The Fourth Side of the Triangle

Am I a monster? Dane wondered, sipping moodily at his fourth gin and tonic. But then aren’t all writers monsters? Cannibals feeding off the flesh of friends and enemies alike, converting them into a different form of energy for the sheer joy of digestion? (And how much of it, Dane thought ruefully, followed the human economy and went down the drain!) The truth was, any writer worth his salt would give a year off his life for a chance like this. (Thackeray coming downstairs, weeping. “What is the matter, Henry? “I have just killed Colonel Newcombe!” How the old boy would have risen, like a trout to the lure, to such an opportunity!) It was commonplace for authors to make lemonade out of the lemons handed them by life, and poor pink stuff it became, too. How would the real thing look and taste...?

By his sixth gin Dane was drawing bold lines on the table with the condensation from his glass. Thus, thus, and thus:

He would contrive to meet Sheila Grey.

He would make love to her.

He would make her love him.

He would displace his father in her life.

That should do it.

How would his father react to being deposed by his son? Or by having to “share the latchkey” with him (Dane’s writing mind foresaw the possibility that this Sheila, still uncomprehended, might be the sort of woman to whom the notion of sleeping with father and son on alternate nights was amusing)? Of course, he felt sorry for the old man (how old is old, Dane?). The blow to his ego would be shattering. Well, serve him right. Send him back where he belongs, to Mother.

After that, what? Drop her, go back to work? Why not? Serve her right, breaking up a solid ’Murrican home, Episcopal yet! Dane chuckled, the chuckle turning giggly.

There was no doubt in his mind, after the seventh gin and tonic, that he could pull it off. What the deuce ’d she look like? He tried vainly to recall. He had passed her in the lobby on three or four occasions, but each encounter had happened to coincide with a love affair, when other women hardly existed for him. He had seen her photo in Vogue and the Sunday papers several times, but her face remained a blank. She couldn’t be outstandingly ugly, or some impression would have lingered. So she must be relatively pleasant to look at, thank heaven.

He decided to order just one more drink.

He was hung over when the telephone rang on his desk. The shrilling made him wince. It was all of a piece with his general outlook on life this morning, for his cogitations had led him into a cul-de-sac, and he had not yet worked his way out of it.

In sober determination to act boldly, he had composed imaginary dialogue for their opening conversation:

Miss Grey, I’m working on another novel — I don’t know if you’ve seen my earlier ones...?

I’m afraid not, Mr. McKell, although I’ve heard about them. (That seemed a reasonable preconstruction. The elder McKell could hardly have avoided mentioning his son’s literary achievements, such as they were, and Sheila Grey, a VIP in her own right, could hardly be construed as caring a damn.)

My books haven’t raised anything yet but a slight stench, I’m afraid. But I have high hopes for this one — if you’ll help me.

If I’ll help you, Mr. McKell? (That would be the raised-eyebrow department. Perhaps a shade interested.)

You see, Miss Grey, one of my leading characters is that of a famous dress designer. If I wanted to research a cab driver, all I’d have to do is ride around in cabs. But a great fashion figure — I’m afraid you’re the only accessible one I’ve heard of. Or am I presuming?

Ordinarily what she would say was You certainly are, but under the circumstances he foresaw a Well... just how can I help you?

The secret of making people interested in you, Dane had learned, lay not in helping them but in getting them to help you. By letting me watch you at work would be the irresistible response. She was bound, no matter how jaded fame had made her, to be flattered.

Or was she?

Here was where Dane’s hangover had ached.

Sheila Grey might be flattered if he were Tom Brown or Harry Schnitzelbach. But he was Ashton McKell’s son. His head throbbed with caution. To achieve an appointment he would have to give her his name. And no matter how little time elapsed between his request for an appointment and his plea for her help, it would be more than long enough to set her to wondering.