THE BLONDE on Matthew’s right scoots along the banquette as well as anyone can scoot on velvet. She leans toward Matthew and touches his arm. “She’s gorgeous,” she says. Matthew’s annoyed. This is a trespass, a violation of the notion of personal space, which may be the essential civilizing principle of modern urban life. Matthew smiles and says nothing, hoping that his bland smile will make clear his unwillingness to hear anything more from her. It doesn’t work. “We just drove back from New Hampshire,” says the blonde, “just now.”
She must be curious. She wants to know what the story is, he thinks. He ought to end this, he knows. He ought to say, “I’m not interested,” or, “I don’t care,” but he can’t bring himself to be that impolite, and he’s flattered by her curiosity. “Oh,” he says.
The blonde takes this as an invitation to proceed. “Skiing,” she says. “Have you ever been skiing in New Hampshire?”
“Cross-country,” he says. He’s struck by the fact that this is really an attractive woman: excellent clothes, fine hair, smooth skin, perfect teeth. Is it just curiosity? he wonders. Or has my being with Leila made her interested in me?
“Oh. Cross-country,” she says, as if to one of the benighted. “I’ve never tried that. I’ve heard it’s fun. We didn’t think much of New Hampshire, I’ll tell you that.”
“Really? Parts are very pretty.”
“I mean the people. The worst. Where do the beautiful people ski in New England? Do you know?”
Matthew can’t believe what he’s heard. “Beautiful people.” She said “beautiful people.” He thinks of answering with the truth: “No. I have never wondered where the beautiful people go to do anything.” Has she been trying to find them? Does she want to enroll in the club? Or is it just that she expects the skiing to be better wherever they go? Matthew shrugs. “Maybe they don’t ski in New England at all,” he says. “They’re probably all in Gstaad.”
“Mm,” she says vacantly.
“You can probably get some good Swiss cooking there,” says Matthew. This remark raises not even a smile, neither from the blonde nor from the young man, who is smoking and paying close attention to his cigarette. Does she know that Gstaad is in Switzerland? Does she know that she’s eating Swiss cooking? Does she know that she’s in what is supposed to be a Swiss restaurant? Does she know that what she’s eating isn’t very good? Does she know that I was trying to make a joke? Is she awake?
“Well, we went to some ridiculous little place, an inn, supposed to be charming, according to a little write-up we read. ‘Charming’ turned out to mean ‘crude’ and ‘cold’ and ‘uncomfortable.’ I walk in wearing my fur coat, right? People look at me like I’m some kind of freak. And when I wore high heels — I wore high heels to dinner. The looks. And of course, the place was freezing. There I am shivering in a silk dress.”
“I think I broke my toe,” says the young man in the pleasantest tone Matthew has heard him use.
The blonde laughs. “Not skiing,” she says, “fucking.” They both laugh.
Matthew wonders where Leila is. He’d like to get cleaned up as well as he can and get out of here. And where’s the waiter? I want the check.
“The bed was so short that Jasper jammed his toe against the footboard — ”
“Just as I was about to come,” offers Jasper. He smiles at Matthew as if at an old pal. His mood is much improved now that he’s discoursing on a subject he likes. “What was I going to do? I was between a rock and a hard place.” If Matthew were sitting nearer to him, without the protection of an intervening table, he would, Matthew’s quite certain, poke him in the ribs with his elbow.
“Thank you, darling,” says the blonde.
“It’s an expression, what do you want?” says Jasper. “I decided to go for the pleasure, worry about the pain later.”
For a moment Matthew thinks of asking whether it was worth it. “Is it really broken?” he asks instead.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” says the blonde. “It’s swollen, but it’s probably just sprained or something.”
Leila returns to the table; Matthew forgets himself for a moment and stands to push the table away from the banquette to allow her to get in, but he remembers in time and only half rises, with his napkin still on his lap. A waiter rushes over and yanks the table out, with flourishes and bows and incomprehensible murmurings.
Leila’s carrying a book printed on beige paper, about the size of an atlas. She slips in beside Matthew, lays it on the table, leans up against him, and whispers in his ear, “Look what I’ve got.”
“Hm?”
“A menu. It’s a souvenir. I got it from Pick-nose. You’ll have to pay for it, I think, but you can carry it in front of you when we leave. Nobody will see the spot on your pants.”
“You’re a genius,” he says. “You know that?”
Ah, says BW. There’s a charming bond between you now, and the time is certainly right for a kiss, I think.
Why not?
He kisses her. It’s hardly a kiss at all, really, but for an instant his lips touch her cheek.
“I have paper towels, too,” she says. “In my bag. But I don’t think they’re going to do much good. There’s probably a lot of fat in that sauce. It might not even come out when you get your suit cleaned, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t care. I just want to get out of here without feeling like an ass.”
[to be continued]
In Topical Guide 515, Mark Dorset considers Proxemics: Personal Space from this episode.
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🎧 515: The blonde . . .