that?”
“You’re throwing yourself away on dross. And look at this one—this girl you’ve brought down. She’s
pretty
, sweet—extremely
simple
—but is she the girl for you? I mean, what
are
you doing, darling?”
“Listen to you:
this one
, she says,” Luc said more irritably than he’d wished. “I mean, what about you? When’s the last time you tried having a relationship with someone?”
“Darling, I have many dear friends, as you know. I don’t
do
relationships
, like taking the waters at Baden-Baden.”
“I know. You’re completely self-sufficient, apart from regular servicing. I, on the other hand, try to engage with the human race now and then. I try to have relationships. They’re difficult, but at least I try. I’d still even like to have children someday. I should think you’d be pleased that I bring someone down, but you’re not. Instead you’re—I mean, what
are
you talking about, Mother?”
Lulu looked at him steadily. “I’m talking about the joke you once told me, about the position of the writer in the film industry.”
“Which of the many jokes was that?”
“The one about the starlet who’s so stupid that she sleeps with the writer.”
“Ah.” Luc looked at his watch—his father’s old stainless steel Rolex—as if reminded of an appointment. He stood up. “Well, I’m going to have a shower before I dress.”
Bronwyn came in with a tray.
“I’ve got your tea,” she said to Luc. “Do you want to take it with you?”
“No, thanks, Bronwyn.” He left the room.
Outside, Luc started toward the barracks, then changed his mind, swerved left, and walked across the patio.
“Hallo!” said the cheerful blonde behind the bar. Lulu’s staff were always British girls, usually very young and fantastically thrilled to spend a season in Mallorca for very little pay. Luc hadn’t met this one. She was wearing a loose sarong.
“Hi. A San Miguel, please. I’ll just have it in the bottle.”
“Sure. You’re Luc, aren’t you, Lulu’s son?”
“Yes. And you are?”
“Sally! Hi!” She stretched her hand across the bar and Luc shook it.
“Of course you are,” he said.
“You’re the film producer!”
“Just a screenwriter.”
“Oh, brilliant!”
Another cretin.
“No, no, Luc, her name
really is Sally
!” said an elderly man sitting on a nearby barstool. He appeared to be naked, except for the salami-sized cigar in one hand, and all but the rear strip of his tiny Speedo concealed by a large belly. “This Sally’s a
Sally
!”
For most of the 1960s, the Rocks’ universally beloved bartender had been a plump, pretty, effusive English blonde named Sally. The regular annual guests had thereafter called all successive bartenders Sally.
Sally pulled a San Miguel from the thick-doored icebox-style fridge with the handle that clicked shut, and placed the bottle, immediately frosting with condensation, on top of the bar.
“I’ll try to remember,” said Luc. “How are you, Richard?”
“I’m well, old bean,” said the man with the cigar. “And how are you? Arabella’s jolly excited to see you. And to meet your friend.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing her,” said Luc. “You can put it on my tab,” he told Sally.
“Brilliant!” she said.
Peripherally, Luc noticed the younger couple at the bar smiling broadly at him. He could tell, a prickling in his skin, that they were just about to say to him, with a rapid and thrilled rise in inflection, “Oh, do you work in
films
, then?” He turned quickly away.
Luc took the beer and walked across the courtyard and sat at a table that had not yet been laid for dinner. He raised the icy bottle to his lips. His first San Miguel this year. It had been Luc’s first alcoholic drink, 1965, the summer he turned fifteen. The first one had been too bitter, but a few days later he’d had another and soon they began to taste just right. Those bubbles on the roof of his mouth and the clean, hoppy flavor.
“You’re throwing yourself away on dross. And look at this one—this girl you’ve brought down. She’s
pretty
, sweet—extremely
simple
—but is she the girl for you? I mean, what
are
you doing, darling?”
“Listen to you:
this one
, she says,” Luc said more irritably than he’d wished. “I mean, what about you? When’s the last time you tried having a relationship with someone?”
“Darling, I have many dear friends, as you know. I don’t
do
relationships
, like taking the waters at Baden-Baden.”
“I know. You’re completely self-sufficient, apart from regular servicing. I, on the other hand, try to engage with the human race now and then. I try to have relationships. They’re difficult, but at least I try. I’d still even like to have children someday. I should think you’d be pleased that I bring someone down, but you’re not. Instead you’re—I mean, what
are
you talking about, Mother?”
Lulu looked at him steadily. “I’m talking about the joke you once told me, about the position of the writer in the film industry.”
“Which of the many jokes was that?”
“The one about the starlet who’s so stupid that she sleeps with the writer.”
“Ah.” Luc looked at his watch—his father’s old stainless steel Rolex—as if reminded of an appointment. He stood up. “Well, I’m going to have a shower before I dress.”
Bronwyn came in with a tray.
“I’ve got your tea,” she said to Luc. “Do you want to take it with you?”
“No, thanks, Bronwyn.” He left the room.
Outside, Luc started toward the barracks, then changed his mind, swerved left, and walked across the patio.
“Hallo!” said the cheerful blonde behind the bar. Lulu’s staff were always British girls, usually very young and fantastically thrilled to spend a season in Mallorca for very little pay. Luc hadn’t met this one. She was wearing a loose sarong.
“Hi. A San Miguel, please. I’ll just have it in the bottle.”
“Sure. You’re Luc, aren’t you, Lulu’s son?”
“Yes. And you are?”
“Sally! Hi!” She stretched her hand across the bar and Luc shook it.
“Of course you are,” he said.
“You’re the film producer!”
“Just a screenwriter.”
“Oh, brilliant!”
Another cretin.
“No, no, Luc, her name
really is Sally
!” said an elderly man sitting on a nearby barstool. He appeared to be naked, except for the salami-sized cigar in one hand, and all but the rear strip of his tiny Speedo concealed by a large belly. “This Sally’s a
Sally
!”
For most of the 1960s, the Rocks’ universally beloved bartender had been a plump, pretty, effusive English blonde named Sally. The regular annual guests had thereafter called all successive bartenders Sally.
Sally pulled a San Miguel from the thick-doored icebox-style fridge with the handle that clicked shut, and placed the bottle, immediately frosting with condensation, on top of the bar.
“I’ll try to remember,” said Luc. “How are you, Richard?”
“I’m well, old bean,” said the man with the cigar. “And how are you? Arabella’s jolly excited to see you. And to meet your friend.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing her,” said Luc. “You can put it on my tab,” he told Sally.
“Brilliant!” she said.
Peripherally, Luc noticed the younger couple at the bar smiling broadly at him. He could tell, a prickling in his skin, that they were just about to say to him, with a rapid and thrilled rise in inflection, “Oh, do you work in
films
, then?” He turned quickly away.
Luc took the beer and walked across the courtyard and sat at a table that had not yet been laid for dinner. He raised the icy bottle to his lips. His first San Miguel this year. It had been Luc’s first alcoholic drink, 1965, the summer he turned fifteen. The first one had been too bitter, but a few days later he’d had another and soon they began to taste just right. Those bubbles on the roof of his mouth and the clean, hoppy flavor.
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