The Insiders (9 page)
Authors: Rosemary Rogers
the second tape:
Thank you, Peter. I guess I should try to afford you professionally—I must
need
help. Even Marti is disgusted with me—I sicken myself. You're the only one who hasn't condemned me for my lack of pride and practicality, Peter dear, but then, you have your own ax to grind, don't you?
I wonder if David knows about this—about us.
You never did tell me. Never mind, I don't think I want to knoiv. Any more than I want to know who David is with tonight. I think it's Gloria, I think he sees a lot of Gloria, but of course I'm afraid to ask. And then there's Stella—I'm almost sure he's screwed Stella. Something about the way she avoids my eyes, something about the triumphant, sly look she wears when she thinks I'm not watching her. I hate Stella!
Oh, not because I feel (shit, I
know)
that she's been to bed with David, but mostly because of what she's doing to Marti. Blowing hot and cold. Swearing George is just a convenient front and things haven't changed between them, when they have. Poor Marti! She and I are in the same boat. Both loving, both wondering, both afraid to open our eyes too wide in case we discover something we don't want to see.
You don't mind if I talk about David, do you, Peter? No, of course you don't. You're nice that way. At least I know where I stand with you. I don't feel as if I'm on trial, as if I'm constantly being tested.
Sometimes I wonder what David really wants of me. Not just
me—
of any woman. What does he expect? What does he need? I'd be anything he wanted me to be, if I only knew. It sounds so sloppy, doesn't it? Like something out of one of those old, corny movies from the thirties. Where did I read that cliches only become cliches because they are the oft-repeated
truth?
Never mind. Whatever the cost to my ego, to my pride, I'm going to try to hang onto David for as long as possible. I have this
feeling
(all right, so maybe it's really wishful thinking) that, after all, I'll become necessary to him—a habit, if not an obsession. All I have to do is hang in there, try not to make too many jealous scenes, and wait until he makes up his mind. And in the meantime— Oh, God, sometimes I feel that he's making me into a whore, a tramp—the kind of woman he keeps saying he despises. He told me once, "I can only love a woman I can
respect.
The kind of woman I can he sure of, the kind who won't whore around the minute my back is turned." And when he said it, he looked at me with contempt. He was telling me he knew about the other men—about you, Peter pet.
And
the others. Did you know there were others? Before David, I used to be selective, I was careful even about the guys I just
dated.
Now, when I go out, and go to bed with someone I don't really know and don't give a damn for, it's only because I feel I
have
to. I have to prove something to myself—what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. Peter, am I turning into a n
y
mpho?
You're beginning to sound quite overwrought, sweets. Perhaps this isn't too good for you at this point. The tape, I mean. And you're asking questions again.
I know, I know! But Peter, I need help. Honestly I do. What's happening to me? I wake up at night and ask myself that. I'm scared—and yet I'm more scared of losing David—or whatever crumbs of his time he allows me—than of anything else.
I might have known. Why do I get drawn into analyzing the females I fuck? All right, Eve. Tell me. Is David very different now from the way he was when you two first started going together?
He's different; I'm different. I'm at a disadvantage now, you see—he knows I'm in love with him. God, I can't help
saying
it; the words seem to slip out. And he takes advantage. He treats me so casually now, like a possession. And I
am
his possession, I suppose, only
he
wasn't supposed to know that.
Just the other day, when we were together in his apartment—I don't even know if I should be telling you this—
Don't stop just when you were starting to get me so
interested,
d
arling. Go on—you know what I like to hear.
I suppose it doesn't really matter—you know we fuck, David and I. And that's what we were doing, right on the couch, with our clothes on. He likes doing it that way sometimes.
It was a Saturday, and he'd just picked me up at my place—he was expecting his family, the three ki
d
s, you know, to come up to the city for the day, and he was in a hurry. We—we try out new positions sometimes, and—well, he had me lying with my shoulders braced against the rug while he sat on the couch with my legs up on either side of him. And he was moving me onto him. It was—it was really kind of wild. Like the look on your face right now, Peter.
But anyhow, quite suddenly, right in the middle of it all, the damn doorbell rang, and he
dropped
me—pushed me away from him on my back onto the rug as if what we were doing had suddenly become
—dirty—
just like that! And suddenly he was standing up, zipping himself back into his pants, and looking down at me with a kind of distaste.
He— Know what he said? "Get up, for God's sake, Eve. You look like some cheap whore, lying there that way."
And in that moment I hated him—God, how I hated him! But not as much as I hated myself for being there and for letting him treat me like t
ha
t—
use
me and then shove me aside.
So what happened?
Nothing. I got up and disappeared into the bathroom to repair my makeup and get hold of myself.
While he let the kids in. Did I say kids? Mistake. Francie is no kid. That's Dave's sister, the older one. She's seventeen, and when she's around David, she acts even younger. But she—I swear, Peter, that she
knew
what we'd been doing. I could actually feel myself blush when she looked at me.
And then, to make things worse, David suggested that I take her out shopping. For something suitable. Poor Francie, she's outgrown most of her clothes, she needs a new dress.
"Eve has such good taste, I'm sure she'll help me pick out something really cute," she said.
I tell you, Peter, that girl is a
woman
when it comes to getting the darts in. And Davids dumb where Francie is concerned. He thinks she's just a sweet, innocent kid, and it's like she hung the moon.
I had to take her in my car. David took Rick and Lisa to the zoo. And of course, once she was alone with me, Francie forgot about her act. For openers, she asked me what I thought about Davids performance in bed. And while I was still trying to come up with an answer to
that,
she went on to say sweetly that of course
I'd
have to be passable in that department myself because, quote: "Dave likes to fuck, and of course he's always had women chasing him." Unquote.
She sounds like a sweet child.
Oh, she is! She really is! I tried to freeze her into shutting up, you know? And I did tell her that she needn't think she was shocking me, because I had already noticed how precocious she was—I didn't exactly consider her a
child,
everything she said so
cute.
"But Dave doesn't think that way. Dave thinks Tm still a kid, and I'm a woman. Bet I know a lot more than you do." Her very words. And then she
added, grinning, that she knew Td really like to sock her, and why didn't I?
"At least I'm honest about things. I hate you, and you know I do, don't you?"
I really did want to hit her then. We finished the shopping in a state of armed truce. She wanted a new dress, and she had to have me along to help her pick one out. We argued about that, too.
Oh, shit! The things I put up with for David! We didn't talk much after that, but at least she
did
bring it out into the open, the way she feels. ...
Did you tell David?
Of course I didn't—how could I? He's so damned sensitive about his family, and particularly about Francie. He says she needs lots of love and attention, and he's so proud of her because she's pretty and a good student. He has a live-in housekeeper, but
he
thinks Francie really runs the house. He keeps saying what a good wife and mother she's going to make someday. How can I disillusion him? He woiddn't believe me, and he'd hate me for it. He might even think I was jealous—or worse, that I disliked her. And then ... But it all comes back to one fact, doesn't it? I can't stand to lose David. If I can help it, I won't let it happen. Peter? What the hell am I to do?
Sorry, luv, your hour's up. Time for you to turn into a pumpkin.
Peter pumpkin-eater! Is that what's on your mind?
Now that you mention it, luv, it sounds like fun. Is that what you want? Let's try it Davids way, shall we? Let me just slide you down . . . there!
Goddam you, Peter! No—stop it—no, please— ohh....
end of tape.
Francie Zimmer stood
on the corner waiting for the lights to change. She touched her hair lightly, assuring herself that her sexy blond wig was still in place. She wanted to giggle when she thought about the looks some of the girls in school had given her when she'd put the wig on in the locker room, carefully making sure that no strands of her own dark hair showed to give her away. Those little bitches had really acted cold, whispering to each other, but the guys had really flipped when she went outside, telling her she looked just like Farrah Fawcett. Several of them had offered to drive her home, but she'd turned them all down, acting mysterious and hinting that she had a date already and
he'd
be picking her up.
She'd started to walk home—casual, cool—and, sure enough, it hadn't been long before some old guy driving a late-model Caddy had stopped and offered her a ride to wherever she was going.
He'd brought her all the way into the city, and if not for the carefully pinned-on wig, she might have thought about letting him stop off at a motel along the way and ball her like he wanted to. But she'd spent too much money on that wig, and too much time and care getting it on just right; also on her makeup—she couldn't let him ruin the way she knew she looked. So she'd played with him a little and let him play with her, opening her legs and letting him discover she wasn't wearing panties, which seemed to drive him wild—Christ, for a few moments she'd thought he was going to drive through the guardrail and end up in the bay! She'd promised to meet him later in the bar he'd named—she had this really important appointment right now, she'd explained. She smiled to herself now. He'd have a long wait, wouldn't he?
Francie crossed the street briskly, quickly, her heels clicking on the pavement. She hadn't really been lying —she
did
have an appointment of sorts. And after she'd come all this way, she just knew the man wouldn't turn her down—he couldn't.
She walked four city blocks, ignoring the looks and leers from the men she passed, her hips swinging provocatively. Another time, maybe, she'd let herself get picked up, just for laughs, but right now she was in a hurry. She didn't mind the walking, though. Just to be walking on her own in San Francisco was a kick; she enjoyed the free feeling, the sights and sounds and hurrying people all around her, feeling herself part of the scene.
The studio was located in an unexpectedly plush apartment building—a high-rise with a view of the bridge and the bay. She'd expected a run-down, sleazy little place on Market Street or the Haight-Ashbury— maybe even the Fillmore District—over a shop that sold adult books—but this place was something else!
Francie patted her hair again, thankful she looked older than she really was. This joint had class, and that meant this photographer friend of Eve's must be successful in order to make enough bread to afford something like this.
He had to pick her for the assignment—he just had to. She called up to his apartment from the telephone in the lobby, opening the door when the buzzer sounded, tak-ing the quiet elevator. His voice had been deep and interesting; she wondered what he looked like. He'd sounded slightly surprised when she'd first called him up, asking about the job; fortunately, she'd called soon after she'd overheard Eve talking to Dave. She was sure he hadn't had time to advertise yet, or ask around. He wouldn't have asked Eve to pose for pictures if he'd already had someone else lined up, would he? Eve— she was a stupid cow, anyhow. Always trying to justify herself to David. And what
did
Dave see in her, anyhow? She was too skinny, and her boobs weren't that big. Maybe she made up for it by being bitchy in bed— Dave would enjoy that.
Francie moistened lips that were already shiny with gloss before she knocked at the door, and when it opened, she looked unwaveringly into the face of the man who stood there, wearing a loose Mexican-style shirt with full sleeves and embroidery down the front, tight white Levi's, and sandals. He was looking her over, too, and she forced herself to be just as slow and insolent in her appraisal of him. Finally, he smiled at her and stood aside to let her in; and she felt suddenly relieved —she'd passed the first test, at least!
She walked nonchalantly into the carpeted room, pausing to kick off her shoe. She dug her bare toes into the carpet. Wow, it felt so soft!
"Oh, bravo! Such a charming gesture, and so well done, too. I really like your style, sweetheart."
Francie spun around quickly to look in the direction of the other voice, the slightly mocking, teasing one.
This second man was dressed even more casually than the first. His thin cotton shirt was open all the way down to his waist, and he had not even bothered to tuck it into his pants. He sat with one leg thrown carelessly over the arm of a Spanish chair, and his very bright blue eyes were undressing her already.