The Loo Sanction Read Free

student’s wife concerned with social injustice, and Jonathan took her to be the painter’s mistress.
    Christ, they all look alike!
    Knowing that the tenor of his thoughts would be identical to her own, Vanessa shrugged, saying, “Well, at least he’s fairly unassuming.”
    Jonathan looked again over the modern daubs on the carpeted walls. “What are his options?”
    A couple were pushing their way through the crowd toward Jonathan. “Oh, Christ,” he said from between teeth clenched in a smile.
    â€œCome on,” Vanessa said, drawing her arm through his and guiding him away, leaning against him in a masque of romantic conversation. But as they turned the first corner they ran smack into a conversational group of three that blocked their passage.
    â€œVan, you harlot!” greeted a young man in a pale blue suede jacket with metal-tipped fringe. “You’ve just taken our much-touted art expert here all for yourself and you’re gobbling him all up!” He looked at Jonathan, his eyebrows arched in anticipation of an introduction.
    Vanessa ignored him, turning to a middle-aged man wearing heavy clothes and an open, eager expression that had a canine flavor. “Sir Wilfred Pyles, Jonathan Hemlock. I believe your commission had something to do with getting him here.”
    â€œGood to see you here, Jon.”
    â€œYou mean at this party, Fred?”
    â€œWell, no. I meant in the country, actually.”
    â€œAh-ha!” Vanessa said. “I had no idea you two knew one another.”
    â€œYes indeed,” Sir Wilfred explained. “I’ve been an admirer of Jon’s for years. But not as an art critic. I’m afraid I’m only one of those chaps who know what they like. No, my acquaintance with Jonathan Hemlock was under rather a different heading. I used to be an enthusiastic amateur mountaineer, don’t you know. Just puffing about and hill bashing, really. But I read all the journals and became familiar with this fellow’s exploits. And, when I had a chance to meet him, I grabbed it. That was—how long ago was it, Jon?”
    Jonathan smiled, uncomfortable as he always was when talking about climbing. “I haven’t climbed for years.”
    â€œWell, I shouldn’t wonder. I mean—that must have been a nasty business on the Eiger. Three men, was it?”
    Jonathan cleared his throat. “I don’t climb seriously anymore.”
    â€œNot only that,” Vanessa said, squeezing his arm, realizing that he wanted to change the subject, “he’s given up serious criticism as well. Or haven’t you read his latest bag of garbage?” She turned to the crisp, beautiful woman of uncertain years who stood beside Sir Wilfred. “And you are . . . ?”
    â€œOh, yes. Sorry,” Sir Wilfred said. “Mrs. Amelia Farquahar. A friend of mine, actually.”
    â€œNo one’s introduced me yet,” the suede jacket said.
    Vanessa patted his cheek. “That’s because no one’s noticed you yet, darling boy.”
    â€œOh, I doubt that. I doubt that.” But his peeve lasted only a second. “Actually, we were having a lively conversation when you broke in. Lively and a little naughty.”
    â€œOh?” Vanessa asked Mrs. Farquahar.
    â€œYes. We were, in fact, discussing the myth of vaginal climax.” Mrs. Farquahar turned to Jonathan. “What are your opinions on that, Dr. Hemlock?”
    â€œAs an art critic?”
    â€œAs a mountain climber, if you’d rather.”
    Sir Wilfred grunted. “All part of women’s liberation, I shouldn’t wonder. I hear you’ve been having quite a lot of that in your country.”
    â€œMostly among the losers,” Jonathan said, smiling.
    Vanessa smiled back. “You turd.”
    â€œAnd you, Miss Dyke?” Mrs. Farquahar asked. “Do you have an opinion on that?”
    Vanessa dropped her cigarette