Retirement

"You son of a *bitch*!"

"Hey, if I'm wrong, just prove it to me. Show me tonight what a docile little wife you are, and I'll eat my words."

"You snide shit! You love to wallow in the mud, so you think everyone else does also!"

Grant spread his hands. "Just prove me wrong. That's all I'm asking you to do tonight. Just show me what a tame little homemaker you can be."

"You are all ugly inside, but other people aren't like you. Not at all."

"Please, just prove that to me," Grant said, grinning. "Just show me that what you say is true."

She stared at him. "I don't think you would believe it if you saw it. You only believe what you want to."

"Don't we all? You included, honey. Now go change. We're going to Lambert's, and your attire is entirely unsuitable."

"My attire?!"

"You may call that a business outfit, dear, but the patrons at Lambert's would call it a slut-suit -- that is, if they used language like that. No, you would be an embarassment to both you husband and myself."

"You can go to hell, mister," she said, putting her fists on her hips.

"Oh, and about that language, Amy. Please, show just a little restraint tonight."

Amy jutted her jaw out. "I have had just about all of you that --"

"Ready!" Allen said, reappearing, slightly out of breath from hurrying.

"Splendid, Allen! Lambert's is acceptable?"

Allen whistled. "You were able to get reservations for Lambert's? How long have you been planning this?"

Grant grinned, pleased with the effect on Allen. "Only since this morning, actually. I ... know ... the correct people."

"Lambert's," Allen said, grinning and shaking his head.

"Uhm ... one thing, Allen."

"Yes?"

"Your wife's suit. Uhm ... I don't think they permit ladies without dresses into Lambert's. Or at least I think it would cause quite a ... how can I say it? It would be a faux pas."

"Uhm ...," Allen drawled, turning to his wife. "I think he's probably right, dear."

Amy clenched her jaw. "So -- you want me to go change?" she said, her voice tense.

"It would probably make a better impression, sweetheart."

"A better impression." She pursed her lips. "Okay, so be it. I will go change into a dress for you." She moved back up the hall stiffly.

"She seems a little miffed," Grant commented.

"Ah, she just doesn't like anyone telling her how to dress. That's all. She'll get over it before we even get out to the limo.

"She's a very lucky woman, Allen. You are an extremely understanding man."

"Well, thank you. I hope she appreciates it as much as you do."

"I hope so too. I mean, not many men would go to such lengths to accomodate their little ladies."

Allen raised his hands quickly. "Oh, don't let her hear you call her that!" he whispered conspiratorilly.

"Yessir, *much* more understanding than most men would be."

"Well, I have a wonderful wife -- it's worth working hard to keep her."

"Just make sure you don't over-pamper her."

"I don't think I'll have to worry about that."

"That's the problem. Most men don't realize it's happening until it's already done."

"What's that?"

"Women, Allen, should be ... given certain constraints within which to work. It has to do with the father-daughter relationship. It's the same with a dog or a child, too. If you just let her run wild, she won't respect you, and she won't even feel good about herself."

"Ooohhh, I think Amy feels plenty good about herself."

"No, actually, that's one of the first signs, Allen. In fact, that's why I even mentioned this at all. When a woman overcompensates with a -- I don't want to use the phrase 'overbearing ego', but that's generally what I mean -- it's a sign of a fragile self-image. She feels insecure. The bastion in her life -- her father or her husband, depending on her situation -- has not taken the time to present her with the limits she needs to work within. She feels he does not love her enough to take the time out to look after her. And so she tries to infringe upon him, as a -- well, as a cry for help."

"So you think that Amy's crying out for help? I don't know -- that reasoning is a bit strained."

"Just think about it, Allen. Examine your situation objectively. If there's any truth to what I said, I'm sure you'll see it. If not, then you can be even more confident about your marriage."

"Okay ... I'll keep it in mind."

"You do that!" Grant said, clapping his hand on Allen's shoulder. "Now, as one friend to another, I happen to know a little about the stock market. I have a tip or two I might be willing to share with a friend that offered me a beer."

"One beer coming up," Allen grinned.

Several minutes later, Amy walked out wearing an expensive white gown. "Do you gentlemen think you can call *this* 'acceptable'?" she asked dryly.

"Amy!" Grant said, raising his beer can in salute to her, "You look pretty as a toy doll!"

"Oh, God, you two aren't drinking?! Allen?"

"It's just one beer, babydoll," Allen told her. "And Mr Blaine has been letting me in on a few secrets of the stocks."

"Oh, wonderful. Are you two ready? Or shall I sit and wait with held breath until the two of you are done?"

"Actually," Grant said, "We *are* in the middle of something. If you think you *could* wait just a minute or two."

Amy sighed angrilly. "Allen?"

"We really are in the middle of something, dear. Would you mind? For just a minute?"

"Sure! Fine!" She sat down on the couch and put her hands in her lap. "I'll just sit here and wait 'patiently' on you two men."

"Really, honey, it'll be just a minute."

"And I said I'd wait. So get to it!"

Allen looked back at Grant, who gave him an I-told-you-so look and then continued with a discussion about a high-tech company he thought would do well soon.

Allen fidgetted until Grant finally finished, then he clapped his hands and stood, looking at Amy. "Well, what do we think? About time for that dinner?"

"Oh," she said, blinking. "It is just *so* hard to contain this excitement."

"Right ...." Allen said, clapping his hands together. "I'll just go get our coats."

"Is that the best you could do?" Grant asked as Allen walked back to the closet.

Amy just glared at him.

"Okay, okay, it *is* acceptable, I guess. But you *did* go a bit heavy on the makeup, didn't you? This *is* an upper class restaurant, not a red light district."

"Mister ...," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"Here you go, Amy," Allen said, reappearing and holding her coat up to help her put it on.

"Oh," Grant said.

"What?" Allen asked.

"That's her best coat?"

"Ye ... es."

"Tell you what, Allen. A beautiful woman shows off her husband's sexual prowess, and her clothes show off his financial success. We'll stop on the way to the restaurant and pick her up a coat that's a little more appropriate to your status."

"I don't think that will be necessary, Grant," Allen answered him. "We'll stick by what we have."

Grant bowed his head. "That did come out a bit overly-well-to-do, didn't it, Allen? I apologize. I ... You're a friend of mine now, and I just like to do right by my friends. I really did not mean for that to come out as an insult."

"No offense taken, Grant. I appreciate the offer, but Amy and I will stand by what we have."

"Settled, then. Now let's be on our way."

The three stepped onto the porch while Allen locked the door, then they headed for the limousine. A chauffeur appeared and opened the doors. Grant spoke with him a moment, then joined the other two in the cabin.

"No, no," he said, grinning. "Amy, you sit on the seat on that side. Allen and I will sit on this side."

Amy looked at Allen, who shrugged, so she complied.

"You see, that's the female seat, while this is the male seat," Grant said, getting three glasses out of a compartment and popping a champagne bottle.

"I don't understand," Allen said.

The chauffeur started the engine, and Amy's seat began vibrating.

"Since it vibrates, obviously that's the female seat!" Grant guffawed, handing out glasses of champagne. Allen gave one polite chuckle, saw the look Amy gave him, and bowed his head.

"None for me," Amy said, without even looking at Grant.

"Oh, come on, pwiddy liddle thing," Grant told her.

"No."

"Well, Allen *has* to join me. This is two hundred dollar champagne, and there is no way I am letting it go to waste."

"Okay, just one glass," Allen accepted.

Grant began talking about stock tips again, and before Allen knew it, he was on his second refill.

Amy had been just staring out the window, occassionally looking at the two men in disgust, when the limo came to a stop. "Well ... if you two boys are up to it, I think we have arrived."

The chauffeur came around to open the doors, and the three stepped out.

Allen realized they were not standing in front of Lambert's, but in front of an expensive clothing store instead. "Hey, this isn't the restaurant!" he said just a little too loudly.

"Please, Allen," Grant said. "I know what you said earlier, but let me buy you a gift. Please, just this one. Your wife's coat looks ... fine. But we want something stunning for her to appear in at Lambert's."

"Oh ... no ... Grant, I couldn't."

"Honey," Amy said with an edge to her voice, "If Mr Blaine wants to buy me an expensive coat, then by all means, let us oblige him," and she walked into the store. Grant followed, then a bewildered Allen.

Amy simply walked up to the first clerk she saw. "Your most expensive coat -- I wish to see it." The clerk showed her a selection of three coats, leading up to the most expensive one, which Amy carried with her back to a dressing room.

"I -- I can't let you --" Allen said, still blanched after hearing the price ranges.

"Allen, please. I insist. Tell you what. You go back out to the limosine, and we'll be out soon to surprise you."

"I --"

"Allen, go."

"Okay. Okay. And no more champagne for me until I get something on my stomach. I'm not feeling so good," he muttered as he wandered out to the vehicle.

Amy came out and informed a delighted clerk that she would take the coat, then began looking at the available shoes.

"I like the heels fairly high," Grant said, wandering up behind Amy.

"Too damn bad."

"Still playing hard to get," he said, running his hand along her buttocks.

"Get. Your. Hand. Off. My. Ass." Amy said, biting off the end of each word.

"Toots, with that coat and anything else you get, you are bought and paid for."

She turned to look him in the eye. "You could never buy me. Now get your hand off my ass unless you want to lose it."

"What a tiger!" Grant said, not moving his hand. "What was all that earlier about Mrs Domesticity? Hmmm?"

She slapped his hand away. "Miss?" she called to the clerk. "If you have any jewelry on the premises, I would like to see your most expensive."

The clerk smiled and wrung her hands together.

Amy had picked out a necklace and two bracelets, and was looking at shoes again when the clerk came up and opened a white box to reveal a black negligee.

"If you really want to keep the Mister's attentions and affections, these are wonderful items," she told Amy.

Amy pursed her lips. "Let me see your most expensive lingerie, then."

"Uhm, this is our finest lingerie, ma'am. You ... seem to have excellent taste and have only wished to see our best and --"

"Okay, okay. Let me try it on. Send the 'Mister' to the dressing room doors."

"Yes, ma'am," she said, smiling and wringing her hands again.

Amy looked at the girl's hands. "You work off commission, don't you?"

"Ma'am?"

"Never mind."

Amy tried the lingerie on in the dressing room. "Oh, Grant?" she called.

"Yes?" she heard his voice from outside.

"Remember what you said about being bought and paid for?"

"Yes."

She stepped outside, dressed in the black negligee, spun around twice, and wiggled her ass. "This," she said in a husky voice, "Is what you will *never* be able to pay for."

"I have a friend that could fix that problem, you know."

"And what problem is that?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"That left boob sagging lower than the right one. A little snip snip with the knife, and you could look as normal as any other woman."

"You shit!" she said, her lower lip trembling despite herself.

"Oh, don't cry. I mean, it's noticeable, certainly, but it's not particularly hideous. It doesn't turn my stomach to look at it, anyway."

"You fucking shit!" She spun around and moved back into the dressing room.

It was ten minutes before she came out, her eyes still red.

"Hey, Amy, I'm really sorry. Really, you're boobs aren't all that bad."

"Shut the hell up," she said emotionlessly.

"And look on the bright side. Allen seems like such a nice guy that he would never make a big deal about them."

Amy felt him looking at her, but gave no response. The shitheel.

"And will this do it for you today?" the clerk asked, still wringing her hands.

"Yes," Grant grinned, "Quite."

"Very good, sir." She began totalling the items and making a bill.

Amy, meanwhile, wandered back out the the vehicle, feeling numb. She guessed that she had asked for it, rubbing his nose in it like that. And she was sure there was nothing wrong with her breasts. But that didn't keep what he had done from hurting.

The chauffeur opened the door, and she stepped inside.

"So? Did you get him to buy you a coat? An expensive one?"

"I don't feel like talking about it," she said flatly.

Allen clucked his tongue. "I guess you did, then. Something I couldn't afford to get you, I guess."

"Allen, stop. I just did it you make him pay for showing off all night. There, now, please, I don't feel like talking any more about it."

Allen looked at her through squinted eyes. "You know, he may be right. You really don't have any limitations set on you."

She looked at him tiredly. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing."

She looked back out the window. Fine, then. Let him act that way.

"Whoo-eee!" Grant said, getting into the car as the chauffeur loaded the boxes into the trunk. "That is one hot little filly you've got there, Allen. Everyone in the store has the same opinion. I tell you, she was trying on and showing off some hot lingerie numbers!"

Allen jerked his head to look at his wife. She refused to return his look.

"She has one sexy little body! I guess she shows off your sexual prowess just fine, my man. Just remember what I said earlier about limits."

"Yeah, limits," Allen grumbled.

"I don't feel like going anymore," Amy said, not looking at the men, but staring out the window instead. "Take me home now."

"Amy, you are really --!" Allen bit off his words, getting a hold on his anger. "No. No, I am not taking you back home. You have acted like a spoiled little brat tonight. Amy, you were modelling lingerie?!"

"Allen," she turned to look at him. "You don't understand. It was --"

"I don't care, Amy. I don't even care." He turned his head to look out his window a moment, then turned back to look at her. "You are coming tonight, and you will behave. Enough said."

"Allen!"

"Enough said!" he growled.

Amy glared at him a moment, then at Grant, then looked sullenly out the window.

Grant tapped on the window to signal the chauffeur, and the vehicle began moving again. They rode for about fifteen minutes in silence until they arrived. The chauffeur came around and helped them all out.

Inside the restaurant, the front waiter recognized Grant immediately and escorted them back to a private, reserved area, where another couple was already seated.

"Allen, Amy, I want you to meet Douglass Lockhead and his beautiful wife Ginger. They work for one of my previous affiliate corporations. Douglass, Ginger, these are the Keiths. Amy here played with my daughter when they were both children, and Allen, though I've just met him, seems like one of my oldest friends."

"Glad to meet you," Allen said, extending his hand to Douglass.

"Likewise," Douglass said, shaking hands. "I think I've heard you speak of Amy," he said, extending his hand towards her.

"Hi," Amy said dully, ignoring Douglass's hand.

"If you gentlemen will excuse us ladies, I think we need to powder our noses," Ginger spoke up and led Amy by the hand to the powder room up the hall.

"So what is it?" she asked Amy once they had entered.

"What's what?" Amy asked tiredly.

"You're upset over something."

"Gee, does it really show?"

"Don't be sarcastic. We ladies have to deal with our emotions. Otherwise, they'll just get away from us and make us into ugly bitches."

Amy stared at the woman for a moment. "We had a fight. That's all."

"It's hard for us women to understand men sometimes," she said, opening her purse and removing a makeup case.

"And sometimes they're just assholes."

"I guess it can seem that way," she said and giggled. "By the way, I know someone that could fix that."

"Fix what?"

"Your nose, silly," Ginger giggled. "I mean, I know everyone around here is much to polite to comment on it being crooked, but I think you would feel better if you had it fixed. How did you break it, dear? In a fight with some boy when you were a child?"

"Excuse me, but my nose has never been broken," she said icily.

"Oh." She dusted a little more powder on her nose. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." She put the compact back in her purse. "But if you ever do want to get it fixed properly, I know a wonderful surgeon."

Amy walked out of the powder room then, and Ginger followed her back to the table.

Douglass stood and took Amy's hand. "It's a tradition at Lambert's to dance before the dinner."

"I really don't feel like dancing just now."

"Oh, come. A beautiful woman like you wouldn't deprive a hard-working soul like me a simple dance, would you?" He smiled. "Please?"

"I ... I really just don't feel like --"

"Come," he said, pulling her out away from the table. Amy finally relented and put her hands on his shoulders.

They danced like that a few moments, then Douglass pulled her closer. "A pretty face like yours shouldn't frown so much."

"I've just had a very rotten day. That's all."

"Want to tell me about it?"

"Not really, no."

Douglass's hands wandered over Amy's back as they danced, and twice wandered to her buttocks, but he moved them back up before she could say anything. The third time he tried that she pulled away from him. "Well, I think that's enough," she said and walked back to the table.

Ginger was sitting on Allen's lap when Amy reached the table. "Oh, Amy!" she said, "You've got such a yummy husband!"

"I think you mean 'scummy', dahling."

"What's the matter, 'honey'?" Allen asked. "Afraid someone might be interested in me while you're out there copping feels while you dance?"

Amy made a face and pulled her chair out to sit down.

"Hey!" Grant barked out. "Did your husband give you permission to sit?"

"I don't *need* my husband's permission to sit." She started to seat herself, but stopped. "I don't need to take any of this. Allen, I'm going home now. Are you going to get me there, or do I need to call a taxi?"

"Amy," he said, then kissed the blonde Ginger on the lips, "You are not going anywhere. You've been without limits for far too long. That's my fault, really. But for your own sake, I'm going to have to begin asserting them now."

"Allen, you can go to hell."

"Amy, step back from the table," Grant told her.

"You are a bizarre bunch of people."

"Step back from the table."

"Allen!"

"Do as he says, dear."

"Allen!"

"Amy, step back from the table. I won't tell you again."

"Allen, make him stop!"

"She *is* a stubborn one," Ginger said, rubbing her hand around on Allen's chest.

"Allen, please! Make him stop! Let's go home!" she whined.

"Amy ...." Grant threatened.