All the time she’s rehearsing: Wasn’t one enough? You gonna kill my son, too? Get your claws o my child! She feels like a tigress, defending her young. Or this is what tigresses are rumoured to do. I’ll huff and I’ll puff, she roars inwardly, and I’ll blow your house down!

Except that Zenia was never much of a one for houses. Only for breaking into them.

At the back of her mind is another scenario: what happens when Larry finds out what she’s done? He is, after all, twentytwo. That’s well over the age of consent. If he wants to screw cheerleaders or St. Bernard dogs or aging vamps like Zenia, what business is it, really, of hers? She pictures his glance of patient, exasperated contempt, and flinches.

Knock, knock, knock, she goes on Zenia’s door. Just making a noise recoups her strength. Open up, you pig, you sow, and let me in!

And clickety-clack, here comes somebody. The door opens a crack. It’s on the chain. “Who is it?” says the smoky voice of Zenia.

“It’s me,” says Roz. “It’s Roz. You might as well let me in, because if you don’t I’m just going to stand here and scream.” Zenia opens the door. She’s dressed to go out, in the same low-cut black dress that Roz remembers from the Toxique. Her face is made up, her hair is loose, waving and coiling and uncoiling itself in restless tendrils around her head. There’s a suitcase open on the bed.

“A suitcase?” says Tony. “I didn’t see any suitcases:”

“Me neither,” says Charis. “Was the room tidy?”

“Fairly tidy,” says Roz. “But this was later in the afternoon. After you were there. Most likely the maid had come:”

“What was in the suitcase?” says Tony. “Was she packing? Maybe she’s planning to leave:”

“It was empty,” says Roz. “I looked.”

“Roz!” says Zenia. “What a surprise! Come on in—you’re looking terrific!”

Roz knows she is not looking terrific: anyway, looking terrific is what people say about women her age who are not actually dead. Zenia, on the other hand, really is looking terrific. Doesn’t she ever age? thinks Roz bitterly. What kind of blood does she drink? Just one wrinkle, just a little one, God; would it be so hard? Tell me again—why do the wicked prosper?

Roz does not beat about the bush. “What do you think you’re up to, having a thing with Larry?” she says. “Don’t you have any, any scruples at all?”

Zenia looks at her. “A thing? What a delicious idea! Did he tell you that?”

“He’s been seen, going into your hotel room. More than once,” says Roz.

Zenia smiles gently. “Seen? Don’t tell me you’ve got that Hungarian following me around again. Roz, why don’t you sit down? Have a drink or something. I never had anything against you personally.” She herself sits demurely down on the flowered sofa, as if there’s nothing at all going on; as if they’re two respectable matrons about to have afternoon tea. “Believe me, Roz. My feelings for Larry are only maternal:”

“What do you mean, maternal?” says Roz. She feels stupid standing up, so she sits in the matching chair. Zenia is hunting for her cigarettes. She—finds the pack, shakes it: empty. “Have one of mine,” says Roz reluctantly.

“Thanks,” says Zenia. “I ran into him by accident, in the Toxique. He remembered me—well, he would, he was—what? fifteen? He wanted to talk to me about his father. So touching! You really haven’t been very forthcoming on that subject with him, have you, Roz? A boy needs to know something about his father; something.good. Don’t you think?”

“So, what exactly have you been telling him?” says Roz suspiciously.

“Nothing but the best,” says Zenia. She lowers her eyes modestly. “I think it’s sometimes in everyone’s best interests to bend the truth a little, don’t you? It doesn’t cost me anything, and poor Larry does seem to want a father he can look up to.”

Roz can hardly believe what she’s hearing. In fact she doesn’t believe it. There must be more, and there is. “Of course, if this situation goes on much longer it might become more complicated,” says Zenia. “I might forget, and tell a little too much of the truth. About what a twisted jerk poor Larry’s father really was.

‘

Roz sees red. She actually sees it, a red haze obscuring her eyes. It’s one thing for her to criticize Mitch, but another thing for Zenia! “You used hirn,” she says. “You cleaned him out, you sucked him dry, then you just threw him away! You’re responsible for his death, you know. He killed himself because of you. I don’t think you’re in any position to stand in judgment.”

“You want to know?” says Zenia. “You really want to know? After I told him it wasn’t going to work out, because he was just too besotted—shit, I could hardly breathe, he was a control freak, I had no life of my own, he wanted to know what I had for breakfast, he wanted to come into the bathroom with me every time I needed to pee, I mean it!—he practically tried to kill me! I had the marks on my neck for weeks; good thing I wasn’t too squeamish to kick him in the nuts, as hard as I could, to make him let go. Then he cried all over me; he wanted the two of us to make some stupid suicide pact, so we could be together in death! Oh, fun! Fuck that, I told him! So don’t blame me. I wash my hands:’

Roz can’t stand hearing this, she can’t stand it! Poor Mitch, reduced to that. An abject groveller.—“You could have helped him,” she said. “He needed help!” Roz could have helped him too, of course. She would have, if she’d known. Wouldn’t she?

“Don’t be a priss,” says Zenia. “You should give me a medal for getting him off your back. Mitch was a sick lech. What he wanted out of me was sexual twist—he wanted to be tied up, he wanted me to dress up in leather underwear, and other stuff, stuff he would never ask you to do because he thought you were his angel wife. Men get like that after a certain age, but this was too much. I can’t tell you the half of it, it was so ridiculous!”

“You led him on,” says Roz, who wants by this time to run out of the room. It’s too humiliating for Mitch. It shrinks him too much. It’s too painful.

“Women like you make me sick,” says Zenia angrily. “You’ve always owned things. But you didn’t own him, you know. He wasn’t your God-given property! You think you had rights in him’ Nobody has any rights except what they can get!”

Roz takes a deep breath. Lose her temper and she loses the fight. “Maybe,” she says. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that you ate him for breakfast:”

“The trouble with you, Roz,” says Zenia, more gently, “is that you never gave the man any credit. You always saw him as a victim of women, just putty in their hands. You babied him.

Did it ever occur to you that Mitch was responsible for his actions? He made his own decisions, and maybe those decisions didn’t have much to do with me, or with you either. Mitch did what he wanted to do. He took his chances.”

“You stacked the deck,” says Roz.

“Oh please,” says Zenia. “It takes two to tango. But why fight about Mitch? Mitch is dead. Let’s get back to the main issue. I have a proposition for you: perhaps, for Larry’s sake, I should leave town. Larry wouldn’t be the only reason—I’ll be frank with you, Roz, I need to leave town anyway. I’m in some danger here, so I’m asking you for old times’ sake as well. But I can’t afford it right now; I won’t hide from you that things are getting very tight. I’d go like a shot if I only had, say, a plane ticket and some pocket money.”

“You’re trying to blackmail me,” says Roz.

“Let’s not call names,” says Zenia. “I’m sure you see the logic.”

Roz hesitates. Should she buy it, should she buy Zenia off? And what if she doesn’t? What exactly is the threat? Larry is no longer a child; there’s a lot he must have guessed, about Mitch. “I don’t think so,” she says slowly. “I have a better proposition. How about you leave town anyway? I could still get you for embezzlement, you know. And there is this thing about chequeforging.”