I was just trying to figure out what you do, who you are, and where you come from, he confessed. I love playing that game here, and I always manage to guess wrong. You're probably a dancer, judging by the way you move and stand, but I guessed copywriter at Doyle Dane. How bad am I?
Pretty bad, she laughed, amused by his game, as he was pushed a little closer to her by the crowd. He looked as though he had a good sense of humor, and he seemed totally relaxed with her as he looked her straight in the eye. Maybe you're not too far off. I am in business, and I do a lot of writing. I'm an attorney, she said, returning his gaze, and he seemed surprised.
What kind of firm? He pressed on, enjoying their guessing game. He loved figuring out what people did, and in New York, there was such a rich assortment of jobs and people. There was never a simple answer to any question, least of all to what one did. He guessed silently again, and figured corporate law. I guess corporate, or probably something very serious like antitrust law. Am I right? It seemed incongruous to him because she was very feminine and very pretty, and he liked the combination of a beautiful woman involved in serious business.
She laughed in answer, and he loved watching her. She had a gorgeous smile, incredible hair, and there was an immediate warmth about her. He could tell she liked people, and there was something very intriguing about her eyes. They said a lot to him about who she was and what she thought about. She was a woman of principle, he could tell, and firm beliefs, and probably strong opinions. But she obviously had a sense of humor too. She laughed a lot, and there was something very gentle and feminine about the way she moved her hands. And her mouth looked delicious.
What makes you think I'm such a serious lawyer? she asked, laughing again. They didn't even know each other's names, but that seemed relatively unimportant. She liked talking to him, and playing his game about what she did, and who she was. Do I look that intense? she asked, curious as to how he would answer, and he considered her for a moment, tilting his head as he looked her over, and then he shook his head. And she couldn't help noticing that he had a great smile. He was very handsome.
I was wrong. He corrected himself thoughtfully. You're a serious person, but you're not in a serious branch of law. How's that for an odd combination? Maybe you only represent prizefighters or skiers. Am I right? He was teasing her and she laughed.
Why did you decide that I'm not in corporate or antitrust?
You're not boring. You're serious and conscientious, but there's a lot of laughter in your eyes. Antitrust guys never laugh. So, was I right? Are you in sports law? ‘ Oh, Jesus, don't tell me it's P.I. or malpractice. I'd hate to think of you doing work like that. He winced as he set his empty glass down, and she grinned at him. It had been fun for a while, and she felt surprisingly at ease with him as she looked him in the eye.
I'm in entertainment law, in Los Angeles. I came here to talk to Mr. Weissman about one of his clients, and see some of our other contacts here. I represent people in show business generally, writers, producers, directors, actors.
Interesting, very interesting, he said, looking her over again, as though trying to decide if the information all fit together. And you're from L.A.? He looked as though he was surprised when she said she was.
All my life, except for seven years at Yale.
I went to a rival school, he said, and she held up a hand.
Wait. It's my turn now. This one's easy. You went to Harvard. You're from the East, probably from New York, or she squinted as she looked at him maybe Connecticut or Boston. And you went to boarding school ‘ let's see, Exeter, or St. Paul's. He was laughing at the profile she was describing, ultraconservative, ultrapredictable, totally upper-crust New York. He wasn't sure if the dark suit had done it, or the Hermes tie, or maybe a recent haircut.
You're close. I am from New York. I went to Andover. And I did go to Harvard. I taught at Stanford for a year, and now I'm She interrupted him and held up her hand again, as she looked him over. He didn't look like a professor, unless he taught in the business school, but he seemed too young and good-looking for that. If she'd been in L.A., she would have thought he was an actor, but he also looked too intelligent and not self-centered enough to be an actor.
It's my turn again, she reminded him. You've already told me too much. You probably teach literature at Columbia. But to be honest, I thought you were a banker when we first met. He looked very Wall Street, and very respectable, except for the mischief in his eyes.
It's the suit. He smiled, looking a little like her brother. He was almost as tall, and in an odd way, he reminded her of her father too. There was something familiar about his smile. I bought the suit to please my mother. She said I needed something respectable to wear if I was going to come back to New York.
Have you been away? she asked. He still hadn't told her if he was a banker or a professor, and they were both enjoying the sparring, as the crowd finally began to thin out. There had been almost two hundred people milling around the Weissmans' elegant apartment, and it seemed almost empty now with roughly half that.
I've been away for six months, working somewhere else, he gave her a clue. I hate to tell you where. He was highly amused by the things they had said about each other, and she was still trying to figure where he had been, and what he'd been doing.
You've been teaching in Europe? He shook his head. Teaching anywhere? She was looking puzzled now. Maybe the suit had misled her. When she looked at his eyes, she could see that he had imagination, and he obviously liked assembling facts.
No teaching in a long time. But you're not far off. Shall I tell you?
I guess so. I give up. It's all your mother's fault. I think the suit confused me, she said lightheartedly, and they both laughed.
I can see why. It confuses me too. When I looked in the mirror tonight, I had no idea who I was. Actually, I'm a writer you know, torn running shoes, English carpet slippers, old bathrobes, faded jeans, and Harvard sweatshirts with holes everywhere.