Free What Men Say by Joan Smith Page A

Saisons.”
    Bridget smiled weakly. ‘Thanks, Loretta,” she said, coming round the table to hug her and kiss her cheek. “You always cheer me up. Listen, can I stay another night? Just till those reporters—Sam said a camera crew turned up this morning, before he was even dressed.”
    â€œOf course. There’s room for Sam as well if he likes.”
    â€œI’ll ask him . . . Can I borrow some shampoo?”
    â€œMmm—in the bathroom.”
    Bridget went upstairs and Loretta poured out a cup of lukewarm coffee. She read her way through the
Guardian,
glancing without much interest at the media section until she came across a news item announcing that her ex-husband, John Tracey, had been nominated for an award for his coverage of events in Romania after the fall of the Ceauşescus. Loretta had not heard from Tracey for several months and she wondered whether she should send him a congratulatory postcard; he had seemed to want to keep her at arm’s length since their divorce, and the invitation she had been promised to his wedding to a Cypriot student had never materialized. She speculated on whether this unlikely union had ever taken place, flipping past adverts for assistant producersin BBC radio and researchers at Granada TV, until her attention was caught by a photo spread on the return of the bra on the women’s page. Cleavage was back, she read in the accompanying text, and sales of the Gossard Wonderbra were soaring. Frowning at pictures of pouting models in acrobatic poses and plunging necklines, Loretta lifted her hands and cupped her own small breasts, mocking the notion of putting them on display like two half-melons on a plate. She began to consider the possibility of a link between recession and conspicuous sexual display, thinking back to the thirties and Jean Harlow—
    â€œLo-re-tta!” She swiveled her head in surprise as the muffled shout was followed by a staccato series of raps, both of them coming from the basement area beyond the kitchen windows. Sam Becker was trying the handle of the half-glazed door which provided access to the dustbins; as she got up he saw her face and immediately mimed an apology for startling her. She pointed to the mantelpiece, making a locking movement with her thumb and first finger, and he retreated to the steps, leaning against the railings with his hands in his pockets while she fetched the key.
    â€œHey, I didn’t mean to give you a fright,” he said as she let him in. “I tried the bell but nobody came.”
    â€œOh—there’s a loose connection, I must get it fixed.” Loretta avoided his gaze, more embarrassed than alarmed; she was almost certain Sam had seen her sitting at the table with her hands on her breasts. What must he be thinking: that he had caught her in the early stages of some masturbatory ritual? “Um, why don’t you sit down? Bridget’s upstairs, she should be down any minute. Can I get you some coffee?”
    â€œNo thanks, I’ve been drinking it with the cops allmorning. Those homicide guys have their own catering truck—”
    â€œGood God, how long are they planning to stay?”
    â€œThey won’t say.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, throwing his head back and stretching his legs under the table in an attitude of exhaustion.
    â€œI mean, what do they expect to find?”
    He said offhandedly, shading his eyes with his hands and staring up at the ceiling: “Clothes, I guess—her purse, that kind of stuff.”
    â€œBut surely you’d have noticed—”
    He yawned, buried his face in his hands and then jerked forward into a sitting position. “Sorry, Loretta, I’m bushed. Hi, hon,” he exclaimed, his face lighting up as Bridget walked into the kitchen. He got up and enfolded her in his arms, initiating a noisy display of mutual affection which made Loretta turn away and busy herself with filling the