Foreign Affairs - Alison Lurie [61]
At the Coliseum that evening, during the intermission of Così fan tutte, Vinnie descends the stairs from the balcony in search of coffee for herself and for her friend Jane, who has a sprained ankle. Her hope is that the lower bar will be less crowded, but it is worse if anything: surrounded by very large, pushing men, none of whom shows the slightest inclination to make way for her. She has noticed before that the British, who unlike Americans queue so politely on all other occasions, become selfish and shoving around any supply of liquor, public or private. It is, she thinks, a sort of national hysteria, probably the result of the licensing laws.
As Vinnie gives up all hope of coffee and heads back toward the stairs, she sees Rosemary Radley and Fred Turner sitting on a bench. That they should be here together doesn’t surprise her. Everyone knows about them now; Rosemary has even been mentioned in Private Eye as “discussing Ugandan affairs with a gorgeous young American don.” She has also, presumably because of Fred, canceled out of a film now being shot in Italy. It wasn’t a very large role, admittedly; but a fair amount of money was involved—and, as everyone says, Rosemary has to think of her reputation; she isn’t getting any younger.
None of this gossip seems to affect the lovers. They go everywhere together, and Vinnie has to admit that they make a handsome couple. Rosemary of course is famous for her looks, and more than one of her friends has compared Fred’s profile to that of Rupert Brooke—which is fine if you like that rather flamboyant sort of appearance, Vinnie thinks. Nor do they seem mismatched as to age: Fred’s seriousness of manner, and Rosemary’s delicate playfulness, help to cancel the difference. And they are evidently good for each other. Fred has cheered up amazingly, and Rosemary’s scatty manner has moderated. She still darts from one topic to the next, but far more smoothly.
What strikes Vinnie about them now isn’t so much the way Fred is looking at Rosemary—she’s seen plenty of people stare at Rosemary like that, including some who don’t much like her—but rather Rosemary’s unwavering concentration on Fred.
Like many actors, Rosemary usually broadcasts rather than receives impressions. She also seems unable as a rule to fix her attention on anyone or anything for more than a few moments; perhaps this helps to explain why she hasn’t ever had any real success on stage. Television, on the other hand, is shot in tiny segments: it doesn’t require an extended and developed performance, only a concentrated brief intensity of expression, something Rosemary is certainly capable of—even famous for—in private life.
Her normal modus operandi is to leap charmingly and distractingly from subject to subject, mood to mood, and person to person, often so quickly that the outlines of her conversation and even of her appearance seem to blur; one is left with an impression of sparkle and flutter. Her clothes produce the same effect. Rosemary never follows current fashion, but has developed a style of her own. Everything she wears shimmers and billows and dangles; she seems not so much dressed as loosely draped in flimsy, flowery, lacy stuffs: veils and scarves and floating gauzy blouses and trailing skirts and fringed silk shawls. Her hair too is continually in flux: tinted and streaked in varying shades from pale gold to bisque, it alternately gathers itself up in soft coils, falls in flossy clouds about her shoulders, or extends wayward tendrils and curls in all directions.
Tonight, though, Rosemary seems unusually tranquil. Light but serene blonde waves lie on her brow; her ropes of blue and silver beads and her long chiffon dress printed with shadowy azure flowers fall undisturbed toward the floor; her gaze is steady on Fred. Vinnie has to speak twice before either of them notices her.
“Oh, uh-Vinnie, hello.” Fred rises smoothly, but stumbles over her first name, which she has recently