The Man in the Net Read Free

he watched her, John thought suddenly: Isn’t it all a bit too much? Weren’t her eyes a little too bright? Hadn’t the crack about him and the children revealed its malice a shade too obviously? Had she had a drink in Pittsfield?
    The moment the thought came, he hated himself. He knew it was as destructive for him as for her to have these constant suspicions. But once the worm of doubt had slid in, it couldn’t be dislodged. For almost a week now, ever since the failure of the show had been definitely established, she had been on the verge. He knew the symptoms so well.
    Steve left surprisingly soon, refusing a second beer. Linda went with him to the kitchen door.
    “How boring you have to rush off. You will come again soon, won’t you? Promise me, Steve.”
    From the living-room John heard his wife’s caressing, almost flirtatious voice and then heard the slam of the screen door. Linda didn’t come back immediately. She must be standing at the door waving goodbye.
    Holding his beer, John sat down on the arm of a chair. It had come to him, with a returning stir of panic, that this was probably the most important moment of his life. If he let himself down now, through cowardice or fake humility or diseased concern for Linda, he was through.
    Pray God she hasn’t started to drink, he thought. And then, with savage self-contempt: What’s the matter with me? Do I just pretend I’m sorry for my wife? Am I really afraid of her? Have I come as close as this to the breaking point?

2
    HE COULD hear Steve’s car moving away past the wall of the studio when Linda finally returned. The cigarette was dangling from her lower lip and her forehead was creased in a comedy scowl.
    “Those poor dear boring clods! What have I done to deserve them?” The frown smoothed away and she smiled a quick, affectionate smile. “Darling, you’d better be thinking about changing. We’d got to be at Vickie’s party by six.”
    He’d forgotten Vickie Carey’s birthday party. Why was there always some little extra thing to make it worse? Should he postpone it then? No. To hell with the party.
    “Look, darling. Look, John. Look at me.” Linda touched his wrist and then, picking up folds of skirt in each hand, pirouetted in front of him. “Do you like me? Do you like my new hair?”
    The very faintest hint of thickening in her voice told him the story. It had started. He was sure of it now. He felt a flattening exhaustion. She began to dance around the shabby wicker furniture.
    “There’s a new girl at Madame Helene’s. She did my hair for the first time today. She said she found some grey hairs.” Linda let the folds of skirt drop and came back to him. “Darling, do you see them? Look, can you see the grey hairs? Here?” She raised a hand to her temple. “I can’t. I swear I can’t. It’s the sun, isn’t it? You know how the sun always bleaches it out in summer.”
    He could see the grey hairs. There were only a few of them and they were hardly visible, but they were there. So that’s what had done it, he thought. Just a chance remark from a tactless girl had been enough. That was why she’d been making such charm to Steve, too. She’d been defying the girl, reassuring herself. Why did he always have to understand her so well? And why, understanding her, did he still find it so touching? Other women got grey hairs. They didn’t have to be lied to, propitiated, bolstered.
    “That girl should be fired,” he said lightly, making a joke of it. “If you’ve got any grey hairs, I’ll eat them.”
    “Oh, you wouldn’t notice. You’re far too sweet. But she said she found some. Not many, but some.” Linda shrugged. “Well—who cares? I’m twenty-nine. Lots of women get grey hair before they’re thirty.”
    She was thirty-three. He’d seen her birth certificate once and she knew he’d seen it. But that hadn’t stopped her from keeping up the legend. Before she could drag him