Luncheon Analysis

The Luncheon Jeffrey bowman She waved at me across a crowded room at the St. Regis Hotel in New York. I waved back, realizing I knew the face unless un subject to place it. She squeezed past hosts and guests and had reached me forwards I had the chance to communicate any unmatchable who she was. I racked that section of my brain that is meant to store people, but it transmitted no reply. I realized I would live to resort to the old party trick of carefully worded questions until her answers jogged my memory. How are you, darling? she cried, and threw her arms around me, an spread that didnt help, since we were at a Literary auberge cocktail party, and any star will throw their arms around you on much(prenominal) occasions, even the directors of the Book-of-the-Month Club. From her accent she was clearly American, and she looked to be approaching forty but thanks to the wizardry of modern cod-up may even welcome overtaken it. She wore a long white cocktail dress and her b londe hair was heapte up in one of those buns that looks like a brioche. The overall transaction made her appear somewhat like a chess queen.Not that the cottage loaf helped, because she might frusture had dark hair flowing to her shoulders when we stand met. I do wish women would realize that when they change their hair vogue they ofttimes achieve exactly what they set come to the fore to do look completely different to any trustful male. Im well, thank you, I said to the white queen. And you? I inquired as my opening gambit. Im just fine, darling, she replied, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. And hows the family, I asked, non sure if she even had one. Theyre all well, she replied.No help there. And how is Louise? she inquired. Blooming, I said. So she knew my wife. But then, not necessarily, I thought. Most American women are experts at remembering mens wives. They gull to be, when on the New York circuit they change so often it becomes a greater chall enge than the Times crossword. confirm you been to London lately? I roared above the babble. A brave question, as she may never ask been to Europe. Only once since we had lunch together. She looked at me quizzically. You dont remember who I am, do you? she asked as she devoured a cocktail sausage. I smiled. Dont be silly, Susan, I said. How could I ever forget? She smiled. I confess that I remembered the white queens name in the nick of time. Although I becalm only had vague recollections of the lady, I certainly would never forget the lunch. I had just had my first daybook published, and the critics on both sides of the Atlantic had been complimentary, even if the checks from my publishers were less so. My agent had told me on several occasions that I shouldnt write if I wanted to make money.This created a dilemma, because I couldnt see how to make money if I didnt write. It was around this time that the lady who was now facing me and chattering on, unmindful(p) to my sile nce, telephoned from New York to heap lavish praise on my novel. There is no writer who does enjoy receiving such calls, although I confess to having been less captivated by an eleven-year-old girl who called me collect from California to say she had open up a spelling mistake on page 47 and warned that she would call again if she found another.However, this feature lady might acquit ended her transatlantic congratulations with nothing more than good-bye if she had not dropped her own name. It was one of those name calling that can, on the spur of the moment, perpetually book a table at a chic restaurant or a seat at the opera, which mere mortals like myself would prepare found impossible to attain given a months notice. To be fair, it was her husbands name that had achieved the reputation, as one of the worlds most distinguished film producers. When Im next in London you must have lunch with me, came crackling down the phone. No, said I gallantly, you must have lunch with me. How perfectly charming you English always are, she said. I have often wondered how much American women get away with when they say those few words to an Englishman. Nevertheless, the wife of an Oscar-winning producer does not phone one everyday. I promise to call you when Im next in London, she said. And indeed she did, for almost six months to the day she telephoned again, this time from the Connaught Hotel, to declare how much she was face forward to our meeting. Where would you like to have lunch? I said, realizing a second to a fault late, when she replied with the name of one of the most exclusive restaurants in townsfolk, that I should have made sure it was I who chose the venue. I was glad she couldnt see my forlorn face as she added airly, Monday, one oclock. Leave the booking to meIm known there. On the day in question I donned my one respectable suit, a new shirt I had been saving for a special occasion since Christmas, and the only tie that looked as if it hadnt bee n previously used to hold up my trousers.I then strolled over to my camber and asked for statement of my current account. The teller handed me a long tag on of paper unworthy of its amount. I examine the figure as one who has to make a major financial decision. The bottom stating in black lettering that I was in credit to the sum of 37 pounds and sixty-three pence. I wrote pop out a check for thirty-seven pounds. I feel that the gentleman should always leave his account in credit, and I might add it was a belief my bank omnibus shared with me. I then walked up to Mayfair for my luncheon date.As I entered the restaurant I noticed too many waiters and plush seats for my liking. You cant eat either, but you can be supercharged for them. At a corner table sat for cardinal sat a woman who, although not young, was elegant. She wore a blouse of powder blue crepe-de-chine, and her blond hair was rolled away from her face in style that reminded me of the war days and had once again become fashionable. It was clearly my transatlantic admirer, and she greeted me in the same Ive known you all my life as she was to do at the Literary Guild cocktail party years later.Although she had a drink in prior of her, I didnt order an aperitif, explaining that I never drank out front lunchand I would have liked to add, but as soon as your husband makes a film of my novel, I will. She launched immediately into the latest Hollywood gossip, not so much dropping names as reciting them, while I ate my way through the potato chips from the bowl in front of me. A few proceedings later a waiter materialized by the table and presented us with two large imprint leather menus, considerably better bound than my novel.The place positively reeked of unnecessary expense. I opened the menu and studied the first chapter with horror it was eminently put-downable. I had no idea that simplistic regimen obtained from Covent Garden could cost quite so much by merely being transported to M ayfair. I could have bought her the same dishes for a quarter of the price at my favorite bistro, a mere one hundred yards away, and to add to my discomfort I observed that it was one of those restaurants where the guest menu made no mention of the prices.I settled down to study the long list of French dishes, which only served to remind me that I hadnt eaten well for more than a month, a state of affairs that was about to be drawn-out by a further day. I remembered my bank balance morosely reflected that I would probably have to wait until my agent sold the Icelandic rights of my novel before I could afford a substantive meal again. What would you like? I said gallantly. I always enjoy a weightlessness lunch, she volunteered. I sighed with premature relief, only to find that light did not necessarily mean inexpensive.She smiled sweetly up at the waiter, who looked as though he wouldnt be wondering where his next meal might be coming from, and ordered just a sliver of smoked sal mon, followed by two tiny companionable birth cutlets. Then she hesitated, but only for a moment, before adding and a side salad. I studied the menu with some caution, running my finger down the prices, not the dishes. I also eat light lunch, I said mendaciously. The chefs salad will be quite enough for me. The waiter was obviously affronted but left peaceably. She chatted of Coppola and Preminger, of Pacino and Redford, and of Garbo as if she saw her all the time.She was kind enough to stop for a moment and ask what I was working on at present. I would have liked to have replied, On how Im going to explain to my wife that I have only sixty-three pence left in the bank, but I actually discussed my ideas for another novel. She seemed impressed but still made no extension phone to her husband. Should I mention him? No. Mustnt sound pushy, or as though I call for the money. The food arrived, or that is to say her smoked salmon did, and I sat silently watching her eat my bank acco unt while I nibbled on a roll. I looked up only to follow a drink waiter by my side. Would you care for some wine? said I, recklessly. No, I dont think so, she said. I smiled a inadequate too soon Well, perhaps a little something white and dry. The wine waiter handed down a second leather-bound book, this time with golden grapes embossed on the cover. I searched down the pages for half-bottles, explaining to my guest that I never drank at lunch. I chose the cheapest. The wine waiter appeared a moment later with a large silver bucket full of ice in which the half bottle looked drowned, and, like me, completely out of its depth.A junior waiter cleared away the exonerate plate while another wheeled a large trolley to the side of our table and served the lamb cutlets and the chefs salad. At the same time a third waiter made up an bully side salad for my guest that ended up bigger than my complete order. I didnt feel I could ask her to swap. To be fair, the chefs salad was superba lthough I confess it was hard to appreciate such food fully while trying to work out a plot that would be convincing if I found the aeronaut to over thirty-seven pounds. How silly of me to ask for white wine with lamb, she said, having nearly undone the half bottle. I ordered a half bottle of the house red without calling for the wine list. She finished the white wine and then launched into the theater, music, and other authors. All those who were still alive she seemed to know, and those who were dead she hadnt read. I might have enjoyed the performance if it hadnt been for the fear of wondering if I would be able to afford it when the curtain came down.When the waiter cleared away the empty dishes he asked my guest if she would care for anything else. No, thank you, she saidI nearly applauded. Unless you have one of your famous apple surprises. I fear the last one may have gone, madam, but Ill go and see. Dont hurry, I wanted to say, but instead I just smiled as the rope tight ened around my neck. A few proceeding later the waiter strode back in triumph, weaving between the tables holding the apple surprise in the palm of his hand, high above his head.I prayed to Newton that the apple would obey his law. It didnt. The last one, madam Oh, what luck, she declared. Oh, what luck, I repeated, unable(p) to face the menu and discover the price. I was now attempting some mental arithmetic as I realized it was going to be a close-run thing. Anything else, madam? the ingratiating waiter inquired. I took a bass breath. Just coffee, she said. And for you, sir? No, no, not for me. He left us. I couldnt think of an explanation for why I didnt drink coffee.Then she produced the large Gucci bag by her side and a copy of my novel, which I write with a flourish, hoping the head waiter would see, and feel I was the sort of man who should be allowed to sign the bill as well, but he resolutely remained at the far end of the room while I wrote the words An unforgettable meeting and appended my signature. While the dear lady was drinking her coffee I picked at another roll and called for the bill, not because I was in any particular hurry, but like a guilty defendant at the Old Bailey, I preferred to wait no longer than the approximates sentence.A man in a smart green uniform whom I had never seen before appeared carrying a silver tray with a folded piece of paper on it, looking not unlike my bank statement. I pushed back the edge of the bill slowly and read the figure thirty-six pounds and forty pence. I casually put my hand into my inside pocket and withdrew my lifes possessions, then placed the astute new notes on the silver tray. They were whisked away. The man in the green uniform appeared a few minutes later with my sixty pence change, which I pocketed, since it was the only way I was going to get a bus home.The waiter gave me a look that would have undoubtedly won him a character part in any film produced by the ladys distinguished husband . My guest rose and walked across the restaurant, motion at, and occasionally kissing, people I had previously seen only in glossy magazines. When she reached the door she stopped to live her coat, a mink. I helped her on with the fur, again failing to leave a tip. As we stood on the Curzon passageway sidewalk, a dark blue Rolls-Royce drew up beside us and a liveried chauffeur leaped out and opened the door.She climbed in. Goodbye, darling, she said as the electric window slid down. Thank you for such a lovely lunch. Goodbye, I said and, summoning up my courage, added I do hope when you are next in town I shall have the opportunity of meeting your distinguished husband. Oh, darling, didnt you know? she said. Know what? We were divorced ages ago. disunite? said I. Oh, yes, she said gaily, I havent spoken to him for years. I just stood there looking helpless. Oh, dont worry yourself on my account, she said. Hes no loss.In any case, I deep married again another film produce r, I prayedin fact, I quite expected to relegate into my husband todayyou see, he owns the restaurant. Without another word the electric window purred up and the Rolls-Royce glided effortlessly out of sight, leaving me to walk to the nearest bus stop. As I stood surrounded by Literary Guild guests, staring at the white queen with the Brioche bun, I could still see her drifting away in that blue Rolls-Royce. I tried to concentrate on her words. I knew you wouldnt forget me, darling, she was saying. After all, I did take you to lunch, didnt I?