Chapter Text
Mister Thompson’s men arrived promptly (whether they had been expecting her call or were just jolted into action by her frantic voice on the telephone–both were possible). Dorothy circulated among them nervously as they assessed the damage. They were diplomatic enough to behave as though the holes in the wall and ceiling had appeared spontaneously rather than through the incompetence of the man she’d originally hired.
Still frazzled long after the men had left, Dorothy decided to change into something more comfortable, eat a sandwich, and put on a record (now that the stereo wiring was no longer connected to the light switches). The record had been a gift from her first husband, Harry, and Harry’s steady partner, George. They all liked listening to handsome crooners. It figured. Her shoulders finally began to relax as Dean Martin’s soft tremolo filled the room. It was hard to stay wound up while Sleep Warm was playing. She was left with a kind of rummy melancholy, wishing that she hadn’t been so stubborn. She had just wanted to show that she could manage the situation herself. She’d already been sore from reading a scathing review of her latest book that morning, and Robert’s skepticism of her choice of electrician had put her on the defensive. Her instinct for persistence did not always pay off.
Over the course of her three marriages, she had never been in charge of household repairs and installations. Now that she was single by choice and could do what she wanted, she kept bumping into things that had never been hers to manage before. Sometimes, it was exhilarating. Other times, like today, she felt like she was failing a test. Leave it to the men, Dolly, her second ex-husband Gerald would say. Up yours, Gerald, Dorothy thought, lighting a cigarette. I’m learning how to do these things now because no one taught me. I’ll get it.
You will, Dot, came another figment of her imagination. Clancy. She really missed Clancy sometimes. She’d married Clancy because he was gentle and cultured and looked at her like she hung the moon. Nothing like Gerald. As Dean Martin crooned “Goodnight, Sweetheart,” she remembered how Clancy would massage between her shoulder blades and speak-sing to her in his smooth baritone when she struggled to get something down on the page, assuring her that she was an excellent writer. She could use some of that comfort right now. Dorothy didn’t regret the divorce, but she missed the tenderness that she had felt early in the marriage. Clancy would’ve been complimenting her through a haze of brandy and cigar smoke right about now. She lost herself in memory, and for several minutes, she imagined that she had it all together–the doting gentleman, the sense of safety, the house of her own, the career and accolades.
When she came back to the present, the sky was dark, and the record needle was tracking the run-out area. She shook her head and got up to turn it over. Then, she settled in with a neglected copy of The Economist and her reading glasses. Maybe she would glean something useful before Robert got home. Several minutes later, her reading paid off. Robert came home, looking well-rested, and revealed that he had spoken to Mr Thompson. Dorothy was forced to concede that Mr Burton had made a mess of things, but then, inspiration struck. Rising deliberately, she lit a candle. Then, she held it out to Robert, explaining that he would need it just for that night and that Mr Thompson’s people would return the next day. She worked hard to keep her expression blank as her proud butler’s smugness evaporated, replaced by a look of exquisite consternation. Once he had left the room, Dorothy swaggered back to the sofa and reclined like a queen. Only time would tell whether Robert would think to test his lights or if he would spend all night with the candle. Either way, she looked forward to hearing about it in the morning. She could admit that she’d fallen prey to the sunk cost fallacy more than once, but she had made excellent progress in the art of the bluff.