it’s open.” I pointed into the continental gloom. A man and woman sat at the back, talking over their espressos. They were both dressed in jeans and T-shirts and looked like they spent a lot of time outdoors. They could be gardeners; but they could also be cameramen or something like that. “There’s a couple sitting by the big Truffaut poster.”
“By the what?” asked Ella.
Once again I had reason to be grateful that Fate had brought me to Ella. She’d be lost without me. “Truffaut,” I repeated. “He’s a very important French director.”
Ella said, “Oh.”
I said, “Come on,” and opened the door. A voice that had smoked far too many cigarettes and drunk far too much red wine was singing in French. It sounded unhappy (which isn’t exactly a surprise after all that booze and tobacco). “There’s a good chance they’re with the movie.”
I led Ella to a table near the picture of François Truffaut looking intense.
The waitress was so overjoyed to have two more customers that she was on top of us before we could sit down.
Ella looked at me. We hadn’t planned to buy anything until we were sure we were in the right place and needed an excuse to hang around. But the music, the décor, and the laser-like gaze of the waitress got the better of me, and I ordered two espressos.
Our coffees were still in the machine when it became obvious that the couple at the next table weren’t with the movie company. They weren’t gardeners either. They were on their way to the mall to buy baby furniture.
Ella looked as though she’d known they were expecting parents the whole time. “Now what do we do?” she hissed.
I said we drank our coffees and then we paid the bill.
Ella said it was just as well I’d ordered espressos; at least they’re small.
I still had high hopes that the soda fountain or Starbucks would turn up something. The soda fountain’s considered a landmark in Dellwood. In Europe something has to be around for at least five hundred years before it’s considered old, but in New Jersey if something lasts fifty years it’s practically ancient. The soda fountain was built in 1928 according to the front of the building, and (except for the microwave behind the counter) it pretty much looked it – chrome and Formica counter with high stools, black and white linoleum floor and soda from taps. Filmmakers looking for local colour were bound to flock there. And Starbucks was generically cosmopolitan and would at least be familiar to people from LA.
I was wrong on both counts. The soda fountain was filled with men going to work and Starbucks was filled with young mothers who didn’t.
That left only the Dellwood Diner.
“You never can tell,” I said optimistically as Ella and I climbed the concrete steps. “The diner is an intrinsic part of American culture. It’s just the kind of place that recorders of that culture would feel at home in.”
But Ella’s nature is more pessimistic than mine. “Right,” she muttered as we stepped through the glass door. “They’ve probably been lining up here since dawn to get in.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” I whispered as I came up behind her. “What did I tell you? Just look there!”
“Where?”
“Those two guys over there in the booth.”
Ella’s eyebrows rose in a way I found pretty irritating. “And?”
“And the one in the ‘Read Orwell’ T-shirt is the same guy who marched us off the set.”
Ella glanced over at the man in the T-shirt, then turned back to me. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I might forget to take out the rubbish or where the exact location of East Timor is, but I would never forget someone who’s manhandled me. “I remember him vividly.”
But the Gerards’ only child still wasn’t convinced. “Well I don’t remember him.”
“That’s because I was trying to reason with him while you went into toxic shock. Trust me. He’s got a ruby ring on his right pinky and he kept pressing it into my
“By the what?” asked Ella.
Once again I had reason to be grateful that Fate had brought me to Ella. She’d be lost without me. “Truffaut,” I repeated. “He’s a very important French director.”
Ella said, “Oh.”
I said, “Come on,” and opened the door. A voice that had smoked far too many cigarettes and drunk far too much red wine was singing in French. It sounded unhappy (which isn’t exactly a surprise after all that booze and tobacco). “There’s a good chance they’re with the movie.”
I led Ella to a table near the picture of François Truffaut looking intense.
The waitress was so overjoyed to have two more customers that she was on top of us before we could sit down.
Ella looked at me. We hadn’t planned to buy anything until we were sure we were in the right place and needed an excuse to hang around. But the music, the décor, and the laser-like gaze of the waitress got the better of me, and I ordered two espressos.
Our coffees were still in the machine when it became obvious that the couple at the next table weren’t with the movie company. They weren’t gardeners either. They were on their way to the mall to buy baby furniture.
Ella looked as though she’d known they were expecting parents the whole time. “Now what do we do?” she hissed.
I said we drank our coffees and then we paid the bill.
Ella said it was just as well I’d ordered espressos; at least they’re small.
I still had high hopes that the soda fountain or Starbucks would turn up something. The soda fountain’s considered a landmark in Dellwood. In Europe something has to be around for at least five hundred years before it’s considered old, but in New Jersey if something lasts fifty years it’s practically ancient. The soda fountain was built in 1928 according to the front of the building, and (except for the microwave behind the counter) it pretty much looked it – chrome and Formica counter with high stools, black and white linoleum floor and soda from taps. Filmmakers looking for local colour were bound to flock there. And Starbucks was generically cosmopolitan and would at least be familiar to people from LA.
I was wrong on both counts. The soda fountain was filled with men going to work and Starbucks was filled with young mothers who didn’t.
That left only the Dellwood Diner.
“You never can tell,” I said optimistically as Ella and I climbed the concrete steps. “The diner is an intrinsic part of American culture. It’s just the kind of place that recorders of that culture would feel at home in.”
But Ella’s nature is more pessimistic than mine. “Right,” she muttered as we stepped through the glass door. “They’ve probably been lining up here since dawn to get in.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” I whispered as I came up behind her. “What did I tell you? Just look there!”
“Where?”
“Those two guys over there in the booth.”
Ella’s eyebrows rose in a way I found pretty irritating. “And?”
“And the one in the ‘Read Orwell’ T-shirt is the same guy who marched us off the set.”
Ella glanced over at the man in the T-shirt, then turned back to me. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I might forget to take out the rubbish or where the exact location of East Timor is, but I would never forget someone who’s manhandled me. “I remember him vividly.”
But the Gerards’ only child still wasn’t convinced. “Well I don’t remember him.”
“That’s because I was trying to reason with him while you went into toxic shock. Trust me. He’s got a ruby ring on his right pinky and he kept pressing it into my
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