sort of story she could appreciate. Her large green eyes looked lit from within.
‘Bring them to the museum, I guess. Show them to Marcia –’ I paused again ‘– or Anthony.’
Nora grinned. ‘Anthony,’ she murmured. She took another sip of her drink and then gave me a wink. Her mascara-drenched eyelashes fluttered becomingly. They were tipped in glittering eggplant that went well withher green eyes. ‘I remember Anthony,’ she continued dreamily. Nora has a good memory for men, and Anthony isn’t a man anyone would quickly forget.
‘Come on, don’t tease me. I can’t even think about this whole thing clearly.’
‘Nobody could think clearly once Anthony enters the picture.’
I looked down at my green apple martini. ‘And even less clearly after one of these.’
Nora ignored me, and began to list Anthony’s attributes, counting each one off on her fingers. ‘He’s the James Bond of ancient literature, Eleanor. Profiled in the LA Times . Written up in GQ . The man has it all: brains, brawn and a killer accent.’
‘I broke up with my boyfriend today ,’ I emphatically reminded her, not wanting to admit that she was right. ‘Just hours ago.’
My best friend gave me a look that said, ‘Come clean.’ Her looks are like mental polygraph tests. She can always tell when someone’s lying to her. Besides, she had just personally escorted me back into the sea of sexual pleasure. Why was I trying to hide from her?
I took a deep breath. At this moment, a famous, and handsome movie actor slid by our booth, blowing an air-kiss to Nora. She winked back at him, and I found myself as awestruck as ever. Had she been with this man? I hadn’t heard about it if she had.
‘Did you –’ I started.
‘You really don’t read my blog, do you?’
I flushed, and then took a quick sip.
‘Don’t worry,’ she teased me. ‘Let’s get back to your man.’
‘He’s not my man,’ I insisted.
‘He will be. He wants you, Eleanor. You’ve said so yourself. Every time the two of you have worked together, he’s been more than attentive.’
‘Crush on Anthony Ginsburg aside,’ I told her in a serious voice, ‘it was very odd. As soon as I saw thepapers I found myself less angry at Byron. I thought: look at us. We’re totally insignificant. We destroyed – or, rather, I destroyed – an ancient artefact. Something that existed buried in the dirt, undisturbed and unharmed, for centuries. Here’s a manuscript that someone wrote thousands of years ago, half a world away. I started to feel very small. When I looked at Byron, his cheeks all red, smoke nearly pouring out of his ears, I thought that he looked awfully small, too.’
‘ Was he small?’ Nora asked. This was a topic she could sink her teeth into. ‘I mean, he had fairly big hands.’
‘You can’t tell anything from a guy’s hands.’ Even I, with my little experience, knew that.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but I’m always curious. He looked like a, you know, European cucumber to me, but in those handmade suits, I never could tell. Was he more of an Armenian cuke? They tend to curve at the end. Or was he built like an Oriental cucumber? They’re long and skinny.’ Nora likes things large. And she has absolutely no problem discussing this particular fixation. The fact that she uses cucumbers as size gauges wasn’t new to me. She’s been doing this ever since she dated one of the darling chefs in the city, a man who took her to farmer’s markets, who pointed out the differences in flavours from one cucumber to the next. ( He was the size of an American pickling cuke, if I remember correctly. Not that long, yet plenty thick.) But I didn’t feel a need to describe my ex’s member, using vegetable terminology or anything else. In fact, I wanted to forget what Byron looked and felt like as quickly as possible. It’s why I had taken the marathon shower, why I kept wanting to spray myself with perfume. Anything I could do to erase
‘Bring them to the museum, I guess. Show them to Marcia –’ I paused again ‘– or Anthony.’
Nora grinned. ‘Anthony,’ she murmured. She took another sip of her drink and then gave me a wink. Her mascara-drenched eyelashes fluttered becomingly. They were tipped in glittering eggplant that went well withher green eyes. ‘I remember Anthony,’ she continued dreamily. Nora has a good memory for men, and Anthony isn’t a man anyone would quickly forget.
‘Come on, don’t tease me. I can’t even think about this whole thing clearly.’
‘Nobody could think clearly once Anthony enters the picture.’
I looked down at my green apple martini. ‘And even less clearly after one of these.’
Nora ignored me, and began to list Anthony’s attributes, counting each one off on her fingers. ‘He’s the James Bond of ancient literature, Eleanor. Profiled in the LA Times . Written up in GQ . The man has it all: brains, brawn and a killer accent.’
‘I broke up with my boyfriend today ,’ I emphatically reminded her, not wanting to admit that she was right. ‘Just hours ago.’
My best friend gave me a look that said, ‘Come clean.’ Her looks are like mental polygraph tests. She can always tell when someone’s lying to her. Besides, she had just personally escorted me back into the sea of sexual pleasure. Why was I trying to hide from her?
I took a deep breath. At this moment, a famous, and handsome movie actor slid by our booth, blowing an air-kiss to Nora. She winked back at him, and I found myself as awestruck as ever. Had she been with this man? I hadn’t heard about it if she had.
‘Did you –’ I started.
‘You really don’t read my blog, do you?’
I flushed, and then took a quick sip.
‘Don’t worry,’ she teased me. ‘Let’s get back to your man.’
‘He’s not my man,’ I insisted.
‘He will be. He wants you, Eleanor. You’ve said so yourself. Every time the two of you have worked together, he’s been more than attentive.’
‘Crush on Anthony Ginsburg aside,’ I told her in a serious voice, ‘it was very odd. As soon as I saw thepapers I found myself less angry at Byron. I thought: look at us. We’re totally insignificant. We destroyed – or, rather, I destroyed – an ancient artefact. Something that existed buried in the dirt, undisturbed and unharmed, for centuries. Here’s a manuscript that someone wrote thousands of years ago, half a world away. I started to feel very small. When I looked at Byron, his cheeks all red, smoke nearly pouring out of his ears, I thought that he looked awfully small, too.’
‘ Was he small?’ Nora asked. This was a topic she could sink her teeth into. ‘I mean, he had fairly big hands.’
‘You can’t tell anything from a guy’s hands.’ Even I, with my little experience, knew that.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but I’m always curious. He looked like a, you know, European cucumber to me, but in those handmade suits, I never could tell. Was he more of an Armenian cuke? They tend to curve at the end. Or was he built like an Oriental cucumber? They’re long and skinny.’ Nora likes things large. And she has absolutely no problem discussing this particular fixation. The fact that she uses cucumbers as size gauges wasn’t new to me. She’s been doing this ever since she dated one of the darling chefs in the city, a man who took her to farmer’s markets, who pointed out the differences in flavours from one cucumber to the next. ( He was the size of an American pickling cuke, if I remember correctly. Not that long, yet plenty thick.) But I didn’t feel a need to describe my ex’s member, using vegetable terminology or anything else. In fact, I wanted to forget what Byron looked and felt like as quickly as possible. It’s why I had taken the marathon shower, why I kept wanting to spray myself with perfume. Anything I could do to erase
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