play. Since I was anointed. Success was an aphrodisiac. Only the novel won’t be seduced. Only the writing betrays me. A woman never yet.
I will win, K. You will see.
With Lizzie it was a sexual attraction. That’s always first for me. During a forced march through a publication party, a book about the Gulf War, I spied her casing the buffet, stretching her body like a cat as she did, plucking this and that from here and there, stacking the plate high. “Did I miss anything?” I heard her say, and liked her low, throaty laugh, amusement at her own greediness. Sometime later she passed by behind me while I was in conversation, and I caught her hand. I knew she was available, have an unerring instinct about that. She’d written something interesting, about five investment bankers, what they wore, what they ate and where, favorite books, heroes, the last six things they’d done for entertainment. Just the facts. It was smart, a bit of fluff to some, but she knew the facts would tell you more than a conventional interview.
New York
magazine does pieces like that all the time now. So does
Vanity Fair
. Lizzie did it first. Without knowing her I had saved it to steal from for my next book or play. That I had clipped one of her articles Lizzie found more seductive than champagne and roses. She’d never been told her writing was substantive.
Divine the insecurity and compliment it. That’s always been my way.
In Rome, after dinner that first night, Lizzie was, for her, subdued. She loved to chew over an evening, reconsider, despair, crow, dissect, but mercifully she was groggy with wine and jetlag. It occurred to me that if I wanted to leave her . . . correction, when I left her, I had to be firm. A waffle would be an invitation to a conversation. I’d be trapped for eternity.
She should never have had two glasses of wine, she said, and isn’t limoncello awful? “You were darling to Snow,” she said. “What do you make of her?”
I didn’t respond to see if it mattered.
“She’s odd. Well, Taylor smothers her. I mean, don’t you think? Am I being too critical? That’s what happens when you feel shitty about yourself. You turn into a bitch. Where was I? Taylor smothers her. God, mothers.”
I was right. For a conversation I wasn’t necessary.
She disappeared into the bathroom and left the door open. She has no modesty. Never has.
Lizzie
“T HE B RITISH FLAG , that’s what you want.” Michael was at the Bancomat with me peering over his shoulder. To get prompts in English, I reached in to press the button.
He knocked my hand away.
“You hit me?”
“Did I ask for help?”
“Sorry.”
“I didn’t hit you, I flicked you.” He pushed cancel by mistake and had to start over. “Damn you.”
He got his cash and strode off.
“Michael, I’m sorry.” I hurried after. “I want this vacation to be . . . It means so much to me that we made love last night. And this morning too.”
He stopped and studied me.
“We’re together in Italy,” I said. “Let go of the book, please try.”
Two Germans walked between us. Germans for sure, they always wore the most intimidating sunglasses.
I expected Michael to appreciate the ridiculousness of tourists parading through our tiff, but he pressed his fist into his forehead as if I’d given him a massive headache.
“You’re blaming me,” I said. “The book’s like a lover, and it’s all my fault for taking you away from that lover.”
A flicker of recognition—what a relief because Michael intimidates me when he’s steely. Then he laughed.
“What’s funny?”
He only shook his head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He reminds me of a boxer, big head, strong jaw, nose with a jog as if it’s been broken. He shaves his head, well, the barber does, a point of vanity as partial baldness projects weakness, makes a man a potential target, the butt of jokes. He’d confided that very late one night, I guess we’d been together about a year. He
I will win, K. You will see.
With Lizzie it was a sexual attraction. That’s always first for me. During a forced march through a publication party, a book about the Gulf War, I spied her casing the buffet, stretching her body like a cat as she did, plucking this and that from here and there, stacking the plate high. “Did I miss anything?” I heard her say, and liked her low, throaty laugh, amusement at her own greediness. Sometime later she passed by behind me while I was in conversation, and I caught her hand. I knew she was available, have an unerring instinct about that. She’d written something interesting, about five investment bankers, what they wore, what they ate and where, favorite books, heroes, the last six things they’d done for entertainment. Just the facts. It was smart, a bit of fluff to some, but she knew the facts would tell you more than a conventional interview.
New York
magazine does pieces like that all the time now. So does
Vanity Fair
. Lizzie did it first. Without knowing her I had saved it to steal from for my next book or play. That I had clipped one of her articles Lizzie found more seductive than champagne and roses. She’d never been told her writing was substantive.
Divine the insecurity and compliment it. That’s always been my way.
In Rome, after dinner that first night, Lizzie was, for her, subdued. She loved to chew over an evening, reconsider, despair, crow, dissect, but mercifully she was groggy with wine and jetlag. It occurred to me that if I wanted to leave her . . . correction, when I left her, I had to be firm. A waffle would be an invitation to a conversation. I’d be trapped for eternity.
She should never have had two glasses of wine, she said, and isn’t limoncello awful? “You were darling to Snow,” she said. “What do you make of her?”
I didn’t respond to see if it mattered.
“She’s odd. Well, Taylor smothers her. I mean, don’t you think? Am I being too critical? That’s what happens when you feel shitty about yourself. You turn into a bitch. Where was I? Taylor smothers her. God, mothers.”
I was right. For a conversation I wasn’t necessary.
She disappeared into the bathroom and left the door open. She has no modesty. Never has.
Lizzie
“T HE B RITISH FLAG , that’s what you want.” Michael was at the Bancomat with me peering over his shoulder. To get prompts in English, I reached in to press the button.
He knocked my hand away.
“You hit me?”
“Did I ask for help?”
“Sorry.”
“I didn’t hit you, I flicked you.” He pushed cancel by mistake and had to start over. “Damn you.”
He got his cash and strode off.
“Michael, I’m sorry.” I hurried after. “I want this vacation to be . . . It means so much to me that we made love last night. And this morning too.”
He stopped and studied me.
“We’re together in Italy,” I said. “Let go of the book, please try.”
Two Germans walked between us. Germans for sure, they always wore the most intimidating sunglasses.
I expected Michael to appreciate the ridiculousness of tourists parading through our tiff, but he pressed his fist into his forehead as if I’d given him a massive headache.
“You’re blaming me,” I said. “The book’s like a lover, and it’s all my fault for taking you away from that lover.”
A flicker of recognition—what a relief because Michael intimidates me when he’s steely. Then he laughed.
“What’s funny?”
He only shook his head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He reminds me of a boxer, big head, strong jaw, nose with a jog as if it’s been broken. He shaves his head, well, the barber does, a point of vanity as partial baldness projects weakness, makes a man a potential target, the butt of jokes. He’d confided that very late one night, I guess we’d been together about a year. He
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