maxwell's Plum was ornate and cheery. A million dollars' worth of Tiffany lamps, art-deco figurines of naked ladies and sculptures of animals hanging from the ceiling looked down on Lance Lerner as he waited in the darkest corner of the restaurant for the appearance of his wife's best friend, who was now 20 minutes late.

Had she misunderstood the arrangement? Hadn't he told her, "Maxwell's Plum ... Sixty-fourth and First ... about twelve thirty"? And hadn't she said, "Fine"?

Maybe she'd got the day wrong. No, he'd definitely said, "Tomorrow," meaning today. Maybe she knew what he had in mind and had called Cathy. Would she do that? No. If she were going to do that, she would have done it immediately, and he would have heard about it immediately, too. The fact that she hadn't called Cathy suggested that she was planning to come. Regardless of whether she knew what he had on his mind.

A waiter appeared once more at his elbow.

"You wish to order another drink, sir? While you're waiting?" he said in an amused, patronizing voice. Clearly, the fucking waiter was enjoying the sight of a guy nervously waiting for somebody who appeared to be standing him up. Clearly, the son of a bitch had never been stood up himself, the faggot bastard.

"Why, yes," said Lance, with a tone he hoped conveyed just the right mixture of disdain and boredom. "Another vodka and tonic will be fine."

"Very good, sir," said the waiter and minced off to the bar to regale his colleagues with accounts of Lance's stood-upness.

Lance looked at his watch for the 40th time. It was now one o'clock. She was a half hour late! How long could he be expected to wait for her, the miserable twat? He had half a mind to simply get up and leave.

"Hi, Lance. Sorry I'm late."

He looked up. It was Margaret, alive and intact. She looked like she'd been running.

"Well, hi," he said coolly. "I didn't think you were coming."

"I'm sorry," she said, sliding down onto the banquette. "I ... got detained."

Was that it? Was that all he got after almost 40 minutes of waiting and having to be humiliated in front of an entire corps of waiters--I got detained? He was fast becoming so furious, he was not going to be able to speak at all.

"Monsieur?"

The waiter appeared with Lance's vodka and tonic and nodded to Margaret.

"I'll have a Tanqueray martini," she said. "Straight up."

"Very good, madame," said the waiter and withdrew.

Margaret smiled at Lance. He did not return the smile. She was wearing a tan blazer, a tan skirt and a beige silk blouse. She had a Dutch-boy haircut with medium-brown hair, flat brown eyes and horn-rimmed glasses. She wore practically no make-up--no lipstick or rouge and no perceptible eye liner. He did not find her the least bit attractive. For the first time, he thought she might be a lesbian.

"I'm really sorry I was so late, Lance," she said in a quiet, feminine voice he had never heard her use before. "I'll tell you the reason, but first...." Her voice trailed off, and he thought she might be blushing.

"Yes ... ?" he said.

"Well, first I want to hear why you wanted to see me."

"Why I wanted to see you?" he said stupidly.

He took his second drink and poured it down his throat.

"Yes," she said. She was looking at him very directly--almost sensuously, a slight smile on her face. And she was very definitely blushing. She does know why I wanted to see her, he thought. That makes it easier. And harder.

"Well," he said, beginning slowly, stalling for time, using the trick that all schoolboys learn when they don't know the answer to what the teacher has asked them, beginning the answer by restating the question, "why I wanted to see you was ... I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?"

"About what? About a lot of things, actually. First of all, I wanted to talk to you about, uh, something that has been on my mind for quite a long.... You see, Margaret, although you and I have known each other for several years, for almost eight years now, as a matter of fact, I don't think we have ever talked--really talked, you know?--about things like, uh, well, like the kinds of things that, perhaps, you and I would have talked about, assuming that we had had the opportunity to talk about them. To really talk about them, I mean, you know?"

He was awash in perspiration. She was looking at him closely. The slight smile was still on her face.

"Lance, do you want to fuck me? Is that it?"

He exhaled sharply. Blood surged into his cheeks and forehead.

"Well, yes," he said, finding his voice now slipping into an odd, quiet and (continued on page 194)What do women want?(continued from page 112) slightly manic tone. "The fact is, Margaret, I've always found you incredibly attractive, incredibly sexual. I quite frankly didn't think it was appropriate to even have such thoughts, much less to voice them, and I swear I never intended to, but every time you've been in our house and we've been physically close to each other, it's been all I could do to restrain myself from taking you in my arms."

"I know," she said quietly.

"What?" he said.

"I could tell how you felt about me," she said softly. "I'm afraid you weren't as discreet as you thought you were."

He fought the impulse to burst out laughing, deciding it would be a tactical error.

"You don't think that Cathy ...?" he began.

"Oh, no. No, no, I don't think Cathy noticed," she said. "I don't think Cathy would even dream that you--or any man of hers, for that matter--would so much as look at me, but I could certainly tell that you were interested."

"I see. And ... how do you feel about that?" he asked cautiously.

She shrugged. "You're not the first of Cathy's men who's wanted to sleep with me," she said.

"I'm not?"

She shook her head. "Naturally, I feel some ambivalence about it," she said. "Cathy is, after all, one of my three closest friends. I wouldn't do anything to hurt her. And yet...."

"Yes ... ?"

"Well, I knew what you were going to say to me today. And I guess I was pretty ambivalent about it--that's why I was so late. I left the office three times. I almost didn't come at all. I was going to telephone you at the restaurant and tell you I wasn't coming, that I didn't think it was right. But then I thought, What if that wasn't what you wanted to talk to me about, you know? I would have looked like an ass. Tell me, why did you finally call me now? After all these years of lusting for me in silence?"

"Um, well, because of a couple of things, I guess. First of all, I've discovered that Cathy is ... I've discovered that Cathy is having a little ... fling herself."

"What is this--evening the score? She's sleeping around, so you're going to do it, too, to retaliate?"

"No, no, no, nothing like that. Of course not. No, no. It's just that...."

"It wouldn't be so hard to understand if that were it," she said.

"It wouldn't?" he said. "Oh, well, I mean, I suppose there must be an element of that in this, you know, but it's certainly not the most important one."

"It isn't?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then what is?"

"The most important one is how I feel about you. This incredible attraction that I feel for you. How do you feel about me?"

She smiled again. "I find you a ... reasonably attractive man," she said.

He snorted with laughter. "Jesus Christ," he said. "After all that, the most you can say is, 'I find you a reasonably attractive man'?"

Color came into her cheeks. "All right," she said, "I fantasize about you a lot."

"You do? That's better. Tell me what you fantasize."

"Oh, I fantasize about a lot of things."

"C'mon," he said. "You can do better than that. What are you fantasizing right now? Right this second?"

Her face got redder. She started to say something so quietly that he could hardly hear her.

"What's that?" he said. "I can't hear you."

"I said," she said, "I am fantasizing that you are going to slide under the table right now as we're talking, pull down my panties, bury your face in my pussy and lick me till I scream."

There was an immediate crash behind them. Lance looked around to see the waiter retrieving a tray that had once held several drinks. Lance was aware that the people at the tables on all sides of him had stopped talking and were pretending relentless interest in their silverware and ashtrays. He felt his penis begin to get hard.

"I'm sorry," she said, flustered. "I guess I shouldn't have been quite that honest."

"No, no," he said, "I really admire an honest answer."

The waiter was still picking up pieces of glass and ice cubes, hoping that there would be more.

"You haven't said how you feel about what I just told you," she said.

He checked the people at the adjacent tables and waited till his gaze forced them to resume their conversations. Then he turned back to the waiter, who was mopping up liquid as slowly as possible.

"How's about I just mail you a transcript of our conversation?" Lance said pleasantly. The waiter got very huffy and stood up.

"I'm sure I have better things to do than to eavesdrop on your asinine sexual conversations," he said and flounced away.

Lance leaned across the table toward Margaret. He was now aware of her perfume. She had never before, to his knowledge, used perfume.

"Can we go back to your apartment right now so I can do what you were fantasizing?" he said hoarsely.

Margaret looked away. Her breathing was beginning to be labored. She hadn't needed rouge after all.

"I don't know what I want to do," she whispered.

"You don't?" He was incredulous.

"I mean, I do know what I want to do. I just don't know if I can."

"Because of Cathy?"

"Because of Cathy. I don't know if I can do this to her. I love Cathy."

"You love Cathy? How about me? I don't love Cathy? I worship Cathy, for God's sake! Cathy's a goddamn saint, that's what she is."

"You're telling me? Cathy was my roommate, Lance."

"Your roommate? She's my wife, for Christ's sake! Margaret, I think we should leave here. I think we should go back to your apartment."

"I don't know if I can do that, Lance. I need time to think."

"OK, we'll walk there--you can think on the way."

"I need more time than that."

"How much more?"

"I don't know. A few days. Maybe a week or so."

"Can't you think any faster than that?"

"Please, Lance. You have to let me get accustomed to the idea. It's going to take time. I'll let you know as soon as I've thought it through."

She got up.

"Where are you going?" he said.

"I'm very conflicted. I have to leave."

"But we haven't even ordered yet."

"I couldn't eat anything now, anyway. I'm too upset."

He got up and followed her to the door of the restaurant. Every head in the place charted their progress from table to door.

"When shall I call you? Is tonight too soon?" he said.

"Yes. Don't call for several days. Don't call me for a week."

"A week? I can't wait a whole week."

"Please, Lance. Wait a week. Promise me you'll wait a week."

The waiter, suddenly fearing that Lance was attempting to leave without paying, raced up to the door, waving the check.

"Just a moment!" he yelled. "Just a moment there, fellow!"

"A week, then," said Lance. "No later."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" said the waiter unpleasantly, reaching the door and barring Lance's passage with his outstretched arm. Lance turned to face him, incredulous.

"If you don't drop your arm this instant," said Lance, "I'm going to stick my fingers up your nose and rip it off your face."

•

By the time Lance reached home, he had almost recovered from the drinks at Maxwell's Plum. He let himself into the apartment and went to the bathroom to change.

"Honey, that you?" called Cathy from another room.

"No, it's the cat burglar," he said, swiftly removing his tie and jacket to avoid answering questions about where he'd been. Cathy came into the bathroom just as he was slipping into a denim workshirt. She grabbed him from behind and kissed the back of his neck.

"You're pretty cute for a cat burglar," she said, hugging him hard. "You want to fool around a little before my husband gets home?"

Lance winced, was about to make a bitter retort but stopped in the nick of time. Cathy turned his face around and kissed him on the mouth.

"Hey," she said. "Where've you been?"

"Out shopping," he said. "I had to get a couple things from the hardware store."

"Then why is there vodka on your breath?" she said.

"Vodka? On my breath?" he said. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I smell vodka on your breath," she said.

He realized that Wolfschmidt had sold him out.

"Vodka," he said inanely, "has no taste. You can't smell it on somebody's breath."

There might have been one or two acceptable replies to the question she'd posed. This had not been one of them. The smile and the playfulness slowly dissolved.

"Where have you been?" she said.

"To the hardware store," he said. "I told you."

"They serve vodka now at the hardware store?"

"As a matter of fact, smartass, today they did. It just so happens that today was the Midtown Hardware store's twenty-fifth anniversary in business, and they were serving vodka and white wine and little canapés with red caviar and sour cream. I thought you'd be pissed at me for drinking on a day when I had work to do, but I may as well confess, since you've got the nose of a bloodhound. I admit it, Officer Lerner--I've been drinking."

He chuckled and tried to hug her, but she couldn't be jollied back into her playful mood. He knew he had made a big mistake.

Soon he would make one about 80 times worse.

•

True to his word, Lance waited an entire week, till June 14, before seeking out another pay phone and calling Margaret. In the intervening seven days, his apathy toward Margaret had reversed itself and hardened into a fine obsession. He replayed the fantasy she had described in the restaurant with endless variations. It was all he could think about.

He made love to Cathy and imagined she was her plain-looking friend. He had endless visions of Margaret--of her pulling down her panties under the table in the restaurant and his going down on her, of her slipping under the table to go down on him, and so on. The concept of making love to someone as beautiful as Cathy and having fantasies about someone as plain-looking as Margaret was ludicrous, though not, he suspected, at all unusual. Wasn't it George Burns who said that even if you were married to Marilyn Monroe you would still be out trying to pick up pigs?

By the seventh day following Lance's lunch with Margaret, he could stand it no more. He went out into the street and, after losing six dimes in the first two pay phones, finally reached her.

"Have you decided?" he said.

"Who is this?" said Margaret.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's Lance."

"Oh, Lance. I didn't recognize your voice. You're back in the Holland Tunnel, I see."

"Ha-ha. Look, you've had a week now. What did you decide?"

"Well, I don't know yet. I need a little more time."

"More time? How much more time?"

"Another week."

"Another week! I can't wait another week. Why can't you decide now? When can I see you?"

"I don't know, I don't know. OK, a week from today. Next Thursday."

"Thursday? The twenty-first? That's my birthday."

"So? How are you planning to celebrate it?" she said. "Is Cathy taking you to dinner or what?"

"I guess so. I don't know. It's my fortieth birthday. But I guess I can meet you before dinner for a drink. A drink and ... whatever else you decide to do. OK, then, Thursday it is. What time Thursday?"

"Five thirty. At my place."

He chuckled.

"At your place, eh? Then I won't ask what you're planning to give me for my birthday."

•

Thursday. June 21. The first day of summer. Lance's 40th birthday. He studies his barely noticeable bald spot in two strategically placed mirrors in the bathroom and makes a mental note to consult a dermatologist about it--right after he consults a nutritionist about a more healthful diet and a program of vitamins and right after he renews his lapsed membership in the health club where he used to swim laps.

On the morning of his 40th birthday, he actually breaks down and reminds Cathy it's his birthday. Actually has to remind her. He inquires what she would like to do for dinner. She says it's up to him. Up to him. On his 40th birthday.

He is now doubly justified in fucking her best friend. It is only fitting that he will be doing it today. It is now 4:30. Feeling sorry for himself, he pours two quickie drinks and downs them before he leaves the house. He tells Cathy he is going to Bloomingdale's and Hammacher Schlemmer to buy himself some birthday presents and will be back at eight o'clock to take her to dinner.

He leaves the apartment and walks slowly uptown to Margaret's. He stops at a bar and has another drink. He tries to picture what he will be doing with Margaret only an hour from now. He tries to picture Margaret naked. The nononsense Margaret without her clothes. Without her horn-rimmed glasses. Without her dry accountant's manner. What will she feel like naked? What will she smell like? What will her dry accountant's body taste like when he begins to devour it with tongue and teeth? What noises will she make, if any, in the throes of orgasm?

He arrives at her apartment. He looks at his watch: 5:25. He is five minutes early. He goes on up, anyway. Heart hammering in his chest. Pulse pounding in his pants. This will be his first woman other than Cathy in more than seven years. Will it be heaven? Will he even be able to get it up?

He rings the doorbell. She buzzes him in. He takes the elevator up. He pauses briefly before her closed door. Is this really what he wants to do? Fuck his wife's best friend on his 40th birthday? It is. His wife has given him no choice. He knocks.

It takes at least three minutes for her to come to the door.

"Who is it?" she says.

"Who do you think?" he says.

The door is unlocked. It swings inward. It is dark inside. She has drawn the blinds and drapes. He slips into her apartment. He reaches out for her, touches her shoulder. She pulls away, giggling. He thinks he smells bourbon on her breath--so she has had to sneak a couple of drinks for courage, too!

"Come here," he whispers.

"Not yet," she says, her voice retreating.

"Where are you going?" he says.

"To get something. Make yourself comfortable."

A door at the other end of the room opens, then clicks shut.

He sighs, sits down. He imagines her in her bedroom, pulling her dress over her head, stripping down to bra and panties or a flimsy negligee. The image is too much for him. He feels his penis begin to stiffen. The room is warm. He slips out of his jacket. Takes off his tie. He carefully removes his boots and socks and tiptoes across the living room to her bedroom door. He starts to knock, stops, has a better idea. He slips out of his shirt, slacks and undershorts. Stark naked, his now-hard-as-a-rock penis preceding him, he raps at her bedroom door.

"Here I come, ready or not!" he calls.

"Come on in," says Margaret in a strange, high, possibly ambivalent voice.

He turns the knob and walks into the darkened bedroom.

Blinding lights. And 40 people yell: "Surprise!"

•

In a perfect world, it would never have happened. In a perfect world, Margaret would not have perversely neglected to warn him in case Lance might at the last moment decide to do something spontaneous like this. In a perfect world, he would have entered the bedroom before taking off all of his clothing.

In a perfect world, he might have realized somewhat before the lights were switched on that what he had mistaken for the evidence of an affair between Cathy and Les had been merely the clandestine arrangements for a mammoth surprise party.

Now time has stopped dead, and he stands staring into the faces of his wife and his best friend, who are holding a long, rectangular mocha cake with 40 lighted candles on it, flanked by Margaret and Cheryl and 36 other utterly paralyzed people who are all desperately wishing to be somewhere else.

There is total silence. No one so much as draws a breath. Forty mouths are open, afflicted with instant lockjaw. Eighty eyes bulge forward, staring at his nakedness, at his rapidly deflating erection. Eighty lungs are holding in their already used-up oxygen pending potential deliverance by means of the next words out of Lance's lips.

"I can explain this," he begins, wildly ransacking his mind for anything--anything at all in the memory core--that will get him out of this. "This isn't what it seems," he babbles, but by now those in the room have already sensed, as fans in the stands whose team is losing the championship game by a single point watch the basketball leave the hands of the team's star center and hear the final gun go off and know even though it has not even reached the zenith of its trajectory through the air that the ball will never in a million billion trillion years go through that hoop but will bounce impotently off the rim and the game and the championship, if not their very lives, are lost, lost, lost, and their prayers have once more gone unanswered by an indifferent god.

The next five minutes would be among the worst ever experienced by any person in the room who had not been in a major war. If a passing vendor had suddenly appeared with a tray of cyanide pellets and single-edge razor blades, he would have sold out his entire stock in 20 seconds.

"As you may or may not be aware." Lance continued, "Margaret's apartment happens to have a fairly heavy infestation of cockroaches. The instant I entered the living room, a roach dropped off the ceiling and fell into the space between my shirt collar and the back of my neck...."

Both Cathy and Margaret had burst into tears. Everybody else, heads averted and mumbling unintelligible phrases, was pleading pressing engagements upstate and making for the door.

"As I happen to have an almost pathological aversion to cockroaches," Lance continued, his tone now approaching hysteria, "I immediately began pulling off articles of my clothing in a vain attempt to...."

It was hopeless. Nobody was even listening to him anymore.

First look at a new novel

"She was a half hour late! How long could he be expected to wait for her, the miserable twat?"