Free What Men Say by Joan Smith Page B

kettle.
    â€œHas Loretta told you her news?” Bridget extricated herself and grinned at her friend.
    â€œNews?” Sam placed his arm lightly round his wife’s shoulders.
    â€œShe’s going to the opera with Christopher Cisar. On Friday.”
    â€œShe is?” He sounded surprised. “Sorry, Loretta, it’s kind of rude of us to stand here talking about you in the third person.”
    â€œSome German thing,” Bridget added.
    â€œ
Ariadne auf Naxos,
” Loretta said quickly, switching on the kettle even though Sam had refused coffee. She had somehow forgotten he and Christopher were friends, that they might even discuss her between now and Friday. “I don’t think it’s performed very often,” she said in a rush, “I don’t even think I’ve heard it onrecord, though I did see
Rosenkavalier
in Amsterdam a couple of years ago.”
    Sam looked at his watch. “You ready, hon?”
    â€œNow? Isn’t it a bit early for lunch? My hair’s still damp.”
    â€œI told Elaine I’d call in at CES first, there are a couple of things I need to do.”
    â€œOK.” Bridget gave in easily, running her hands lightly over her stomach. She was wearing a dress Loretta had packed for her the day before, not a maternity dress but in the loose style she had favored since her pregnancy was confirmed; she would rather go naked, she had announced with typical hyperbole, than shop in Mothercare.
    â€œHang on,” said Loretta, surprised by the speed of their departure. “What about your messages? I wrote some of them down there”—she pointed to a piece of paper by the phone—“and there’s a load more on the answering machine. Your mother rang again this morning.”
    Bridget immediately looked contrite, but a glance at Sam made up her mind. “I’ll have to speak to her later, I think Sam’s keen to leave.”
    â€œSorry, Loretta,” he confirmed, drawing Bridget towards the stairs, “but I don’t have much time. Catch you later, maybe.” He steered Bridget out of the kitchen, leaving Loretta to stare after them with a feeling that her hospitality was being abused.
    â€œWait a minute,” she called, taking the stairs two at a time. She caught up with them at the front door, explaining breathlessly that she had a dentist’s appointment that afternoon and Bridget would need a key to get back into the house. “There’s one in my desk, I’d better give it to you now.” She hurried into her study, resenting Sam’s unconcealed impatience, and searchedfor it among the half-used rolls of Sellotape, dried-up felt pens and foreign coins she regularly consigned to the bottom drawer. “Here it is,” she said eventually, returning to the hall. “I’ll be back about half four.”
    When they had gone she returned to her study, picked a couple of leaky biros out of the drawer and tossed them in the wastepaper basket. Her computer screen still displayed the incomplete text of her chapter on Charlotte Brontë, but a line had been added underneath, presumably by Bridget. “Great stuff,” Loretta read, “when can I see more of it?” Loretta frowned, disliking the idea of anyone, even her best friend, catching a glimpse of her work-in-progress, and deleted the sentence from the screen. After a moment she began to type, stopping occasionally to delete a word or phrase, until she reached a point where she needed to quote from
Shirley.
She was about to get the novel down from a shelf when the phone rang; Loretta ignored it, waiting for the answering machine to cut in, then changed her mind and picked it up.
    â€œHello,” said an unfamiliar female voice, “is Dr. Bennett there?”
    â€œI’m sorry, you’ve just missed her.”
    â€œHold on, please.” Loretta heard her confer with someone, then she said: “This is Professor