Free Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) by Helen MacInnes Page A

Third Avenue. Orpen had fallen into step with them for a block, had taken Scott’s arm in a friendly way, had dropped Scott’s arm when he saw her watching him, had smiled when she spoke and then looked vaguely away as if she weren’t there at all. Yet in spite of this, it was odd how she had been left with the feeling that he knew a great deal about her. He had treated her as if she were an old acquaintance whom he disliked. Odd. And ridiculous. She rose from the table.
    Scott seemed to have read her thoughts. “Rona, if you want me to stop going to Orpen’s occasional parties—”
    “You know I’d never ask you to do that,” she said sharply. She was irritated as we all become irritated when we hear a man loudly offer to pay the cheque he knows someone else will pay. Safe offers always annoyed her. She quickened her pace between the little rows of empty tables.
    “Good night, good night,” said the proprietor, beaming on his two late guests. “ Au revoir, mademoiselle . Au revoir , monsieur .”
    “Good night,” echoed the waiter, a little less enthusiastically. After all, it was now half-past eleven. The tips in his pocket were heavy but so were his feet.
    “Rona, stop worrying about Orpen,” Scott said as he caught up with her at the restaurant door. “Or would you rather have me go to parties where there were only women?”
    She shook her head, and slipped her arm through his. I am lucky, she was telling herself as they walked along the darkened side streets towards Lexington Avenue, I am lucky. Scott pays no attention to any other women; of that, I am sure. And if I’ve been worried or unhappy at times, it was only because we’ve been in love for three years and engaged for almost one and sometimes that seemed so long. Sometimes, too, there seemed no real reason for being so vague about their wedding as Scott had been, but that was again only her impatience. I’m too impulsive: if I were a man and in love, I’d not even have bothered about an engagement ring; I’d have married the girl and lived in a one-room apartment if necessary. But that probably wasn’t wise, however romantic. Scott was wise. He knew very well where he was going. And yet, he could be romantic too. She smiled.
    “What was that smile for?” he asked.
    “For you,” she said. “For the days we had together in Mexico.”
    He gripped her arm, and they fell into step as they turned into Lexington. The neon signs above the cafés and bars were as bright as the colours on a Christmas tree. The sidewalks were still alive. People were walking home from a movie, from late business, from a visit to friends. A subway train rumbled underground. Taxis were coming back from the theatres, travelling to the little night clubs on the side streets. Far down the avenue, the General Electric Building was crowned with changing lights. The tall graceful spire of the Chrysler tower pointed into the dark reddened sky.
    “What about a visit to the Blue Angel?” Scott asked suddenly, as they neared Fifty-fifth Street. “Charles Trenet is singing there.” Rona liked Trenet’s songs: they might cheer her up, take her mind off Orpen. Why the hell did I mention his name tonight? “Or are you too tired?”
    “Perhaps,” she admitted. “I’m just beginning to have that old collapsed feeling.”
    “We’ll go tomorrow night,” he said. “No—not tomorrow.”
    Scott was working late tomorrow, she remembered. He was busy all of this week. In a way, it was lucky she was taking night classes at Columbia University—she always had plenty to do to keep her occupied too.
    “We’ll go sometime next week,” he said.
    She nodded.
    “Now, stop worrying about Orpen’s party on Friday night. I’ll get away early and come up to join you at Peggy’s. I’ll get away by eleven, I’m sure.”
    She nodded again.
    “You are tired,” he said gently.
    Yes, she was thinking, I suddenly feel quite tired, quite depressed. I’ll go to bed at once. I’ll