I'm Glad About You(53)
“The halibut is delicious,” noted the woman to her right. What is her name? Is she married to one of these men in suits? There was no boy-girl-boy-girl nonsense going on at this table; Lars had directed everyone to their seats, but the plan seemed to be to put the girls on one side of the table so the boys could do business on the other.
“You know what, Kate”—what a save—“the halibut is so awesome I’m throwing caution to the wind,” Alison told her.
“You’ve been very good all night.” Kate actually reached for a roll and buttered it. The butter, they had been told by their master waiter, was artisanal. It came from cows who only fed on the first clover of spring, or sage leaves and pea sprouts, something like that.
“I’m a little mad at myself,” Alison admitted. “This food is amazing and I should not have worn this stupid dress, I should have worn a big baggy sweater.”
“You actresses have to be so careful,” Kate noted. “I couldn’t do it.” The woman was lovely, silver haired, probably over sixty, but the fact was she was definitely on the larger side. Her boxy jacket did nothing for her figure either. Alison realized with a pang of regret that she had assumed that the woman was not so important, because she didn’t carry herself with the same smug arrogance all the skinny people had. And of course half the men, across the table over there, were sizable to hefty. The other half were as wraith-like as medieval monks.
“How do you know Lars?” Alison asked.
“Oh, I gave him his first job, whenever that was, fifteen years ago?”
“You gave him his first directing job?”
“His first ‘job’ job. He was a PA. I was the line producer.”
“What are you now?”
“I’m myself now. I’m too old for your game.”
“Surely not,” Alison said politely.
“It’s not an easy business. It wears some of us out,” Kate informed her dryly. She reached for her wineglass with the definite air of someone who had finished the conversation.
Alison found herself strangely jolted at that. With that momentary inanity—surely not!—she seemed to have lost some unexpected chance, even if it was just a chance to tell a secret to a total stranger. The older woman was already looking to her right, as if considering the possibility that the brainless actress on that side of her would have something more interesting to say.
“I don’t like show business either,” Alison admitted, under her breath. It wasn’t the most brilliant of observations, but it snagged the other woman’s attention, momentarily, anyway.
“You seem to be doing fairly well for someone who doesn’t like it,” she said.
“It’s wearing me out. Sort of like this dress,” Alison said. “You can’t have a decent conversation with anyone. I don’t know how to talk anymore. And I’m so hungry all the time I can’t think. I’m ready to stab you in the heart over that roll with the butter on it. That’s all I’m thinking about half the time. And I’m so lonely.”
The older woman considered this, and set her wineglass down. “You’re very pretty,” she finally concluded. “It distracts people.”
“Oh.” Alison’s disappointment at the banality of that couldn’t be disguised. But Kate Whatever Her Name Was was waxing philosophic now.
“People don’t know how to talk to pretty girls. Especially when they’re wearing dresses like that. People generally don’t want to talk to dresses. They want to do other things to dresses, and with dresses, but conversation is not high on the agenda.”
“They still seem relatively important,” Alison pointed out.
“Oh yes. One would have to say that history has been kind to pretty dresses. Less kind to the women who wear them, overall, but kind enough to the dresses themselves. Anne Boleyn. Mata Hari. Jackie Kennedy.” This Kate woman smiled at that, as if she had just said something wise. And then she reached for her wineglass, punctuating the finality of this observation.
“You’re not suggesting that I stop wearing them.”
“Not at all, they will serve you well, until they don’t.” A cryptic smile. Alison wanted to hit her.
“What are you two conspiring about?” Lars asked. The question floated across the table with a faux playfulness. The other guests rustled and turned.
“Your young actress is regretting her choice of attire for this truly exquisite evening, Lars,” Kate told him.
“I don’t,” he replied.
This again made the men chuckle. The weirdness of this whole dinner party never quite congealed into something she could explain. A cozy private dinner that Lars was throwing for twelve of his closest friends? There wasn’t anything cozy about the way the men leered anytime they got a chance, and the chick to her left, the one who had been so aggressive five minutes ago, was back in the action.
“You know you guys are animals,” she told them. “I’m offended on behalf of this darling girl in her teeny tiny dress—what’s your name again?”
“Alison.” Alison smiled, keeping the demure crust of good humor firmly in place.
“I’m offended on Alison’s behalf. You’re all looking at her like she’s part of the dinner! Okay, not the dinner. The dessert. Or the after-dinner drink. Or the after-dinner snack.” And now Miss Aggressive was putting her arm around Alison’s shoulder and leaning in, performing the role of the offended feminist friend. “What’s that fairy tale where they eat all the women? Red Riding Hood! The big bad wolf eats Red Riding Hood and her grandmother, which is really perverse if you think about it.” She started to make animal sounds, growling and miming that she was going to take a bite out of Alison’s bare shoulder. “Arroooooo,” she howled. She actually howled.