After Gordon got out of the service they decided to move to New York and took a fairly expensive apartment on Perry Street in the Village. He had a job with Newsweek, in the books section, and he also sold some pieces to the Saturday Review. Shell was Girl Friday to one of the editors of Harper’s Bazaar. She took some pleasure in refusing the many invitations to model.
According to their friends they had a cunning apartment. There was a tall handless clock with wooden works and roses painted on the face. There was a massive corner cabinet with many square glass windows in which they kept liqueurs and long-stemmed glasses. They had worked hard to remove the paint and stain it.
A child in severe clothes on a black background, painted by a journeyman portraitist, hung over a refectory table and insured the dignity of their frequent small dinner parties.
They were all good children eating up their frozen cream of shrimp soup, and they were about to assume control of the banks, the periodicals, the State Department, the Free World.
At one of these occasions, Roger, Gordon’s old room-mate, managed to have a few private words with Shell. He had been liberated by six cognacs.
“If this ever stops working,” — the gesture of his hand took in the accumulated triumph of antique shops — “come to me, Shell.”
“Why?”
“I love you.”
“I know you love me, Roger.” She smiled. “And Gordon and I love you. I mean why should it ever stop working?”
Shell was holding an empty silver tray and he could see her face in it through the crumbs.
“I don’t love you gently, friendly, I don’t love you auld lang syne, I don’t love you sweetheart of Sigma Chi.” He had made it humorous enough; now he said seriously, “I want you.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do.”
“No,” she said, grateful for the tray she was holding. “Not the best friend.”
“You can’t be happy.”
“Oh?”
There was something wrong with his suit, the pants hung badly, he would kill his tailor, the kitchen was too small, he wasn’t elegant.
“He never touches you.”
“How can you say this to me?”
“He told me.”
“What?”
“It was the same all through school. He can’t.”
“Why? Tell me why!”
Now information was the most important thing. Apparently Roger thought she would kiss him for it, having been trained in trade. He found himself with his nose against the bottom of the silver platter.
“He can’t, that’s all. He can’t. He never could. All you people are a laugh,” he added, speaking from his authentic background.