Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,2

in the eye of the beholder.

Hers was a talent that ought to be intensively exploited, thought Gillian, before she fell asleep. It was a deep but disturbed sleep, a heavy buzzing sleep that ended shortly after eight o'clock with the arrival of an unfaithful husband.

"For chrissake, look at yourself," he said. "It's past eight for chrissake."

"That's cute," she said. "Do you do the weather too?"

"I mean it, it's eight-damn-o'clock."

"So it's eight o'clock," she said. "So what?"

"Don't tell me you don't remember. The damn party begins at 8:30. Oh no you don't, don't give me one of those looks. This wasn't my idea. You were the one who told me about it, an end-of-summer blast, remember? Two houses over and one down. The wops. Remember now?"

The details returned to Gillian – of course, the party – and she stood up. Not until that instant did she realize she was still naked. She walked over to William, brushed meaningfully against him, then noticed the fresh lipstick prints on his collar. Those slight red smudges – was it carelessness, stupidity, a Freudian reflection of guilt? – irritated her almost as much as the thought of his infidelity. That bastard.

"We don't have to go to the party," she teased. "We could stay home and… oh… christen the new house properly. It's been a long time, Billy."

"We've got to get a move on…"

"But isn't there anything you'd rather do?" she said.

"Any little thing I might do for you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact there is," he said. "One little thing you could do for me is hurry-the-hell-up and get into something decent. It's bad enough we've got to go through this thing. Let's not make it any more complicated than we have to."

But it was complicated, extremely complicated. For at that moment Gillian was settling finally on her plan of action. As she selected her dress for the party – emerald green, high in front, low in back – Gillian found herself shivering. In anticipation.

The only uncomfortable moment of the evening came when their hosts – Mario and Donna Marie Vella – greeted them at the door. Donna Marie was short, stout and faintly mustachioed; she looked as though she might faint dead away at the thought of having the Billy and Gilly in her home. And Mario's introductory act, his welcoming gesture, was to hand William his business card, embossed, indicating that he was the executive officer of both the Bella Mia Olive Oil Company and the Fort Sorrento Construction Company.

"Charmed, I'm sure," William said, as only he could say it.

"We certainly appreciate," Gillian said, stepping on his line, "your inviting us newcomers to your home."

After that, needless to say, matters improved. There was, as Gillian had anticipated, a wide selection of men. Fat, thin, short, tall, introverted, extroverted, dumpy, dashing – the full assortment. She mentally resolved not to rush things. At first she contented herself with remaining beside William, allowing him to squeeze her hand and pat her cheek – doing what he had always done, putting the model marriage on public display. Oh, you electronic lovebird, she thought. William was, in fact, the first subject, the first of the adult males residing in King's Neck to come under Gillian's scrutiny that evening.

He was, she decided, the best looking man in the room. Best looking, in the conventional sense. William had been told in his youth that some day he would be able to serve as a stand-in for Prince Philip. Now, approaching his middle years, he more closely resembled the well-dressed dummies in the Brooks Brothers windows. Bland. But he was still trim (regular workouts at the New York Athletic Club), polished (Princeton), at ease with the mighty (scion of the banking Blakes) and an asset to any gathering. The one apparent flaw was a jawline that lacked definition. Oh, say it – a weak chin.

Before beginning his second drink, William had managed to surround himself with those few people of King's Neck who might qualify as resident intellectuals – such people as Rabbi Joshua Turnbull and lawyer Melvin Corby. There was, too, an outer concentric circle of women, the kind of women who always basked in that invisible light cast by certifiable celebrities.

"And I'll maintain," William was saying, "that without parties such as these, suburbia, per se, would disintegrate before our eyes. These are, after all, not merely social gatherings. They are, in the psychological sense, encounters – they're what we have instead of group therapy. It's my sincere feeling