Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

happy—shook the rattle, pinned the nappy. It was you we really cared for, Nanny Marks.’ “
“How sweet! Who said that?”
“Uh … Lord Weymouth, I think.”
“Do you feel that way about your nanny?”
He nodded. “She didn’t pin any nappies, mind you. I was a little boy when she came to us. She still treats me like one. She fusses over me dreadfully.”
“Good,” she told him. “I’m glad you have someone who fusses over you.”
He studied her for a moment, saying nothing.
Abandoning subtlety, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I hate this,” she said.
“What?”
“Your going.”
“Do you?” He hadn’t squeezed back yet.
She nodded, trying not to panic. “I think we’re … a lot closer than we allow ourselves to be.”
His eyebrow jumped ever so slightly.
“If it’s not mutual, I won’t be hurt, Simon. I just had to say it.”
“Well, I …”
“Is it, Simon?”
“What?”
“Mutual.”
Finally, he returned her squeeze. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“Why?”
“Because … you have a husband. And he’s my friend.”
She regarded him soulfully. “Do you think I would hurt him?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Then … what?”
“I’m leaving in two days,” he said.
“And Brian is gone until tomorrow afternoon.”
He peered out at the square. Chinese children were sailing frisbees in the gathering gloom. His eyes became glazed, unreadable. He turned back to her. “Would one night make that much difference?”
“It would to me,” she answered softly.
He hesitated, looking down at his plate.
“We’re both grownups,” she said. “We know what we’re doing.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. I do. I know what I want.”
He regarded her for a long time, then glanced down at the remains of her hamburger. “Is that why you told them to hold the onions?”
She laughed nervously.
He reached for the check, giving her a vague, ironic smile. “C’mon,” he said.
They walked home beneath a royal purple sky. She was relieved when they reached the steep slope of Russian Hill, since the ascent made conversation difficult, and she was hardly equipped with small talk for the occasion. Simon seemed to feel the same way.
As luck would have it, Mrs. Madrigal was smoking her evening joint in the courtyard. Her outfit was anything but motherly—paisley tunic over purple slacks, dangly Peter Macchiarmi earrings, celadon eye shadow—but Mary Ann felt oddly like a wayward teenager caught in the act by a watchful parent.
“Lovely evening,” said the landlady.
“Isn’t it?” Simon replied.
“Beautiful,” said Mary Ann.
Mrs. Madrigal took a toke off her joint, then waved it in their direction. “Would anyone care …?”
They both declined.
She smiled at them. “Early to bed, eh?”
Mary Ann felt her cheeks catching fire.
Simon salvaged the moment. “Can you believe it? Five o’clock in the morning! It wasn’t this bad in Her Majesty’s Navy!”
“You won’t be sorry,” said the landlady. “It’s a lovely service. More pagan than Christian, really.” The mischief surfaced in her huge blue eyes. “I guess that’s why I enjoyed it. Well … I won’t keep you, children. Run along. Have a good one.”
Inside, as they climbed the stairs, Simon asked: “Am I just paranoid, or does that woman read minds?”
“I’ve been wondering that for years,” said Mary Ann.
Simon stopped at the second-floor landing. “Forgive me for this, but … my place or yours?”
She was ready for that. “Yours, if you don’t mind.”
He nodded. “Fine.”
As he slipped the key into the lock, she reminded herself that this was really Michael’s place, but she must never, ever tell him about tonight. The thought of that made her just a little melancholy. She had no secrets from Mouse.
Simon headed for the brandy as soon as the door was locked behind them. “How about you?” he asked, holding up the bottle. “A small one.”
“Oh … sure. Thanks. I’m gonna use your bathroom, O.K.?” Under the circumstances, the request sounded awkward, overly formal.
Simon saw that. “My house is your house,” he said.
She found what she was looking for in the bathroom: that familiar sticky discharge, the telltale tears of her mittelschmerz. She fixed her face hastily, checked for food in her teeth, and returned to the living room.
Now wearing only his brown corduroy trousers, Simon handed her a glass of brandy.
“Thanks,” she said. She downed half of it in one gulp, pausing until the burn