But neither could she reveal herself—her new self—to him.
All at once she remembered. Twenty-four hours. Then the peddler would return. She looked at her watch. He would be back at exactly four-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. Exactly four-fifteen, she reminded herself. To be precise was crucial.
Very well, that decided it for her. She would have twenty-four hours before she had to tell Tom. Until four-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. Twenty-four hours. It wasn't a long time, but oddly it frightened her. Because there wasn't any doubt about the new body, the new face. They would attract—and she wasn't only thinking of sex-appeal. Naturally, they had sex-appeal. For a woman, that was part of—perhaps a large part of—attracting adventure.
Twenty-four hours, Mary-Jean told herself. Mary-Jean? It didn't sound right. It no longer fit her new personality. Then what? What name? Even a new name for the twenty-four hours. I know, she thought happily, her skin still glowing, still tingling strangely. I'll be Jeanne—Jeanne-Marie! It sounds so French and—and exciting.
It was almost the cocktail hour now, not that Mary-Jean went for cocktails. But Jeanne-Marie? Jeanne-Marie might. Indeed, she might. So Jeanne-Marie got into a cocktail dress which fit her properly for the first time. Actually, she found, although she looked much taller than Mary-Jean, she wasn't, not really. There were subtle structural differences which made her look taller, slimmer, statuesque. And the dress fit her like a sheath.
She scrawled a note for Tom. Plain, honest Tom, she thought, with some sadness. Dear Tom: Called out of town unexpectedly. I wish I could explain. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. She wanted to add maybe but did not. There's supper for you and Tommy in the fridge. Don't worry about me because I'll be all right. I'll be fine. That's putting it mildly—I'll be just great. See you tomorrow. Love, Mary-Jean. Almost, she had signed Jeanne-Marie. She looked at the note, frowned, and tore it up. It would be an adequate note for Mary-Jean to write, but not Jeanne-Marie. She took a fresh sheet of paper and scrawled:
Back tomorrow. Called away suddenly. Mary-Jean.
That was more like it: a note with the trip-hammer, cryptic mystery of a telegram. The other note made it seem as if Tom took her for granted, would fortify any such notions he had. That might have been all right with Mary-Jean, but Jeanne-Marie wouldn't stand for such a thing. Satisfied, Jeanne-Marie went downstairs.