nastily. “I can see the look on the face of the chairman of the Appropriations Committee when I tell him I want funding to do a survey to find out how many men believe that someday they’ll meet a princess with whom they’ll live happily for the rest of their lives. How many men do you suppose would admit to it?”
Catcalls and guffaws erupted, and the evening ended in hilarity.
That night, between 1:00 and 4:00 a.m., I sold my Fifth Avenue apartment. George had sold his big old colonial in Louisville, realizing enough on it to buy a three-room apartment on Central Park West. We decided to buy two apartments, one above the other, and build a connecting staircase. That way we’d both have privacy, but we could be together every night if we chose. Much of my night was spent in imaginatively enjoying what we did on the nights we spent together, but there was a limit to those activities, and practical matters surged into my brain.
First I decorated my seven-room apartment, then I decorated George’s place. I wanted him to do it himself, but he claimed he wasn’t good at it, that he needed help. I insisted he go with me, so I wouldn’t pick out anything he disliked. His living room I did in shades of blue, the turquoise blue of his eyes, toning it down with grays and black. The walls were blue, the carpet was a blue-gray (he didn’t want Orientals), the couch was charcoal, the side chairs were different shades of grayish blue. I didn’t use drapes but chose shoji screens and palms, which gave the whole room an airy Eastern feel. It was beautiful. For his bedroom, I reversed that scheme, painting the walls a grayish blue—it took me a while to find the perfect color—that matched the rug exactly. The bedspread was charcoal, and I sprinkled electric blue throughout the room—in the side chair, the throw pillows, and a few glass ornaments. I put shoji screens on those windows too.
When it was all finished, we wandered through it hand in hand. He was happy. He said he’d never had such nice rooms. We decided to cook dinner in his apartment that night. He said he loved lamb stew, so we took the subway downtown to Jefferson Market, where I could buy a breast of lamb, and I made lamb stew with carrots, onions, and dumplings with parsley—the lightest, fluffiest dumplings I’d ever made. They were delicious.
Still, after I finally fell asleep, I dreamed that I was walking to Zabar’s to buy coffee and butter and cheese to take out to the country. On the grassy median strip on Broadway, two broken-down, ancient-looking bag ladies sat on a bench. One had no teeth; the other had only some tufts of hair. They were talking volubly, laughing wildly, with glittery eyes and blushing cheeks. As I passed them, one punched the other’s arm and said, “You know what? Harry said I was good-lookin’! How do you like that! Good-lookin’.”
“Wow!” the other cried. “Maybe he wants to marry you.”
5
G EORGE CALLED EARLY SATURDAY morning. “Hey. Wanna have lunch?”
“Today?” I could hear querulousness in my voice.
“Yeah. Come on! It’s great out!” Eagerly.
“Okay,” I said, not very enthusiastically.
“How about a picnic in the park?”
Oh! My heart tumbled a bit: such a romantic idea. I hadn’t picnicked in the park since…since Mark. When I bought the Fifth Avenue apartment, I hired the architect Mark Goldman to modernize it, and during the planning phase, we saw each other regularly. We had to discuss the design and work out the details; later, we had to shop for bathroom and kitchen fixtures. But we spent much more time together than was strictly necessary, because we were both feeling that terrific edge of excitement that comes from desire. Often we went into the park to have lunch under a tree. Mark would arrive at my door with a wicker basket filled with paté, cheeses, fruit, and French bread, or a salade niçoise or a chicken-and-potato salad he’d bought at Bon Marché over on Lexington.
Catcalls and guffaws erupted, and the evening ended in hilarity.
That night, between 1:00 and 4:00 a.m., I sold my Fifth Avenue apartment. George had sold his big old colonial in Louisville, realizing enough on it to buy a three-room apartment on Central Park West. We decided to buy two apartments, one above the other, and build a connecting staircase. That way we’d both have privacy, but we could be together every night if we chose. Much of my night was spent in imaginatively enjoying what we did on the nights we spent together, but there was a limit to those activities, and practical matters surged into my brain.
First I decorated my seven-room apartment, then I decorated George’s place. I wanted him to do it himself, but he claimed he wasn’t good at it, that he needed help. I insisted he go with me, so I wouldn’t pick out anything he disliked. His living room I did in shades of blue, the turquoise blue of his eyes, toning it down with grays and black. The walls were blue, the carpet was a blue-gray (he didn’t want Orientals), the couch was charcoal, the side chairs were different shades of grayish blue. I didn’t use drapes but chose shoji screens and palms, which gave the whole room an airy Eastern feel. It was beautiful. For his bedroom, I reversed that scheme, painting the walls a grayish blue—it took me a while to find the perfect color—that matched the rug exactly. The bedspread was charcoal, and I sprinkled electric blue throughout the room—in the side chair, the throw pillows, and a few glass ornaments. I put shoji screens on those windows too.
When it was all finished, we wandered through it hand in hand. He was happy. He said he’d never had such nice rooms. We decided to cook dinner in his apartment that night. He said he loved lamb stew, so we took the subway downtown to Jefferson Market, where I could buy a breast of lamb, and I made lamb stew with carrots, onions, and dumplings with parsley—the lightest, fluffiest dumplings I’d ever made. They were delicious.
Still, after I finally fell asleep, I dreamed that I was walking to Zabar’s to buy coffee and butter and cheese to take out to the country. On the grassy median strip on Broadway, two broken-down, ancient-looking bag ladies sat on a bench. One had no teeth; the other had only some tufts of hair. They were talking volubly, laughing wildly, with glittery eyes and blushing cheeks. As I passed them, one punched the other’s arm and said, “You know what? Harry said I was good-lookin’! How do you like that! Good-lookin’.”
“Wow!” the other cried. “Maybe he wants to marry you.”
5
G EORGE CALLED EARLY SATURDAY morning. “Hey. Wanna have lunch?”
“Today?” I could hear querulousness in my voice.
“Yeah. Come on! It’s great out!” Eagerly.
“Okay,” I said, not very enthusiastically.
“How about a picnic in the park?”
Oh! My heart tumbled a bit: such a romantic idea. I hadn’t picnicked in the park since…since Mark. When I bought the Fifth Avenue apartment, I hired the architect Mark Goldman to modernize it, and during the planning phase, we saw each other regularly. We had to discuss the design and work out the details; later, we had to shop for bathroom and kitchen fixtures. But we spent much more time together than was strictly necessary, because we were both feeling that terrific edge of excitement that comes from desire. Often we went into the park to have lunch under a tree. Mark would arrive at my door with a wicker basket filled with paté, cheeses, fruit, and French bread, or a salade niçoise or a chicken-and-potato salad he’d bought at Bon Marché over on Lexington.
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