What Men Say Read Free Page B

mock anything he disagreed with. She reined in her irritation and said crisply: “Edith Wharton.”
    â€œOf course. Jane’s got some of her books but I can’t say I’ve read them . . . Don’t you think those green covers have become a bit of a cliché? I suppose you’re getting lots of lovely royalties?”
    â€œNot yet. Though the paperback is doing quite well.” Loretta’s royalty statements so far had been a disappointment, but her literary agent assured her it was only because the system was slow to cough up. Loretta hoped she was right.
    â€œYou’re doing another one, aren’t you? Bridget said something about it, not a biography this time.”
    In the distance Loretta saw Janet Dunne getting to her feet, brushing twigs from a pair of baggy green shorts and sliding her feet into sandals. Stephen only wanted to hear about her new book so he could make silly jokes about it; she flashed him a dismissive smile and began edging away. “Stephen, would you excuse me, there’s someone I have to . . . Thanks for . . .” She held up the cup of exotic fruit juice, moving sideways so she did not see Sam Becker until he slipped a proprietorial hand under her left elbow.
    â€œLoretta—you having a good time?” He was wearing wire-rimmed sunglasses, Ray-Bans she thought, and hisstraight fair hair fell boyishly onto his forehead. The first time they met, six or seven months ago and in the depths of winter, this striking combination of blond hair and permanently tanned skin had made her think of the Beach Boys—not the balding, middle-aged men she had recently seen on television, but the carefree, party-loving surfers of the mid-sixties. She had recognized the incongruity of the comparison as soon as she made it, for Sam was in his early thirties, too young to have experienced the Summer of Love, and had no connections with the West Coast.
    He was waiting for her reply. “Yes—lovely party,” she said formally, suppressing her annoyance over the hamburger stall.
    Sam squeezed her arm. “Glad you could make it. It mattered to Bridget, you being here.”
    Loretta bridled, disliking his habit of speaking on Bridget’s behalf. “I haven’t had a chance to exchange two words with her, as a matter of fact.” She thought of their brief meeting that morning, recalled Bridget’s haggard appearance and suddenly felt in need of reassurance. “Sam—she is all right, isn’t she? She looked—I thought she looked worn out.”
    Sam frowned and thrust his hands into the pockets of his chinos. “There’s some kind of a problem with her blood pressure. She has more tests on Tuesday.”
    â€œWhat? I had no idea.”
    Sam shrugged. “It was a routine check, she didn’t have a clue anything was wrong. She’s an elderly
prima gravida,
I guess we should’ve expected—”
    â€œShe’s a what?”
    â€œHer age,” Sam explained. “She’s kind of on the old side for her first child. They told her to take it easy, I wanted to call off the party but . . . well, I guess she’sstill trying to be Superwoman. Maybe you could talk to her? She was in the kitchen just now.”
    Loretta warmed to him. “Of course. Look, I know it’s worrying, but she’s always been healthy . . . I’ll go and find her now.”
    â€œThanks, Loretta. John, hi, how’re you doing?”
    He was shaking hands with a latecomer, being introduced to his wife and small daughter; Loretta left them and walked slowly towards the house. One of her colleagues in the English department, a woman of about the same age as Bridget and pregnant with her first child, had spent weeks in hospital the previous summer after high blood pressure was diagnosed. She had eventually given birth to a healthy girl, returning to work so exhausted that Loretta had agreed to take over a couple of her