Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (12 page)

“And its stiff-necked pride.”

“You Americans make a mystique about it,” Rodney said cheerfully. “You’ve all read too much Shakespeare.”

Jack chuckled. “We’ve all seen too much Masterpiece Theatre.”

“Maybe too much Maugham.”

“I hate it that there’s no Empire anymore, where the sun never set, and all that pomp. Okay, that’s reactionary, but I can’t help it.”

“It’s not what it was,” Rodney admitted. “Still, nattering won’t help.”

Jack said he was a confirmed Anglophile too. “I felt so in place when I was there, as if after a long journey, I’d come home. Whitehall and Trafalgar Square and the Inns of Court, all those bewigged barristers. I put up in a hotel in Kensington, the door porter was costumed like someone out of Dickens. I couldn’t believe it in this day and age. Kippers for breakfast. Marylebone and Christopher Wren and St. Mary’s in the Fields. Nice.”

“We went to a Lyons, for the fun of it,” Christine remembered. “Not the Corner House, the one near Marble Arch. We just wanted tea and crumpets, but it’s all divided into separate rooms, one for fish, one for meat, and so forth. Nothing that said tea. Except that I spotted a sign reading ‘Restful Tray,’ which proved to be where you got tea. It was so prototypically
British
.”

“They have their ways.”

“Listen, Jack, about an easy chair, which you said you want. Did they give you any extra material? They usually do. Not that we’d be able to match the fabric on this sofa, but at least it would give us the color tones. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there was a plastic envelope with some material. I’ll get it now, before I forget. Be right back.”

“And bring it along with you tomorrow.”

“What’s this about tomorrow?” Rodney wanted to know.

“We’re going to look at that armoire. Maybe we can find some other things for this place at the same time.”

“Good, I’ll come along.”

“Darling, no.
If
you please. You’ll only get tired straight off, and want an early lunch. This is no laughing matter. Naturally Jack wants to get everything he possibly can off his mind, so just let the two of us polish off the necessary, it will be so much quicker.”

“Well, if I’m not wanted.”

“You know better than that. I helped you, it’s Jack’s turn now.”

He returned with the material. Christine shook the fabric out of the envelope. “Oh, these are the arm pieces. See? Look, this is what you do with them, Jack.”

She got up, fitted the shaped pieces properly, stood back. “For what, though?” Jack asked. “It’s just another layer of material.”

“People run their hands down the arms of a sofa, or a chair, for that matter. They get soiled quicker than the rest. So you have these for protection, you have them cleaned whenever necessary.”

“I don’t think I like them, Christine.”

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “I never make use of them. To me, they’re simply antimacassars. Just keep them for match-up purposes.”

“So you’re going furniture hunting,” Rodney said. “I offered to go with you, do my bit, but Christine said nothing doing. I’d be in the way seemed to be the burden of her refrain.”

“I’m sure you want Jack to have a free mind too.”

“I still think it’s asking a hell of a lot. There are quite a few things I have in mind to look for. I’m afraid you’ll start looking askance. Why the hell am I wasting so much time on this dithering dolt?”

“I have more time than I know what to do with.”

“Somehow I can’t believe that.”

“It’s true.”

“Why, Christine?”

“I suppose it’s because I’m in the middle, like maybe when you’re writing a book, for example. There’s generally a beginning, a middle and an end. Or a play, perhaps. The first act is over, the last act is still to come and the second act is in progress. And this second act is not particularly action-filled. If I were in the audience I don’t think I’d bother to stay for the last act.”

“I’d suggest some revisions,” he said.

“So would I, but my mind’s a blank. Maybe it’s just a case of miscasting, the wrong person in the role. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for keeping home and hearth together.”

She was instantly aghast at what she had said. To a stranger. And with Rodney listening. A betrayal of sorts. Would he now report to his mother, via a transatlantic phone call, that her friend Christine Jennings seemed to be in some sort of snit?

“I didn’t mean a single word of that,” she cried, reaching for a cigarette. “Talking just to hear myself talk, that’s about it. What nonsense! I think I’m just showing off, trying to impress you, Jack, with flashy metaphors. By the way, those books you had published. You belittled them, rather, but could I read them? Or anyway, one or two of them? I meant to ask you before. May I?”

He hesitated. “I wouldn’t refuse, of course, and I’m far from ashamed of them, it isn’t that. I’d rather not, since they were outright potboilers, to make a quick buck, but I will because it would seem churlish and self-conscious to refuse when someone shows interest. The thing is I have no idea, until I can properly arrange my books, where my few little published gems are. As you can see — or maybe it isn’t immediately apparent — I just shoved them in the shelves helter-skelter, no organization at all. So — ”

“Another time?” he asked tentatively.

“Whenever, Jack.” She understood, or thought she did. He probably would feel exposed: she could sympathize with that. A writer must cringe at possible criticism. Maybe he was fearful his work would meet with lukewarm praise, dutiful encomiums. She thought that if she wrote a book and had it published she would probably hand it out to strangers on the bus, but then that situation wasn’t likely to arise.

“But thanks for asking, for being interested, Christine.”

“Needless to say, I’m interested too,” Rodney assured him. “As a matter of fact, it’s one of the reasons I scanned your books, I was hoping to come across something of yours.”

“Well, you’re not missing much for now, the big project is just getting under way. That will keep me busy for a while.” He looked uncomfortable. “I guess I am a little self-conscious about my output,” he admitted. “Defensive. Oh, well, shut up, Jack, come on, you two, drink up, we have to finish this brew. Rodney, let me fill your glass.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Christine?”

“Okay, seeing as how there’s just about enough for the three of us. I may be sorry later on, but right now it doesn’t seem to matter. And then, in a very short while, we must go. I must, at any rate.”

“I had hoped today would never end.”

“What a superlative host. Not one of those who already have their minds focused on cleaning up the dishes in the sink. Oh, must you go, here’s your hat.”

“I told you she was endless fun,” Rodney said, chortling.

“Have you two been talking about me?” Christine demanded. “When could that have been, may I ask?”

“On the phone. Monday, when Jack called. I told you we had a good chat.”

“And yes, we did talk about you,” Jack agreed, laughter behind his eyes. He did that sometimes. No overt smile, but in the depths of those deepset dark eyes a quiet amusement. He filled her glass, Rodney’s and then his own. The caviar, thanks to Rodney, was down to nothing but a scrape.

And the shadows were lengthening. She realized, with a kind of mild astonishment, that she would stay on for the evening, if Jack should suggest it. She would simply make a phone call home and tell them to manage dinner without her.

“Well,” she said briskly, finishing her drink and putting the glass back on the table. “May I use your John, and then, Rodney, we must go. Much as I regret putting an end to this utterly delightful afternoon.”

“You know where it is,” Jack said, rising. “Guest towels and all that.”

The bathroom now boasted a shower curtain. It must have been hard going, with all those rainbow-hued tiles. He had been canny, however. The shower curtain was in a pale yellow, with a design that was at first just a shadowy pattern of lines and curlicues but which, on closer inspection, proved to be a subtle mosaic of mouths, women’s mouths. At first almost indecipherable, their curved lips and dimpled chins popped out at you when you finally made out what they were. Smiling, soft, full-lipped mouths, delicate, gentle, and yet sensual and inviting.

Very amusing, she reflected. A little challenging too. He said he had no imagination beyond his authorship, but he had found this, and it was a first for her. It was — well, sexy, really. Of course maybe he had only wanted an almost plain shower curtain, with no discernible pattern, and so had chosen this without much thought or plan. Yet …

Very amusing, she thought again, and sat down on the seat, glancing round. There was a rack against the farthest wall which held two very large, very masculine terry towels in a mustard color, and a matching washcloth draped over the side of the tub. It was still damp.

There was also, next to the basin, a neat little row of fingertip towels, three of them, obviously the guest towels Jack had mentioned. One was yellow, one was violet and one Nile green. All of them were fringed and, when she looked, the label read ‘Cannon.’

It was somehow so touching. This man living alone, a man who had once been married, perhaps even very recently. He had asked people to come and visit him and then one of the things he had done in preparation, besides making his Planter’s Punch and buying the staples, was to lay out three pristine little towels in his bathroom. The amenities.

She washed her hands and picked up one of the towels, the one nearest the basin. It was the yellow one. She dried her hands and then, not folding the towel, replaced it on the rack. That way he would be sure it had been used, congratulate himself for his thoughtful provisions and know he had done the right thing.

Then she switched out the light and went inside again.

Their voices came to her on the way. Rodney’s voice at the moment, that correct, perfectly modulated British voice that had a touch of the arrogant in it. She thought of Queen Elizabeth, those high-pitched, high-born accents, that mellifluous, monotonous drone. She couldn’t picture that woman engaged in fellatio, but one supposed she must do it all the same. Did a queen cry out when taken?

“Like
The Magic Mountain
,” Rodney was saying, very serious and pontifical, like some Oxford don. “Settembrini, you know, was to me simply such a tiresome
bore
. Of course I shouldn’t have read that book when I did, I understood practically none of it.”

Rodney swept back that abundant fair hair that sometimes Christine felt like anchoring with a bobby pin. He gestured, very studied and theatrical. “I think,” he said, “that certain books should be forbidden people until they reach the age of reason. Don’t you agree, Jack?”

“No,” Jack replied, shaking his head. “My feeling is that anyone of any age should have free access to all the libraries within walking distance. What makes no sense at one age will later on meet with comprehension. Ready or not doesn’t matter. It’s like coming across an old friend you might not have hit it off with years ago, but now you’re on the same wave length. That’s the way I feel about it, Rodney. Oh, hi, Christine, I have some ginger brandy around, we could get a little drunker on that. Someone gave it to me. I thought it looked like shit and was rather offended, but I find I like it very much. How about it?”

“Another time, Jack. It’s been a perfect afternoon, I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Coming along with me, Rodney?”

“Righto.”

“So tomorrow morning, Jack? Ten-thirty at Sloane’s.”

“Eighty-fifth between Second and Third. See you there. I’m very grateful.”

He stood there on the landing as they walked down the carpeted stairs. He was still standing there when they let themselves out. She knew that because she glanced back up, just before closing the outside door. He was there looking down at them, leaning over the railing, an arm, in its striped shirt with the rolled-up sleeves, visible as well.

She was very glad she had used the guest towel. It was such a silly thing to think of, but she did think of it, and she almost mentioned the towels to Rodney, but thought better of it. He wouldn’t understand, why should he? Rodney was like a camel, and almost never had to go, which worried her sometimes: did he hold it in out of impatience with this tiresome function that would take him away from more interesting things, or was there something wrong with his kidneys? It seemed to her, if the former, quite unreasonable, seeing that men had so much an easier time of it. Zip in and out, back in and rezip. But then men were endlessly long-suffering about shaving, as if it were such a big deal, while women had to go through all sorts of rituals in order to achieve the desired effect.

She kept thinking, though, by now he knows I used one of the towels. It would please him, she was sure. The woman had dried her hands on his yellow towel. A very nice man, with his dark thick hair all curly and not very obedient, as a matter of fact quite wayward, as if it had a mind of its own. And the slow smile spreading across his face like the sun emerging from a cloud. Rodney, at the entrance to her building, kissed her on the cheek and asked her if she thought Jack had liked his ashtray.

“Of course he did, it was exactly the right thing, Rodney.”

“Your orange tree looked super on the windowsill next to his desk, too.”

She watched him walk off, jaunty as always, and then went inside, past the concierge’s desk and into the elevator that Rodney called the lift. Riding up to her floor, she mentally began dinner preparations. What a nice day. She changed into jeans and a light shirt and then went into the kitchen, consulted the menu for the evening. Roast chicken, yams, petit pois and a tossed salad. She yanked the chicken out of the fridge, dank and submissive, poor thing.

When it was stuffed and trussed she popped it into the roasting pan. It would take an hour and a quarter, about. When Bruce came home she would send him down to Baskin-Robbins for an ice cream cake.

She sat in the kitchen, doing a
Times
crossword. The late sun of preevening shone in through the window, her pencil filled in blank squares. It was good to be alive. She wasn’t always sure, but today she was. She had her own world, outside of the others, just as they had theirs. She kept forgetting that, but it was true. If disaster struck, say tomorrow, and she was separated from those near and dear to her, there would still be herself. It was the only thing anyone could ever really count on. They could all die in an accident. Carl, Bruce, Nancy. Who would be of support then, who would supply comfort and care? She would have to go on. It was true of everyone.