"At least you made the right choice," he said, nodding towards her plate.
I'm sorry? "
"The salmon. I had the steak. Like the proverbial, I'm afraid."
"The proverbial what?" There was just a hint of lipstick, dark against the white of her teeth.
Old boots. "
Farieigh smiled and she smiled back with her eyes; she was older, he decided, than he had first thought, but not by too much. Still the right side of forty.
It was never an issue," she was saying.
"The steak. I'm vegetarian."
Ah. "
All that stuff they pump into the poor animals, mad cow disease and everything. " She smiled, more fully this time.
"Perhaps you think that's foolish?"
Not at all. " Things I could tell you, he was thinking, put you off your food for a lifetime.
"What happened?" he asked, indicating the empty chair.
Vaguely, she waved a hand.
"Oh, you know…"
"It's difficult to imagine."
"What's that?"
"Anyone standing you up."
He had hoped for some response, a laugh, an explanation. Instead, she looked down at her plate and pushed at a piece of pink flesh with the edge of her fork. Farieigh knew he had blown it.
"Well, enjoy the rest of your meal."
She waited until he had almost turned away.
"Why don't you sit down? Join me for a drink. "
Twenty
Curtis Woolfe's film had been well received. Of course, there were always those who wanted nothing more than the latest glossy mishmash of unarmed combat and special effects, and who found anything pre-seventies slow and dull and boring.
"Nothing happens," they would say, mooching down to the bar for their designer lager. Nothing happens. Well, nobody's head came off, nobody's blood spurted a perfect technicolour parabola across the screen, nobody humped naked in the shower or the kitchen sink; there was no Chuck, or Steven, or Cynthia, no Jean Claude, Arnie, or Sly; not even (the heavens forfend) Bruce Willis. But the moment when Albert Dekker steps into the darkness of his hotel room, twists the key in the lock behind him, slides the bolt and turns back into the room to see Martha Mac Vicar feral face illuminated through the slanting blinds by the light across the street, still had most of the audience catching its breath. The smile that died in her eyes as her teeth bit down into her lower lip.
In the auditorium, Curtis Wooife had been pleased with the audience's reaction and had answered questions with self-deprecating charm. What had it been like working with Mitchum?
"Delightful, especially when he was stoned." Who was the most beautiful femme fatale'1.
"Gail Russell ask John Wayne." What was his favourite film noirl
"Aside from my own. Out of the Past." Why hadn't he made a film in over twenty years?
"Nobody asked me."
Here in Sonny's restaurant, he was even more relaxed. Gesticulating over the food in his assumed Gallic manner, almost anxious to talk about the other films in the season, Wooife was lavish in his praise for Tyrell and the festival.
Resnick had arrived early, drunk a Beck's alone at the large reserved table and been about to leave when, through the curved corner window, he had seen Mollie Hansen leading the group along Carlton Street, past the George Hotel. There were a dozen of them in all, Dorothy Birdwell the last to arrive, leaning on Marius Gooding's arm. Cathy Jordan, her hair trimmed back and partly covered by a black velvet beret, had taken a seat alongside Resnick; her husband, facing them, sat beside Mollie.
"So how was the film?" Resnick asked, starting on his second beer.
Cathy Jordan speared a piece of bread, spread it lavishly with butter and took a generous bite.
"I had an aunt once, lived all her life in this town near Jackson, Wyoming. So small it didn't even rate a pimple on the map. You could turn up there any time, day or night, unannounced, nothing in her store cupboard to speak of, yet inside half an hour you'd find yourself sitting down to the tastiest snack you could ever have imagined." She brushed a crumb from the side of her mouth and tried the wine.
"Well, Curtis's film was like that.
Considering what he had to work with, it was a small miracle. " She lifted the menu towards the light.
"How d'you think this rack of lamb would be? I'm good and tired of steak and chicken."
Across the city in his hotel, Peter Farleigh and the dark- haired woman were back in the bar. Michelle – she had told him that was her name, Michelle had developed a taste for blue cocktails afloat with tinned fruit and Farleigh had kept pace with her, drinking brandy now and talking in a voice that was just this side of loud. On and on about crop yields, fertilisers, EEC farming subsidies.
When Michelle's eyes began to glaze over he changed the topic to his family, his three kids the one at university, the one who was already an accountant, the one who had gone off with a bunch of travellers and sent them marigold teas and pictures from the I-ching.
The pianist had trawled his way from Cats to Carousel and eventually given way to piped music: bland arrangements of the Beatles for saxophone, six strings and a drum machine.
From behind the bar, a voice called last orders. Farleigh looked hard at Michelle and she looked away; he let his hand drift down towards her leg and with a look she stopped it well short of her knee.
"I hope, Peter, you're not going to make a move on me."
"I'm sorry, no, look, I…" He could feel his face reddening and that only made it redden more. What was he doing sitting there, blushing like a schoolboy whose mother had chosen the wrong moment to come into the room?
"What was going to be the next step, Peter?" She was leaning towards him, almost touching her shoulder to his arm.
"Asking me up to your room?"
Look. "
"Well…?"
"Michelle, I…" Suddenly he became aware of his own sweat, sweet and rancid; the muscles of his stomach tightened and refused to let go.
"Was that it?" her voice rising.
"Because if it was, Peter, well, I have to say you'd have been disappointed."
Farleigh was certain everyone else in the bar could hear.
"All right, look, it's been a nice evening, let's just forget it."
Forget it? "
Yes. " He pushed an almost empty packet of cigarettes down into his pocket, brushed the heel of his hand across the eyebrow of his right eye.
"I think that's best, don't you?"
"Best?"
"Yes." Standing now, while she leaned back into the comfort of the chair and surveyed him with amused eyes.
Peter? "
"Mmm?"
"You know I'm teasing you, don't you?"
He could still smell himself, hear his own breath.
"I am teasing you."
"Yes, well, like I say…" All the while, backing away.
"I would if you asked me1 mean, I would like to… go with you, you know, to your room."
Farieigh looked clumsily round. A man with a shock of almost pure white hair was staring back at him from a stool at the corner of the bar. As Farieigh continued to look, the man smiled, more a simper than a smile, and Farieigh quickly looked away.
"Unless," Michelle said, 'you've changed your mind. "
He sat back down. There was a mole, a small one he hadn't noticed before, just to the right of her cheek, and her eyes, what would you call that shade of brown?
She inclined her head towards him.
"Have you changed your mind?"
The answer, not instant.
"No."
"Good. Let's not waste any more time, then, down here." She was on her feet now, holding out her hand.
Peter took it, but as soon as he was standing she pulled it away.
"After you."
As they were waiting for the lift, she slipped her arm through his.
Another couple stood waiting, a little behind them, younger, the woman fidgeting with the cuff-links on the man's right sleeve. They had been out to some formal occasion and were wearing evening dress.