The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

Because it's further away from death . But saying that would have led us into a discussion I couldn't risk. I put my hand on her arm and pointedly surveyed the fine wrinkles, the greying hair, the unreconstructed breasts, and told her with only mild sarcasm, "I wish I could be like you, Denise. It must be liberating not to care about such superficial things."

She shot me a sharp glance but didn't take up the challenge. I maintained the contact between us as long as I could get away with, and felt her shudder and sway. "It's so hot," she gasped, and, indeed, her face was suddenly glistening with sweat. "I've got to get out of here."

"Are you okay? Do you need me to drive you home?" I asked boldly, hopefully.

But she shook her head and made her way out of the room, pausing only to hug Kit's husband. Refreshed, I scanned the crowd for somebody I hadn't talked to yet who would tell me, verbally or otherwise, how good I looked. I was one of the last to leave. When I embraced Jerry, he was weeping, but I also felt him having to force his gaze away from my cleavage.

A few weeks later I called Denise in Austin to find out what the doctor had said. I wanted to know, and I wasn't likely to hear through the grapevine since she lived so far away and the only mutual acquaintance we had now was Amy. "It's my heart," she told me in an affectless voice. "There's something wrong with my heart." My own heart was pounding; I laid my hand over it in a sensual caress.

"Oh, Denise, honey, I'm sorry."

"It's ironic, isn't it?" She gave a bitter laugh. "There I was thinking I was saying goodbye to Kit, and I was already sick and didn't even know it."

"It can happen to any of us," I said, lamely and disingenuously, adding silently, not me .

When I called her again a month or so later, there was no answer, and I have never heard from her again. Since there's nobody I know to call or who would know to call me, it's not likely I'll find out what happened to her, although certainly I can guess. It haunts me. I can only hope she had someone with her, children or grandchildren, climbing partner or a better friend than me.

After Kit's memorial service and Denise's departure, I felt great for quite a while. I increased my workouts to three hours a day, and Vonda was pleased with my progress. I started going to a spa once a month for a full-body cleansing. I had my colours done and was shocked to discover that the particular shades of blue and green I'd been favouring actually could make me look older, the recommended adjustments made a huge difference, and I replaced almost all my wardrobe. I embarked on a new relationship with a thirty-year-old man I met at the gym; he thought I was thirty-five and joked incessantly about how much better older women were in bed.

I also started doing brain exercises, crossword puzzles and foreign language tapes and repetitions of number sequences forward and backward before I fell asleep. This was less successful than the efforts to keep my body youthful. I still seemed to be forgetting names more than I used to, if someone spoke to me while I was on the phone I'd lose both conversations, and about once a week I seriously misplaced my keys. This would not do.

Amy seemed glad to hear from me and readily agreed to meet me for a drink. I went to her office, enjoying the chance to stroll across the campus. Critically observing every young woman I passed, I repeatedly judged myself acceptable, and more than one young man barely out of adolescence glanced at me in a way I took to be admiring.

Amy was with a student. Through the half-open door she saw me and raised a hand in greeting. Her smile, I had to admit, was radiant, even within the excess flesh. She looked exhausted, though, and I worried that I might have waited too long, that the demands of her life might have used up her reserves and rendered her inaccessible to me. I took a seat in the hall outside her office, like any student in need of intellectual transfusion, and passed the next quarter-hour considering my options for a contingency plan. Now and then, I caught pieces of their dialogue; the fact that it was almost completely incomprehensible to me was both frightening and reassuring.

When the student emerged, I took his measure, wondering somewhat wildly whether I'd be able to find him again if I needed him. Studying notes he must have taken during his session with Amy, he hardly glanced at me. Amy came to the office door, even bigger than when I'd seen her at the memorial service, but surprisingly graceful. She held out her hand. Breathless at my good fortune, I rose and took it. Her grip was strong. She covered my hand with her other hand. "It's so good to see you, Madyson," she told me with more fervour than I'd expected, and it crossed my mind to wonder what it was she wanted from me.