Author's Note: Although this story can be read on its own, it directly follows "A View of Fifth Avenue."
New York City, 1963
Stella swished the champagne in her mouth as she counted the sconces along the paneled walls of the banquet room. How much longer would Charles insist on staying at this thing? She glanced at the clique of expensively dressed women to her right. Their hair had been painstakingly pinned and teased; diamonds glistened around their perfumed necks. She scoffed silently as she took another swig of champagne. She was there for "charity"—they all were—but this business of dressing up to congratulate one another for writing checks to UNICEF felt like such an empty farce. Then again, she was no better than those other women; the price of her Chanel dress had made even Charles quirk an eyebrow.
"Darling, have you had anything to eat?" Charles plucked her champagne flute from her hand. "Don't want this going to straight to your head."
Stella smiled woodenly. "I had a few stuffed olives. Do we know when dinner is—"
"There's Judith Northcutt. You should go say hello."
"Do I have to, Charles? She's so hard to talk to." She looked longingly at the champagne glass still in her husband's hand.
"Why? She thinks the world of you."
"Are you joking? She thinks I'm after her husband. She thinks everyone is after her husband."
"I am after her husband," Charles said after gulping down the last of her champagne. "Peterson can't land that account before I do." He looked her up and down. "Your dress got creased in the car."
"Sorry."
"Go talk to Judith."
Stella nodded. This was, she realized, the way discussions with Charles would always end. She had grown quite tired of his peremptory grunts and offhand critiques a long time ago, but challenging him was hardly worth the trouble. In the early days of their marriage, she had fought him with icy silence, but he had always countered by simply making more demands on her time and her body. It was as if her angry silenced aroused him. She had learned that it was better to acquiesce quickly.
With a long sigh, she walked slowly toward Judith Northcutt and her little throng of gossips. The thought of making vacuous conversation with them exhausted her. She already knew how the exchange would go: Judith would give her a backhanded compliment and then prattle on about some expensive trinket her husband had given her. If Walt Northcutt hadn't been a feeble, liver-spotted old man, she might have found Judith's possessiveness almost understandable; instead, it was downright comical. She chuckled as she paced along and scanned the room for a cater waiter bearing food. Or more champagne.
"Stella."
Her stomach somersaulted at the sound of his even baritone. She scarcely dared turn around.
"Oliver," she whispered.
His tuxedo was impeccably tailored. Of course it was. She shook her head almost imperceptibly as she tried to reconcile the sight of him with her surroundings. It was the first time they had met outside his Fifth Avenue office—the office where he fucked her at least twice a week.
"Your husband," he nodded toward Charles, who had joined a few other men at the bar, "looks older than I'd expected."
"I didn't know you'd be here." Her voice sounded tight. But how could she have known? They never discussed such things during their sessions. He was too busy making her come on his desk to inquire after her weekend plans. She looked at him—at the mouth that had slavishly brought her to a long climax just 36 hours before—and felt her pulse jump.
"My sister is on the planning board." He plucked a champagne glass from a passing waiter's tray without breaking eye contact and handed it to her.
Stella breathed in his scent—a blend of Chanel Pour Monsieur and freshly pressed Italian wool crepe—and hoped she didn't look as nonplussed as she felt. These were the facts before her: Oliver looked so handsome that she could feel her nipples stiffen through the satin bodice of her dress; her husband was mere steps away. She took a rather unladylike gulp of champagne.
He was looking at her. "Are you all right?"
She tittered nervously. "Yes, yes, I'm just—I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"I thought I might see you here." He was standing almost inappropriately close to her now. "You look beautiful."
Stella felt a blush warm her cheeks and smiled. Oliver had never given her such a traditionally romantic compliment. She looked up him; his gaze had lighted on her mouth. Her breath caught in her chest. She was sure they looked far too intimate there among the photographers and the gossips. Her eyes darted around, terrified of encountering the shock and censure of Manhattan's elite.
"I'm going to fuck you tonight." His eyes remained locked on her mouth.
Stella gripped her champagne glass so tightly she feared it might shatter in her hand. She exhaled a long breath she didn't know she was holding and looked at him. His browline glasses framed his dark eyes; his thick black hair, sleeked with pomade, shone in the golden light of the banquet hall. His jaw tightened.
"You think I won't?" He moved closer still.
A photographer's flashbulb crackled behind her. She stepped back sheepishly. "Your sister's here tonight, then?"
"I'll introduce you." Oliver smiled. "But first you must introduce me to your husband."
She had just caught the import of his words when she felt Charles's hand at the small of her back. She jumped a little.
"Oh, Charles!" she squeaked. "Dr. London, may I present my husband Charles?" "Pleased to meet you." Charles extended his hand. It seemed to Stella that he spoke more loudly than necessary.
"Mr. Cassidy, it's a pleasure."
Stella marveled. Oliver was so entirely unflappable. She could feel her legs trembling beneath the exquisite folds of her dress, but he moved and spoke with the hypnotic grace that came so naturally to him. Charles looked like a sweaty blowhard by comparison.
"Stella speaks highly of you," Charles blustered.
Oliver smiled courteously; she looked at the floor. "Well, I think highly of Mrs. Cassidy," he said evenly.
She needed time to think—a few moments to breathe quietly in the ladies' room, to decide whether to spend the evening fleeing Oliver or hunting for a quiet room where he could fuck her properly.
"Charles, I'm just going to—"
"I understand you're to be congratulated," he bellowed to Oliver. "Is your fiancee here this evening?"
Stella felt the blood drain from her face. She looked to Oliver, who was smiling serenely at her husband. Her hand was shaking; a wave of nausea made her swallow hard.
"Please excuse me," she said breathlessly to Charles.
"What, darling? Darling?"
His voice was laced with irritation, but she didn't even bother to look back. Later she might regret having embarrassed her husband by turning on her heel and practically running through the banquet hall, but at the moment, her only goal was to find the ladies' room or a deserted lobby or any corner where she could sit long enough to figure out how to survive the rest of the evening. She hazarded a look behind her. Her husband was plodding toward her, pulling pettishly on the lapels of his jacket.
"Charles, it's nothing," she said when he was still a few steps away.
"Do we need to leave before dinner?" His tone suggested that she should consider her answer carefully.
"No, no, of course not." She waved her hand in an attempt at nonchalance. "Please go back to your friends. I just need to clear my head a little."
"Too much champagne?" he smirked.
She bit back a scowl and pretended to riffle through her evening bag. "I'm just going to the powder room. Walt Northcutt is coming this way." She patted his hand. "This is your cue."
Charles nodded and turned to shake hands with Walt as if they were the oldest of friends. Stella closed her eyes and sighed, thankful to have dodged Charles. The prospect of a moment of solitude glimmered before her as she moved in what she assumed was the direction of the powder room. She strode purposefully, careful not to look at anyone for fear that she might be stopped again. Her mission—the crispness of her steps, the clicking of her heels on the waxed floors—was strangely comforting. As long as she focused on her escape, she wouldn't have to grapple with the thought of Oliver's engagement.
Yes, she thought as she left the hum of the banquet room behind her, this was certainly the right way. She smiled as she caught sight of the restroom door—and then audibly groaned. Several socialites, at least two of whom she knew, had congregated just outside the ladies' lounge. She hastily turned to her left. It hardly mattered where she ended up; she just needed one damned moment to herself.
She entered a dim hallway of doors. It was certainly the quietest place she'd found, she mused as she looked around at what she assumed were storage closets. She pulled her compact from her evening bag and squinted at her reflection. God, she still looked so pale. The shock of Oliver's news had left her so sick and hollow. No, it was more than that: she felt bereft. He belonged to someone else and apparently had for some time. Her reflection blurred as she watched hot tears collect in her eyes. She closed her compact and buried her face in her hands.
The tears felt good. Crying had always been quite cathartic for her, but this time, it felt like she was finally catching her breath. Each muffled sob was a bracing gasp of fresh air; each little shudder seemed to invigorate her a little. Just a few more minutes of this and she'd be able to continue this godawful evening.
"Stella." He was holding a silk handkerchief.
"I'm fine." She turned away from him and wiped her eyes gingerly so as not to wreck her makeup further. "I'm fine," she repeated.
"You're not."
She dabbed away the last of her tears and looked at him. His face betrayed nothing. She had always found his self-possession seductive, but now it offended her. She was in pieces, and he remained insultingly aloof.
"Go," she snapped.
"I don't like your husband," he said, reaching for her hand. She mechanically pulled away, but his grip was like iron. He pressed his handkerchief into her palm.
"Oh, don't you, Oliver?" She crushed his handkerchief between her fingers until her knuckles turned white. "I'm sure I'll quite adore your fiancee."
"Stop talking." He moved closer.
"Stop talking?" She took a step back. "You make no mention of your engagement, which seems like—"
"Close your mouth, Stella." He opened the nearest door and pulled her to him.
"Let go of me," she hissed.
