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Occasional Piece for Beauchamp.”
    “Not any more he isn’t.”
    “Really?”
    “The doctor, as we all know he is wont to do, got very sanctimonious all of a sudden and gave our Beauchamp the old heave-ho. Beauchamp was livid. ”
    “I’d love to hear Fielding’s version of it!”
    “You’ll have to wait a while, I’m afraid. He’s on the way to Acapulco.”
    “What on earth for?”
    “What else? A gynecologists’ convention.”
    The richer—and older—half of the Hampton-Giddes rolled his eyes laboriously. “Acapulco has gotten so tacky these days.”

Fantasy on the Fantail
    S OMEWHERE OFF THE COAST OF MEXICO, A DAZZLING midday sun found dozens of willing worshipers on the fantail of the Pacific Princess. Mary Ann was on her stomach—her bikini top untied—when an unannounced hand glopped something gooey on her back.
    “Mouse?”
    Silence.
    “Mouse!”
    “I do not know thees Mouse, signorina. I am but a seemple Italian dining room steward who wants to make ze whoopee weez ze beyootiful, horny American girls!”
    “You smoked that joint, didn’t you?”
    Michael sat down next to her and sighed dramatically. “I wish you’d learn to fantasize.”
    “What is that stuff, anyway?”
    “What stuff? Oh … tortuga cream. The room steward gave it to me. He says they make it in Mazatlán.”
    “It smells yummy.”
    “Uh huh. Ground-up turtles.”
    “Mouse!”
    “Well, that’s what he said.”
    “Ick!”
    “What the hell do you think Polly Bergen uses? Rose petals?”
    Mary Ann sat up, blinking into the sun, holding her bikini top in place with her right arm.
    “Tie me up, will you?”
    “Bondage already? You haven’t tried bingo yet. And there’s a swell seniors mambo class this afternoon in the Carrousel Lounge, if you’d care to—”
    “Mouse … don’t look now, but he just dove into the pool.”
    “Who?”
    “Our Mystery Man. The guy you saw when we were boarding.”
    “The one who was cruising us?”
    Mary Ann corrected him. “One of us.”
    “Maybe he’s into three-ways.”
    “Mouse, do you think he’s gay?”
    “Well … his backstroke is a little nellie.”
    “Mouse, I’m serious.”
    “Then ask him, dummy! Invite him over for a Pina Colada!”
    Mary Ann turned and studied the strong white body thrashing through the green water of the pool. He was a strawberry blond, she noticed, and he shook his head like a wet collie when he surfaced at the ladder.
    She looked back at Michael. “You don’t think I’ll do it, do you?”
    Michael just grinned at her, maddeningly.
    “OK. Just watch me!”
    The wet collie was stretched out on a towel at the pool’s edge. Mary Ann approached as casually as possible, her eyes fixed on the surface of the water. Her intent was to look vigorous and liberated, like Candice Bergen out for a swim after a rough day of photographing the African wilds.
    The collie looked up and smiled. “The only way to do it is to close your eyes and jump.”
    “Is it cold?” Mary Ann asked.
    Not too swift. Very un-Candy Bergen.
    “Go ahead,” he urged. “You can take it.”
    She shrugged her shoulders and mugged, hoping it wasn’t too late to try for a Marlo Thomas effect. A tolerant smile spread over the collie’s face when she held her breath and jumped.
    It was a funny little hatbox of a pool, not really wide enough for swimming laps. The cold ocean water was invigorating, but impossible to take for long. Shivering, she reached for the ladder.
    The collie extended his hand. “The goose bumps are very becoming.”
    “Thanks,” she said, smiling.
    “Will you join me for a drink? You and your husband, that is.”
    “My …? Oh, that’s not my …” She turned and looked at Michael, who was smirking at her. He gave his imitation of Queen Elizabeth’s royal wave. “Michael’s just a friend.”
    “That’s nice,” said the collie.
    For whom? thought Mary Ann. Me or Michael?
    The collie introduced himself to both of them. His name was Burke