Anne and Portia found themselves alone, sitting by the telephone with its unlisted number, waiting for it to ring. She had found a perfect place—a year's sublet with adequate furniture, and convenient to The Florentin and the Players. Now she was ready for guests, but no one knew where she lived or how to contact her. Whom should she call first? She thought of Beth and then rejected the idea with great effort. There was Mark—but seeing him might be too great a strain just now. What a pity they could not just be friends. It was not that she had felt revulsion, not even fear— just a nothing feeling that broke all illusions and put it blankly to her that somehow she must be different, immune to all men, even Mark. She decided not to sit and brood about this and picked up her white telephone. She would call Jacques; he was safe, possibly even gay. She wondered whether he knew women who were and if they were not all hideous-looking perverts.
