Elegance and Innocence: 2-Book Collection. Kathleen Tessaro

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СКАЧАТЬ is for me during this time. I find myself ‘popping into work’ for no reason, hanging about in the foyer, walking around the halls, possessed and saucer-eyed, one millimetre away from hysteria at all times.

      I spot him and then race immediately to the Upper Circle Ladies and check my make-up. Then I check it again.

      I take deep breaths, pray and then saunter over to my Nemesis.

      ‘Hey, how are you?’

      What this costs me, you’ll never know. My voice is about three octaves higher than normal and my hands are shaking. This doesn’t prevent me, however, from imagining that I’m the sexiest, most alluring creature on the planet and that I’m in fact, part of a living movie, complete with thrilling sound-track, mood lighting, and a cracking script.

      He eyes me in that way smokers do when they exhale, not quite winking, not quite frowning, just avoiding the stinging smoke of their own fags. ‘Great, Louise. What about you?’

      Ah! He speaks! My heart convulses, palpitates, chokes on secondary smoke.

      ‘I’m, well … I’m thirsty,’ I rejoin, tossing my hair back. ‘That’s how I am.’

      He stares at me like I’m demented. ‘Thirsty?’

      I smile. How different it is when he looks at me like I’m demented than when my husband does!

      ‘Yes,’ I persist. ‘Ever so thirsty. One might even say parched.’

      And then the penny drops, almost audibly. He laughs and swings the door open. We walk out in the cool evening air and cross the road to his favourite pub. He buys me a drink and we sit on dangerously high barstools, attempting to make conversation.

      Alas, every relationship has its Waterloo. Conversation proved to be ours.

      It’s difficult to have a conversation if your basic premise is not to reveal anything about yourself. He asks me a question, for example: where do I come from or what am I doing in London, and I try, in the most charming and amusing way possible, not to tell him point blank that I’m married. I twist my hand around like a claw on the bar, trying to hide my wedding band. I don’t know why I don’t take it off. I guess I can’t. It’s as simple as that. So I sit there, with my hand in a casual fist, giggling maniacally and volleying each question with another one.

      ‘So, how long have you been in London?’

      ‘I don’t know – ages. What’s your favourite colour?’

      ‘My favourite colour?’

      (It’s charming to be infantile … isn’t it?)

      He lights another cigarette. ‘Ah … well, that’ll be green, I guess. What about you?’

      ‘Hot pink and the colour of gold sequins.’

      ‘That’ll be gold, won’t it?’

      ‘Well, not really. Not flat gold. I only like sequined gold.’ Oh God, I’m trying way too hard. I shove the claw that passes for my hand into my hair and examine the bottles behind the bar like an alcoholic out of change. Please, please don’t let there be a moment of silence! What can we talk about, what can we …‘What about your father?’

      He raises an eyebrow and gives me what I take to be the Look of Total Riveted Fascination. ‘What was he like?’

      ‘Old. What about yours?’

      That was quick.

      ‘Honest,’ I say, forlornly, caught off guard. ‘My father’s a very honest man.’

      And because I’ve said something true, he looks at me with real interest.

      ‘That’s a good quality.’

      ‘Yes … I suppose it is.’ And I stare at my drink like it’s a crystal ball, going to tell me my future.

      We last about twenty minutes before Oliver excuses himself on the grounds that the opening night won’t occur if he doesn’t sort a few things out. Like the set.

      We walk back as slowly as possible without actually stopping in the middle of the road.

      ‘So, when can I buy you a real drink?’ he ventures, squinting sideways at me through a stream of smoke.

      ‘I’m … I’m not sure …’ I stammer.

      Strange as it seems, I’m caught off guard. It’s one thing for me to fantasize and project like a mad woman; it’s quite another for the object of my delusions to respond. And besides, what am I doing? I can’t make a date, I’m married! But there’s another voice in my head, a soft, compelling voice whispering, ‘Hey! What’s the problem? Chill out. It’s not like you’re sleeping with him … you’re … you’re just … having a drink, that’s all. Right?’

      And then I’m back in the movie again, trying my best to play the femme fatale.

      ‘I think I’d like to go somewhere I’ve never been,’ I parry, smouldering at him from behind a sheaf of Veronica Lake hair.

      The ‘Are you demented?’ look is back.

      ‘Well,’ he sounds irritated, ‘how am I meant to know where you’ve been?’

      Good point.

      I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly and walk straight into a restaurant hoarding.

      ‘Oh, Jesus! I’m so sorry! Fuck! What am I doing? I’m apologizing to a wooden sign!’ He watches as I struggle to detach myself from the specials of the day. Once free, he takes my arm with the kind of solicitous authority usually reserved for the elderly and steers me back safely to the theatre entrance.

      ‘About that drink …’ He waits, but I can’t think. It has to be somewhere perfect, somewhere private, somewhere away from restaurant hoardings and people who know me …

      He’s starting to get restless.

      ‘Why don’t I give it some thought?’ I suggest.

      ‘Please do.’

      He smiles and, with that, disappears into the rapidly filling foyer. I stand transfixed on the front steps, my heart pounding, palms sweating. The crowd engulfs me, swirling around me like fast moving water around a stone in a brook.

      I’ve done it. I’ve taken hold of my life and, for better or worse, nothing will ever be the same again.

      A week later, I drop a small note into Oliver Wendt’s mailbox. In the bottom right hand corner of an emerald green card I’ve written,

       I’ve never been to the Ritz

      The days pass and I hear nothing.

      Nothing at all.

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