A monologue from the play by Walter Wykes
JUNE: He was probably worried you’d find out from one of the girls. Cynthia perhaps. I always liked Cynthia. I found her very pleasant. Don’t you? Yes, I adored her. We used to get along quite well, Cynthia and I. We’d even meet for lunch now and then. Although she never warned me. Never a word, you understand. Only that guilty silence. There’s no question where her true loyalty lies.
Have you ever noticed … Murray has quite a talent for masking his indiscretions behind little bits of truth. Don’t you think? I’m sure you remember. I mean, I’m sure you were party to it in the past. He’s quite conscious of it, I know. In fact, he’s probably bragged about it from time to time. Take, for instance, my calling the office. Now … why tell you? What might motivate him to keep you informed? He certainly knows it won’t please you. Why not keep it to himself? Hmmm? Well … let’s think about that for a moment. Perhaps my calls are an annoyance, and he wants you to be aware of them, you know, as a measure of his honesty–as proof that he has nothing to hide. How does that sound? He wouldn’t tell you about my calls, for instance, if we’d taken to seeing each other on occasion for a quick lunch, now would he?
A quick poke in the afternoon? Don’t you think he’d keep the evidence to himself?