carved, whorled faces to watch him go by.
My Private Joy, My Comfort
Last Monday my friend Lloyd took me out to dinner. I got there early, to make sure we had a smoker’s table. Lloyd’s a bit slack on that side of things: he’s organisationally impaired. I’d gone to Glengarry’s earlier in the day to get some wine — I was really looking forward to it, I’d been looking forward to it for days.
Had a bath at six, a quiet drink on my own before I left the house. Lloyd had said a fortnight before, ‘Come out for dinner. My shout!’ He hadn’t mentioned Fran.
So I was a tiny bit annoyed when I saw her swanning through the restaurant door, closely followed by the tall, slender shape of Lloyd. They’d come together. And I thought, of course — with his other wives he’d got out more; he could keep his women friends apart. Fran and I had met up only occasionally. Now that he’s married young Melissa, he has to put us together. She doesn’t let him out much. It’s happened a lot in the last year or so: nearlyevery time I’ve seen him Fran’s either been there or come later. I should have expected it.
‘Lloyd!’ and I jumped up brightly, sparkling, flung my fag into the ashtray and squeezed his arm. Lloyd is a true Pakeha of his generation, not big on kissing in public. Or in private, come to think of it, with me at least. I often end up squeezing his arm.
Fran looked at me quickly, and away, hooking her fake fur over the back of her chair, her red mouth already open and prattling on about getting the wine opened. Lloyd sat down before either of us, unsheathing two bottles from their paper condoms. It’s not an original image, I know, wine bag as condom, but I remember I thought of it as the bags whizzed off and Lloyd plonked the bottles on the table. It was apt for what transpired: a large skeleton, with its pants down, fell out of a wardrobe. Nothing will ever be the same again.
‘How’s Melissa?’ I asked then, Fran and I both sitting down, looking at Lloyd.
‘Fine. Blooming!’ said Lloyd. He looked great himself. I have to remind myself Lloyd’s in his mid-forties. He looks about ten years younger with his healthy, taut skin, the grey negligible in his glossy black hair. And his lovely brown eyes: warm, happy, sane.
‘You look wonderful,’ Lloyd told me, kindly. I didn’t, of course. Great bags under my eyes, my face improving on its sultana imitation every day.
‘So do you, Fran,’ I said, completing the circle. Fran pursed her lips together and flashed a look at Lloyd as if to say, ‘We know she’s bullshitting.’
The waiter brandished the corkscrew.
‘Thank fucking Christ!’ shouted Fran. ‘I was nearly fucking dead of thirst!’ She thrust the bottle at the waiter and stuck her tongue out, panting like a dog. The waiter, a bemused andgentlemanly Thai, smiled benignly, his eyes resting momentarily on her moist, flopping appendage.
Fran always swears.
While the waiter poured out for Lloyd, Fran said quietly to me, so that Lloyd wouldn’t hear, ‘
We
didn’t have a drink before
we
left home.’
‘Neither did
I,
’ I said, hating her. Could she smell it on my breath?
But I was blushing. There’s a theory that people who blush are fundamentally dishonest. I think the opposite is true — we blush in the face of insincerity. Blushers are people who can very quickly discern the real meaning of a mean-spirited remark.
In this case it seemed I was wrong. Fran went on to say, conspiratorially, ‘Melissa wouldn’t let us.’ Her eyebrows were waggling. Lloyd raised his glass to propose a toast.
‘To what?’ he asked.
I couldn’t suggest anything because I was still trying to interpret those eyebrows. Fran erupted suddenly with a loud bark, startling me.
‘What a question!’ she shouted. ‘What a fucking question!’
Lloyd bobbed his head, twisted his glass a quarter turn and took a sip. Fran obviously knew something I didn’t.
‘“To what?” he fucking says.
My Private Joy, My Comfort
Last Monday my friend Lloyd took me out to dinner. I got there early, to make sure we had a smoker’s table. Lloyd’s a bit slack on that side of things: he’s organisationally impaired. I’d gone to Glengarry’s earlier in the day to get some wine — I was really looking forward to it, I’d been looking forward to it for days.
Had a bath at six, a quiet drink on my own before I left the house. Lloyd had said a fortnight before, ‘Come out for dinner. My shout!’ He hadn’t mentioned Fran.
So I was a tiny bit annoyed when I saw her swanning through the restaurant door, closely followed by the tall, slender shape of Lloyd. They’d come together. And I thought, of course — with his other wives he’d got out more; he could keep his women friends apart. Fran and I had met up only occasionally. Now that he’s married young Melissa, he has to put us together. She doesn’t let him out much. It’s happened a lot in the last year or so: nearlyevery time I’ve seen him Fran’s either been there or come later. I should have expected it.
‘Lloyd!’ and I jumped up brightly, sparkling, flung my fag into the ashtray and squeezed his arm. Lloyd is a true Pakeha of his generation, not big on kissing in public. Or in private, come to think of it, with me at least. I often end up squeezing his arm.
Fran looked at me quickly, and away, hooking her fake fur over the back of her chair, her red mouth already open and prattling on about getting the wine opened. Lloyd sat down before either of us, unsheathing two bottles from their paper condoms. It’s not an original image, I know, wine bag as condom, but I remember I thought of it as the bags whizzed off and Lloyd plonked the bottles on the table. It was apt for what transpired: a large skeleton, with its pants down, fell out of a wardrobe. Nothing will ever be the same again.
‘How’s Melissa?’ I asked then, Fran and I both sitting down, looking at Lloyd.
‘Fine. Blooming!’ said Lloyd. He looked great himself. I have to remind myself Lloyd’s in his mid-forties. He looks about ten years younger with his healthy, taut skin, the grey negligible in his glossy black hair. And his lovely brown eyes: warm, happy, sane.
‘You look wonderful,’ Lloyd told me, kindly. I didn’t, of course. Great bags under my eyes, my face improving on its sultana imitation every day.
‘So do you, Fran,’ I said, completing the circle. Fran pursed her lips together and flashed a look at Lloyd as if to say, ‘We know she’s bullshitting.’
The waiter brandished the corkscrew.
‘Thank fucking Christ!’ shouted Fran. ‘I was nearly fucking dead of thirst!’ She thrust the bottle at the waiter and stuck her tongue out, panting like a dog. The waiter, a bemused andgentlemanly Thai, smiled benignly, his eyes resting momentarily on her moist, flopping appendage.
Fran always swears.
While the waiter poured out for Lloyd, Fran said quietly to me, so that Lloyd wouldn’t hear, ‘
We
didn’t have a drink before
we
left home.’
‘Neither did
I,
’ I said, hating her. Could she smell it on my breath?
But I was blushing. There’s a theory that people who blush are fundamentally dishonest. I think the opposite is true — we blush in the face of insincerity. Blushers are people who can very quickly discern the real meaning of a mean-spirited remark.
In this case it seemed I was wrong. Fran went on to say, conspiratorially, ‘Melissa wouldn’t let us.’ Her eyebrows were waggling. Lloyd raised his glass to propose a toast.
‘To what?’ he asked.
I couldn’t suggest anything because I was still trying to interpret those eyebrows. Fran erupted suddenly with a loud bark, startling me.
‘What a question!’ she shouted. ‘What a fucking question!’
Lloyd bobbed his head, twisted his glass a quarter turn and took a sip. Fran obviously knew something I didn’t.
‘“To what?” he fucking says.
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