Free Listening to Billie by Alice Adams Page A

in the midst of a perfectly ordinary California conversation about the length of the rainy season.
    “The surf is really nice there, and the beach—” And just then, in mid-sentence, he surprised her again; he said, “Oh, my God, there’s someone over there I’ve got to talk to. But I’ll be back,” and with a quick intense pale look he was gone, pushing through the crowded room toward the huge window, the mammoth view of San Francisco Bay. And Eliza was left to assume, naturally enough, that he had seen a prettier, more chic or more pliant-looking girl.
    Not that she was especially insecure in matters of attractiveness; she knew that some men were strongly drawn to her, certainly not all, but who on earth would want all men? And as for chic, she knew, or wryly recognized, that at the Kennerlies’ she tended to dress in conformity to their view of her, which is to say, to dress less well than she could. Now, in her black silk shirt, black skirt, she was aware that she looked vaguely arty, unsmart and somewhat waifish—exactly the Kennerlie and Kennerlie-friend view of her. They would not be at all surprised to hear that she now collected unemployment; they would view it as an eccentric joke, having themselves never been to Third and Bryant.
    A remarkably homogeneous group, the other guests: attractive people in their late twenties, early thirties, who would all make a great deal of money in advertising, commercial art, architecture, something like that with a couple of bright young psychiatrists thrown in. The wives didn’t do those things; they were busy having children, decorating “homes”—keeping the whole show going, as some of them liked to put it. (Peggy Kennerlie, the hostess and Eliza’s college friend, often said this of herself.) And periodically Eliza came to these parties that the Kennerlies gave, and she wondered why. From one party to another she confused the names and faces—as they did hers: she is Ted and Peggy’s funny offbeat friend.
    Peggy approached Eliza, and with a little gesture indicating secrecy she exhibited her left hand, where above the wide gold band that she had worn for years (ten) now appeared a new green circle of stones. Peggy, with her reddish hair and large brown eyes, had a weakness for green, today a too bright (Eliza thought) green knit dress. But the ring was very pretty indeed; this was clear even to Eliza, whose lusts did not run toward jewelry. “Oh, that’s so pretty,” she said.
    Peggy was terribly pleased; regarding her becoming new ring, she smiled but said, “Well, it’s not too bad. I thought it was pretty nice, an anniversary present from the old boy.” She had a tendency to speak of Ted in this way, in a good-fellow tone, which was odd to Eliza’s ears, since she was sure that Peggy loved Ted. Ten years must mean love, mustn’t it?
    Eliza asked, “But is this an anniversary party, then? Peggy, why didn’t you say?”
    “Oh, well, we didn’t want to advertise. You know, presents and all that jazz.” Further proof to Eliza of the true intimacy of the Kennerlies; theirs was a private love.
    And how did she, Eliza, really feel about this marriage, this successful love? At various times she had asked herself this question, and had come up with a variety of opposing reactions: pleasure, envy, boredom, disbelief. But she was fond of Peggy, on the whole.
    Peggy laughed—her style included a lot of warm, small and inexplicable laughter, and she asked, “Well, tell me, what do you think of him?”
    “Who?” She was, of course, pretending.
    “Harry Argent, of course. Ted thinks he’s pretty terrific, really successful, and he certainly is attractive, don’t you think? Of course I guess he’s not exactly your type.”
    “Do I have a type? I thought I was just promiscuous.”
    “Oh, Eliza, what a thing—how can you say that?” Peggy laughed.
    “Anyway, what does he do, Mr. Argent?”
    “He’s in movies—of course not an actor. He’s