Loser Takes Al

“A bit highbrow, what?” I said, glaring up as I felt a colonel should do at the lit mask above the door made out of an enormous hollowed potato. We had to brush our way through shreds of cotton which were meant, I suppose, to represent cobwebs. The little room inside was hung with photographs of authors, actors and film stars, and we had to sign our name in a book, thus apparently becoming life members of the club. I wrote Robert Devereux. I could feel her leaning against my shoulder, squinnying at the signature.

The restaurant was crowded and rather garishly lit by bare globes. There were a lot of mirrors that must have been bought at the sale of some old restaurant, for they advertised ancient specialities like ‘Mutton Chopps’.

She said, “Cocteau was at the opening.”

“Who’s he?”

“Oh, colonel,” she said, “you are laughing at me.”

I said, “Oh well, you know, in my kind of life one hasn’t much time for books,” and suddenly, just under the word Chopps, I saw Cary gazing back at me.

“How I envy a life of action,” my companion said, and laid down her bag—chinkingly—on the table. The whole bird’s nest shook and the amber ear-rings swung as she turned to me and said confidingly, “Tell me, colonel. I love—passionately—to hear men talk of their lives.” (Cary’s eyes in the mirror became enormous: her mouth was a little open as though she had been caught in mid-sentence.)

I said, “Oh well, there’s not much to tell.”

“Men are so much more modest than women. If I had deeds of derring-do to my credit I would never tire of telling them. Cheltenham must seem very quiet to you.” I heard a spoon drop at a neighbouring table.

I said weakly, “Oh well, I don’t mind quiet. What will you eat?”

“I have such a teeny-weeny appetite, colonel. A langouste thermidor…”

“And a bottle of the Widow?” I could have bitten my tongue—the hideous words were out before I could stop them. I wanted to turn to Cary and say, “This isn’t me. I didn’t write this. It’s my part. Blame the author.”

A voice I didn’t know said, “But I adore you. I adore everything you do, the way you talk, the way you are silent. I wish I could speak English much much better so that I could tell you…” I turned slowly sideways and looked at Cary. I had never, since I kissed her first, seen so complete a blush. Bird’s Nest said, “So young and so romantic, aren’t they? I always think the English are too reticent. That’s what makes our encounter so strange. Half an hour ago we didn’t even know each other, and now here we are with—what did you call it?—a bottle of the Widow. How I love these masculine phrases. Are you married, colonel?”

“Well, in a way…”

“How do you mean?”

“We’re sort of separated.”

“How sad. I’m separated too—by death. Perhaps that’s less sad.”

A voice I had begun to detest said, “Your husband does not deserve you to be faithful. To leave you all night while he gambles…”

“He’s not gambling tonight,” Cary said. She added in a strangled voice, “He’s in Cannes having dinner with a young, beautiful, intelligent widow.”

“Don’t cry, chérie.”

“I’m not crying, Philippe. I’m, I’m, I’m laughing. If he could see me now…”

“He would be wild with jealousy, I hope. Are you jealous?”

“So touching,” Bird’s Nest said. “One can’t help listening. One seems to glimpse an entire life…”

The whole affair seemed to me abominably onesided. “Women are so gullible,” I said, raising my voice a little. “My wife started going around with a young man because he looked hungry. Perhaps he was hungry. He would take her to expensive restaurants like this and make her pay. Do you know what they charge for a langouste thermidor here? It’s so expensive, they don’t even put the price on the bill. A simple inexpensive café for students.”

“I don’t understand, colonel. Has something upset you?”

“And the wine. Don’t you think I had to draw the line at his drinking wine at my expense?”

“You must have been treated shamefully.”

Somebody put down a glass so hard that it broke. The detestable voice said, “Chérie, that is good fortune for us. Look—I put some wine behind your ears, on the top of your head…Do you think your husband will sleep with the beautiful lady in Cannes?”

“Sleep is about all he’s capable of doing.”

I got to my feet and shouted at her—I could stand no more. “How dare you say such things?”

“Philippe,” Cary said, “let’s go.” She put some notes on the table and led him out. He was too surprised to object.

Bird’s Nest said, “They were really going too far, weren’t they? Talking like that in public. I love your old–fashioned chivalry, colonel. The young must learn.”

She took nearly an hour before she got through her langouste thermidor and her strawberry ice. She began to tell me the whole story of her life, beginning over the langouste with a childhood in an old rectory in Kent and ending over the ice-cream with her small widow’s portion at Cheltenham. She was staying in a little pension in Monte Carlo because it was ‘select’, and I suppose her methods at the Casino very nearly paid for her keep.