Foreign Affairs - Alison Lurie [80]
Altogether, in his shabby clothes, with Jakie wiggling on his back, Joe is an incongruous figure at Rosemary’s party. He looks especially out of place in front of the white marble fireplace, with its curved mantel crowded with framed photographs, engraved invitations, objets d’art, and tall vases of hothouse flowers doubled into a profusion of bloom by the big gilt-framed rococo mirror. The baby is awake and restless, waving his small fat arms about, grabbing at the air or at his father’s hair.
As Fred prepares to go to Joe’s rescue there is a movement in the crowd. Joe steps back to let one of the caterer’s men pass, and Jakie’s clutching baby hand finds a silver vase full of tall white iris and candy-hued freesia. Fred waves, shouts a warning, but this serves only to startle Joe and alert the other guests, many of whom glance up in time to see the vase totter, tip, and fall, sending a torrent of water and foliage over the famous drama critic. As in a thunderstorm, the associated sound effects follow a second or two later: loud curses, shocked exclamations, and infantile howling.
“I’m really sorry about the Vogelers’ baby,” Fred says to Rosemary as she closes the door behind her last guests.
“Sorry? Darling, it was wonderful. It made my party.” Rosemary’s elaborately piled hairdo has slipped from its moorings, her lipstick has been kissed away by departing friends, and there is a smudge of mascara below her left eye. Fred finds it sentimentally piquant, like the symbolic tear drawn on the cheek of a mime.
“Oh, the expression on Oswald’s face!” A ripple of laughter. “The way his nasty shiny red hair came unstuck from the crown of his head and hung down in strings; of course one always suspected he must be combing it forward into those silly bangs to disguise a bald patch. And there’s no damage done at all, really.” Rosemary surveys the drawing-room. The caterers have removed all the glasses and china, and rearranged the furniture; nothing remains of the party but an irregular damp patch on the pale-beige carpet and a few scattered flower petals. “Perfect.” She sinks onto a low cream-colored sofa heaped with silk tapestry cushions.
“I thought you were furious.” Fred laughs too, recalling Rosemary’s startled outcry, her repeated loud apologies and expressions of shock and concern, her demand that he fetch more and more towels to wipe Oswald off—But of course, she’s an actress.
“Darling, never for a moment.” She rests her tumbled pale-gold floss of hair against the back of the sofa and holds out her arms. “Ahh. That’s lovely.”
“Lovely,” Fred repeats. A wave of euphoria lifts him. He has never, he thinks, been happier than he is at this moment.
“Really, darling.” Rosemary disengages herself from a second long kiss. “It was one of the nicest moments of my life. When I think of what Oswald said when I was in As You Like It—that was years ago, of course, but I still positively shudder whenever I remember it. And the awful things he’s written about poor old Lou over the years. And even Daphne, if you can imagine. He was so beastly clever about her being too old for romantic parts once that she almost left the stage. It was wonderful for all of us to see him looking so ridiculous.” She begins to laugh again. “And what a silly vulgar fuss he made, far worse than the baby.” Another freshet of giggles. “And the best thing was, almost everyone saw it.”
“Yeh, they sure did.” The commotion caused by Rosemary’s solicitude takes on another meaning. “You took care of that.” Fred runs his hands down his love’s back, feeling the deep lace border of her chemise below the gauzy dress, the rounded convexities below that, marveling again that anyone so slight, soft, and silky could have so much purpose and will. In a few moments, he decides, he will get up and lower the lights.
“Well, naturally,” Rosemary agrees. She smiles slyly, charmingly. “But I had help. What a wonderful