Who is Maud Dixon?(4)
She wasn’t placid, certainly not, but she reserved her anger for more personal uses. Though what these were she couldn’t say precisely. She could be as surprised as anyone by her flights of rage. They were rare, disorienting experiences that left her feeling weak and confused, almost jet-lagged, as if her body had raced ahead without her and she was just catching up.
Once in a creative writing seminar in college, Florence’s professor had ripped into one of her stories in front of everyone, calling it dull and derivative. After class, Florence had mounted an increasingly hysterical defense of her work and then moved into a personal attack on him, a second-rate author who’d only ever published a single, overlooked book of short stories. When she finally lost steam, the teacher was staring at her with what could only be described as horror. Florence could barely remember what she’d said.
After the bartender finally took notice of Florence’s empty glass, a voice behind her startled her: “I’m with you.”
She turned around. It was Simon Reed, Forrester’s editorial director, a tall, thin man with floppy hair, delicate features, and a smattering of freckles across his face. He was considered handsome in this milieu, but Florence could only imagine what they would say about him back in Port Orange, where delicate features weren’t exactly an asset on a man.
Florence turned to face him. “In what sense?”
“In the sense of who fucking cares who Maud Dixon is.” The words dribbled from his mouth like soup. He was drunk, she realized. “It wouldn’t change the words on the page,” he went on. “Or rather, for some people it would, but it shouldn’t. Ezra Pound was a fascist, but he still wrote some beautiful fucking sentences.”
“The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world,” Florence said.
“Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down,” said Simon, nodding. They shared a silent smile of complicity. She caught sight of Amanda watching them, but Amanda’s eyes darted away when she saw Florence notice. The bartender set Florence’s fresh glass of wine on the counter. When she picked it up, Simon tapped his own glass against it and leaned in close.
“To anonymity,” he said quietly.
2.
For the rest of the evening, Florence felt Simon’s attention follow her around the room. Being appraised by an older man was not an entirely unfamiliar feeling for her, but back home she had found their leers repellent, as if their gaze implicated her in something she wanted no part of. Tonight she enjoyed Simon’s scrutiny. He was in a different class of men from the ones she’d known growing up; instead of crossbows and a tank-top tan he had first editions and a sense of irony. And then, of course, it was no secret that he was married to Ingrid Thorne, the actress. To be appreciated by a man like that made Florence feel like she had earned a spot on a higher plane of existence, as if his attention had called forth, with magnetic force, something in her she hadn’t known she possessed.
Two hours later, the crowd began to thin, and Lucy asked Florence if she was ready to leave. They both lived in Astoria and often took the train home together.
“You go ahead,” said Florence, “I think I want another drink.”
“It’s okay, I’ll wait.”
“No really, go ahead.”
“Okay,” she said, wavering. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Florence said pointedly.
At times she found Lucy’s friendship stifling, though if pressed, she would have to admit that the extremity of Lucy’s devotion gave her a sense of comfort that far outweighed the claustrophobia, perhaps because Florence’s mother had trained her early on to recognize only the most acute forms of emotion. Anything tempered felt cold and false to her.
Lucy left with a limp wave. Florence ordered another glass of wine and drank it slowly, surveying the room. There were only about two dozen people left, and she knew none of them well enough to approach. Simon was entrenched in a conversation in the corner with the head of publicity. He showed no signs of ending it.
Florence felt like a fool. What had she thought was going to happen?
She set down her glass on the bar with more force than she’d intended and went to find her coat in the messy tangle by the door. She yanked it free and left.
Outside, the wind whipped at her bare legs. She turned uptown and started walking quickly toward the subway. She was just rounding the corner onto Eighth Street when she heard someone call her name. She turned around. Simon was jogging after her, his navy overcoat draped neatly over his arm.
“Care for one more drink?” he asked with the casualness of a man who has not just chased a woman down the street.
3.
They went to Tom & Jerry’s on Elizabeth Street, where Simon insisted they order Guinness. “I must have drunk swimming pools of this stuff when I was at Oxford,” he said. “So now it makes me feel young.” He spoke with the cadence, if not quite the accent, of an Englishman. Now she understood why.
They found an empty spot in the back and sat facing each other across a sticky table. Florence took a sip of her drink and grimaced.
Simon laughed. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“You shouldn’t have to try to like things,” Florence insisted. “It’s like people who force themselves to finish a book they’re not enjoying. Just close it! Go find another story!”