For Eric's Sake (10 page)

"How ya doin', babe?" he asked, as always.

"Just fine." She always lied. "I was hoping you might have some modeling assignments for me. It's been over a month since—"

"Aw, babe, you know how it is."

No, I don't
, she thought.
I'm trying to figure it out
.

"They just don't ask much for girls with your hair color. All the photographers want blondes these days. Did you ever think of dying your hair?" he suggested.

"If it would help, I would. But I just don't see—"

"And it's your height. They like them tall and skinny. Back to the Twiggy look."

"But I keep seeing all these girls with dark hair and…" her voice trailed off.

He would have an answer if she said she could change her hair color at will. It was getting discouraging to talk to her agent these days, and that was a shame. It used to excite her so much just to hear all the enthusiasm he had about her future. But that was before she had paid her registration fee. She had later learned— the hard way—that most agents work solely on a commission from the work they get for a model. He had already gotten her all the work he had guaranteed he could get for her, and since that time the assignments had dwindled more each month while his excuses became more inventive.

"Look," she said finally, mustering the courage to tell him exactly what she thought, "I just don't think you're doing the job you're supposed to be doing for me. I'm not like some of these girls who are working two jobs and have to maneuver around their delicate schedules to accept modeling positions. I can go anywhere, anytime. I have my own car. I don't have to wait for taxis or buses. I can do my own makeup and hair and change it enough to look like several different people. Why can't you get me more jobs?" The speech was against her nature, but maybe she was becoming more outspoken—she could thank Shaw for that influence.

"Well, I'll level with you, babe. It's your composite."

A mental image of her representative photographs flashed through her mind. "What's wrong with it?"

"The pictures… they're just not up to professional quality," he explained.

She had to admit some of the shots were not too flattering, but she had put together the best photos she could get at the time with the help of the only photographer she could afford.

"If I don't have a good composite to present to a client, they're not going to want to use the girl. Now, if you had another composite made, one a little bit more revealing of your, ahem, character, I might be able to get you more work. Find a good photographer and lay out some money on a top-notch composite. You know what they say—"

"No, I don't," she pouted, remembering the cost that had been involved with that first composite.

"You have to spend money to make money."

She sighed. That was just what she needed to hear right now. Still, she had to agree her composite didn't look as slick as those of some of the girls' that she had met during assignments.

Her agent hemmed and hawed with a few more excuses a while longer. He would not promise anything, but said he would see if he could get her a job or two to help pay the bills if she would just get another composite done.

Brandy sank into the sofa after the phone call. Even if she could get the photos shot tonight, it would be weeks before she could give her agent a new composite. Weeks without work. Now, more than ever, it seemed to her as if Shaw Janus was not only Eric's last hope, but her own as well.

She drove to her apartment a few hours later, and stuffed as many of her belongings as she could manage into her car. Her landlady was out, so she left a note saying she'd try to stop by for tea one afternoon, and that Shaw would help her move the rest of her belongings out of the way that weekend. She didn't doubt that people would be lining up for the charming little efficiency. It was in one of the best neighborhoods and, at least when she was renting, priced way below anything of lesser quality that she had found. As Brandy drove away, she wondered where she would find to live once Shaw divorced her. It didn't do much good worrying about it now, but she couldn't help herself. Since Eric had come to her, she seemed to do nothing but worry.

She even worried about what to fix for Shaw's supper that night. Meat and potatoes, he had said. It sounded dull to her, even if it was a chance to eat real meat rather than cheaper cuts of chicken or fish. She had thrown a few of her favorite cookbooks into the car; perhaps she could find some exotic way to spice up the meat and serve the potatoes with a flair.

She picked up Eric from school and tried to pump him again about what he and Shaw had talked about concerning her, but he was involved with thoughts of an upcoming school outing to an amusement park, and it was all she could do to work in a casual "Hello."

Dinner was simmering in its last stages on the stove when Brandy heard Shaw's key in the lock. She wondered if she should rush to greet him at the door. A loving wife would, but she didn't want him to get the wrong idea.

She stood in the doorway of the kitchen as he came in, and smiled. It wouldn't help any of them to look glum. Besides, she had gone to the trouble of cooking this meal for him.

He wasn't frowning, and she took that for a good sign. But he didn't respond to her smile. "How was your day?" she asked, for lack of a better opening.

"Peachy keen," he answered sarcastically.

She kept her lips fixed in a smile, watching him wearily shed his tie and jacket and drop his briefcase on the bureau. What would it take to perk him up? she wondered, then arrived at the logical suggestion. "Would you like a drink?"

His eyes nailed her to the wall. "I'm beginning to wonder if I should ever accept a drink from a stranger again. You, in particular."

"Oh." She dropped the smile altogether. "Because I got you drunk last time."

The memory did not amuse him.

"How about some lemonade?" she offered hesitantly.

"Scotch will be fine." He sprawled on the couch and kicked off his shoes. "Well?" he goaded as she hovered in the doorway. "What are you waiting for?"

"Where do you keep it?"

"I thought you would have run across it by now. In the kitchen cabinet over the dishwasher, next to the cooking sherry."

Brandy found the cabinet and glasses, filled his with Scotch, and hers and Eric's with lemonade.

"Are you hungry?" she asked Shaw as she handed him his drink.

"You shouldn't have bothered cooking," he returned. "I could have gotten something at the restaurant."

But he hadn't. She asked, "Are you going out later?"

"Maybe." He sniffed the air. "What's for supper?"

"Meat and potatoes."

"Doesn't smell like any kind of meat and potatoes I ever ate."

Brandy sighed. She could tell it would be a real educational process to change his eating habits. Why should she bother? she wondered. It would only be for a few months, but right now it was the only way she could think of to tell him how grateful she was. "The potatoes are au gratin."

"I think I've run across something like that on a menu once or twice. Do you cook like this all the time?"

"When I have time, I like to. But not when it's just for me. It's not too much fun eating alone," she added.

"That it is not." He downed the rest of his Scotch and held out his glass for another.

"Sure?" She didn't want to be accused of taking advantage of him again.

"One more, but I'll take it after I shower."

Brandy held her breath, half expecting him to make some kind of remark about her joining him to scrub his back, but whether he was thinking in terms of Eric's impressions or just too tired to banter with her, he left the living room without a further word.

In the kitchen Brandy finished making salad, then laid the napkins beside the plates. If she couldn't earn her own way with her modeling, at least she could keep Shaw's apartment clean and meals on the table. Maybe he would eventually realize having her around was not going to be such a traumatic experience. Time would tell.

"What would you like for dinner tomorrow night?" Brandy asked Shaw as he lingered over a second cup of coffee after dinner. Their conversation over the meal had been quite civilized, and even Eric had joined in with chatter about his day in school and how all the boys in his class had reacted to the news of Shaw's airplane and his promise to take Eric for a ride.

Eric sat in front of the television set, his lessons finished, eating a bowl of ice cream while Brandy and Shaw shared coffee at the kitchen table.

"I don't know," he said, "I may not be home tomorrow night."

"Can I fix something cold, then, that you could eat at any time after you arrive home?"

"Don't bother."

"It's no bother." She smiled, eager to please him. He had been so nice over dinner, taking such an interest in Eric's school day. She wanted to show him how much she appreciated that. "I could fix some tuna salad or—"

"I said, don't bother."

Brandy paused. She was beginning to see the "Jekyll and Hyde" in his personality, and she could not understand it. "What's the matter, Shaw?" Her eyes revealed her concern, but Shaw interpreted it as a look of pity.

"I'm not sure how much of this domestic scene I can take," he flared. "You don't look the part—washing, scrubbing, cooking, and cleaning."

"I was raised to do my own housekeeping. I don't mind."

"Well I do," he said. "I don't need a housekeeper. I already have one. She comes in whenever I call her. And as far as a cook—I've eaten most of my meals out."

"But you don't have to now. I love to cook." She wanted to add how much she had enjoyed the look of awe mingled with appreciation on his face when he tasted her meal this evening, but he interrupted her.

"Let me put it this way," he grated, speaking slowly so that she would not miss a word he said. "The day I accept you as my housewife, there are going to be a lot of other rights included with that role."

Brandy blushed. The tension was between them again, thick and heavy as pea soup. For Brandy it was a threat, but Shaw didn't know that. "I thought we settled that last night."

"Did we? In what way?"

Brandy started picking up the plates to keep from looking at the way he was seeing her, without clothes, across the living room, in his bed. He reached out, his hand on hers, forcing her to look at him and face his question.

"I, we," she faltered, "I mean, you said you didn't want me restricting your life. Fine. Then I want the same rights. I don't care to sleep with you."

She held her breath, wondering how she was going to have the nerve to reinforce her feelings with reason. If she told him that he had not actually consummated the marriage the first night, that all that bound them together was a slip of paper, however legally it was signed and filed, then she might as well say goodbye to his aid with Eric's custody case. All that bound him to her was some sense of righteousness he vaguely felt for having slept with her. He felt guilty about that, confused, too, about how it had all happened, but that guilt and confusion were the paste and glue that held him to her in marriage. To admit that he did not owe her a thing would be admitting defeat. And she couldn't do that when he seemed to be accepting the idea.

He wasn't taking her answer very well. "I won't force you." He stared right through her. "I tried that last night and I've never needed to force a woman to love me. However," he smiled, infuriating Brandy with his smug look, "I don't think you'll mind too much. You didn't put up a very convincing fight last night."

"That's only because I hadn't had time to think everything through," she retorted. "But today I have, and I don't feel it's necessary to be bribed into bed with you. Either you want to help me as far as Eric is concerned, or you don't. Your bed is not going to be part of the bargain. I'll sleep with Eric."

Shaw lounged back in his chair absorbing all that she said. "I've already said I won't force you. I don't think I'll have to. You'll come willingly enough."

"Don't hold your breath waiting."

"I won't. But don't be surprised when you find yourself in my bed—for Eric's sake."

Brandy didn't like the way he was smiling at her. As if he knew something she didn't. She wondered if it could have anything to do with the little talk he had with Eric about her this morning. What could Eric have possibly told him?

She picked up the plates with a clatter that nearly broke them. "You may have most women wrapped around your little finger, Shaw Janus, but I'm not in the same class as them. I will not be bribed or blackmailed or badgered into your bed."

"No," he smiled. "Logic is more appealing to you, isn't it?"

"I do think I have a rather practical mind." Somehow that practicality had gotten her involved with this man. She did, at times, have reason to doubt the workings of her own mind.

"I think you'll see how logical it is for you to share my bed."

Brandy didn't answer him.

"It all depends on how important it is for you to keep Eric with you."

"You know that's the most important thing in the world to me."

"I'm counting on it. By the way," he stood, watching her with the dishes, picturing her in an entirely different setting. "I stopped by your apartment."

"Did you? What for?" She turned around, suds dripping from her hands. "I went by today, too."

"I thought I might be able to put a few more things into my car, but your landlady was out and I didn't have the key."

"Oh, dear. I'm sorry you went over there for nothing."

"I did get your mail." He pulled the few letters out of his pocket. She had noticed them during dinner, but thought they belonged to him. "One looks fairly important."

"Which?" she bristled, annoyed that he had, if not read her mail, checked over each piece. Their hands brushed, and lingered in the exchange of envelopes. "Oh," she sank down in the nearest chair. "It's something to do with Eric's custody case."

"Shall I open it for you?" he asked, when she made no move to unseal the letter. Brandy silently handed the envelope back to him, glad that he could take charge. Just the thought of losing Eric upset her and the less she dwelt on the legalities to be faced, the happier she could pretend to be.