Shadow on Long Island by Dorothy Fletcher

Author:Dorothy Fletcher [Fletcher, Dorothy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-44057-207-4
Publisher: Pyramid Publications
Published: 1976-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

14.

Another fact that hit home with increasing cogency was Caroline’s growing dependency on me and, as a result of it, her changed attitude toward Anthony Cavendish.

With Emily she was a little more acerbic as well; she began asking me to do things for her that Emily had been used to doing. Now she was asking me to make martinis, too, which had been Tony’s job, asking me to give directions to Claire, telling me to see that John had the car ready for her …

I knew that Emily felt the difference keenly, and that her hostility toward me had increased because of it. However, there was little I felt I could do to ameliorate the situation. Intervening on Emily’s behalf might only serve to worsen the situation, and I had no doubt that I wouldn’t be thanked for it.

It was for Anthony that I felt badly. I’m not even sure, to this day, that he noticed Caroline’s growing impatience with him at first. It started, to tell the truth, slowly, almost imperceptibly, and I didn’t see it at once, either.

She had snapped at him several times on past week-ends, but then she was eccentric, and I always had the feeling that her particular attraction for me might taper off in time, too. She had been so much like a child with a new toy.

But on this particular week-end a pattern was established that was to continue in future weeks. If she said once, “Tony, don’t be so tiresome!” she said it half a dozen times An anecdote he told would be “tedious,” or a gallant gesture toward her — a compliment, a flirtatious remark — would be deemed “political.” Nothing he did seemed to gratify her any more: she was like Queen Victoria, “We are not amused.”

One day, at lunch, she was awful. I think she’d planned it; a private cabal on her part, a mean and mischievous trick, just to be deliberately unpleasant.

It was on the Saturday afternoon, and I’m sure even Claire must have been astonished at the meagerness of the meal, which was so unsubstantial as to have been practically a snack. We had a thin tomato soup with a dollop of whipped cream in each bowl, and then for the main course an individual omelet that was so small per person it was almost like a bird-dropping on the plate. This was followed by a serving of bread pudding that was more or less bite size.

For me it was fine: at work I rarely have much lunch; a sandwich, or a hard-boiled egg, or yogurt. Tony, on the other hand, was clearly unsated. “The hors d’oeuvres were fine,” he said. “When are we having lunch?”

Caroline was absolutely hateful. She gave him a gigantic glare and said, “When you start paying the bills, we shall have a bit more to eat. What do you expect, Coquilles St. Jacques and truite meunière every day of your life? What makes you think I’m made of money, pray?”

Tony blinked and looked a little dazed.

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