Read Online The Bleeding Heart by Marilyn French - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marilyn French
Tags: Romance
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what it felt like to be her.
Dolores saw Bruce again, several years later. His book had brought him success, a major chair at a major university she would have had to write five books to get within calling distance of. He’d grown pompous. His hair was almost gone and he’d gained more weight. But she’d had some small success too in the intervening time, and he acted glad to see her. He took her hand in both of his. “We must have a drink sometime,” he said.
She tamped out her cigar and rose wearily. Her body ached. All that athletic sex. I wonder if men get aches in their thigh muscles. Or anywhere. I wonder if we pay every bill. She turned off the lamp and walked to the bedroom, ruminant, tired.
Yes, he probably will call. Assumes that whenever he chooses to call, I’ll be here, I’ll answer, I’ll be thrilled to see him. It will not occur to him that I might have meetings and dinners of my own.
Trouble is, I don’t.
She got in bed, her teeth clenched. She was not going to let him do this to her. She would go out early tomorrow and stay out all day, all night too. The Bodleian closed at five. Okay, she’d go have a drink and then dine out. Or if she did come back, she wouldn’t answer the phone. Perhaps—even better!—she would go to London tomorrow, she could do that. Stay a few days. See some shows.
If she did that she might never see him again.
Fine.
That was it! Back to London she would go.
5
B UT NEXT MORNING HOW was it? She woke late, after eight. She was tired. The sun, too, looked tired. That long trip to London, so tiresome. That lumpy hotel bed, those greasy eggs. Packing her bag again. Actually, she recalled, she’d never unpacked it. And she’d done what she had to do for the time being at the BM. She couldn’t really afford tickets to more than two plays. And she was out of cash: she’d have to walk to the bank, carrying her briefcase and her overnight bag, then walk to the bus, or to the station … oh, it was just too much.
She was so tired she considered not going to the Bodleian at all. She had not missed a single day of work at the library since she had arrived. It wouldn’t mean anything if she took today off: she would just not answer the telephone.
She wandered around the flat in her robe, feeling a little dazed. And all the while her mind was making excuses for taking a day off, another part of her mind was functioning at high speed on a rather different track.
It was really drab, this place. Of course the furniture was real , not American plastic, but you had to admit, no matter how much of an Anglophile you were, it was ugly. Wood, yes, but cloddy lines, chipped, scarred surfaces: what was called mission style at home, where it garnered high prices simply because it was made of wood and not foam. Cheap nylon rugs. Sofa fat and ugly and covered with a rash-producing fabric. Stumpy little lamps and damn few of them. Curtains à la Grant’s.
It would be nice to buy a few things, liven the place up. After all, she was going to be here a whole year. Of course, she really couldn’t afford it and she was fairly sure Mary couldn’t. And whatever she bought, she’d have to leave behind. And it would take precious time better spent at the Bod.
Still.
She absolutely had to buy some dishes. So while she was in town, she could just look at fabrics, bedspreads, rugs, curtains, furniture. No harm in looking.
(Make it beautiful, warm, welcoming. For Victor. Who will feel the difference even if he doesn’t see it.)
Shaking her head, grimacing at herself, calling herself hopeless, she dressed.
He will call. There is no question about that
Where am I going?
Don’t know.
She decided to let her feelings dictate her actions. She would move without thinking, do what her deepest impulses determined. She would end up at the shops or at the library. Or maybe somewhere else. Only not at the Randolph. No.
She picked up her briefcase and left. As she descended the stairs, however,
Dolores saw Bruce again, several years later. His book had brought him success, a major chair at a major university she would have had to write five books to get within calling distance of. He’d grown pompous. His hair was almost gone and he’d gained more weight. But she’d had some small success too in the intervening time, and he acted glad to see her. He took her hand in both of his. “We must have a drink sometime,” he said.
She tamped out her cigar and rose wearily. Her body ached. All that athletic sex. I wonder if men get aches in their thigh muscles. Or anywhere. I wonder if we pay every bill. She turned off the lamp and walked to the bedroom, ruminant, tired.
Yes, he probably will call. Assumes that whenever he chooses to call, I’ll be here, I’ll answer, I’ll be thrilled to see him. It will not occur to him that I might have meetings and dinners of my own.
Trouble is, I don’t.
She got in bed, her teeth clenched. She was not going to let him do this to her. She would go out early tomorrow and stay out all day, all night too. The Bodleian closed at five. Okay, she’d go have a drink and then dine out. Or if she did come back, she wouldn’t answer the phone. Perhaps—even better!—she would go to London tomorrow, she could do that. Stay a few days. See some shows.
If she did that she might never see him again.
Fine.
That was it! Back to London she would go.
5
B UT NEXT MORNING HOW was it? She woke late, after eight. She was tired. The sun, too, looked tired. That long trip to London, so tiresome. That lumpy hotel bed, those greasy eggs. Packing her bag again. Actually, she recalled, she’d never unpacked it. And she’d done what she had to do for the time being at the BM. She couldn’t really afford tickets to more than two plays. And she was out of cash: she’d have to walk to the bank, carrying her briefcase and her overnight bag, then walk to the bus, or to the station … oh, it was just too much.
She was so tired she considered not going to the Bodleian at all. She had not missed a single day of work at the library since she had arrived. It wouldn’t mean anything if she took today off: she would just not answer the telephone.
She wandered around the flat in her robe, feeling a little dazed. And all the while her mind was making excuses for taking a day off, another part of her mind was functioning at high speed on a rather different track.
It was really drab, this place. Of course the furniture was real , not American plastic, but you had to admit, no matter how much of an Anglophile you were, it was ugly. Wood, yes, but cloddy lines, chipped, scarred surfaces: what was called mission style at home, where it garnered high prices simply because it was made of wood and not foam. Cheap nylon rugs. Sofa fat and ugly and covered with a rash-producing fabric. Stumpy little lamps and damn few of them. Curtains à la Grant’s.
It would be nice to buy a few things, liven the place up. After all, she was going to be here a whole year. Of course, she really couldn’t afford it and she was fairly sure Mary couldn’t. And whatever she bought, she’d have to leave behind. And it would take precious time better spent at the Bod.
Still.
She absolutely had to buy some dishes. So while she was in town, she could just look at fabrics, bedspreads, rugs, curtains, furniture. No harm in looking.
(Make it beautiful, warm, welcoming. For Victor. Who will feel the difference even if he doesn’t see it.)
Shaking her head, grimacing at herself, calling herself hopeless, she dressed.
He will call. There is no question about that
Where am I going?
Don’t know.
She decided to let her feelings dictate her actions. She would move without thinking, do what her deepest impulses determined. She would end up at the shops or at the library. Or maybe somewhere else. Only not at the Randolph. No.
She picked up her briefcase and left. As she descended the stairs, however,
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