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Bill thought he saw the fleeting image of a man disappearing around the far end in a big hurry. His suspicions roused, he trundled the cart at a fast gallop up the aisle and, panting heavily, turned the corner, fully expecting to see Sideburns fleeing down the aisle towards the exit. But all he saw were two elderly ladies eyeing him covertly in alarm. Bill grinned at them sheepishly and quickly steered his cart to the meat counter, where he ordered three strip steaks, a six-pound sirloin roast, and a dozen wafer-thin pork chops.
    At the cashier’s table, Bill wrote out a cheque for eighty-one dollars and fifty-six cents while the boxboy compactly packaged his order in three large paper bags. He had intended to walk home the five blocks, but the bags were too numerous and bulky to permit it. He suggested his borrowing the cart and returning it later and was politely refused. He would have to find a cab somehow.
    Leaving the groceries behind in the store, which they graciously allowed him to do, Bill hurried to the Mayflower Hotel, a short distance up the street. He waited ten minutes before a cab arrived and discharged a passenger.
    By the time Bill stepped into the elevator of the regal old building, along with Mario, the doorman, who carried two of the heavier bags of groceries, the time was four fifteen.
    The weekend had begun.

4
    From the moment Bill entered the apartment, the atmosphere seemed charged with a kind of hidden electricity. Each was overly aware of the other, each move, look, and gesture intensified and heightened beyond its worth. Janice’s laughter was too full, overstated; Bill’s humour, his display of ardour, too overdrawn. Each sensed the false note in the other but was unwilling to diffuse it. Each was determined that nothing was going to spoil their weekend.
    Bill dashed upstairs to say hello to Ivy while Janice unpacked the food.
    Ivy had spent the afternoon composing a poem for Bill. They sat together on the bed while Ivy recited it, wringing every drop of pathos from each cherished word:
    My dad is big, my dad is strong, He never does a thing that’s wrong. His voice is firm, his laughter gay, I think of him throughout the day. Oh, how lucky ‘tis to be A part of such a man as he.
    Bill’s eyes were moist as he leaned over and kissed Ivy’s proud and smiling face.
    ‘That’s terrific, Princess.’ Bill’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘I’ll try to live up to it.’
    As Bill changed into his red velvet smoking jacket - last year’s Christmas present from Janice - it occurred to him that he should have brought something home for Ivy; a small present or flowers. He was angry at himself for being so thoughtless. He’d make up for it tomorrow. Somehow.
    Bill descended the last step into the living-room and headed for the liquor cart, where he knew the ice would be waiting, when Janice suddenly appeared at the dining-room doorway, wearing a small, wondrous smile.
    ‘Hey, come here.’ Her voice was soft, sensuous.
    Bill went to her, and they kissed warmly. Then Bill felt the tears on her face.
    ‘What gives, honey?’ he asked her gently.
    ‘I dig you, that’s what gives,’ Janice replied, her face radiant with love.
    Until this moment, Bill hadn’t noticed the box in Janice’s hand. It was a gift box, beautifully wrapped and ribboned, with a small card peeking out of the flap.
    Where did that come from?’ Bill asked, puzzled.
    Janice’s free arm still clung to his shoulder. Her smile deepened as her eyes probed the tender, patient, mysterious face of the man she loved.
    ‘Where you put it, darling.’ Janice smiled, continuing the game. ‘On top of the pork chops.’
    Bill was about to protest when Janice interrupted.
    ‘Please sign the card, Bill. She’ll be so happy.’
    The card was delicately designed, featuring an array of tiny flowers surrounding the etched legend: ‘Hope you’re feeling better.’
    ‘What’s in it?’ Janice asked, fingering the