The Bedroom Business

CHAPTER SEVEN

AT NINE the next morning, the clock radio beside Emily’s bed shattered the silence with an earsplitting blast of guitar­-twanging, drum-thumping, cymbal-crashing acid rock.

She shot up against the pillows, threw out her hand, knocked over a book, an empty cocoa mug and a box of tissues as she groped for the Off button.

The music stopped. Her heart pounded on. She waited until it slowed. Then she swung her feet to the floor and blinked at the radio.

She kept it set to a classical music station. Promptly at six each morning, Monday through Friday, the radio awakened her to the soothing strains of Debussy or Bach. Once in a very great while, she opened her eyes to something as mod­em and daring as Stravinsky.

But not rock. Never rock. It was too loud, too boisterous, too obvious, too everything. She’d always thought so. So, why would the radio be playing rock music this morning? For that matter, why would it go off at all, on a Saturday? And if it did, why would it go off at...

Nine?

“Nine,” Emily gasped, and hurtled from the bed.

She remembered, now. Remembered it all. How she’d paced the floor last night, instead of sleeping. How she’d tossed and turned, once she’d finally fallen into bed. How she’d felt herself tumbling into the kind of exhausted sleep she feared would leave her feeling groggy, and how she’d reached out, fumbling in the dark, to reset the clock from six to seven so she’d have one more hour of sleep but would still awaken early enough to phone Jake and tell him there wasn’t a way in the world she’d see him at ten or any hour on a Saturday, in this lifetime.

Emily groaned.

There were two morals to that sad little tale. The first was never to try and set a clock radio in the dark. The second was never, ever, to let Jake McBride get the last word.

Nine o’clock! Hurriedly, she grabbed the phone and dialed his number.

“Come on,” she whispered, “pick up, pick up, pick...”

“Hi,” Jake said cheerfully.

Thank God!

“Jake?” Emily cleared her throat. “Jake,” she said briskly, “I’m glad I—”

“This is Jake McBride. Sorry, but I can’t take your call right now. Just leave your name, a brief message, and—”

Emily slammed the phone down. She scrubbed her hands over her face, ran them through her hair. She could feel curls springing up all over her head. What to do, what to do?

Calm down, an inner voice said.

But how could she calm down, when it was nine-fifteen and Jake was due here at ten? Okay. Okay, forget about calming down. She’d just concentrate on getting ready. Showering. Dressing. Doing something with her horrible hair, which seemed to know that there was snow forecast for later today. Then she’d put up coffee, straighten the house...

She sagged against the nightstand.

Forget about straightening the house. Forget about coffee. Just shower and get dressed, because the last thing she wanted was for Jake to ring her doorbell while she was stand­ing here in her flannel pajamas.

No. He wouldn’t be able to ring the doorbell. He’d have to press the downstairs buzzer. Then she’d have to press the Talk button. She’d say, “Who is it?” And he’d say, “Jake. Buzz me in,” and she’d say, “Sorry, but I’ve changed my mind, Jake. I’ll see you Monday morning, at the office...”

Buzzzz.

Emily spun around and stared into the living room. That was either the downstairs buzzer or an angry hornet had got­ten into the house. It couldn’t be a hornet, not in the winter. And it couldn’t be the buzzer. Jake was coming at ten, and it wasn’t even half past...

Buzzzz.

Then again, it didn’t have to be Jake. It could be someone else. The super, calling to tell her when the painters would be coming. Or old Mrs. Levy, from apartment 3G, who forgot her keys half the time she went out and then just pressed buzzers at random until somebody buzzed back and let her in...

Buzzzz, buzzzz, buzzzz.

Whoever it was, was getting impatient. Her canary, its cage still covered for the night, gave a wistful chirp from the kitchen in response. Emily hurried to the intercom in the wall beside the front door.

“Yes?”

“It’s Jake.”

She groaned, closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against the wall. Actually, she felt like banging it against the wall but Jake might think she was trying to tap out a message.

“Emily?”

“Yes, Jake. I heard you. What are you doing here? It’s not ten yet.”

“Yeah, well, I got an early start.”

“I’m not...” She looked down at her old pajamas, at her bare feet. “I’m not ready.”