Maid to Measure

Cote d’Azur sunlight, filtered by the jalousies, made a golden dimness in the room. On the green brocade chaise lay a slender blonde in tennis costume, swinging a racquet in her hand. Each time she swung it, it went thump on the floor.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said the bearded young man irritably. “I’ve spoiled this damn postcard twice.” He threw a colorful bit of cardboard at the wastebasket, and drew another toward him across the writing desk.

“I wish you wouldn’t make cow’s eyes at aging brunettes in bars,” said the girl. There was a gleam of spite in her big blue eyes.

“Aging!” said the young man automatically, pausing in his work.

“She must have been thirty if she was a day,” said the girl. Thump went the tennis racquet.

“Umm,” said the young man, looking up.

“Umm, hell!” said the girl. Her expression had grown definitely unpleasant. “I’ve got half a mind—”

“What?” asked the young man apprehensively.

“Oh, nothing.” After a pause, she said, “Mother would have known what to do with you. She was a witch.”

The young man clucked his tongue disapprovingly, without looking up. “Shouldn’t talk about your old mother that way,” he said.

“She was a witch,” the girl said. “She could turn herself into a wolf, or a tiger, or anything she liked.” “Sure, she could,” said the young man, signing his postcard. “There we are.” He put the card aside, lit a cigarette, and glanced rather nervously at his watch. “All kidding aside, Yana—we’ve had a pretty good time—”

“But all things come to an end?” the girl asked in a dangerous voice. “We’re both grownups? We ought to be realistic? Is that it?” She stood up and went to the closet.

“Well—” said the young man uncomfortably. His expression brightened. “What are you doing?”

The girl pulled out a pigskin suitcase and opened it with unnecessary vehemence. She rummaged in one of the pockets, drew out a worn chamois bag. “Looking for something,” she said over her shoulder.

“Oh,” said the young man, disappointed. He watched while the girl opened the drawstrings, took out a small object wrapped in a dirty red cloth and tied with string. He glanced at his watch again; when he looked up, the girl had a small, oddly shaped bottle in her hand.

“What’s that?”

“Something my mother left me,” the girl said. Her fingernails gritted unpleasantly on the glass as she scraped the wax off and removed the stopper. She gave him a narrow look. “So you won’t change your mind?” “Now, Yana—”

“Then, here’s luck.” She put the bottle to her lips, tilted her head back and swallowed.

“Now, then,” she said, lowering the empty bottle, “let’s see . . .” She flexed one hand experimentally, looking at her long nails.

The young man was inspecting his watch. “Almost three o’clock,” he muttered. “Yana, didn’t you say you were going to the hairdresser’s this afternoon?”

“I changed my mind.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Why —are you expecting anyone?”

“Oh, no,” the young man said hastily. He stood up energetically. “Tell you what, Yana—no hard feelings— let’s go for a swim.”

“I see,” said the girl. “Tell me, what about tonight— no plans? No one coming over?”

“No, not a thing.”

“So, we’ll be all alone—just the two of us.” She smiled, showing her pointed eyeteeth. “That will give me plenty of time to decide. What shall I be, darling— your great big stripy pussycat . . . or your faithful, hungry dog?”

The young man, who was peeling his shirt off over his head, did not hear. His voice came indistinctly. “Well, if we’re going for that swim, let’s get moving.”

“All right,” the girl said. “Wait a minute, and I’ll change into a bikini.”

Emerging from the shirt, the young man said, “Glad you decided not to be—” He looked around, but the girl was not in the room. “Yana? Yana? That’s funny.” He crossed the room, glanced into the bedroom, then the bath. They were empty.

A light tapping came at the French doors as the young man turned. They opened, and a pretty darkhaired young woman put her head in. “Robert? I am not intruding?”

“Giselle!” cried the young man, smiling with pleasure. “No, come on in—you’re right on time. I was just thinking about going for a swim.”

The young woman advanced with a charming smile; her figure, in a low-cut blue sun dress, also was charming.

“Oh, it’s too bad,” she said; “I have no suit.”

“Here’s one,” said the young man cheerfully, picking up two candy-striped bits of material from the chaise. “Try that one for size.”

“But doesn’t it belong to your—little friend? Won’t she mind?”

“No, no—don’t give her another thought.”

As they were leaving, the young man glanced with an odd expression at the striped bikini, which fitted the dark girl admirably.

“What is it, anything wrong?”

“Just thought of something Yana said before she left . . . No, it couldn’t be. Well, come on!”

Arm in arm, laughing, they went out into the sunlight.