The Silver Age Read Online Free PDF Page B

feeling somehow like a voyeur caught in the
act.
    “Sorry... I...” He stepped forward into the light, and
she looked him up and down.
    “You’re not Raymond,” she said, sounding miffed, as if he
were somehow to blame for the fact that he wasn’t Raymond. “Aren’t you one of
those people from This City I ran into earlier?”
    “Well, it wasn’t me that you actually ran into. That was
someone else.”
    It was an aggressive, as opposed to genuinely witty,
thing to say. Most likely it was the alcohol talking, and he half-expected,
even wanted, her to take it the wrong way, lash back at him. But she only
smiled.
    “No, of course I know that,” she said. “But you may have
been splashed.”
    “Only a little. And anyway it gave me a chance to
actually use my pocket square, which was kind of novel.”
    Her smile morphed into her trademark smirk.
    “I’m Jenny Wynne,” she said, confident and
matter-of-fact, extending her hand for a formal little shake. “I don’t believe
we’ve been introduced.”
    As he took her hand in his he resisted the temptation to
tell her they’d met before in less sympathetic circumstances.
    “Between the two of us, I’m out here because I’m in
hiding,” she said, in a conspiratorial tone.
    “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope Sandra Blankton hasn’t
returned to take her blood-, or at least champagne-, soaked revenge.”
    “Not yet, thank god,” she said, happily. “But just now a
man I was with at the bar told me that I had the most beautiful nose he’s ever
seen. He said he wanted to eat it.”
    “That’s a little... I was going to say on the nose.”
    She giggled. “It is, isn’t it? I’m glad I’m not alone in
feeling that. So if you don’t mind I think I’ll wait over here in the shadows
with you for a few minutes.”
    “Be my guest.”
     
     
    They wound up chatting together with surprising ease,
almost as if they were old friends reunited after a long and tiresome interval.
They talked about the journalism business, the eejits and douches who peopled
it, about books and articles and movies they liked. In future years when
looking back on the conversation, he would have trouble recalling any
specifics, but be certain nonetheless that their words had been sophisticated
and insightful, profound even. She was a skilled talker, without question, her
sentences curving sinuously, intricate and bright in the air between them. And
although he usually preferred to express himself with images rather than with
words, that night he was in excellent verbal form, spinning out his own
thoughts and ideas with confidence and clarity.
    She lit another cigarette, in the same moment drawing
back her hair and blowing a stream of white smoke through puckered lips. Her
arms were lithe and graceful, her skin creamy and taut. Beneath the fabric of
her silver dress, her hip bones protruded on either side of her waist, looking
sharp, almost weapon-like, as if they could slice flesh. At least they could
bruise, as Sandra Blankton had probably discovered earlier in the evening.
    After a time she paused in mid-sentence and shivered.
“It’s getting cold out here,” she said.
    “Do you think he’s gone by now?” Stephan asked, hoping
that this would turn out not to be the case.
    “We’d better make sure before I go back in there.”
    They went to a yellow window and peered through. Inside,
the crowd had thinned further. Most of those who remained were seated at
tables, talking calmly, candlelight flickering over their faces. The coast
appeared to be clear.
    “Thank you so much, Stephan,” Jenny said. “You’ve been a
gentleman. I enjoyed our chat.”
    “I’m glad.”
    Something about her company made him feel sure of
himself, affirmed his belief that he belonged among the clever and articulate.
    She started to go, then paused and turned back to him.
“Seriously,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I felt like I was hanging out
with an old friend.”
    Or an old