THE WATERGATE ESTATE in Beverly Hills was a vulgar display of wealth. Roger had thought it would suit his wife, which it did not. The fact of the matter was that Roger knew very little about Sylvia, her tastes, her needs or her ambitions, if indeed she had any. To him, she was amenable, pliable, anxious to fulfill her prescribed role as wife, and was, in fact, a most dutiful wife except in that most critical of areas: the bedroom.

The one and only time Roger had deferred his own interests and his career was when Sylvia became worrisomely debilitated after the unfortunate birth of their first, and only, child. At first the infant's condition was unnoticeable and never had there been a more radiant and devoted wife and mother than Sylvia, but as the evidence crept in and the final verdict was handed down, Sylvia literally fell apart.

For a while Roger suffered with her, but he soon had to get on with his career and other aspects of a normal life. He believed his wife should be able to rise above her plight. She had money, connections, therapists and hairdressers. She should be able to manage. The truth was, however, that Sylvia could not and would not manage this on her own. She had been so sheltered all of her life that this stroke of ill luck nearly destroyed her. To survive, she built a firm wall between herself and her spouse, the partner in this travesty, which wall she would not let down. A calculating, coldly-under-control automaton replaced the innocent, fair-haired young woman Roger married.

Roger had been remotely concerned for a period of about a year and then he shrugged it off. People had quirks, he concluded. Society provided outs. If you were insolvent, you filed bankruptcy; if you were incompetent, society provided sustenance; if your wife didn't respond to your needs, you found someone who did. It was academic to Roger. His infidelity didn't bother him in the least. He did, however, carry on these extramarital affairs with discretion. He saw no need to make Sylvia suffer any more than was necessary.

This fund-raiser, this party, was an annual event that Sylvia had established after that first year. The fact that it was a charitable event encouraged attendance, lending it a lucrative, political flavor that Roger enjoyed. There were certain personages who were sure to attend, such as Claude Hoagland, the chief administrator of the hospital where Jennifer was housed. His institution was the major recipient of the funds forthcoming from this yearly endeavor.

Sylvia always had mixed emotions about hostessing this party. Of course, she loved parties and she enjoyed the preparations and the results. She enjoyed the opportunity to do her own politicking and hostessing. But it always reminded her that Jennifer and the carefully guarded secret of her condition were still in existence. If Jennifer died, would she still feel compelled to put on this extravaganza? Or would she turn her back on the subject of mental retardation, mental deficiency, mental illness, and turn a deaf ear to Hoagland's financial appeals in the name of 'those less fortunate'? Every time she heard that phrase, Sylvia wondered how anyone could be less fortunate than she could, then berated herself for her 'poor little rich girl' self-pity.

The Watergate Estate covered three acres of prime Beverly Hills real estate. The main house and grounds took up one full acre. Guest bungalows peppered throughout the other acres, each privately situated by way of lush landscaping, soon would be teeming with guests from all across the country. There were 500 names on the guest list. Over half of them came from the L.A. area. Out-of-towners were being put up in hotels in the City, as the bungalows had been 'booked' long ago. It was a bit of a problem, now, for Sylvia, as to where to put Audley. If she had come with Brad, it would not be a problem, but, no, she would be arriving with Lanon Zenton in tow, and Brad was invited also. It would serve her right, Sylvia thought indignantly, if she put Lanon and Brad in one guesthouse and put Audley in the garage.

All arrangements for the party had been made well in advance, leaving Sylvia a full day to rest and to fret over the Jennifer situation. With each passing year, she became more psychotic about Jennifer for as long as Jennifer lived, Sylvia's block about sex remained strong, her fears of being pregnant with another defective were so great. And as each year passed, realizing how much she was missing, she invariably made herself ill then had to spend the week following the party sedated and in constant contact with her therapist. Now this year, along comes Lanon Zenton who has the temerity to suggest that Jennifer be eliminated! She felt guilty in agreeing with him.

And then there was Brad. Lovely, warm Brad. She should be having sexual fantasies about her husband, but she didn't even know Roger, much less love him or desire him. Roger was the only man she had ever known sexually. Audley would say it was normal for women who were virgins when they married to wonder about other men, to get a whim to try out something new and different after a while. Sylvia was getting a whim to try something, period!

She thought for a moment of Lanon Zenton. He was certainly a hunk by any woman's standards, but of course Audley got to him first. She always did. And Sylvia didn't want Audley's leftovers. God, she thought, what a vile phrase! Brad used to be a good catch; now he was a leftover. She realized she was still thinking of Brad in terms of Audley. If she thought of Brad on her own terms, she thought of him as tall, handsome, brilliant, coming from a good family, having a good future, accustomed to wealth and culture, and sexy. Very sexy. But, she reminded herself, Brad was still in love with Audley and, to be honest, she was a married woman and she believed it was immoral to cheat. Not that Audley or Roger were so moral, but she and Brad were old-fashioned, self-effacing and disgustingly self- righteous. She doubted if two such people could even enjoy an illicit affair.

She reviewed herself in the mirror, appraising. The dress Audley had picked up for her in New York fit perfectly and she looked wonderful. It was a floor-length, mauve chiffon, perfectly cut, flowing with Sylvia's natural lines. Each move she made revealed a rippling shadow of thigh, and the neckline was deep, clinging graciously to her ample breasts.

She had spent most of the day getting ready. First, she had an hour in the spa, exercising and toning up, next a massage, then a leisurely bath, generously laced with oils and perfumes. For the event, she had a hairdresser come in and do her hair, upswept and elegant with alluring wisps teasing her flawless neck. She spent an hour at the make-up table and in the dressing room preening, preparing, and fantasizing continuously about Brad.

She convinced herself that they could have a meaningful affair only if they were properly motivated. It wouldn't do for either of them to simply resort to lasciviousness. If it came to that, she was convinced that Brad was capable of helping her be deliciously lewd, but it had to be more than lust. It had to be thought out and developed. They couldn't just have sex for sex's sake. It might seem crazy, she rationalized, but that's the kind of people they were. What else could they do? They were bred that way.

At the last, she realized she had not thought of Jennifer all day. She had dressed entirely for Brad and was looking forward to seeing him more than anything. Leisurely descending the stairs to oversee last minute details before the guests arrived, she wandered from room to room in this Beverly Hills mansion, impressed by how something so beautiful could be so empty. The halls, the chandeliers, the carpets, the windows, the oil paintings, the books, the furnishings. Everywhere her eye fell, she encountered a visual delight, and for her ears, music wafted through the rooms to sweeten every corner. Outdoors, the grounds provided the perfect grace and symmetry to nourish the senses. Every inch of this grand house was physical perfection, but it was as empty and useless as Jennifer's mind. Beautiful and utterly useless.

What should a house have to make it right, she wondered? It should have a man in it, for one thing. The right man. And it should have half a dozen children. It should have disorder and chaos, squeals of laughter and pangs of pathos to disrupt the perpetual order, the crystallized perfection that these rooms reflected. There was nothing out of place, no dust on the banisters, no lint on the carpet.

Sylvia was made to feel that her life was designed, cut out of a rare mold, pasted and buffed, painted and sculpted, then hung on the wall with every other inanimate piece of beauty to be looked at but not touched. "Are you warm, are you real," she hummed to herself, "or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art?" She did not have a satisfied feeling about herself or her life.

She gravitated toward the walnut 17th Century secretary desk in the foyer. Every pen and pencil stood in place, ready to receive and notate the names of the guests. A large Record volume contained the names and addresses of those people who would be attending and the pledges of those who would not. There would be $10,000 from the Burnses, $15,000 from the Sally Hutton Estate, $25,000 from her father, scores of $1,000 pledges. At minimum it was a $250,000 party and such a party merited imported caviar and champagne, cold duck and roast beef, two floors of the Beverly Hilton Hotel, twelve additional servants, but she was anxious for it to be over. Every year for five years she had given this party. It was her 'cause' and her contribution to society. What a waste these years had been, she lamented. This would be her last party for the cause.

Henceforth, her cause would be Sylvia. Not Roger's wife, not Chandler's daughter, not Jennifer's mother, but Sylvia. After this party she would absolve herself of one life and enter eagerly into another. She didn't care what it would be or what Roger thought of it. She only knew that she didn't want any more damned perfection.