Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [148]
I tossed. I turned. Remember, look directly into those blue eyes to die for, but DO NOT stare at her breasts. Or her legs. Animal. I polished anecdotes that might please, possibly rewarding me with that dimple in her cheek, and stories that inadvertently reflected well on me, and dismissed everything I could think of as self-serving horse-shit. Hoping to calm my nerves, I smoked a Montecristo and then hurried into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and even my tongue, fearful of bad breath. On my route back to bed, as luck would have it, I was obliged to pass my mini-bar. It would do no harm, I thought, to check it out, maybe munch a few cashews. Well, one quick snort wouldn’t do any harm. But, at three a.m., I was shocked to be able to count a dozen little empty bottles of Scotch, vodka, and gin on the glass table. Drunkard. Weakling. Charged with self-hatred, I slid back into bed and conjured up a picture of Miriam at my wedding, wearing a layered blue chiffon cocktail dress, and moving about with astonishing grace. Those eyes. Those bare shoulders. Oh my God, what if I stood up to greet her in the Prince Arthur Room and she could see that I had an erection? I made a mental note to jack off immediately before lunch, if only as a preventive measure. Then I slept, but only for a little while, literally leaping out of bed, cursing myself: you’ve overslept, you idiot, and now you’re going to be late. I started to dress frantically and then had the good sense to look at my watch. It was six a.m. Damn damn damn. I undressed, showered and shaved, dressed again, and went out to tramp the streets until seven a.m., when the Prince Arthur Room would open for breakfast. “I booked a table for two for lunch,” I told the maître d’, “and I want one by the window.”
“I’m afraid they’re already reserved, sir.”
“That one,” I said, slipping him a twenty.
Back in my room, I found the red light on my phone blinking. My heart began to thud. She can’t make it. She’s changed her mind. “I don’t lunch with grown men who jerk off in hotel-room toilets.” But the call was from The Second Mrs. Panofsky. I rang home. “You forgot your wallet on the hall table,” she said.
“I did not.”
“I’ve got it right in my hand with all your credit cards.”
“Count on you for good news.”
“It’s my fault, is it?”
“I’ll think of something,” I said, hanging up. And suddenly overcome by nausea, I fled to the toilet. Sinking to my knees, head hanging over the toilet bowl, I was sick again and again. Congratulations, Barney, now you’re going to smell like a sewer. So I undressed again, showered again, just about brushed the enamel off my teeth, gargled, changed my shirt and socks, and hit the street once more. I had only gone three blocks when I stopped short, remembering that I had asked the maître d’ to have a bottle of Dom Perignon in a bucket beside our table at 12:55. Show-off. A woman of Miriam’s quality was bound to consider that ostentatious. Pushy. As if I was out to seduce her. “Did you think that if you bought me a bottle of champagne, I’d leap into bed with you?” I certainly had no such impure notions. Honestly. So I doubled back to the hotel and cancelled the champagne. But what if, against all odds, she did agree to come back to my room with me? I do have some good points.
— This is a multiple-choice question, Panofsky. Tick off a minimum of three good character points out of the following ten.
— Fuck you.
Checking out my room, just in case, I saw that the bed hadn’t been made yet. I phoned housekeeping to complain, and room service to order a dozen red roses and a bottle of Dom Perignon with two glasses. “But, Mr. Panofsky, you cancelled your champagne order.”
“I cancelled the bottle for the Prince Arthur Room, but now I want a bottle for my own room, properly chilled, no earlier than two p.m., if that’s not too much trouble.”
Footsore come noon, badly hung over, weary, emotionally exhausted, I decided a cup of black coffee in the Roof Bar would be just the trick, but, on impulse, I