I smiled, then grew serious again. “Charles, forgive me if I appear to pull rank, but I know things you don’t. When you are fifty you will know them too. But you don’t know them now. You are right in what you want, or rather whom. But I am not he. Jesus Christ! We shall both die of pronoun poisoning.”
I managed to raise a faint smile. “You will have to take me on faith, but I am not the person you are seeking, at least not in that capacity. I am reminded of a song Libby Holman used to sing; she was before my time, let alone yours. ‘This is how the story ends. He’s going to turn me down and say can’t we be friends.’ That is what I would like us to be, Charles: friends.”
He looked directly at me for the first time since I broke the silence. “You mean that, don’t you, just friends.”
“Yes.”
“And there’s no way I can change your mind about – very good friends?”
“No. There is much I could add, but some things are better left unspoken. And now, even friends must let one another get some sleep.”
Charles paid the bill, a welcome distraction. Wordlessly, we pulled on our overcoats and left the now empty bar.
“I’m only a few blocks away from my hotel,” I said. “I think I’ll walk.
“I go the other way.”
“Goodnight, then. Lunch or dinner when you next come to Montreal?”
“Sure thing.” Suddenly, as if giving me a present, he flashed his winning smile. “Well, Geoffry, you have to admit I have excellent taste.”
“Never doubted it for a second. And remember: there’s no fool like an old fool.”
We shook hands and went our separate ways.
Perhaps I had been an old fool, but not in the sense of the saw. Had I reached an age when I could so easily turn my back on life, on something as affirmative as a love affair with a young man prepared to follow me to Montreal? Perplexed and uneasy, I went straight to my room, where television failed to exert its usual soporific effect. After I switched it off and lay in the dark, in that overheated room, I was chilled. My skin felt dank, pallid in the semi-dark, stretched uneasily over my bones. Reluctant to admit the truth, even to myself, I felt very much alone.
AFTER FITFUL SLEEP INVADED by dreams, I awoke to a heavy, overcast morning. Light snow had fallen and melted, making the streets look slick and unwelcoming. I might have said the day matched my mood, but I resisted, pushing the pathetic fallacy into a drawer and closing it firmly. I rang for coffee and a newspaper and sat down to plan my day. I thought of doing the galleries and checking out state-of-the-art art. I considered browsing through the shops on Bloor, fingering the overpriced merchandise and snootily refusing offers of help from supercilious salespeople. I might pick up something for Mother at Creed’s; she would enjoy the box as much as the contents. A leisurely visit to Toronto is incomplete without a visit to the Royal Ontario Museum and its collections, which might loosely be called eclectic. I love the ROM, Canada’s own white elephant sale without price tags.
I also thought of telephoning Charles and suggesting lunch. We would drink gin, he with ginger ale, I with vermouth in a stem glass. After lunch we would return to my room and go to bed, possibly for the rest of the weekend, with time off for room service. You don’t need sunny skies for sex. A simple phone call.
I made a call, but not to Charles. Instead I telephoned Air Canada and booked a seat on the mid-morning flight. In less than an hour I had checked out of the hotel and was on my way to the airport in a cab.
I knew perfectly well I was running away, not from the lunch and subsequent lovemaking, but from the expectations such an encounter would create. I can remember being twenty-five, when, skin was the gateway to the soul and a good fuck was forever. Still, to turn somebody on, fully realizing that you will soon have to turn him off, is not the act of a responsible man.
I had an odd feeling in my gut, a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach as the plane taxied down the runway. And I am not afraid of flying.
12.
GEOFFRY?” MY SISTER CAN TURN a question into an imperative with the flick of a phoneme.
“Right first time. What’s up?”
“I have several things I’d like to discuss. Are you by any chance coming to Toronto during the next few days?”
“No,” I replied without elaboration. To say nothing about Friday’s recent visit was not the same as telling a lie. “But if it’s to be a long call, even at Sunday rates, would you like to hang up and I’ll call you back? Consider it my modest contribution to the festivities.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
My offer had been genuine. A phone call, of any length, was a small price to pay for avoiding an evening with Mildred in Toronto. Also, I had managed to put her on the defensive. “What’s on your mind?”
“I would like to hold an engagement party, but I don’t know whether it should be here or in Montreal. Either way, some of our friends will be unable to attend.”
“Why not hold two parties, one in each city? One for Jennifer in Toronto, another for Douglas in Montreal. That way you can invite everyone you like and soften them up so they’ll all be sure to cough up a wedding present.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Mildred, who managed to suggest, even as she agreed with me, a slight astonishment that I could come up with anything so constructive. “I’ll speak to Lois. She may well decide to have the Montreal party at Mayfair Crescent. Heaven only knows, she has the space. Her drawing room is only slightly smaller than the lobby of Union Station, and about as welcoming. I might be able to get the Faculty Club, as Bruce’s widow, or through a colleague.” A long long-distance pause followed. “Would the engagement party be considered a legitimate wedding expense?”
“I don’t see why not, provided you don’t invite the entire city.”
“Believe me, Geoffry, I don’t know the entire city. I must say this Montreal-Toronto arrangement is a bit of a nuisance.” There was a slight rustle, as if Mildred was consulting lists. “I am seeing about the announcements in the Globe and Mail and the Star. Lois will look after the Gazette. I sent her a photograph, a good one too. Douglas looks very distinguished for so young a man.”
“What do you think of Douglas?” I asked casually, as if the thought had just occurred. Heretofore the groom had been conspicuous by his total absence from our conversations.
“What do I think of him! What do you mean, what do I think of him? He’s going to marry my daughter, isn’t he?”
“Up to now that is the impression I’ve been given. But you still haven’t told me what you think of him. I know he’s rich, handsome, well mannered, and about to graduate with a prestigious degree. But there must be something about him you like.”
Obviously flushed with her success over the engagement party, Mildred so far forgot herself as to laugh, gravel pouring off a dump truck. “I think he’s a perfect dear. And you’re right about his manners. Just last week he came to dinner with old Mrs. Tyson. You must remember her; you met her here one Christmas.”
“That old bore! She spent the entire evening telling me how to grow African violets under fluorescent light. Don’t tell me you invited her to dinner with Douglas. Are you trying to sabotage this marriage? Whatever will we do with those cast-by-the-lost-wax-process-and-set-with-the-birthstone wedding rings?” Much of Mildred’s reputation for being a brick stems from her opening the door to a string of retired dropouts, rich bag ladies, and darling eccentrics the rest of us would cross the street to avoid.
“She’s a remarkable woman for her years, make no mistake. I only hope I’m half as alert at her age. She and Douglas hit it off at once; he was perfectly charming to her. I was most impressed.”
“Good for him.” I am always uneasy around young men who hit it off with old ladies. Birds of a feather, and so forth. Quite obviously I was going to get no more than the pleased mother-in-law party line from my sister, so I let the matter drop.
“Well, Mildred, I only hope Jennifer is making the r
ight choice. Marriage closes so many doors. As Czar Nicholas was heard to remark as he was led away to be shot, ‘Don’t put all your Faberge eggs in one basket.’ ”
“What has Czar Nicholas to do with Jennifer’s wedding?”
“Nothing. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss? My secretary is tracking down a reliable photographer.”
“Yes, could you suggest a good hotel, not too expensive? Most of the ushers will be from Toronto, and we are trying to hold down costs.”
“If I am not mistaken, the groom pays for the ushers’ accommodations.”
“No, you’re quite wrong. I’m certain that is an expense of the bride’s family.”
“Let’s check,” I said, reaching for my copy of Fifteen Steps to a Lovelier Wedding on the night table. The book can send me to sleep in minutes. “Here we are, page forty-two: Expenses of the groom and his family. Hmmm. Here it is! ‘Hotel accommodation for attendants and ushers when necessary.’ Amelia Gates never lies.”
“I see.” Admitting error has never come easily to my sister. “Now, I suppose we will be dealing with a Montreal florist?”
“No doubt. But flowers are for girls. You can work that one out with Lois. Oh, and make sure Jennifer has a portable iron tucked into her hope chest. That way she will be assured of a wrinkle-free honeymoon. I read it in a magazine. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment. That’s a good idea about the iron. I’ll lend her mine.”
After the usual wind-down we hung up. Mildred is so depressingly literal. I had meant the quip about the iron as a joke, but she took it as wisdom. The real joke will be trying to get the iron through airport security.
I REALLY HAD READ ABOUT the portable iron in a magazine. At the Toronto airport yesterday I ducked into a newsstand for something to read during the flight. I felt low, and the usual array of informing and improving magazines failed to catch my interest. Then I spotted it, a special issue of a national magazine featuring “101 Wedding Ideas for Today’s Bride.”
Paying for it was another matter. Had it been soft-core, even hard-core pornography, I would have felt considerably less self-conscious about approaching the cash register. Were the cover to have featured Vampira and her kiss of death – hip-length, high-heeled boots, cache-sexe, bullwhip, domino mask only partially concealing a cruel sneer – I would have looked the cashier straight in the eye. Instead the cover featured a bride and groom of such surpassing vapidity that I spent those long moments during which the cashier counted change studying the sugar-free gum. I guess it proves I would far rather be thought depraved than foolish.
The contents turned out to be as vapid as the cover. “Bride’s Beauty Countdown,” with radical suggestions like losing weight, getting plenty of sleep, having your teeth checked, and, as the big day drew near, deep-conditioning your hair, cultivating beautiful nails, taking care of troubled skin. From what I had seen of Jennifer, she would prepare on the big day by taking a shower and brushing her teeth.
There followed pages of coloured photos, gowns for a size eight bride with a pair of size ten bridesmaids. Romantic honeymoon hotels, all featuring a garden restaurant on the roof, boardwalk on the beach, Jaccuzi in the tub.
About to give up on the magazine and write it off on my income tax as a business loss, I came across an article entitled “25 Ways to Keep the Romance Alive,” which turned out to be pure pay dirt. Twenty-five struck me as an arbitrary number. Why not nineteen, or twenty-seven? It was also worth noting that the responsibility for keeping this romance alive rested squarely on the shoulders of the bride. Many of the suggestions had to do with keeping the house or apartment spotlessly clean and well stocked with fresh flowers and candies, almost as if the newlyweds planned to live in an area where power failures were the norm. Other tips had to do with the element of surprise, springing the unexpected on the unsuspecting husband: dinner out on a weekday (Who pays?), or tickets for a concert bought on impulse. Any concert would do, Pachelbel’s Canon or Beethoven’s Ninth; the element of stunned astonishment was what mattered. At all times the wife must look her absolute best, impeccably made up, not a hair out of place, wrinkle-free. She must also have in her trousseau some sleazy underwear and a tarty nightgown, so that once she has washed the supper dishes she can turn into a call girl.
Not a few of the suggestions were enough to cause heartburn. Tuck a note into his briefcase so he will learn at the office how much you love him, possibly in the middle of a sales conference. Hold hands as you watch Saturday morning cartoons on television, happily wasting the most important morning of the week. Go to an amusement park and ride the roller coaster. Scream a lot. He will put his arms around you and feel protective. Picnics at romantic spots, like those in cigarette ads, are a surefire way to spark romance, even if the suggested foodstuffs take three days to prepare, not to mention the entire week’s food budget.
The beginning of our descent into Montreal was announced just as I was trying to picture Jennifer and Douglas splashing happily in a bubble bath, but my imagination simply could not make the leap.
There remained the problem of what to do with the magazine, still hidden in my briefcase. (Thank goodness one did not have to go through Customs between Ontario and Quebec.) As the publication had set me back a few dollars, I was unwilling to toss it out. Nor did I want it seen in my possession. Perhaps I would give it to Conchita, my cleaning woman who could look at the pictures. But I wondered if my Spanish was up to explaining that my niece had left the magazine behind, accidentally, by mistake. Que lastima!
MIGHTY OAKS FROM TINY ACORNS have been known to grow. My casual suggestion to Mildred that there be two engagement parties, one in each city, produced immediate results. On Monday morning at half past nine Lois Fullerton telephoned my office. As I was not with a client, I took the call. The subject on her mind was the engagement party she planned to throw for Douglas and Jennifer the weekend after next. She had received a call from Mildred, who relayed my excellent suggestion of holding two parties. By way of response I inquired whether it wasn’t the prerogative of the bride’s family to make the announcement and give the party, the first one anyway. Yes, I was quite right, she assured me, but since Mildred did not yet know where to hold the party and since Lois herself had such a large house, they agreed to make an exception and let Lois kick off, as it were. As there seemed to be no hard and fast rules governing the engagement party, she had more or less decided on drinks first, with plenty of hot hors d’oeuvres handed around, followed by a buffet. Did I not agree that might be the best way of dealing with what might turn out to be a very mixed crowd?
When a woman like Lois says she has “more or less decided,” her decision is about as mutable as the Magna Carta. I was expected to agree with her and I did. Of course, she went on to explain, she had thought of giving a tea, but cups, for that many people?
I agreed, a totally unrealistic number of cups.
Were the ground not covered in snow, she continued, she could have put up a marquee in the garden and held a barbecue.
But that puts the hostess at the mercy of the weather, I suggested. And the menu is so limited, hamburger or chicken, franks or ribs, a vat of baked beans, a mountain of garlic bread. And a dessert built around vanilla ice cream. Anybody in her right mind would opt for a buffet over a barbecue.
I had said what she obviously wanted to hear; furthermore, I added the usual empty assurances, that I was certain Jennifer would be delighted, so would Douglas, and that we were all going to have a wonderful time. By this time the conversation had run out of steam, and I was able to hang up.
For a moment I couldn’t help wondering why she had even bothered to telephone. She had obviously made up her mind about what kind of party she intended to give. I had contributed nothing outside of a few vague affirmations. Was I being kept track of, against the time when my quote-unquote broken heart had mended sufficiently to contemplate another romance? Whatever the reason, I soon found my attention claimed by work, which precludes th
ought. Perhaps that is why work has always been popular in North America.
Lois wasted no time. Two days after her call to my office an invitation arrived, special delivery. There is something vaguely intimidating about that red special delivery sticker. It compels obedience. Aside from a casual disregard for cost, the invitation suggested, albeit politely, that you had bloody well better show up at the party in ten days’ time, or else produce an ironclad alibi.
I telephoned Patrick and told him about the invitation, which, as stand-in for father of the bride, I was obliged to accept. However, I would be no more than a face in the crowd, one of many. Patrick agreed – the anonymity of a mob scene. Then he suggested I arrange to get him invited to the party. That would give him a chance to check out the situation under cover of numbers.
I confess that for a moment I hesitated. Did I really want to pay Patrick Fitzgerald one hundred dollars an hour so he could crash my niece’s engagement party and freeload to his heart’s content? Laughter came down the wire. “Don’t worry, Geoffry. I don’t expect you to pay me for having a good time. From what you have told me, Mrs. Fullerton will throw quite a bash. I haven’t been to an engagement party in years. All you have to do is get me in.”
Put out at being caught out, I still had to laugh. “A hundred dollars saved is a hundred dollars earned. Have you any more info on the chauffeur?”
“No, he’s keeping a low profile at the moment. But the word is out through the grapevine that there may be something big afoot.”
“I see. Now what happens if the party’s a dud, a real bore? Will you charge me time and a half?”
“No, I’ll just have to postpone buying the trenchcoat.”
“Come again?”
“You know as well as I do, Geoffry, that all private detectives wear trenchcoats. But have you tried to buy one recently? They’ve all gone designer and cost a mini-fortune. It’s cheaper to wear mink during a stakeout.”
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