Mentally Millie ran through what she knew about Davina from Jim, the source of all her information on the big team who were responsible for putting his book into print, from the Head Scholar of the Chubb University Press to Tunbull Printing and Imaginexa Design. Oh, pray that A Helical God did what everyone said it was bound to!
A Yugoslavian refugee who had been in the country for ten years, and was now twenty-six: that was the first item. She had been lucky enough to be “discovered” by a big agency and became a top model, especially famous for taking a bubble bath on TV — an ad, she was quick to point out, that still paid her good royalties. But her heart was in visual design, and she was, so the Chubb University Press people insisted, a superb exponent of the art of making a book irresistibly attractive to browsers. Her chief market lay with trade publishers, but because Max was sole printer to the Chubb University Press, she had deigned to take over their output as well.
Millie didn’t think, somehow, that dear old Don Carter, who had been Jim’s mentor through the writing and editing of the book, would have had the steel to deny Davina entry to a rather peculiar world, that of the minor academic publishing house. So whether C.U.P. wanted it or not, Davina took over their “book look” as she put it.
Could she honestly be just twenty-six years old? No, Millie decided, she’s thirty at least, has to be. Tall, stick-thin yet graceful, and lucky enough, thought Millie, eyeing her clinically, to have a narrow skeleton; a big, wide pelvis would have put a huge gap between those arm-sized thighs. Good, B-cup breasts, not much of a waist — that fit with the skeleton — and a long torso above shortish legs. She dressed extremely well, and her brown-black hair was thick enough to take the loose-down-the-back fashion, though it tended to clump in ropes. Beautiful clear white skin, carefully plucked and arched brows, long lashes, and startlingly vivid blue eyes. Yet, Millie’s thoughts rambled on, her lips were too large and her nose, though straight, was broad. Good cheekbones saved her face, together with those weird eyes. An enlightenment burst on Millie: Davina looked as Medusa the Gorgon must have looked before the gods stripped her of her beauty.
“I haven’t got my waistline back enough for miniskirts,” Davina was saying to Millie, the foreign accent lending her high, fluting voice some much needed character.
“I didn’t think dresses with miniskirts emphasized waists,” Millie said. “How old is Alexis?”
“Nearly three months.” She gave an airy laugh. “I thought I was giving Max a much needed heir, and now — John turns up! So now I kill the fatted calf for the return of the prodigal son.”
“But John isn’t a prodigal son,” said Millie. “That son was banished for loose living or some such thing, I thought, whereas John is just a victim of circumstances beyond his control.”
The derisive eyes clouded, became uncertain; Davina gave a shrug and flounced off.
The room was very modern, but Millie quite liked it, and found a comfortable chair to people-watch in peace while she could. Except that there were too few people. Her gaze rested upon Jim, talking to John, and her thoughts slipped backward in time; his advent out of the blue last night had shocked her, though Jim — no, not expected it, seemed to have sensed it was coming.
They had met in California when all three enrolled in the biochemistry Master’s program at Caltech; that they had clicked was probably due to John’s solitary habits, which fitted well into their own isolation. For reasons he never elaborated upon to them, John Hall too was armored against a cruel and inquisitive world. He wasn’t short of money, but learned not to intrude his wealth into their friendship. With John as third wheel, those two years in California had held many pleasant moments; they did a lot of sitting on public beaches, counting their nickels and dimes for a boardwalk lunch somewhere, listening to Fats Domino and Elvis, all very new and exciting at the time. Women found John immensely attractive and threw lures, but he ignored every overture. Whatever chewed at his core was shattering, subtle, sorrowful. That it had all to do with John’s dead mother they had gathered, but he never told them his whole story, and — at least while Millie was present — they never asked. Jim, she suspected, knew more.
The glowingly bright corner John Hall occupied in Millie’s mind went back to his astonishing and totally unsought generosity. When Jim’s facial sinuses literally threatened his life, John Hall went out and commissioned the finest sinus surgeon in L.A., and, without telling them, threw in a plastic surgeon for good measure. Ten thousand dollars of surgery later, Jim Hunter emerged a changed man. Not only could he breathe easily, not only was all threat of brain infection removed, but he had also lost all resemblance to a gorilla. He was pleasantly Negroid, no longer even remotely ape-like. And Jim had actually stomached the gift! Jim, who would accept charity from no one! Millie knew exactly why: easy breathing and safety from cerebral abscess were wonderful, but not even in the same league as losing the gorilla look.