Foreign Affairs - Alison Lurie [73]
Roo’s bad taste, of course, is of a different sort, crude rather than phony—some but not much better. Fred, like Mimi, had been carried away by looks and talent; that was what Rosemary would have said. Yeh, maybe. But however bad her taste, Roo is a person he used to care a lot for, and his wife. The least she deserves from him now is the truth. But how can he give her that? “Thanks for your letter, it was great to hear from you, but I’m in love with a beautiful English actress, have a good day.” Not wanting to write these sentences, or some mealy-mouthed equivalent of them, Fred has put off answering Roo’s letter for nearly two weeks. He doesn’t want to have to think about her now, nor does he want to think ahead to his return to Corinth. When they do meet he will apologize and explain; she will understand. Or maybe she won’t understand. It almost doesn’t matter; nothing matters now except his passion for Rosemary Radley.
Possession hasn’t decreased the intensity of Fred’s desire. If the excitement of the chase is over, it has been replaced by the knowledge that his triumph must be brief. Joe and Debby Vogeler, typically, take the pessimistic view. Wasn’t it really a mistake to get so involved emotionally, Debby wondered, when he knew he had to leave England next month? Since she hadn’t exactly framed this remark as a question, Fred didn’t have to answer it; but inwardly he swore a strong No. Not for the first time, he thought that the Vogelers’ world-view was as limited and narrow as the triangular house that had been allotted to them here, as if by the poetic justice of some supernatural real estate agent.
But then Joe and Debby don’t know Rosemary or Rosemary’s London. He had told them about Vinnie Miner’s party and others that had followed—how amazing Rosemary was, what interesting people she knew, how friendly most of them were. The Vogelers, however, remained sceptical.
“Sure, maybe they were cordial to you for a few minutes,” Debby said, as the three of them sat in the triangular house on a wet dark afternoon, among a clutter of Sunday papers and plastic toys. “They learn nice manners in their schools. But will you ever see any of them again? That’s what it’s really all about. When we were first here, Joe and I went to lunch with this elderly writer that his aunt knows, in Kensington, and everybody was very pleasant and said how they hoped to see us again, but nothing ever came of it.”
“It was Jakie.” Joe gestured at his son, who was sitting on the floor in a fuzzy white coverall stained with baby food, tearing up the Observer Magazine. “We shouldn’t have brought Jakie.”
“Jakie was perfectly good,” Debby protested. “He didn’t cry or anything. And he didn’t really hurt that old cat, he was just playing. I don’t know why they all got so excited.”
“They didn’t like him sitting on your lap at lunch, either,” Joe said.
“Well, too bad. What was I supposed to do with him? I bet they wouldn’t have liked it any better if Jakie had been crawling round the floor. Besides, he could have hurt himself on that lumpy antique furniture.”
They don’t understand, Fred thought then, resolving that he would arrange for Joe and Debby to meet Rosemary soon (and