Part 210 (1/2)

her photography, though he pointed out in dozens of subtle ways that her

hobby, as he called it, took time away from their marriage and her

support of him and his career.

It was a nice print, he might say, if one cared to look at old ladies

feeding pigeons. So why had it taken her so many hours away from him to

come up with a few black-and-white snaps of people loitering in the

park?

He supposed he could eat a cold sandwich, even though he'd been

composing for six hours. Apparently it was up to him to drag the

laundry to the cleaners, despite the fact that he'd been tied up in a

meeting all afternoon.

She wasn't to worry a bit. If her work was so b.l.o.o.d.y important, he

could entertain himself for another evening.

Whatever criticisms he handed out were tempered with compliments. She

looked so inviting standing in front of the stove making a meal. It

made him feel good to come home and find her waiting for him.

Perhaps he was too forceful about how she should dress, what clothes she

bought, how she styled her hair. After all, her image, as his wife, was

as important as his own.

He was particularly concerned about what she should wear to the showing.

But as he said, he only wanted her to look her best. And, as he told

her, she had a rather drab taste in clothes.

It was true that she preferred the column of black silk and

hammered-gold jacket to the short, snug concoction of feathers and

sequins he'd chosen. But, as he said, she was an artist now and should

look the part. Because it touched her that he'd called her an artist,