Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (8 page)

Out on the street, he directed them toward Third. “Then we’ll head for Lex,” he said. “We’re going to Anthony’s. It’s quiet, leisurely and they have good drinks.”

It was in the Fifties and it looked like a saloon from the outside, but then so did Clarke’s, and when they went in Christine felt comfortable right away. It was cool and dim and hospitable, with a big, weathered, dark oak bar and comfy chairs around fair-sized tables. A few booths. They sat in one of the booths, Rodney sliding in beside Christine and Jack opposite. It was a man’s place, you knew that immediately, but it was not raffish in any way, and there were two young women at, one of the tables. They looked like office girls on their lunch hour. “I’d like a martini,” she said, when a waiter came over.

“One martini for the lady. Olive, twist, onion?”

“Olive, thanks.”

He greeted Jack by name. “Hi, Jack, Canadian Club for you?”

“As always. Rodney?”

“I’d like a gin and tonic, please.”

“This is nice,” Christine said when they had their drinks. “I must have passed it a lot of times and never noticed it.”

“It’s a respectable watering hole and the food’s really very high quality. Well, shall we heft a glass to our respective good fortune?”

“Here we go. To you both, gentlemen, and all the best. Jack, an additional toast to you, and heartfelt thanks.”

“I second the motion,” Rodney said, grinning. “You’re the undisputed hero of the day.”

“Okay, enough already, you’d think I saved you from drowning. You’re British, Rodney, what brings you to these parts?”

“Just thought I’d pop over and see how the Colonies were doing.” He shook his head. “No need to worry about them, they’re in great shape. Actually, I’m here on a visit, a bit of a holiday, that’s all. What do you do, Jack? You said you ditched your job, I believe.”

“Yes, a few months ago.”

“You’re looking for another one then?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I’m working on a book, I decided to take the long chance.”

“A book? You’re a writer?”

“More or less. That is, it’s been less to date, just a few pieces published, which netted me an agent, and four or five short novels, strictly hack stuff. Now I’m involved in something more — ” He made a solemn face. “More substantial. Ta da da.”

“I’m most impressed.”

“Rodney would like to write,” Christine said. “So you’re an author, Jack. That’s great. I guess you’re the first one I’ve met. My husband’s a doctor, so I meet a fair amount of doctors. They’re not very interesting. As a matter of fact they’re — well, at least in my opinion, dull as ditchwater, and monstrously pompous.”

She laughed. “I’m not referring to my husband, he’s a very nice guy.”

“So is his wife.”

“Christine?” Rodney put in. “She’s more than nice, she’s Aphrodite with a soul.”

“You sound like a groupie,” Jack remarked. “I can’t say I blame you.”

“And her name, Christine, it sounds like shimmering glass. Christine, that was the name in O’Neill’s
Mourning Becomes Electra
.”

“Oh, she was a bad lady,” Christine objected. “You’re not going to compare me with her? She did away with her husband. I have no plans to murder mine.”

“Neither did she, but he showed up at an inopportane time,” Jack observed.

“She must have known he’d make an appearance sooner or later.”

“She probably thought he’d be killed in the war. And she didn’t reckon with that daughter of hers. Vengeful bitch.”

“Whose side are you on anyway, Jack?”

“I guess I always felt sorry for Christine/Clytemnestra. Love is a many-splendored thing. I’m on the side of love.”

“No matter who gets hurt?”

“Someone always gets hurt. So you’d like to scribble too, Rodney.”

“I always have wanted to, you know. But it’s only a remote possibility.”

“Writing for a living is chancy at best. As I’m sure I’ll discover when I’ve been at it long enough. It’s so damned reassuring to have that job, a structured life, you can’t flake off in a job.”

“Why did you leave it? Couldn’t you do both?”

“I decided you couldn’t. Or I couldn’t. Well, there were other flies in the ointment. I was in publishing, moved around a good bit, got shafted one too many times. So I thought I’d be an independent guy and let them publish
me
. It would be easier that way.” He smiled. “Famous last words.”

“Are you having trouble with what you’re working on?”

“I’m having trouble sitting still. No, the work’s going along creditably, it’s just a long, long process. I have to find the pace for it.”

He picked up his drink. “You aren’t interested in all this.”

“But we are, very much so.”

“I’ve done nothing but talk about myself, a lot of crap. No more about me. So, how do you like my apartment?”

Laughter all around: he was fun, Christine thought, very attractive, very entertaining, someone she would like to know better. She tried to guess his age. It was hard to tell. He could be twenty-eight, he could be thirty-two. He lived alone, it seemed: he could be single or he could be divorced or in the process of separation. She didn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t ask him.

She didn’t have to. Rodney asked him. “Are you — ah, married or something, Jack?”

“More like something. I’m divorced.”

“Oh, I
am
sorry.”

A quick laugh. “Don’t be, Rodney.” Another quick laugh. “Just one of those things. Ever notice when things go wrong between people the reason is always that it’s just one of those things? How about you, Rodney, found any delectable girls to take out since you’ve been here? And how long have you been here?”

“A month now. Girls? I daresay they’re about.”

“They are indeed. I’m surprised they haven’t started ringing your doorbell.”

“It’s still early times.”

“Were there any children, Jack?” Christine wanted to know. “I don’t mean to pry.”

“No children. Thank God for small favors. Children always make it hairier.”

“Yes, of course. Could we order, Jack? I’m beginning to get light in the head; we haven’t been eating much in the way of breakfast lately. Too eager to get out and answer ads.”

“Sure.” He caught the waiter’s eye, menus were brought over. “What’s good here?” she asked.

“You can safely take your pick, but the eggplant parmigiana’s tops.”

“Fine, I’ll have that. Rodney?”

“Yes, the same for me, please.”

“Okay, Mario, we’re all agreed. Three eggplant.”

“Coffee with?”

“Later for me. Rodney likes his later too.”

“Can we have the garlic bread right away, though, Mario?”

“Garlic bread coming up. You want some Chianti?”

“How about it?”

“Not for me, and I think not for Rodney either. These are lusty drinks.”

“We’ll skip the wine, Mario.”

He was back with two baskets of the bread in a second or two, the smell of the garlic preceding him. “Guaranteed to put hair on your chest,” he said with a wink, and went away again. “Wow,” Christine said, putting a piece in her mouth. “This is garlic bread to end all garlic bread. Lord, it’s fantastic.”

“It’s great butter too. Sweet as field flowers.”

“Isn’t this marvelous. I suppose I shouldn’t have scotched the Chianti. It’s just that the two of us are pooped after killing ourselves for two weeks looking for a place for Rodney. I don’t particularly care to fall flat on my face. In Florence we drank Lacrima Cristi. Teardrop of Christ. I loved the name.”

“A great many of our friends live in Florence,” Rodney said.

“That’s not surprising. There are more English in Florence than there are native Florentines.”

Jack said he had spent a month in Florence. “Loved it, absolutely unforgettable. Crossing the river at nightfall, after spending the day on the Oltrarno, with the sun flaming and then dying down, everything purpling, the bridges like misty webs. It stays like a dream landscape in your mind. Italy’s so preposterously beautiful. Lacrima Cristi — yes, I drank it too.”

“Italy’s God’s country. I suppose you’ve been there often, Rodney, not having to cross an ocean to get there.”

“Twice, to be exact. I’m fonder of France, though.”

“Nothing wrong with France.”

“Aha! Here comes lunch.”

“Hot plate,” Mario said. “Okay, folks,
buon appetito
.”

“Grazie.”

“It looks super,” Rodney said, digging in. “Whoops — careful, it’s hot.”

“I’ll have some more bread.” Christine wiggled her fingers. “Please? I don’t know how you managed it, Rodney, but both baskets are on your side of the table.”

“Oh. Sorry. Here you go.”

“Jack, you were right. The eggplant’s sublime. Say, how’d you find this place?”

“Ah, it’s very well known among us cognoscenti. Stick with me, kid, old Jack knows where it’s at.”

“I bet you do,” she replied, laughing. He was really charming. “You come here a lot,” she said. “Now I know why.”

“Yeah, it’s a haunt of mine.”

“Do you cook for yourself?”

“Maybe a chop once in a while. Mostly it’s TV dinners.”

“They’re supposed to be nourishing enough.”

“They’ll do. With a green salad. No work entailed, why not?”

“I’m sure it’s what I’d do if I lived alone.”

“Rodney, now that you’re setting up housekeeping, what’s your plan of action?”

“Why, I suppose about like yours, Jack. Something prepared, just shove it in the oven. Or else dine out.”

“If you really mean ‘dine,’ you won’t have any trouble finding restaurants,” Jack told him. “If you mean just fill your stomach and refuel, there are a few places around. I mean that won’t cost an arm and a leg.”

“And of course you’ll be at our house for dinner a lot,” Christine reminded him. “No invitation necessary, I’m sure you understand you’re always more than welcome, Rodney. And yes, we must not forget to call your mother tonight. Be sure to outline some kind of budget, so you won’t run low on cash. She has to have some way of knowing what your essentials will be.”

“Christine, I’m perfectly capable of managing things,” he objected, flushing. “I’m not, after all, a teener.”

He put down his fork. “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to be shirty.”
*

“You’re right, though,” she said good naturedly. “You must be left to live your own life, and I
am
a smothering sort.”

“You’re an angel. I adore you.”

“That’s nice. Jack, I’m a horrible pig, but do you think he’d let us have some more garlic bread? It’s all gone, alas.”

“No sooner said than done. Mario?”

With coffee, Jack suggested brandy. “They’re not much on desserts,” he admitted, “so how about a brandy instead? The drinks have worn off by now.”

“All right, fine.”

“Rodney?”

“Yes, please.”

They sat sipping, talking idly, smiling at each other. “I hope you’ve enjoyed this as much as I have,” Jack said.

“I’ve had a lovely time.”

“Can we do it again?” Rodney asked eagerly. “It would be super to meet again like this.”

“Nothing I’d like better.”

“Yes, by all means,” Christine agreed. “I’d like to know how you’re getting on, Jack. When you’re moved and settled, why not give me a ring? Rodney, would you write down our phone number, please?”

He pulled out a pen. “When we get home I shall have to call the telephone company about a phone for myself. There, Jack, the Jennings’ number.”

“Many thanks. I’ll write it in my directory right away.”

Rodney, with a certain panache, paid the check. “It was my idea,” he insisted. Jack said no, it had been his idea, but Christine murmured to him to let it go. “Of course he owes you, certainly Rodney will take care of this. It’s little enough. Jack, you’ve truly been a godsend. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

“And I to seeing you. You have my number. Good luck with the moving; that’s not very much fun.”

They parted outside the restaurant, with nods and smiles, and then she and Rodney walked home. “Nice chap,” Rodney said. “Well, I must say this turned out to be a banner day.”

“It certainly did. And now we must furnish your apartment. We’ll go first thing in the morning with a yardstick, make our notes and then start in picking and choosing. I have a few ideas.”

“Good. I shall have to depend on your expertise, Christine.”

“You did point out that you were capable of managing things yourself,” she observed.

“For which I could cut off my tongue. With all you’ve done … I just had a moment of rebellion, sometimes one feels so bloody juvenile.”

She said be glad to be young, it didn’t last forever.

The house seemed quiet without Rodney’s robust cheer, though Christine, who was up to her ears in making a “showplace” of his new flat, was far from regretful. She was glad to return home each evening, slip off her shoes and relax over a glass of Chablis. He had moved, suitcase and rucksack, into his snuggery, as he called it, just as soon as he had a bed, chest of drawers and two chairs. He was thereupon keen on filling up all the spaces pronto, ready to settle for anything that took his fancy. If she left it up to him, Christine told him, he’d be living in some kind of old curiosity shop. “No,” she kept saying patiently. “No, Rodney, it’s nice, but it’s way out of proportion for your place, you must see that.”

“But it’s a smashing étagère! Chris, we seem to be getting nowhere.”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Of course he had no way of knowing that she had earmarked pieces as they went along, for future reference, that she had a master plan which was slowly taking shape, and so his astonishment was profound when she informed him that now they had everything they needed for his place. All they had to do was return to the stores that had them and buy them up.

“Don’t worry, Rodney, everything I chose was something you approved of, so I’m sure you’ll be satisfied.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“You’ll see.”

By the end of the month Rodney’s flat was fully equipped. It looked, if she did say so herself, as elegant as something a decorator whipped up, and without the grotesqueries they always stuck in. It looked great, and Rodney was almost sickeningly self-congratulatory, though open-handed in his appreciation of all the “help” she had given him, as if the whole splendid orchestration had been conceived and executed by himself, with her as apprentice. She was vastly amused by his lapse of memory as he completely forgot that almost everything he had wanted to snap up would have been totally out of scale and, to boot, without any overall scheme or harmony.

But let him preen, the darling: he was so twenty-one-year oldishly cute, like an urban squire, fiddling possessively with his bay window draperies on their traverse rods, plumping cushions and rushing out to the kitchen to empty ashtrays as soon as someone put out a cigarette. It wouldn’t last long, she surmised; his householder’s pride, his Craig’s wife fussiness would give way to other serendipities. She just hoped he wouldn’t end up leaving clothes all over the place, it was too small for that.

“And now,” he said, “I can start to
do
things.”

“You haven’t been doing things up to now?”

“I mean New York things. Let’s go to a film tomorrow. I have a whole list of ones I want to see. How about
La Cage Aux Folles?
I’ll pick you up, we can go to the two o’clock showing.”

“Tomorrow I rest.”

“Oh please, Christine.”

“Learn to go alone, Rodney. It’s what I do. I often go to an art film by myself. I enjoy it and so will you.”

“I’d enjoy it more with you.”

“You’d enjoy it more with someone your own age. Find a perfectly adorable girl, which should be the easiest thing in the world. I can tell you that if I were some nubile maiden I’d give a lot to meet a dashing young blade like yourself.”

“Gels my age are such wogs,” he said jadedly. “I can’t take them seriously. It’s a woman I appreciate, and for that matter almost any chap would say the same. There’s a — well, a smoldering quality about a woman, a real woman.”

“Smoldering?” she echoed, and giggled. “Do I, for example, smolder? If so I had no idea.”

“Perhaps an ill-chosen word,” he said offhandedly. “But you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” she said, and tweaked his nose. “Most of us women are not of the sultry variety. You’ve read too much Colette. I’m not Léa.”

“Are you sure? I confess readily, you know, that there’s a lot of Chéri in me. And it does seem rather a waste.”

“I think I’ll phone your mother and tell her you propositioned me.”

“Oh, do. She’ll laugh her head off. She thinks I’m about ten. About the film tomorrow. You’ll go, won’t you?”

“Some other time, thanks.”

“Bother,” he said crossly, but let her off the hook, though he kept trying for a while, trying to cajole her in subsequent days, obviously eager for company in his perambulations. He had them all over for Sunday afternoon cocktails a week later, preparing a very nice little spread, though it was mostly to show off his snuggery and be praised for its comfort and elegance.

There were frequent telephone calls from him, reports on his multifold adventures. He certainly did get around, discovering restaurants like II Vagabondo, which was so “in” that most people had never even heard of it, and out of the way places like Sniffen Court and Amster Yard. He was seeing all the Fassbinder, Herzog, Buñuel and Bertolucci films he could cram in. He came to dinner once or twice, didn’t stop talking for a minute, and ate like a horse.

Christine liked having him in the vicinity, Peg’s boy, and felt that he had adjusted very well. She wrote the Thornleys and told them that their son Rodney had completely taken over the city and she expected to hear any day that he was running for public office.

Jack Allerton had phoned in early May, to say hello. She was astonishingly glad to hear his voice. He had moved, he said, was slowly getting things to rights, and would very much like to knock off some day this week and take her to lunch.

She was in the midst of project number two, she told him, furnishing Rodney’s flat and the sooner she got that over the better. Could they table it until, say, the first part of next month, and by that time both he and Rodney would be in better shape.

“Me too,” she added wryly. “What I really need is a rest cure. Jack, why don’t I call you when this razzmatazz is over? I want your phone number anyway.”

She didn’t tell Rodney about the call, because he would only have wanted to slow up the proceedings and waste away an afternoon, and besides she wasn’t sure Jack had meant both of them, Rodney as well as herself. She had the vague impression he had meant it only for her.

School was out at the end of the month and Nancy hied herself off to Massachusetts, where she was to spend June and July with her friend Amy Longworth, whose family had a country cottage in Hadley. Bruce had signed up for a summer job at the concession in Central Park, where he would waiter at the outdoor terrace. Carl thought it was unconscionable, taking bread out of the mouths of less privileged kids, but most of the kids came from just such homes as Bruce, so it didn’t seem an inequity to Christine, and she liked his enterprise: she had certainly never suggested it.

At any rate, now she was more or less on her own again, just as she was when the children were at school. There was no reason not to call Jack Allerton, see how he was faring.

“Well, hello,” he said. “Does this mean you’re at leisure once more?”

“I have done my job well and truly. Results are fine, Rodney’s like a clucking hen, you’re afraid to disturb the position of a single item, and he keeps jumping up to straighten lampshades. He’s very happy. And how are you coming along, Jack?”

“Not bad, and I want you both over, but that will have to wait until it looks like something other than a junk shop. I have quantities of reference material, an overflow of books, and my working equipment. I’m trying to calculate just what I can buy in the way of cabinets that will accommodate things I don’t know what the hell to do with. I’m not the most organized person in the world.”

“I see. If I can help, let me know.”

“You can help a great deal. You can help, for instance, by having lunch with me and
talking
to me. I’ve been talking to myself so much lately I’m afraid they’ll figure me for a nut around here, that someone passing my door will call Bellevue. I’ve been cursing a lot, mostly at the top of my lungs. I move a pile of stuff, look for a better place to put it, but there isn’t a place to put it so I set it down again. And then curse some more. I junked some file cabinets, in a reckless moment, because I didn’t want to clutter up this stately room with file cabinets, than which there is nothing less stately, and now I have to find replacements. You know, good fruitwood pieces, preferably one good fruitwood piece with compartments. Roomy and serviceable and at the same time furniture, not officey stuff.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult, Jack. You should easily come across something like that.”

“Yes, but I want it day before yesterday. Now about lunch. When? Today?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“You bet I like. Where do you want to go, Christine?”

“I’d just as soon the same place. Where we were before. Anthony’s. There’s no bustle there, it’s very relaxing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Um hum. About one?”

“Great, I’ll be waiting.”

“See you, Jack.”

He was at the bar when she walked in, talking to Mario, who greeted her with a smile and a hello. “Nice to see you again,” he said. “Martini with olive, right?”

“You have a good memory. Yes, thanks. Hi, Jack.”

“Hi, Christine. Come on, let’s find a booth.”

“Were you waiting long?”

“No, just got here a few minutes ago. You’re right on time.”

“One of my few virtues, punctuality.”

It was earlier than the last time they had been here, and the place was very well occupied today, with two waiters serving and Mario behind the bar. It was cheerful and pleasantly lively, with men in business suits and a few young girls dressed rather well. This modest-looking midtown cafe-restaurant apparently attracted a respectable clientele.

They slid into one of the booths and then a waiter came over with the drinks. “This is something I didn’t anticipate when I got up this morning,” Jack said, and picked up his glass. “Here’s to you, Christine, long time no see.”

“To you,” she said, lifting her own glass. “Long time no do anything except solve the many problems of Rodney Thornley, Esq., that’s about it.”

“And now they’re all solved?”

“More or less one hundred percent. He doesn’t know anyone his own age, but I can’t figure out what to do about that.”

“Isn’t it up to him?”

“Except that he’s a stranger in a strange city, which can throw anyone off.”

“Otherwise how are you, Christine?”

“Why, tip-top. Cardiogram’s good, blood pressure normal and nothing wrong with my appetite. How’s your bill of health, Jack?”

His laugh rang out. “Is that the way it sounded? I guess it was for instead of the weather. Isn’t it a nice day. Wonderful temperatures, not too chilly, not too warm. Dandy not to have to wear a topcoat. A lead-in. We’re strangers, when it comes right down to it, no longer any housing perplexities to gas about, and my fervent wish is to sit here unhurried for as long as I can hold your interest.”

“Aren’t you funny, did you think I wanted you to perform? I’m very pleased to see you, Jack. Well, I called you, didn’t I? Tell me about your apartment, why don’t you, I’ve been wondering if it’s come up to expectations.”

“It has. Very much so. It’s diverting to be in a new place. You wake up and wonder for a minute where you are, and then you realize, oh yeah, I’m in this new place. Nothing is where it was before. You reach for a light switch and now it’s not there anymore, it’s somewhere else. You have a feeling you’ve gone to another city, not just another neighborhood. Good for the soul, moving. Everyone should pull up stakes once every five years or so, it shakes you up.”

“Maybe. Out of the old groove. I enjoy being in a foreign city. Opening your eyes to entirely different sights. And sounds. And smells. Other cities — that is, cities in other countries always smell so different. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, sure. Paris smells like Paris. Paris has the most pungent smell of any city I can think of. Rome smells like newsprint, I’ve always thought, maybe it’s just because they have so many newspapers there. Any city in Spain you’re in, you know it’s Spain, all right, it couldn’t be anywhere else.”

“Spain always smells like hot brick.”

“That’s because Spain is, let’s face it, hot brick. Baked daily by the sun.”

“Seville. I couldn’t get dry after my bath. I sat on the edge of the tub and cried.”

“In a
hotel
?”

“It was so ridiculous, we chose this hotel because it was a beautiful old monastery, one of those restored places, with a garden like Eden. It was late September, we were sure it would be cooling off by then. This beautiful old picturesque monastery hotel was not air conditioned. We knew we were taking a chance, but mostly it was naiveté.”

“You picked the wrong city for a hotel with no air conditioning. Seville’s more humid. Did you really cry?”

“Oh yes, I’m not kidding. I got sick too. Lived on tea and toast for two days. Maybe three. You seem to have traveled a lot.”

“Yeah, bumming it. I think every young person should do that.”

“So do I, if possible.”

“It used to be possible, I guess it’s getting tougher. The way the economy is these days.”

“Everything’s going out of reach. Rents are the worst, of course. My first apartment, I paid $160.”

“Those were the days, my friend.”

“I suppose people will be saying that until the end of time.”

“No doubt. You’ve traveled a lot too, it seems.”

“Quite a bit. Just Europe, not the East or Africa or places like that. I’m for where history was made. I mean, the history I’m interested in. Kings and queens and dynasties, music and art and … you know.”

“Yeah. You’re a romantic. Me too.”

“Glad to hear it. We’re a dying breed.”

“I don’t think we are, no. I really don’t.”

“Is your building quiet, Jack? Any distracting TV sets blaring away at late hours? That kind of thing?”

“Thankfully, no. In the main tranquil and typically shabby genteel. Very comforting. There’s someone in the apartment adjoining mine who wakes me up every morning at precisely seven o’clock. No sooner, no later. Seven on the dot. He sneezes. Just once, but it does the trick, snaps my eyes open as if he pulled a string. This loud, resounding sneeze that may eventually put a crack in my bedroom wall. I don’t need an alarm clock.”