Chuck, she thought, oh, Chuck!
The words were warm within her, stirred within her. The buzzing drier sang them for a little while. Chuck, oh, Chuck. Her eyes, on the disappearing blueness, grew bright; her breasts lifted up and her lips came apart; she breathed faster as if the machine’s rhythm had set tingling inside her some other beat, some amorous cadence of the blood.
She was startled when Francine stopped painting lacquer on her nails, framed words, called thinly, “Lucky, lucky you!” The girl squeezed her arm passionately and reflected in her own eyes Lenore’s expression. Looking at the common prettiness of the manicurist, Lenore could not keep herself from thinking: this is Kit’s kind of girl; they talk the same language. But Lenore had a decency of her own. She smiled gently. She said, exhaling, “Aren’t I lucky, Francine?” If she bit her tongue afterward, the girl couldn’t see that.
The drier went off suddenly, unexpectedly. For a split second, Lenore could hear the other machines and the overriding noise of woman-talk. Then the effeminate voice of “Aubrey”
came from behind her chair: “A call for you, Miss Bailey. I’m very sorry. I tried, personally, to explain you couldn’t answer right now. I said you’d call back. I offered to take the name and number. They were extremely rude, whoever they were. They insisted you be told it was your sector calling about some yellow goods, an emergency matter.”
Lenore said, “ Wha-a-a-at? It doesn’t even make sense! W ait!” For it did make sense. She ducked out from beneath the drier, feeling her hair, and ran toward the phones.
“Yes? Lenore Bailey speaking.”
“My God.” The voice was Rat, secretarial. “Have we been playing tag to reach you! This is Beatrice Jaffrey, Lenore. There’s a”—her voice fell to a whisper—“Condition Yellow out. Has been, quite a while.”
Lenore’s answer was faltering. “Today? Good heavens, they can’t expect us—unless it’s—serious?”
“It’s so serious,” Beatrice replied, “I can’t wait for your double-take. Make tracks, honey!” There was a click.