Public Secrets

“You’re doing your best.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. It wasn’t the time to remind him that it took two people to make a baby. The last time they had discussed it, he had smashed a lamp then had stormed out to leave her frazzled and guilty until morning.
“I went to see Runyun. You know, I told you I was going?”
“Hmmm? Oh, right. The snotty old boy of the shutterbugs.”
“He’s not snotty.” It didn’t do any good to get her back up over the term “shutterbug.” “Cranky,” she said with a smile. “Often obnoxious, but not snotty.” She carried his plate to the table. She’d forgotten her own coffee, but sat, almost ready to burst. “He’s arranging for me to have a showing. My own showing.”
“Showing?” Drew said over a bite of sausage. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“For my work, Drew. I told you I thought he was going to offer me a job again, but it wasn’t that at all.”
“You don’t need a job in any case. I told you how I feel about your working with some grabby old fart.”
“No, but—well, it doesn’t matter now. He thinks I’m good. It was hard for him to admit, but he really thinks I’m good. He’s going to sponsor a show.”

“You mean one of those precious little gatherings where people pie wander around staring at pictures and saying things like ’What depth, what vision’?”
She stiffened. Slowly, she rose to unwrap the tulips until her temper cooled. He didn’t mean to hurt her, she assured herself. “It’s an important step in my career. I’ve wanted this since I was a child. I’d think you’d understand.”
Behind her back he rolled his eyes. He supposed he’d have to pet and soothe now. “Of course I do. Good for you, luv. When’s the big day?”
“In September. He wants to give me plenty of time to get my best work together.”
“I hope you’re going to include a few shots of me.”
She made herself smile as she set the tulips in a slant of sunlight on the table. “Of course. You’re my favorite subject.”

S HE WAS CERTAIN he wasn’t trying to make things difficult, but Drew’s demands on her time made it next to impossible for Emma to get any work done. It was time they took advantage of New York, he said, and insisted on haunting the clubs. He needed a break, so they flew off for a week in the Virgin Islands. It was natural for him to make friends among the young and rich of New York. The apartment was almost never empty now. If they weren’t entertaining, there was a party somewhere else. As one of the bright new couples, they were hounded by the paparazzi. The opening of a new Broadway play, an evening at a new night spot, a concert in Central Park. Everything they did was recorded. Their names and faces adorned papers at every supermarket checkout. They were on the cover of Rolling Stone , and People and Newsweek . Barbara Walters wanted an interview.
Each time she became frantic under the pressure, Emma reminded herself this was precisely the kind of life she’d dreamed of while trapped in Saint Catherine’s. But the reality of it was much more wearing, and much more boring, than she would have believed.
Everyone said the first year of marriage was the hardest, she continually reminded herself. It took effort, it took patience. If marriage, and life in general, was more difficult and less exciting than she’d imagined, it only meant that she wasn’t trying hard enough.

“Come on, luv, it’s a party.” Drew swung her around. Her mineral water sloshed over her glass as he caught her close to dance. “Loosen up, Emma.”
“I’m tired, Drew.”
“You’re always tired.”
His fingers dug into her back when she tried to draw away. She’d been up three nights running working in her darkroom. Her showing was only six weeks away, and she was nervous as a cat. And angry, she admitted. Angry because her husband showed no interest in her work. Angry because he’d announced two hours before that he’d invited a few friends over.
A hundred and fifty people crowded the rooms. The music blasted. Over the past month there had been more and more of these little get-togethers. Her liquor bill had soared to five hundred dollars a week. She didn’t resent the money. No, it wasn’t the money. It wasn’t even the time, not when it involved friends. But friends had swelled to hangers-on, groupies. Last week, the apartment had been a wreck after everyone had cleared out. The sofa had been stained with brandy.