"What you're saying, then, in effect, is that I should become a whore?" she said in a shocked voice.
He smiled.
"That's only the Catholic in you that's talking. In the back of your mind, even you have to admit that it makes sense."
"But a whore?" she said, her voice still shocked.
"Not a whore, a courtesan or its modern equivalent, the call girl.
In ancient civilizations, being a courtesan was a highly respected profession. Statesmen and philosophers alike sought their favors.
And it isn't only the money that made it attractive.
It's a way of life that's most complete. Luxurious and satisfying."
She began to laugh.
"You're nothing but a dirty old man, Charlie.
When do you bring out the French postcards?"
He laughed with her. "Why shouldn't I be? I was a dirty young man, too. But I was never stupid.
You have all the equipment necessary to become a great courtesan. The body, the mind – even your nurse's training won't be wasted.
True sex demands a greater intellectualism than simple animal rutting."
"Now I know it's time for you to go to bed." She laughed. "Next thing I know, you'll be suggesting I go to a school to learn all about it."
"That's an idea." He chuckled. "They're always after me to endow one college or another.
Why didn't I think of it? The Standhurst College of Sex. Otherwise known as the Old Fucking School." He began to laugh heartily, then suddenly he grimaced in pain.
His face whitened and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead.
He hunched over in his wheel chair. In a moment, she was at his side, pushing up the sleeve of his robe, exposing his arm.
Quickly she shot the syrette of morphine into his vein.
His bony fingers gripped her arm, trying to push it away, as he stared at her with agony-laden eyes.
"For Christ's sake, Charlie," she said angrily. "Give yourself a break. Stop fighting it!"
His grip relaxed for a moment and she emptied another syrette into him.
She looked into his eyes and saw him fighting the comfort the drug would bring him.
She took his fragile, thin hand and raised it swiftly to her lips.
He smiled as the drug began to cloud his eyes.
"Poor little Jennie," he said softly. "Any other time and I’d have made you my queen!" His fingers brushed her cheek gently. "But I won't forget what we were talking about.
I'm not going to let you go to waste just because I'm not going to be around to enjoy it!"
11.
Three days later they were having lunch on the terrace when she saw the gray Rolls-Royce come to a stop in the driveway.
A smartly dressed chauffeur opened the door and a woman stepped out.
A few minutes later, the butler appeared on the terrace.
"A Mrs. Schwartz to see you, Mr. Standhurst."
Standhurst smiled.
"Set another place, Judson, and ask Mrs. Schwartz if she'll join us."
The butler bowed. "Yes, Mr. Standhurst."
A moment later, a woman came through the doorway.
"Charlie!" she said, unmistakable pleasure in her voice. She held her hands out toward him as she walked. "How good to see you."
"Aida." Standhurst kissed her hand. "Forgive my not getting up." He looked into her face. "You're as beautiful as ever."
"You haven't changed a bit, Charlie.
You can still keep a straight face and lie like hell."
Standhurst laughed.
"Aida, this is Jennie Denton."
"How do you do?" Jennie said.
She saw a woman, perhaps in her middle or late fifties, quietly and expensively dressed.
The woman turned, her smile warm and friendly, but Jennie suddenly had the feeling that there was little about her that the woman didn't take in.
She turned back to Standhurst.
"Is this the girl you spoke to me about on the phone?"
Standhurst nodded.
The woman turned back to Jennie.