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“You got smashed at a tea,” she said dryly, “with some Jesuits.”
“No, the Jesuits were sober.”
“They don’t drink?”
“Are you out of your cunting mind?” he shouted. “They swilled! Never seen such capacities in all my life!”
“Hey, come on, hold it down, John! Stephanie!”
“Yes, Stephanie,” Thompson whispered. “Where the hell is my drink?”
“Will you tell me what you were doing at a faculty tea?”
“Bloody public relations; something you should be doing.”
Shirley handed him a gin on the rocks.
“God, the way we’ve been mucking their grounds,” the director muttered; pious; the glass to his lips. “Oh, yes, go ahead, laugh! That’s all that you’re good for, laughing and showing a bit of bum.”
“I’m just smiling.”
“Well, someone had to make a good show.”
“And how many times did you say “fuck”, John?”
“Darling, that’s crude,” he rebuked her gently. “Now tell me, how are you? You haven’t been quite yourself today.”
She answered with a despondent shrug.
“Are you glum?” Come on, tell me.”
“I dunno.”
“Tell your uncle.”
“Shit, I think I’ll have a drink,” she said, reaching for a glass.
“Yes, it’s good for the stomach. Now, then, what?”
She was slowly pouring vodka. “Ever think about dying?”
“I beg your –”
“Dying,” she interrupted. “Ever think about it,