Alison Lurie - Foreign Affairs

“No, I’m not, I just-” An usher interrupts them; Fred buys two programs at tenpence each. Big spender, he thinks sourly, recalling that Rosemary has been given-or paid for?-their tickets.

“What it is,” he begins again as soon as they are seated, “is that I just don’t want you to buy me dinner. It’s not right.”

“Oh, don’t be silly: I already promised.” Rosemary’s eyes are focused past him, sweeping the rows for familiar faces. “Oh look, there’s Mimi, but who can that possibly be with her?”

“No. It bothers me.” Fred plows ahead. “I mean, what will Erin think? He’ll think I’m some kind of gigolo.”

“Of course he won’t, darling.” Rosemary focuses on Fred again. “It’s not like that in the theater. When you’re in work you treat. Everyone knows that.”

“Well, I’m not in the theater. So I’d like to pay for myself from now on.” Fred remembers that he has with him only eight pounds and some change, which according to his budget has to last till the end of this week. Soon he will be sitting, as he has often lately sat, behind a menu whose size is as inflated as its prices, searching for the cheapest item (usually a bowl of coarse raw greens of some kind), declaring falsely that he had a big lunch and isn’t all that hungry. “What I’d really like,” he goes on, leaning toward Rosemary to gain her attention, which is fluttering off again, “is for us to go somewhere tonight that I can afford, and then I can take you. I bet there must be some inexpensive places around here-”

“Oh yes, there’s lots of nasty cheap restaurants in Hammersmith,” Rosemary says. “And I’ve been to most of them. When Mum broke her ankle, and Daddy stopped my allowance, trying to starve me into leaving the rep and coming home to run the house, because he was too lazy to bother, I found out all about that. I’ve eaten all the fish fingers and macaroni cheese I ever want to eat in my life, darling.”

“All the same. I don’t think it’s fair that you should pay for me.”

“But you think it’s fair that I should have to eat in some disgusting caff-”

“I didn’t say that I wanted to go to a disgusting caff-”

“-where we’ll probably both be poisoned.” Rosemary’s exquisite mouth sets in a sweet-pea pout. Then, as the house lights soften, her pout softens into a smile. “Besides, you know we can’t do that to Erin, he’d think we were out of our minds, or that we absolutely detested his performance and wanted to punish him for it.” She gives a whispery giggle.

Fred doesn’t argue further, but for the rest of the evening he continues to feel uncomfortable: during the play and during the dinner that follows, where he orders a chef’s salad and also consumes four rolls, a third of Nadia’s beef bourguignonne, and half of Rosemary’s cherry cheesecake (“Don’t be silly, love, I simply can’t finish it”). What is he doing eating off other people’s plates in this expensive restaurant, in this expensive company?

“You’re still cross,” Rosemary says plaintively in the taxi afterward. “I can tell. You haven’t forgiven me for being so frightfully late tonight.”

“No I’m not; yes I have,” he protests.

“Really?” She leans toward him, resting her spun-gold curls against his shoulder.

“I always forgive you.” Fred eases his arm around Rosemary; how soft and yielding she is under the folds of wool! “I’m in love with you,” he says, imagining how he will soon demonstrate this.

“Oh-love,” she murmurs indulgently but rather dismissively, as if reminded of some childhood pastime: skipping rope, say, or hide-and-seek.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes.” She raises her head slightly. “I suppose I do.”

“And? But?”

“And I love you… But it’s not that simple, you know.” Rosemary sighs. “When you’re my age-”

Fred sighs too, though silently. That he is just twenty-nine and Rosemary thirty-seven-though she hardly looks thirty-is in his opinion unimportant-in the context of their relationship, even meaningless. Of course he knows that women, perhaps especially actresses, worry about their age; but in Rosemary’s case it’s ridiculous. She is beautiful and he loves her; it’s not as if they were planning to get married and raise a family, for Christ’s sake. “What difference does that make?” he asks aloud.

Fred has been raised in an academic environment; he assumes that even difficult questions must be answered. Rosemary, after years in the theater and long experience of prying and hostile interviewers, assumes the reverse. Instead of replying, she yawns, covering the pink flower of her mouth with one fluttering hand. “Heavens, I’m exhausted! Classical drama does that to me sometimes. Is it dreadfully late?”

“No; half past eleven.” One possible cause of, or excuse for Rosemary’s constant tardiness is her refusal to wear a watch (“I can’t bear the idea that Time has me by the wrist, like some awful cross old governess”).

“Oh horrors, darling. I think I’d better go straight to bed.”

“Don’t do that,” Fred says, grasping her more firmly. “At least, not alone.”

“I’m afraid I must.” She sighs deeply, as if under some heavy invisible compulsion.

“But I was hoping-” Fred puts a hand on that part of the angel-wing cape that covers Rosemary’s breast.

“Now, love, don’t be tiresome. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

So, quite casually, Rosemary canceled what was to have been the climax of their evening together. For the next eighteen hours Fred was in a bad state of mind. He called-or, in the British phrase, “rang”-several times, starting at ten A.M., but couldn’t get through her answering service. Either she was out, or she was angry with him. He tried to work, but-as often lately-not with any success; he needed a book that was in the BM, but didn’t want to leave the phone.

Finally, about six, Rosemary rang back. She was as affectionate as ever, “simply longing” to see him. She denied she’d been cross; wouldn’t even discuss it; welcomed him passionately at her front door an hour later.

Shadowy spring twilight in the library of an English country house often featured in magazines and color supplements, famous both for its architectural and decorative beauty and for the architectural and decorative beauty of its mistress, Penelope (Posy) Billings, and the financial acumen of her husband Sir James (Jimbo). The crimson velvet brocaded walls, buttery buttoned leather and mahogany sofas, gilt bindings, glass cases of curios, and antique varnished globes of the earth and heavens create a slightly campy late-Victorian effect. This is relieved by an orderly profusion of fresh spring flowers, and a table on which are arranged the latest papers and magazines, prominence being given to those of conservative views and to last month’s Harper’s/Queen , which includes a photograph of Lady Billings in her kitchen and her original recipe for cream-of-watercress-and-avocado soup, as part of a series on “Country-House Cuisine.”

On the walls are Victorian paintings in thickly flounced gold frames: two portraits of Posy’s distinguished military ancestors and one of a mournful prize sheep who strongly resembles George Eliot. All three pictures have been in her family for over a century. The Leighton above the marble chimneypiece, on the other hand, was bought for Posy by Jimbo as a wedding present just before prices skyrocketed, on a tip from one of her best friends-the fashionable decorator, Nadia Phillips. It shows a smooth-limbed statuesque Victorian blonde, much resembling Posy Billings and with the same tumbling masses of brassy hair. This figure is somewhat anachronistically half clad in pink and lavender draperies and is making eyes at a caged bird on a sun-drenched, petal-strewn marble terrace.