who escort jet-setty women. I stared at them, him in a tie and dark suit, her in a silver dinner suit and a lot of tasteful, to say nothing of real, gold jewelry. What made me shake inside is that they looked like a matched set. Tall, elegant. And so stylish. His lush brown hair, his easy, graceful posture. Her olive skin gleaming warmly against the paleness of the suit.
“Something wrong?” Gloria asked.
He laughed at something she was saying. It didn’t look like a forced laugh.
“No. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“John is over there with another woman.” Gloria’s head swiveled. “He’s the guy in the dark suit,” I said. “She’s the gorgeous one.” They stood out because, unlike the dressy crowd that attends opera performances, most people who go to hear choral and/or orchestral music look as if they’d stepped out of the annual picnic photo of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg’s communist cell.
“Maybe she’s a friend,” Gloria suggested.
I shook my head so emphatically that I messed up my hair. “No. I know his friends.”
“Maybe a colleague.”
“Of all the people here tonight, she looks the least like a doc filmmaker. Look at her dinner suit. That’s not downtown retro. That’s serious couture.”
Gloria looked so sad for me I felt even lousier. She picked up my mood and tried to sound jaunty. “What do you think, Amy? Brazilian socialite?”
“Or some Jewish fashionista from the Bronx who knows her way around a sewing machine. And look at him. John’s the guy who decided to be a documentary filmmaker because if he went to law school he could wind up wearing suits. Do you see him? He looks like his favorite hobby is wearing a suit.” It was hard to swallow because my throat was so tight. “Gloria, do me a favor.”
“What?”
“I know I’m being a pain, but please don’t look right at them. He has a really good sixth sense.” She had the grace not to say anything like John’s senses, numbers one through a hundred, were completely focused on La Belleza, or however you say it in Portuguese or Bronx. “I hate to be adolescent,” I told her, “but I want to get back to the seats so he doesn’t get a chance to spot me.” Gloria was the only person I knew who could raise one eyebrow without contorting her entire face. She raised it. “What’s wrong with getting away from where he could spot me?” My throat got so tight I couldn’t swallow, an allergic reaction to seeing John so happy with La B. Next I would break out in hives. “I don’t want to be cowardly. But what else can I do? Grab a glass of red wine and throw it into her face?” My voice had become a croak.
I took a few sideways steps so that all John could possibly see of me (should he not be lost in the woman’s eyes) was my back. Gloria was maybe two inches taller than I, so I couldn’t rely on her to block me. Plus she was about my weight; I hoped if my shoulders and hips stuck out on either side of her, their configuration wouldn’t be so familiar to him as to be recognizable. “I could start a catfight. Shriek, Hands off my man, you ho!” I forced myself to do one of those deep breaths—inhale seven, exhale seven—that are supposed to be calming. I knew I was sounding a little intense for an associate editor, to say nothing of immature. Casually, as though inquiring about button earrings versus dangling, I asked: “What would you do in my place?”
She shrugged. “Walk over, say hello.”
“Just like that?”
“Absolutely. I’d let him be the one who’s taken aback. I’d be cordial.” Which of course was why Gloria Howard would be In Depth’s executive editor within three years, while it would take me another decade just to make senior editor. “Was it official, that the two of you were only seeing each other?” All I could manage was a shake of the head. No, not officially official. Just that we’d be sexually monogamous. We just did it. Still, even though the
“Something wrong?” Gloria asked.
He laughed at something she was saying. It didn’t look like a forced laugh.
“No. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“John is over there with another woman.” Gloria’s head swiveled. “He’s the guy in the dark suit,” I said. “She’s the gorgeous one.” They stood out because, unlike the dressy crowd that attends opera performances, most people who go to hear choral and/or orchestral music look as if they’d stepped out of the annual picnic photo of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg’s communist cell.
“Maybe she’s a friend,” Gloria suggested.
I shook my head so emphatically that I messed up my hair. “No. I know his friends.”
“Maybe a colleague.”
“Of all the people here tonight, she looks the least like a doc filmmaker. Look at her dinner suit. That’s not downtown retro. That’s serious couture.”
Gloria looked so sad for me I felt even lousier. She picked up my mood and tried to sound jaunty. “What do you think, Amy? Brazilian socialite?”
“Or some Jewish fashionista from the Bronx who knows her way around a sewing machine. And look at him. John’s the guy who decided to be a documentary filmmaker because if he went to law school he could wind up wearing suits. Do you see him? He looks like his favorite hobby is wearing a suit.” It was hard to swallow because my throat was so tight. “Gloria, do me a favor.”
“What?”
“I know I’m being a pain, but please don’t look right at them. He has a really good sixth sense.” She had the grace not to say anything like John’s senses, numbers one through a hundred, were completely focused on La Belleza, or however you say it in Portuguese or Bronx. “I hate to be adolescent,” I told her, “but I want to get back to the seats so he doesn’t get a chance to spot me.” Gloria was the only person I knew who could raise one eyebrow without contorting her entire face. She raised it. “What’s wrong with getting away from where he could spot me?” My throat got so tight I couldn’t swallow, an allergic reaction to seeing John so happy with La B. Next I would break out in hives. “I don’t want to be cowardly. But what else can I do? Grab a glass of red wine and throw it into her face?” My voice had become a croak.
I took a few sideways steps so that all John could possibly see of me (should he not be lost in the woman’s eyes) was my back. Gloria was maybe two inches taller than I, so I couldn’t rely on her to block me. Plus she was about my weight; I hoped if my shoulders and hips stuck out on either side of her, their configuration wouldn’t be so familiar to him as to be recognizable. “I could start a catfight. Shriek, Hands off my man, you ho!” I forced myself to do one of those deep breaths—inhale seven, exhale seven—that are supposed to be calming. I knew I was sounding a little intense for an associate editor, to say nothing of immature. Casually, as though inquiring about button earrings versus dangling, I asked: “What would you do in my place?”
She shrugged. “Walk over, say hello.”
“Just like that?”
“Absolutely. I’d let him be the one who’s taken aback. I’d be cordial.” Which of course was why Gloria Howard would be In Depth’s executive editor within three years, while it would take me another decade just to make senior editor. “Was it official, that the two of you were only seeing each other?” All I could manage was a shake of the head. No, not officially official. Just that we’d be sexually monogamous. We just did it. Still, even though the
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