And now they say if you don’t load it with cheese and butter it’s not actually fattening, either….”
“Trust me, Gran. I need a drink.”
The Scotch appeared. Then it disappeared.
“Francesca, dear, either you’re not yourself, or we’ve been away from each other much longer than I remember.”
“Actually, Gran, I’ve just been canned.”
Catherine stared at her. “What in Heaven’s name does that mean?”
“Oh, let’s see, how would they say this in Britain? ‘Been made redundant,’ I believe is the proper phrase. In short, sacked, booted, fired. Disconnected from my only visible means of support.”
“What did you do?”
She looked up and grinned, the alcohol giving her an irrational desire to giggle. “Me? Nothing. I’m a VALUED EMPLOYEE WITH A HIGH LEVEL OF ABILITY AND PERFORMANCE,” she tittered, draining the last drop from the glass. She motioned to the waiter to refill it.
“So you’re really out of work.” Catherine clapped her hands together, delighted.
Francesca stared, astonished. “You’re pleased?
“It’s wonderful! I thought that was going to be the most impossible task, prying you loose from your computer. I wonder how she did it.”
“What do you mean, ‘prying me loose’? And who is ‘she’?”
“Never mind. Let’s order some food. I’m famished.”
“I’m not hungry at all,” Francesca said, momentarily forgetting her questions, overcome by a churning in her stomach and ice water in her bowels. She wasn’t a drinker, and her stomach was empty. The waiter brought the second drink. She eyed it with a newfound respect, sipping carefully.
Catherine cleared her throat, but just then a waiter appeared, pencil and pad in hand. They ordered and ate in companionable silence: large, steaming plates of fresh pasta tossed with basil and oregano and fresh tomatoes; steamed forest mushrooms with tiny, delicate pieces of smoked salmon.
Catherine thought of the meal she had eaten with Suzanne amid the pickle barrels and red lanterns; all the foods called one thing and actually made with something else. Fake pork, fake shrimp, fake chicken…. Something good for you masquerading as something that wasn’t good for you, but which you wanted anyway. Like diet Coke, and Weight Watcher brownies.
She looked around at the simple white walls and the clean white tablecloths, the white plates with their simple, delicious food, looking and tasting exactly as you hoped and expected. Suzanne would no doubt find that boring, she thought.
Anything described as “new” was invariably something very old and familiar simply dressed up and plastered over with some kind of makeup. Food, the arts, ideas. It was all the same. All clever fakes. There was nothing new under the sun.
Take that phrase psychologists and anthropologists thought up for Newsweek in the late 1970s: The New Morality. They made it sound so revolutionary: open marriages, uncommitted but honest. Passionate, spontaneous, casual adult relationships. It had turned out to be nothing very new at all; simply a rationale (for psychologists and anthropologists?) to justify sleeping around, picking up one-night stands in bars. Of course, herpes, and then AIDS, had come along. No one was talking about New Morality anymore. Now it was all about the New Celibacy.
She chuckled.
Why is it when we’re young, we are always convinced the world was born on the same day we were, its possibilities limited only by our imaginations? Why can’t we connect to the past, see the patterns, learn the lessons? Why is mankind doomed to begin continually at square one and painfully repeat all the old mistakes?
“Dessert?”
Francesca shook her head. “Let’s not add injury to an already insulting day.”
“Insulting?”
“How would you describe being thrown out of your office with ten minutes’ notice, and given to understand that you are superfluous and that the working world could get on just fine without you? Redundant.” She
“Trust me, Gran. I need a drink.”
The Scotch appeared. Then it disappeared.
“Francesca, dear, either you’re not yourself, or we’ve been away from each other much longer than I remember.”
“Actually, Gran, I’ve just been canned.”
Catherine stared at her. “What in Heaven’s name does that mean?”
“Oh, let’s see, how would they say this in Britain? ‘Been made redundant,’ I believe is the proper phrase. In short, sacked, booted, fired. Disconnected from my only visible means of support.”
“What did you do?”
She looked up and grinned, the alcohol giving her an irrational desire to giggle. “Me? Nothing. I’m a VALUED EMPLOYEE WITH A HIGH LEVEL OF ABILITY AND PERFORMANCE,” she tittered, draining the last drop from the glass. She motioned to the waiter to refill it.
“So you’re really out of work.” Catherine clapped her hands together, delighted.
Francesca stared, astonished. “You’re pleased?
“It’s wonderful! I thought that was going to be the most impossible task, prying you loose from your computer. I wonder how she did it.”
“What do you mean, ‘prying me loose’? And who is ‘she’?”
“Never mind. Let’s order some food. I’m famished.”
“I’m not hungry at all,” Francesca said, momentarily forgetting her questions, overcome by a churning in her stomach and ice water in her bowels. She wasn’t a drinker, and her stomach was empty. The waiter brought the second drink. She eyed it with a newfound respect, sipping carefully.
Catherine cleared her throat, but just then a waiter appeared, pencil and pad in hand. They ordered and ate in companionable silence: large, steaming plates of fresh pasta tossed with basil and oregano and fresh tomatoes; steamed forest mushrooms with tiny, delicate pieces of smoked salmon.
Catherine thought of the meal she had eaten with Suzanne amid the pickle barrels and red lanterns; all the foods called one thing and actually made with something else. Fake pork, fake shrimp, fake chicken…. Something good for you masquerading as something that wasn’t good for you, but which you wanted anyway. Like diet Coke, and Weight Watcher brownies.
She looked around at the simple white walls and the clean white tablecloths, the white plates with their simple, delicious food, looking and tasting exactly as you hoped and expected. Suzanne would no doubt find that boring, she thought.
Anything described as “new” was invariably something very old and familiar simply dressed up and plastered over with some kind of makeup. Food, the arts, ideas. It was all the same. All clever fakes. There was nothing new under the sun.
Take that phrase psychologists and anthropologists thought up for Newsweek in the late 1970s: The New Morality. They made it sound so revolutionary: open marriages, uncommitted but honest. Passionate, spontaneous, casual adult relationships. It had turned out to be nothing very new at all; simply a rationale (for psychologists and anthropologists?) to justify sleeping around, picking up one-night stands in bars. Of course, herpes, and then AIDS, had come along. No one was talking about New Morality anymore. Now it was all about the New Celibacy.
She chuckled.
Why is it when we’re young, we are always convinced the world was born on the same day we were, its possibilities limited only by our imaginations? Why can’t we connect to the past, see the patterns, learn the lessons? Why is mankind doomed to begin continually at square one and painfully repeat all the old mistakes?
“Dessert?”
Francesca shook her head. “Let’s not add injury to an already insulting day.”
“Insulting?”
“How would you describe being thrown out of your office with ten minutes’ notice, and given to understand that you are superfluous and that the working world could get on just fine without you? Redundant.” She
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