Foreign Affairs - Alison Lurie [30]
“The intentional fallacy.”
“I never even considered it. I thought Fred ought to meet some young people, so I invited Mariana’s eldest daughter. How was I to know she’d turned into a punk rocker? She was perfectly presentable when I saw her at her mother’s last month.”
“Well, you might have asked me,” Edwin says, breaking his current diet and liberally buttering one of the whole-wheat rolls for which Thompson’s is celebrated. Vinnie does not pick this up; if Edwin had his way, she is quite aware, he would dictate the guest lists of all her parties. His social circle is wider and considerably more glamorous than hers, and though she is perfectly happy to have him bring one or two of his well-known friends to her house—as he had brought Rosemary—she doesn’t want it to go any further. One or two celebrities are a social asset; but if you have too many, she has noticed, all they ever do is talk to one another.
“Besides, if Mariana’s daughter’s so punk,” she asks, “why did she bother to come to a party like mine, with that awful spotty young man in black zip-up leather?”
“To annoy her mother, of course.”
“Oh dear. Was her mother annoyed?”
“I think so, very,” Edwin says. “Of course she wouldn’t ever let it show, noblesse oblige.”
“No,” Vinnie agrees, and sighs. “It’s not safe any more, is it, giving parties? One never knows what fateful events are going to be precipitated.”
“The hostess as demiurge.” He giggles, and Vinnie, reassured, joins in.
“Fred’s being at that party wasn’t my fault,” says Vinnie, returning to the subject somewhat later. “It was yours, really. I only asked him because you said I didn’t know any Americans,” she lies.
“I never said any such thing,” Edwin lies, though both of them know that he had recently made this remark, which flattered Vinnie and also aroused in her a guilty patriotism.
“Anyhow, I don’t see why you’re complaining. I would have thought Fred was about the safest sort of person Rosemary could become involved with. Compared to Lord George, or to Ronnie, you have to admit—”
“Oh, I do. I have nothing against Fred per se . . . Thank you, that looks delicious.” Edwin gives his sole véronique a concupiscent glance, then delicately attacks it. “Mmm. Perfect. . . . And I admit he’s beautiful.”
“Too theatrical for my taste.” Vinnie, less passionately, begins on her grilled chop.
“Well of course, for Rosemary that could hardly be an objection.”
“No.” Vinnie laughs. “But the point is, he seems to me almost ideal for a fling.”
“Very likely.” Edwin, against his doctor’s advice, plunges into the creamed potatoes. “But Rosemary isn’t looking for a fling. She’s looking for an undying passion, the way most of us are.” Edwin, like Rosemary Radley, is known for his disastrous romantic affairs, though his are somewhat less frequent and naturally less well publicized. They tend to involve unstable young men, usually recent émigrés from southern European or Near Eastern countries, with menial jobs (waiter, grocer’s clerk, dry cleaner’s assistant) and grandiose ambitions (theatrical, financial, artistic). From time to time one of them leaves Edwin’s flat unexpectedly, taking with him Edwin’s liquor, stereo, fur-collared overcoat, etc. Others have had mental breakdowns in the flat and refused to leave it at all.
Vinnie refrains from remarking that she at least is not looking for an undying passion; Edwin surely knows that by now.
“Maybe it’s Fred we should be worrying about,” Edwin continues. “Her friend Erin thinks she’s going to eat him alive.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Vinnie exclaims. After twenty years she feels a certain amount of loyalty to and identification with the Corinth English Department; and the idea that one of its members (no matter how junior) could be totally consumed by an English actress is displeasing. “He doesn’t look all that digestible to me.”
“Perhaps you’re right . . . Ahh. Have you tried the courgettes?”
“Yes, very nice.”
“Tarragon, obviously. And is there perhaps a little dill?” Edwin gives a gourmet’s frown.