Foreign Affairs - Alison Lurie [92]
“Okay. If you say so.”
Vinnie picks up the broken shards of coffee cup and begins to mop the kitchen floor, then stops, retreats to the bedroom, pulls off her sticky wet dress, and changes into a skirt and shirt. Her mind is full of nervous confusion. Three quarts of soup gone, what can she serve at lunch tomorrow instead? There’s no doubt what was going on in Chuck’s mind and body—is there? Or was she mistaken? Should she go out tomorrow morning and buy some pâté? Anyhow, she reacted quite fast—fast enough? At least she got him out of the way— Or a pound of shrimps perhaps, from Camden Lock market— Yes, but not very far out of the way. He is in her bathroom now, with almost nothing on and his clothes floating in her tub (she can hear the water running). Maybe the soup stains will come out, if not the coffee, but what the hell is Chuck going to wear instead? She should have sent him back to his hotel, but now it’s too late, he can’t go anywhere in sopping wet clothes. Her head is muddled by too many aspirin, and she didn’t think ahead. If he only had a decent raincoat instead of that awful transparent plastic thing—she gives it a nasty look as it hangs in the hall—then he could wear that while his clothes dried, or even go home in it.
“Hey, Vinnie! Have you got a bathrobe or something?”
Well, now Chuck has thought of this problem too. She’ll have to find him something to put on, he can’t stay in her bathroom all night; and as soon as he comes out he’s going to make a pass at her. Or maybe not. Maybe the whole thing was just a nervous reaction. Maybe she imagined it. Vinnie begins opening cupboards and drawers, all of which contain only female garments in sizes six and eight.
“Vinnie?”
“Coming.” In desperation she goes into her study and drags the spread off the daybed. “Here You can put this round you for now, it’s all I’ve got.” She shoves through the bathroom door a rough bundle of brown homespun with a geometrical border pattern and fringe. Not waiting for any possible objection, she returns to the kitchen floor, which is still splashed and smeared with green soup.
“Aw, what a mess. Lemme help you.”
“No, thanks.” Vinnie, on hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water and the same sponge she used on Chuck, glances up. Scrolled leather boots, thick naked muscled legs furred with pale-red hair, fringed homespun bedspread which, draped round his bulk, looks smaller than before. She stands up.
“You have some kinda green plant stuff in your hair.” Chuck picks it out and presents it to her.
“Watercress.” Vinnie throws it away. “It was watercress-and-avocado soup. I’d better go put my dress to soak, excuse me.”
“Sure.”
In the bathroom she shakes out her sticky Laura Ashley and lays it in the tub, then checks the mirror to make sure there is no more soup in her hair. How awful I look, how old, gray, unattractive, she thinks. Of course he’s not going to make a pass. As she leaves she glances again into the tub, where her dress and Chuck’s shirt and slacks lie wetly together in embarrassing proximity. She runs in lukewarm water to give them more room, causing the garments to turn and slosh about in a promiscuous embrace. Come on, get ahold of yourself, she thinks, and returns to the kitchen where, surprisingly, Chuck has just finished mopping the floor
“I didn’t expect—thank you,” she says, noting that the bedspread has managed to transform Chuck from a fake cowboy to a fake Indian. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He gives her a brief smile, a longer stare. Vinnie, uneasy, returns neither.
“Well then,” she begins, “maybe you’d like—”
“Y’know what I’d like?” Before she can answer, the imitation Indian grabs Vinnie by both shoulders and kisses her full on the mouth.
“Mm! No!” she protests, but after the fact.
“Aw, Vinnie. If you knew how long I’ve been wanting to do that. Ever since that day we had tea. But I didn’t have the, I don’t know, the nerve. I was too goddamn low.” He hugs her