Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

on the flight from San Diego to San Francisco.
    Her skin was tanned and glowing, her eyes danced with self-esteem. Her peach-colored T-shirt clung to her waist—her waist!—as if she had nothing to hide.
    In the seat next to her, an aggressive sailor made inane conversation about “Frisco,” boring her with endless details about his tour of duty on Treasure Island.
    It didn’t matter. She was enjoying the warm friction of his leg against hers. She felt deliciously single, free from Beauchamp’s petty intrigues and the dreary quagmire of her marriage.
    Well, why shouldn’t she? Beauchamp hadn’t missed her. She was sure of that. And she sure as hell hadn’t missed him. Period.
    Period?
    Dear God. She had missed her period.

Boris Steps In
    O N A WARM AUTUMN SATURDAY AT BARBARY LANE, Mary Ann stretched lazily in bed, savoring the musk from the eucalyptus tree outside her window.
    A fat, tiger-striped cat lumbered into view along the window ledge, scratching its back against the open sash. Bored with that exercise, it took several half-hearted swats at the stained-glass butterfly hanging from the curtain rod.
    Mary Ann grinned and tossed a pillow at the cat. “Boris … don’t!”
    Boris accepted the gesture as an invitation to play. He landed with a muffled plop on Mary Ann’s mock flokati and sauntered in the direction of the bed.
    “Lucky ol” Boris,” said Mary Ann, scratching the cat behind his ears. Boris, she couldn’t help thinking, was beautiful, independent and loved. He belonged to no one in particular (at least, no one at 28 Barbary Lane), but he moved freely through a wide circle of benefactors and friends.
    Why couldn’t she do that?
    She was sick and tired of being dumped on—romantically, emotionally and every other way. Wasn’t it time to take control of her life again? To deal with her problems directly and experience each moment to the fullest?
    Yes! She bounded out of bed, startling Boris, and twirled around the room on her toes. God, what a day! Here in this magical city, here on this storybook lane! Where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars and cats crawl in your window and the butcher speaks French and …
    Boris darted past her, intent on avoiding this lunatic altogether.
    He raced through the living room, only to find the front door closed.
    “You want out, Boris? Is that what you want, baby?” Mary Ann opened the door for him, instantly recognizing the folly of that decision. Boris sped down the hallway and sought the protection of elevation by heading up the stairway to the roof.
    The house on the roof.
    Downstairs on the second floor, Michael was serving Mona breakfast in bed: poached eggs, nine-grain toast, Italian roast coffee and French sausages from Marcel & Henri. When he set the tray on the bed, he was whistling “What I Did for Love.”
    “Well,” said Mona, grinning at him, “a little nookie does you a world of good.”
    “You said it, Babycakes!”
    “Where’s Jon? Ask him in. We can all have breakfast together.”
    “He’s at home. I stayed there last night.”
    “You little dip! Did you come all the way back here to fix me breakfast?”
    “I have to drop off my laundry too.”
    “Drop off your laundry, my ass!”
    “Sorry. Mr. Lee only does shirts and sheets.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “O.K…. So I missed you a little.”
    Michael’s evening had begun at a cocktail party given by After Dark magazine at the Stanford Court. “What can I tell you, Mona? It was sheer piss-elegance!”
    Next to “affairette,” “piss-elegance” was Michael’s favorite word.
    “Jon got the invitation, actually. I didn’t know a soul … unless you count Tab Hunter, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    “He looked damn good for forty-five, and I kinda wanted to talk to him, but he was surrounded by GQ, types, and what the hell do you say to Tab Hunter, anyway? ‘Hi, I’m Michael Tolliver, and I always liked you better than Sandra Dee’?”
    “It doesn’t read. You’re right.”
    “Sooo … I gorged myself on pizza canapés and did my best to avoid the guy from Brebner’s who once told me I was too average-looking to make it as a model.”
    “Poor Mouse!”
    “Well, he was right! Christ, Mona, you should have jmj the beauties in that room! There was so much hair spray they probably had to make an Environmental Impact Report before they could hold the party!”
    “Is the plan still on?” Mona asked after breakfast.