by Gene Wilder
Hmm . . . I wonder who ‘us’ is. Well, I’ll go to the party and find out.
How shall I dress? Casual or more formal, I wondered. I didn’t want to get all dressed up to meet the mystery woman and then find that none of the other men at the party were wearing suits and ties. I decided to split the difference: light blue shirt under a tan sport jacket, dark blue slacks, and light brown shoes with light blue socks. Too much blue? Maybe, but I feel safer in blue.
On the evening of the party I walked to the front of the Hunter Mansion, wondering if the woman in the red hat was married to Mr. Hunter. The sun was beginning its descent behind the trees, bathing the house in a wash of fairytale gold. I had never looked at the house from the front before; it was like an English manor house, with a front door that was at least fourteen feet high. You could put my colonial into Mr. Hunter’s mansion at least four times and there would still be room left over.
I assumed that Mr. Hunter must be English, filthy rich, and probably had had this house built in the late 1980s. The picture I had in my mind was that he was tall and probably very handsome. When I thought of Mr. Hunter, I began to feel small and stupid. What on earth was I expecting—that the woman I was obsessing over would hold my hand and squeeze it while her tall, handsome husband greeted me at the door?
I rang the bell. A very polite butler let me in and told me to follow the noise to the parlor. I could hear the party going full blast. As I approached the open parlor door, a lovely woman came out. She was wearing an elegant, very flimsy, very sexy silk pants suit. Was this the woman in the muddy gloves and large red hat who had enchanted me?
“Mr. Richard Bellsey,” she announced more than asked as she took my hand. “The wonderful author who lives next door.”
“Well, you have the name and occupation right,” I said.
“I don’t know about the ‘wonderful.’ ”
“Don’t be so modest, dear. We all know about you,” she said as she gave me a hug and squeezed my hand. And kept holding on to it. Whether this was the woman in the red hat I couldn’t tell, but her figure was beautiful. The warmth of her moist hand sent shivers through me. I’d say she was a delicious forty.
“And here comes Mr. Hunter,” she said, as she led me to a small man who was walking toward us with what looked like a permanent bend in his back. He had a sweet face, a very warm smile, and was probably seventy-eight years old.
“Richard Bellsey, I want you to meet my husband, Mr. Ian Hunter. Darling, this is Mr. Bellsey, the wonderful author who lives next door.”
“Lovely to see you again,” Mr. Hunter said with a strong English accent and boyish enthusiasm. “Met him at our party last Christmas, wasn’t it, Delia?”
“That’s right, darling,” she said.
“Kind of you to remember me, Mr. Hunter.” So her name is Delia.
“Richard, come into my parlor,” she said. “There are lots of hors d’oeuvres and drinks and delicious wine; just mingle and make yourself comfortable. Dinner will be at 8:30.”
I mingled with the crowd. There were older couples and younger couples—probably eighteen or twenty people in all. A tall African American man was playing Cole Porter, Gershwin, and Irving Berlin on a beautifully polished Steinway piano.
I went to the mahogany table, covered with lovely white lace. It had every drink imaginable resting on it. I asked one of the barmaids if she had any white wine . . . Pinot Grigio, if possible. She reached into an ice bucket and pulled out two different brands.
“Which one would you like, sir?” she asked.
“The Livio Felluga, please.”
As I wandered around the parlor, I watched the movements of the women as they danced with their husbands and lovers. It was easy to tell which was which by the way the men held their women—how closely, I mean—and the look on the women’s faces. It had been so long since I had held a woman in my arms and received such a look.
After my second glass of wine I wanted to get away from all this hugging and kissing and the whispering of sweet nothings into each other’s ears. I wandered through the house, not knowing exactly where I was going.
I passed through a billiard room, where two men were in the middle of a game of 8 Ball, which I knew from my army days. The gentlemen gave me a polite smile.
I walked into a huge pantry, leading into a beautiful kitchen, which had every cooking implement imaginable hanging from the ceiling. When I felt a cool breeze, I followed the smell of roses and found myself on the veranda, overlooking a pretty stream. A few smokers were out there, since there were signs all over the house saying:
NO SMOKING INSIDE THIS HOUSE!
The last reflection of sunlight was fading. Since it was close to dinnertime, I decided to go back into the house, but after walking for only a minute I must have made a wrong turn, because I realized I was lost.
I walked into an almost completely dark library. I could make out what it was because of a tiny crack in the doorway at the other end of the room, where a gleam of light shone through.
I stood still, thinking how silly it was for me to get lost. As I headed for the door, it suddenly opened, just for a second, during which I saw the silhouette of a woman. Then the door closed. Now I was in complete darkness with whoever she was.
I heard her footsteps and the rustling of clothes and then I felt a woman’s arms around my neck. I heard what I was almost sure was Delia Hunter’s voice, but she spoke in a gruff sort of half-whisper.
“Finally! I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said.
I couldn’t swear it was Delia, but I certainly remembered the scent of her lilac perfume when Delia came out of the parlor to greet me and held my hand. I didn’t “almost taste” her perfume—I did taste it when she hugged me now, and I could smell it on her neck and around her ears and from under her arms.
“Delia,” I whispered.
“Shhh,” the voice answered. She began kissing me so passionately that I almost fell over. Then she began rubbing her body against mine and took my hand, as she kissed me, and slid it inside and down her loose silk pants and under her pan ties and gently directed two of my fingers into her vagina. She put my middle finger onto her clitoris as she slowly moved my finger around and up and down. I began kissing her and picturing us as we kissed. I also pictured sweet Mr. Ian Hunter, thirty-eight years older than his wife and bent over as he walked. How sexually frustrated she must be.
After a loud moan, all of her movements stopped. She gently withdrew my hand, kissed me again—just a polite kiss this time—and quickly left the room. I waited a few seconds and then walked through the same door and found myself in the dining room.
All the guests seemed to be there, looking for their name cards. The room was illuminated by three huge chandeliers, each holding fifteen or twenty lit candles. I noticed that there were other women wearing pants suits, and some in short skirts. The parlor must have been in the next room because I heard Gershwin’s “Embraceable You” coming from the piano in the parlor.
“Richard,” someone hollered.
I panicked for a moment, looked up, and saw Delia waving to me to come over.
When I arrived, she said, “I want you to meet my dearest friend, Carol Gardner. Carol, this is Richard Bellsey, our resident author. You two would love each other. You’re also the only singles at this whole gathering,” she said with a laugh.
I shook hands with Carol Gardner and spoke some meaningless nonsense for a minute or two as I thought about my finger on Delia’s clitoris only two minutes before.
After eating and drinking and chatting, I wanted to go home. I said good night to Mr. Hunter and thanked him for a wonderful party. He was as gracious as could be.
Then I found Delia. As I said good night to her, I looked straight into her eyes and saw . . . nothing! She was very polite, held my hand again as she waved good-bye to other guests, and then looked back at me.
“Good night, Richard. I hope you enjoyed our little party,” she said with a smi
le as she hurried off.
After a restless night, remembering the touches and the kissing and the ache in my heart, I finally fell asleep.
The next morning was warm and sunny. I read my newspaper and drank some coffee, too quickly, then walked out to my yard, where I saw, bobbing up and down in the yard next door, that enormous red hat.
I was determined to see Delia again and find out—without all those people surrounding us—if last night meant anything to her. I walked slowly to where she was gardening and stood next to her. Whether she saw me or not, I don’t know; she never looked up, not even once, and I still couldn’t see her face underneath that ridiculously large red hat. After standing next to her for ten or fifteen seconds, I finally spoke: “Delia . . .”
The lady answered in a gruff, almost hoarse whisper. “I don’t know you,” she said. “And I don’t talk to strangers. Whoever you are, please go away.”
She moved on to the next azalea bush, but the perfume she was wearing was the same lilac scent she was wearing last night as she kissed me. It lingered in the air for several seconds after she was gone.
The Flirt
She pretended to be a big flirt and I knew she really wasn’t. How did I know? I found out from one of my close friends, who knew from one of her close friends, that Lolly Adams had been brought up in a Mormon family. That’s not proof, of course, but close to it, because if she really had been brought up as a Mormon she would have been inundated with “No, no, no—you mustn’t do this and you mustn’t do that, because it’s not proper for a young lady and it could lead to sin.” But then why the hell does she put on that flirtatious act at every party where I happen to see her? Or at the screening of a foreign film at the Writers Guild? Or in Gelson’s supermarket? Or at the Shubert Theatre on the opening night of the latest Broadway play to come to Los Angeles and which I’m reviewing?
I didn’t actually know her name until Toby Pryce, my English friend, introduced us at a wedding: “Lolly Adams, let me introduce my dear friend Tom Cole.” I found out later that “Lolly” was short for Loretta, but she preferred “Lolly” on all occasions.
The weather this May was unusually cool and yet Lolly wore the most revealing dresses, which came close to the edge of indiscretion without actually falling in. For instance, her blackberry-colored organza dress, which I saw at a charity ball for Kids in Crisis last Sunday at the Hotel BelAir, was something like a peek-a-boo contest that showed her naked legs underneath that dress—only for a second—and then if she made the slightest movement, this enticing burlesque show was suddenly gone with the wind. Well, she knew what she was doing . . . if intrigue was her plan.
Since everyone was dancing or drinking in that romantically decorated ballroom, I decided to demystify this Gypsy Rose Lee imitator. I asked Lolly to dance with me. Without hesitation, she put down her drink, put up her arms, and pressed her warm cheek against mine.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” she said, and off we went.
The orchestra was playing a pretty song that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember the title. Lolly began singing in my ear: “And when we’re dancing and you’re dangerously near me, I get ideas . . . I get ideas.” she sang in a whisper.
I wasn’t sure what she was trying to do, seduce me or tease me, as her warm breath raised the temperature in my ear and other parts of my body.
“Are you talking to me?” I asked stupidly.
“Those are the lyrics, dear. I’ve always liked that old song.”
I felt like a fool. While I was holding her sultry body and we were still dancing cheek to cheek, I tried to recover my composure.
“Do you come here oft—No, I mean—we seem to bump into each other all over the place, don’t we?”
“Yes, I’ve planned it that way,” she said.
“Now wait a second—are you serious?” I couldn’t see her eyes, only her right ear, which protruded through her black hair and rubbed against my nose.
“Of course,” she said. “I call that magazine you write for and ask them to tell me which plays, movies, weddings and charity balls you’re scheduled to attend.”
I pulled my cheek away and looked at her eyes, which were twinkling as if she had just told a wonderful joke. My God her beautiful black hair goes so well with that blackberry-colored dress and the white pearl necklace she’s wearing.
“I don’t know what to make of you, Lolly.”
“You will, dear . . . just takes a little time.”
Half an hour later, I escorted Lolly across the small stone bridge that covered the lagoon surrounding much of Hotel Bel-Air. Two magnificent white swans were gliding effortlessly in the water below us. Lolly stopped walking and took my arm.
“Look—aren’t they lovely, Tom? They’re always together. I love to watch them whenever I come here.”
This was a side of the flirtatious lady that I hadn’t expected. We left the swans and walked to the valet parking attendants who were only a dozen feet away. We gave them our parking tickets.
“Well, I suppose you know my next move, Lolly.”
“I never presume, Tom—it only leads to disappointment.”
“No, I meant about my work schedule. You said my magazine tells you all my moves and exactly where I’m going to be.”
“Oh, I don’t look at schedules anymore; I prefer surprises,” she said with a precocious smile. “It’s more exhilarating.”
“Lolly, may I ask what you do for a living?”
“I’m a dressmaker—part of the time,” she answered.
“Seriously?”
“Of course,” she answered with a soft smile.
“Did you make the dress you’re wearing tonight?” I asked.
“Of course. Do you like it?”
“Well, it’s very original,” I said.
“But do you like it?”
“I think it’s fascinating,” I said, which was certainly true.
“But do you like it?” she insisted.
“Yes, I do,” I said.
“Good! Here come our cars.”
One of the valets drove up with Lolly’s white Infiniti. My gray Toyota Camry followed behind. As her valet opened the door for Lolly, I put out my hand.
“Good night, Lolly.”
“Ar-en-cha going to give me a little good-night kiss?” she asked, with only the hint of a smile.
An impulse bypassed my brain and went directly into my arms. I pulled her body into mine and kissed her on the lips for at least ten seconds. The valet watched with an envious smile.
“That’s better,” she said. She gave the valet a five-dollar tip, got into her car, and drove away . . . leaving me in a daze.
The following Thursday evening I was assigned to cover the opening-night revival of the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical Oklahoma! I had heard that this production was wonderful, but my job, of course, was to give my own opinion, not what I heard.
The Shubert Theatre was filling up quickly. I had my regular eighth-row center seat. With notebook and pen in hand, I glanced every now and then to see if Mademoiselle Flirt was walking down any of the aisles, but there was no sign of her as the house lights began to dim. I sat back and relaxed, hoping to be entertained.
The overture was wonderful, the curtain went up, and the audience gave an audible sigh of remembrance when Curly began singing, “Oh, what a beautiful morning.”
When the adorable character of Ado Annie made her entrance—which I think the entire audience was anticipating—I watched with puzzlement. After a few words of dialogue, and despite her country accent, I realized that I was watching Lolly. The unexpectedness of it hit me like an electric shock: Lolly Adams playing a country hick. It seemed inconceivable. So that’s what she meant by “I’m a dressmaker—part of the time.”
I hoped with all my heart that when she began singing I wouldn’t cringe, because I had to review Lolly. Of course, I could just leave out any mention of Ado Annie, but that would be completely unprofessional.
Th
e orchestra gave her a slight introduction, she opened her mouth, and out came a glorious voice. A showstopper.
I’m just a girl who cain’t say no,
I’m in a terrible fix,
I always say “come on, let’s go!”
Jist when I orta say nix.
The audience loved her . . . and how appropriate the lyrics were.
During the intermission I looked at the Who’s Who in the Playbill. There she was:
Ado Annie, played by the delightful Lolly Adams, revives the role that brought her to the attention of critics and producers in the Broadway revival of Oklahoma! three years ago. Lolly was Elsie B. Hunter’s understudy and took over the role of Ado Annie when Ms. Hunter discovered that she was with child.
When the final act curtain came down, the audience roared their approval. The cast got seven curtain calls and the loudest roar went up when Lolly took her solo bow.
This whole thing was getting curiouser and curiouser.
As the packed house was slowly shuffing through the aisles, anxious to go to their late-night suppers, I debated whether it was proper for me to go backstage to see Lolly.
Why not, I said to myself. No! I answered. It’s very unprofessional for a critic who’s going to review the show to go backstage and talk with one of the actors. But I want to see her so shut up, I finally told myself.
I went backstage and up a flight of stairs. I asked some costume person where Ms. Adams’s dressing room was.
“She’s in the third door down, sir.”
I walked to her dressing room door with my heart pounding a little faster than normal. As I was about to knock, I saw a note pinned onto the door. It was written with pen and ink on custom-designed white paper:
THE EARLY BIRD CATCHES THE WORM
I knocked on her door several times, thinking that she was just playing one of her games again, but after my third or fourth knock one of the actors, who walked by on his way out, said, “Lolly left quite a while ago, sir.”