with a chair, where a man with a guitar may or may not appear. The Judson dancers occupy a booth. Jim is late joining them, returning from the gents’ – he can’t quite believe his luck when the only remaining seat is next to her. She is looking at him now.
‘Pamela,’ she says, as he slides onto the bench.
He will not remember much about the night: just the sooty semi-darkness of the room; the red wine that arrives in fat, raffia-covered bottles; the deep, rough-edged voice of the musician who at some point takes to the stage singing Woody Guthrie. Pamela he will recall mostly in still frames: a lock of black curls, pushed behind her ear; a glass lifted to her lips; the bright whiteness of her naked body, slatted with shadow. And her feet, of course: the cool length of them, pressing against his legs when she comes.
He will not remember leaving her apartment, or getting home, though he must have done somehow: the next day he wakes late, in their bed – his and Eva’s – the sound of the telephone cutting painfully across what may well be the worst hangover he has ever had. He stumbles across the bedroom to the landing, fumbles for the phone. It is Eva, ringing from work – she has a cubicle in the
New York Times
offices; files her new column, ‘An Englishwoman in New York’, to the
Courier
from there, along with reports on news, fashion, culture – to tell him that the president has been shot dead. A motorcade shuffling through a Dallas square. Three shots. Blood seeping across Mrs Kennedy’s neat pink suit.
Beneath the shock, there is a heady, shaming sense of relief: this is the story now. This is all anybody will be talking about for days, weeks, months. Eva will be busy filing to London: too busy to wonder where her husband was last night; why he came in sometime before dawn, showered, and then slid into bed beside her, his mind still jumbled with images of another woman. Later, there will be guilt, of course – but not yet. Not now.
Algonquin
New York, November 1963
After the show, the producers throw a first-night party at the Algonquin.
It is, by British standards, a swanky affair: liveried waiters, a jazz trio, an apparently endless flow of champagne. The Oak Room’s wood-panelled walls lend the occasion an intimate, faintly medieval air; a series of heavy iron chandeliers punctuates the thickly plastered ceiling, their dim, guttering bulbs offering the guests the flattery of semi-darkness.
Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward stand together in one corner; in another, Rex Harrison bends his head towards Burt Lancaster, his crisp, theatrical baritone faintly audible beneath the general hubbub. At the centre of it all are Harry, David and Juliet, the play’s young director and stars. David’s hand is light in the dip of Juliet’s bare back as they make a slow, beaming circuit of the room.
Eva stands a little apart, holding a glass of champagne. Her shoes are rubbing – she bought them yesterday at Bloomingdale’s, along with her floor-length gown. She had left Sarah with David’s grandparents on the Upper East Side. It was the first time she’d been away from her daughter for more than half an hour, and she could barely concentrate for worrying, so she chose the first dress she tried on. Now, catching her reflection in the bar’s mirrored siding, Eva wonders whether she made a bad decision: the green silk has gathered in unflattering ridges across her stomach, still soft from her pregnancy. She stands a little straighter.
‘It went really well, didn’t it?’ Rose is at Eva’s elbow, bridelike in a draped white dress; it occurs to Eva that she may be trying to drop Harry a hint. But that is unkind: she likes Rose, is glad that her relationship with Harry seems to have stuck. Over the last month, marooned with Sarah in the tiny walk-up the show’s American producers rented for them – David refused to stay with his grandparents, insisted he needed his own space, though their
‘Pamela,’ she says, as he slides onto the bench.
He will not remember much about the night: just the sooty semi-darkness of the room; the red wine that arrives in fat, raffia-covered bottles; the deep, rough-edged voice of the musician who at some point takes to the stage singing Woody Guthrie. Pamela he will recall mostly in still frames: a lock of black curls, pushed behind her ear; a glass lifted to her lips; the bright whiteness of her naked body, slatted with shadow. And her feet, of course: the cool length of them, pressing against his legs when she comes.
He will not remember leaving her apartment, or getting home, though he must have done somehow: the next day he wakes late, in their bed – his and Eva’s – the sound of the telephone cutting painfully across what may well be the worst hangover he has ever had. He stumbles across the bedroom to the landing, fumbles for the phone. It is Eva, ringing from work – she has a cubicle in the
New York Times
offices; files her new column, ‘An Englishwoman in New York’, to the
Courier
from there, along with reports on news, fashion, culture – to tell him that the president has been shot dead. A motorcade shuffling through a Dallas square. Three shots. Blood seeping across Mrs Kennedy’s neat pink suit.
Beneath the shock, there is a heady, shaming sense of relief: this is the story now. This is all anybody will be talking about for days, weeks, months. Eva will be busy filing to London: too busy to wonder where her husband was last night; why he came in sometime before dawn, showered, and then slid into bed beside her, his mind still jumbled with images of another woman. Later, there will be guilt, of course – but not yet. Not now.
Algonquin
New York, November 1963
After the show, the producers throw a first-night party at the Algonquin.
It is, by British standards, a swanky affair: liveried waiters, a jazz trio, an apparently endless flow of champagne. The Oak Room’s wood-panelled walls lend the occasion an intimate, faintly medieval air; a series of heavy iron chandeliers punctuates the thickly plastered ceiling, their dim, guttering bulbs offering the guests the flattery of semi-darkness.
Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward stand together in one corner; in another, Rex Harrison bends his head towards Burt Lancaster, his crisp, theatrical baritone faintly audible beneath the general hubbub. At the centre of it all are Harry, David and Juliet, the play’s young director and stars. David’s hand is light in the dip of Juliet’s bare back as they make a slow, beaming circuit of the room.
Eva stands a little apart, holding a glass of champagne. Her shoes are rubbing – she bought them yesterday at Bloomingdale’s, along with her floor-length gown. She had left Sarah with David’s grandparents on the Upper East Side. It was the first time she’d been away from her daughter for more than half an hour, and she could barely concentrate for worrying, so she chose the first dress she tried on. Now, catching her reflection in the bar’s mirrored siding, Eva wonders whether she made a bad decision: the green silk has gathered in unflattering ridges across her stomach, still soft from her pregnancy. She stands a little straighter.
‘It went really well, didn’t it?’ Rose is at Eva’s elbow, bridelike in a draped white dress; it occurs to Eva that she may be trying to drop Harry a hint. But that is unkind: she likes Rose, is glad that her relationship with Harry seems to have stuck. Over the last month, marooned with Sarah in the tiny walk-up the show’s American producers rented for them – David refused to stay with his grandparents, insisted he needed his own space, though their
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