Strange Bedpersons

“I’m back, Christine,” he’d said to his secretary.

Christine looked up at him, beautifully brunette but only marginally interested.

“No, don’t get up,” he said on his way into his office. “I can find my way.”

Christine drifted to her feet and followed him, giving the impression she’d been going that way, anyway. “Mr. Patterson was in today,” she told him. “And Park wants to see you.”

“You put that well.” Nick shrugged off his jacket and dropped it on a chair. He sat down at his desk, glanced at the framed snapshot on it with a half smile, and then leaned back in his chair, tugging at his tie. “Park’s dad put him in a snit again, but you’re too tactful to say that. No wonder we pay you a fortune.”

“I need a raise,” Christine said without changing her tone or expression. “And I wouldn’t call it a snit. More like a panic.”

Nick loosened his tie and sighed a little in relief. “I hate ties. Some woman must have thought them up for revenge.” He cocked an eye at Christine. “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”

“Yes,” Christine said. “You also have several messages from women. None from Tess.”

Nick’s eyes went to the picture on his desk and then back to Christine. “Why would I want to hear from Tess?”

“Because you keep calling her and she doesn’t call back,” Christine said with great and obvious patience. “Your messages are on your desk. Park is in his office. Pacing.”

Nick ignored the messages. “Anything I should know before I see him?”

“How would I know?” Christine said, drifting out the door again. “I’m just a secretary.”

“Right,” Nick said. “And don’t you forget it.”

Christine ignored him.

“NICK!” PARK HAD COME OUT from behind his massive desk to slap him on the back, the picture of an Ivy League beach-boy, hitting forty and fighting it every minute. “Buddy! Pal! Compadre!”

“Compadre?” Nick shook his head and stretched out in the leather chair in front of Park’s desk. “This must be bad. You don’t speak Spanish.”

“How about partner?” Park said.

Nick crossed his ankles on the Oriental rug, trying to look unconcerned as his pulse leapt. “Partner would be good,” he said. “Does this mean we got the Welch account?”

“We haven’t exactly got the account.” Park sat on the edge of his desk and leaned forward to slap Nick on the shoulder again. “But no problemo, hey? You can still pull it off. You’ll just have to do a couple of small things and—”

“What?” Nick said suspiciously, his heart sinking at Park’s tone.

“Well, it would help if you’d get married,” Park said.

“I told you that you shouldn’t have done all those drugs in the seventies,” Nick said. “You’re having a flashback.”

“Funny.” Park paused. “Welch called Dad. He wants to meet our families. Especially yours. He likes you.”

“We don’t have families,” Nick said. “Or I don’t. You can at least show him a couple of parents. What’s this about?”

“I have no idea,” Park said. “We’re invited to his place in Kentucky—Friday night and Saturday—for a reading from his new book, and Dad said that Welch specifically told him that we’re supposed to bring our wives. Especially you. What did you say to Welch, anyway?”

Nick shrugged. “I don’t know. I sure as hell didn’t tell him I was married. He came to my office on an impulse, he said, and for some reason he was being a real bastard, edgy as hell, and I was pouring on the charm, trying to sell him on the deal when all of sudden, he—” Nick stopped, trying to pinpoint exactly what had happened. “He mellowed on me. Smiled, nodded, turned into Mr. Congeniality.” Nick frowned as he remembered the conversation. “I’ve been going over it in my mind, but for the life of me, I can’t recall exactly what I said. I was just explaining the plans we had for negotiating the new book contract, and suddenly he was a nice guy. And now he wants to meet my family? This is ridiculous.”

“No, this is Norbert Nolan Welch, the great American author,” Park said. “This is the account my father wants, has always wanted, and will be overwhelmed to get. This is the one we want so much that if we have to get married to get it, we will.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “Why will we do this?”

Park shifted on the desk. “Because if we get this, my father will retire.” He paused for a moment, a look of ecstasy on his face.

“Why?” Nick said.

“He’s been trying to get Welch for years.” Park shrugged at the inexplicability of it. “He’d consider it going out in style. Leaving the firm after snagging the account of one of America’s greatest novelists is his idea of the perfect exit. Think of the speeches at his retirement dinner. Think of the bragging he could do.” Park looked guiltily at Nick. “Think of you finally making partner.”

Nick straightened in his chair, trying hard not to leap to his feet at the thought. There was ambition, which was good; and then there was pathetic, deep-seated, naked ambition, which was bad and which he was riddled with. He knew it was bad because it made him look anxious and vulnerable, and because Tess had told him it was morally reprehensible and there were times he thought she might have a point. A small point, but still a point. In the long run, though, it didn’t matter; lust for success was what made him run, and as long as he didn’t actually start maiming people to get to the top, he could live with it. The trick was in not betraying the depth of his need, so he kept his voice as cool as possible as he asked, “I make partner if we sign Welch?”

“No doubt about it,” Park said. “We could stop sneaking around trying to run this place behind Dad’s back. We could stop cleaning up after his mistakes. And we could definitely make you partner. With my dad retired, it won’t matter that you’re not family. It won’t be a family firm anymore, anyway.”

It was exactly what Nick wanted, but like everything else he’d wanted in his life, there was a catch to it. There was always a catch. Sometimes Nick got damn tired of catches.

He leaned back in his chair and shook his head at Park. “But I make partner only if we get the account, which is probably not going to happen, and we both know it. You know, you could just suggest to your father that I should be a partner even though I’m not family. I’m overdue for it, no matter what he says.”

Park looked appalled. “Disagree with my father?”

“Right,” Nick said. “I forgot. So what is it I have to do here?”

“Get married.”

“No.”

“My dad thinks it’s time.” Park looked suicidal. “He said that playing the field is for young men. He said unmarried men at forty-two just look pathetic.”

Nick shrugged. “That’s your problem. I’m thirty-eight.”

“He said anything over thirty-five is questionable.”

Nick held on to his patience. “Park, no offense, but I don’t give a rat’s ass what your father thinks about my marital status. I just want to make partner.” He thought for a minute. “And a lot of money.”

“And you will,” Park assured him. “You just have to get the Welch account.”

“Right.”

“So find a wife,” Park said.

“No.”

“How about a serious fiancée? Can’t you propose to one of those women you keep dating?”

“How about a serious breach-of-promise suit when I change my mind after the weekend is over?”

“Don’t you know anybody who could fake it for a weekend?” Park’s eyes pleaded with him. “Dad said we had to get women who know literature.”