Life Sentences. Laura Lippman

might come back, on weekends.’

      ‘Some weekends. Although it never occurred to me that you would be free on a Saturday.’

      ‘Me either,’ he said. ‘But you were the first person I thought of.’

      ‘You’re sweet,’ she said, stifling a yawn. Bernard was sweet. And considerate—not only of her but of his wife. Granted, he was cheating on his wife, but he was conducting the affair in the kindest, most thoughtful way possible. Cassandra had been able to rationalize the relationship because it was truly about sex—sex and a little companionship. She had no interest in marrying again and the men she dated eventually found this intolerable. Bernard, who really did love his wife, had seemed the perfect solution, because he could be scheduled, usually weeks in advance.

      But he had become clingy of late, demanding. He wasn’t in love with Cassandra, but he couldn’t bear the fact that she wasn’t in love with him. They were on their last legs. She hoped the end wouldn’t be ugly. In fact, she had calculated that he would fall out of the habit of her while she was in Baltimore, smoothing the way for a painless breakup.

      ‘Maybe I could come down there,’ he said. ‘On a weekend, it’s an easy drive.’

      ‘I’m working,’ she lied reflexively.

      ‘On a Saturday?’

      ‘I’ve scheduled some interviews.’

      ‘How are things going?’

      ‘Okay,’ she said, hoping that was the truth. She really couldn’t tell. But Bernard, whom she had met at a lecture a year ago, needed to believe she was never in doubt when it came to her work. He had read the novel, while it was still in manuscript, and pronounced it brilliant. Bernard worked on Wall Street, and his prognostications on money were much more sound than his opinions on literature. If only he had brought the same conservative, the-bubble-must-burst mentality to her last book. All commodities crash, Bernard had told her recently, speaking of oil, but Cassandra couldn’t help wondering if it applied to her, too.

      ‘I miss you,’ he said in a tone that suggested he was trying to cram much meaning into those three words. At least it wasn’t ‘I love you.’ That would be disastrous.

      ‘I miss you, too,’ she assured him. In some ways, she did. She would be happy to have him in bed with her right now. He was a thoughtful lover and excited by the fact of the affair, which he claimed was his first. Cassandra didn’t quite believe him, but she understood that he had convinced himself of this fact. Her hunch was that Bernard was a serial monogamist on parallel tracks—he was faithful to Tilda, he was faithful to his lovers. Sort of like a subway line with an express track and a local track. On the local, he trod through life with Tilda, a sweet-faced blonde who sometimes got her picture in the Sunday Styles section of the Times, an old-fashioned New York wife with a conscience and lots of dutiful charity work. Then, on the express, he sped through affairs with women with whom he could never form a bond. Cassandra was his first creative type, and he probably would have tired of her by now if she had the good sense to pretend to be in love with him. She simply didn’t have the energy.

      ‘I—’ he began, and she rushed to interrupt, to block the verb she could not afford to hear.

      ‘I’ll come back week after next, on Monday or Tuesday, to meet with my editor. You can usually get free in the evenings, right?’

      ‘With notice, yes.’

      ‘I’ll give you plenty of notice.’ And cancel at the last minute. Which, in the short run, would not achieve anything. If she continued to be this aloof, he might decide to leave Tilda. ‘Good-bye, my love,’ she added, hoping the use of the word as a noun would be sufficient.

      Only now she was awake, on what looked to be a bright if chilly March day. It really was strange how much the weather affected mood. Gray sky or blue, her circumstances were the same day to day. Was she happy? She knew she should be. She had money and health and even health care. She lived as she wanted. She didn’t have children or a husband, but those things were overrated. She had Bernard, although he represented a regression. Her second book had ended with the claim that she had moved beyond meaningless affairs, that she was content on her own.