Just Friends by Robyn Sisman Read Free Book Online Page A

reason. His allowance simply wasn’t enough to live on anymore. Jack thought resentfully of his father, with his beach house and his mountain house as well as the Madison mansion, his expensive cigars and even more expensive wives. Dad had no idea how much it cost to live in Manhattan. Jack’s allowance barely covered the rent for this apartment; but when he tried to ask for more, all he got was his father’s famous cock-of-the-walk smile and the suggestion that Jack get himself a “real” job. No wonder his novel wasn’t finished. A writer needed to breathe the pure, Olympian air of the imagination, untrammeled by petty anxieties, not to pollute his talent with demeaning hack work.
    Still, there were compensations. He skipped ahead through Candace’s script to see if there were any sexy bits; he might pick up some useful tips for tonight—assuming he talked her around, of course. Disappointingly, Candace favored metaphor, though Jack was encouraged by one reference to the “proud swell of manhood.” He leaned his head back against the armrest of the couch and closed his eyes, trying to picture the shape of the evening. First he’d take Candace for drinks at Z Bar, where they could sip cocktails on the roof terrace and spy on any celebs; girls always liked that. It would be important to get the business part over at the beginning, so pretty soon he’d take out her script and give her his critique. He practiced a few phrases in his head: original concept . . . acute observation . . . interesting—no, arresting use of simile. Excellent punctuation. Then, over the second cocktail, he’d suggest one ruthless cut—dropping the subplot about the amputee, for example—something to get her emotions going. They’d fight, she might cry, he’d apologize, they’d make up, and afterwards they’d move on to some dark, funky restaurant, then back to her place.
    Satisfied with his plan, Jack returned “Forbidden” to its nifty folder. After all that work he was starving; he would make himself a sandwich and refresh his intellect with the New York Review of Books —or perhaps a game on TV if the Yankees were playing. He got up from the couch, stretched his arms wide and yawned, sucking in his breath so vigorously that it made a curious noise in his throat. Hark! Was that, perchance, the honk of a lonely goose? He tucked his fists into his armpits and flapped his elbows experimentally.
    “Taking off somewhere?” said a voice.
    Jack whirled around. “Oh, hi, Freya.” He tried to turn the flapping into a vigorous rib massage. “Uh, feeling better?”
    “Fine.” She was fully dressed in last night’s clothes, purse over her shoulder, ready to go. “I just came to say good-bye, and thank you. I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance.”
    “That’s okay.”
    Her formal manner caught Jack off guard. He scanned her more closely. She looked very pale.
    “Can I get you some coffee? Aspirin?”
    She shook her head. “I’d better get back.”
    “Right.” Jack hesitated, wondering how much he dared question her. Freya always acted as if her private life were a state secret. “Back where?” he ventured finally.
    “Home, of course.”
    It was the of course that did it, uttered with such condescension that Jack was piqued into saying, “Why don’t you call Michael? He must be worried about you.”
    Immediately he regretted his cruel impulse. Freya’s face closed tight, like a fragile sea creature poked with a stick. “Oh . . . you know . . . let him stew. I’m not a dog you can whistle home.” She gave him one of her looks. “You know how to whistle, don’t you?”
    “You just put your lips together and blow.” Automatically he finished off the quote. It was an old game.
    Freya was unzipping her purse. “I’m sure I must owe everyone money from last night.”
    “Afraid so. Don’t worry, I paid for you since you were . . .”
    “Asleep.” She pulled out her wallet.
    “Whatever. The total’s kind of