did you find her?”
“I got lucky,” Fraser said warmly. “Very lucky. You’re still not married?”
Larry shrugged. “Who’d have me?”
You bastard, Catherine thought. She looked around the room. Half a dozen women
were staring at Larry, some covertly, some openly. He was like a sexual magnet. “How
were the English girls?” Catherine said recklessly.
“They were fine,” he said, politely. “Of course, I didn’t have much time for that sort
of thing. I was busy flying.”
Like hell you didn’t, Catherine thought. I’ll bet there wasn’t a virgin left standing
within a hundred miles of you. Aloud, she said, “I feel sorry for those poor girls. Look at
all they missed.” Her tone was more biting than she had intended.
Fraser was looking at her, puzzled by her rudeness. “Cathy,” he said.
“Let’s have another drink,” Larry cut in quickly.
“I think perhaps Catherine’s had enough,” Fraser replied.
“Thash not so,” Catherine began, and to her horror she realized she was slurring her
words. “I think I want to go home,” she said.
“All right”—Fraser turned to Larry—“Catherine doesn’t drink as a rule,” he said
apologetically.
“I imagine she’s excited about seeing you again,” Larry said.
Catherine wanted to pick up a glass of water and throw it at him. She had hated him
less when he was a bum. Now she hated him more. And she did not know why.
The next morning Catherine woke up with a hangover that she was convinced would
make medical history. She had at least three heads on her shoulders, all of them pounding
to the beat of different drummers. Lying still in bed was agony but trying to move was
worse. As she lay there fighting nausea, the whole evening flooded back in her memory,
and the pain increased. Unreasonably she blamed Larry Douglas for her hangover, for if it
had not been for him, she would not have had anything to drink. Painfully Catherine
turned her head and looked at the clock beside her bed. She had overslept. She debated
whether to stay in bed or call a pulmotor squad. Carefully she pulled herself out of her
deathbed and dragged herself into the bathroom. She stumbled into the shower, turned the
water on cold and let the icy jets stream against her body. She screamed out loud as the
water hit her, but when she came out of the shower, she was feeling better. Not good, she
thought carefully. Just better.
Forty-five minutes later she was at her desk. Her secretary, Annie, came in full of
excitement. “Guess what,” she said.
“Not this morning,” Catherine whispered. “Just be a good girl and speak softly.”
“Look!” Annie thrust the morning paper at her. “It’s him.”