“What time is it?” he asked eventually.
“Quarter of nine.”
“Oh God! I’ve got to go!”
Chapter Four
Henderson arrived gasping at The Blue Room just as Irene was leaving.
“Hey. You are one lucky guy,” she said, pointing a finger at him.
They walked back inside. Henderson deposited his coat and sabres and followed her to the bar. Stark white, thin, naked trees had been planted here and there, and the tiny blue lights festooned in their boughs gave the place an odd doleful-yet-festive air. The bar was busy. People in New York, Henderson noted, seemed to consume alcohol in vast quantities.
“Good evening,” another handsome barman said. Where do these guys come from, Henderson asked himself? Where are they made?
“Same again please. And a large scotch.”
The glasses were plunged in the ice trough, the measures were poured from a height of three feet, small limes were crushed in clean powerful fingers.
“Oh and, um,” a lime segment plopped into his whisky. “No twist.”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Cough,” Henderson cleared his throat and thumped his chest. He coughed. “Nothing.”
He turned to Irene and smiled at her.
“Here’s how,” he said in weak self-parody and sipped his drink. Then he leant forward and kissed the muscle that ran from her neck to her shoulder. He noticed she was wearing high heels. It was a bad sign: she wasn’t pleased with him. On high heels she was an inch taller than he. He told himself to relax. Controlled relaxation. He felt the whisky sluice through his veins, gee-ing up the corpuscles. Irene looked at him and laughed.
“I don’t know how you do it, Henderson,” she said. “You make me so fucking mad. Then you show up with your golf-clubs and I’ve got to laugh.”
“My sabres,” he explained. “How are you? Look nice.”
“I’ve got a cold coming. I need some Southern sun.”
“Ah.”
He had met Irene a month before at a private view in a Madison Avenue gallery. It had been raining and, like this evening, he had arrived late, damp and slightly out of breath. Standing at a wide white desk covered in catalogues and xeroxed price-sheets had been a dark, well-built girl. Absentmindedly, Henderson handed her his dripping umbrella and raincoat.
“I’m not the fucking hat-check, numbnuts,” she had said reasonably, and had turned on her heel, oblivious to his stream of aghast apologies. Later on during the dull party, while pouring himself a white wine at the makeshift bar, she approached with an empty glass and asked to be topped up.
“I’m not the bloody barman,” he said, with a boldness that astonished him (he couldn’t quite bring himself to say ‘fucking’). She found this very amusing. They started to talk and discovered that they disagreed violently about the paintings on show. Henderson thought they were puerile and derivative; Irene was a friend of the artist — hence her invitation — and greatly admired them.
Henderson had been initially and immediately attracted to Irene because she bore a considerable resemblance to a girl who worked in a butcher’s shop in Spain, about and around whom he had spun a tingling sexual fantasy which had enlivened an otherwise banal and tedious holiday some years ago. He bought meat from this girl twice, sometimes three times a day, never saying anything more than ‘jamon’, ‘chuletas de cerdo’, ‘es todo’, ‘gracias’. The girl, unlike her tanned and rubescent clients, was pale, as if she never went out in the sun. She had broad shoulders and strong arms. She cut meat expertly and powerfully. Henderson stood across the bloodied marble from her, finding difficulty in breathing, while she handed him soggy, heavy plastic bags full of chops, steaks, liver, chicken breasts and any other cut of meat he could find in his dictionary. As he was staying in a hotel he had later to throw all this away. He spent a fortune on uneaten meat that holiday.
The girl came to recognize him, and they would make a long and direct eye-contact throughout their transaction. Sometimes, counting out his change, her encarnadined fingernails would scratch his damp palm.
Irene, like this nameless she-butcher, was strong-looking and pale. She had thick black hair that curled onto her neck. Her eyes were brown; her features were emphatic: prominent nose, distinct lips, unplucked eyebrows. And she was tall. That night at the gallery she was taller than Henderson.
“You know,” he had interrupted their futile disquisition on the paintings’ merits, “you remind me of someone.”
“Oh yes? Who?”
“A girl who worked in a butcher’s shop in Alicante.”
Irene had looked around the room. “I suppose that’s some kind of compliment.”
“God. No, um, what I meant to say,” his left hand had clutched air, seeking straws, “to ask. Is…is if you had any Spanish blood in you. That’s what I…yes.”
“No. I’m Jewish.”
“Oh.” Nods. “Aha.”
“You’re not Jewish,” she had said, a horror-struck expression on her face.
“Lord no. I’m English.”
Irene had laughed so hard, people had stopped talking and looked round.
Henderson considered her now, perched on a bar stool. She was wearing a sleeveless dark blue dress. Her skin looked almost pure white. White as a fridge. He put his hand on her knee.
“I can get away. No problem,” she said. “When do we leave?”
“Ah yes.” Henderson swallowed hard and removed his hand.
“Mr Dores? Your table is ready, sir.”
By the time they sat down Henderson was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. How was he going to tell Irene that her place in the car had been usurped by Bryant?
“I’ve been to New Orleans,” Irene said, “but never to the real South. Where exactly are we going?”
The waiter crept up behind Henderson.
“Hello there, people,” he said cheerfully, “my name is James—”
Henderson looked round with a start. “Oh! Hello. My name’s Dores. Henderson Dores.” He rose to his feet. “This is Miss — Ms — Stien.” Unthinkingly, he held out his hand.
The waiter flashed a puzzled glance at Irene, before shaking it. “Nice to meet you, sir.” His discomfiture lasted a second only. “As I was saying, my name is James, I’m your waiter for this evening and I’ll be looking after you.” He handed over the menus. “Enjoy,” he beamed, and left.
Henderson sat down. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought…”
Irene stared irritatedly at him. “What do you think you’re doing? Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine. Trying day, what with one thing and another.”
She shook her head in mock despair. “Are you coming home with me tonight?” she asked, scrutinizing the menu.
Henderson did likewise, trying to ignore his popping cardiac valves.
“Yes please.” He would have to tell her about the trip later. “Good God,” he said, “what’s happening to menus in this city?”
♦
Henderson ate sparingly, his fillet of hake in lager and cranberry sauce failing to stimulate his appetite. Irene ate her two roast baby pigeons in fresh grapefruit nests with relish. Conscious of having to prepare the ground somewhat he asked her if she was really sure it was all right for her to take a few days off work. Irene reassured him once more. She was a co-director — with her brother — of a firm that sold personal computers. She was her own boss, she reminded him, she could take a holiday when she wanted. Good, Henderson said, good.