watching it all, very bright-eyed, apparently breathless. “And you can move in whenever you like.”
Toni led the way upstairs to show them the rooms, and Constance followed. At the top of the steps when she turned one way, and Paul, Victoria and Toni went the other, she heard Victoria murmur, “You didn’t warn me that it was a madhouse, Paul.” Constance laughed softly to herself.
Charlie always said people were either coaster-carrying types, or wet-glass-and-hardly-a-second-look types. He put his wet glass down where it was convenient, sometimes remembering a napkin or even a coaster under it, but not usually. From what little she had seen of Victoria, Constance decided, she was another wet-glass type, while Paul without a doubt was a coaster carrier. She imagined that his house, apartment, wherever he lived, would be like a museum. First impressions, she knew, could be misleading, but there they were. Victoria found the world interesting, the people in it more interesting; her bright eyes and little smile of acceptance said as much. And Paul was a sufferer who suffered most especially at Victoria’s hands. Why? Constance wondered. And why did it amuse Victoria, as she felt certain it did, to see him in pain? She shrugged and began to move her things in the bedroom to make space for Janet.
A little later Constance was saying to Max, “I saw your fence when I drove in. An impressive fence.”
He laughed delightedly. “Isn’t it, though? And tomorrow you get a tour behind the fence—the first building is ready for a grand unveiling.” He raised his voice a bit. “Paul, Victoria, you want to see inside the condo tomorrow? A grand tour.”
Paul and Victoria had been trailing after Janet who was putting names to the various pieces of art in the living room. It appeared that most students who ever had passed through here had left pieces behind. When Constance glanced in their direction she saw that Johnny Buell was at the doorway and had come to a complete stop with the question.
“I’d love to see inside the fence,” Victoria said, and Paul shrugged.
Johnny Buell entered the room and joined Victoria and Paul; Janet introduced him, and soon they were all laughing as they drifted into the hall, out of sight. It was not yet four thirty; Toni and Ba Ba had taken Tootles upstairs to get ready for the party. Toni was good with hair. Tootles had said vaguely. Victoria had not changed yet from her jeans, nor had Paul, and Johnny was in tan slacks and a matching shirt, his working clothes. Constance assumed they would all drift apart now and adorn themselves properly. The cocktail party was scheduled from five to seven, and then, Tootles had said emphatically, she intended to vanish until eight, or else the guests would never leave, and they had to eat a real dinner, didn’t they?
Constance had decided to go up to change when Max said, “I suppose you shouldn’t ask an art critic to write up something, should you? Her show, I mean. Or the condos either, far as that goes.”
“Let me tell you about a client who consulted with me once,” Constance said. “He was a poet, and quite good, according to his reviews. The problem was his lover. This was what brought him to me for advice. He said that every time he became really involved with a woman, it ended when he asked for an honest opinion about his work. He was afraid to ask the current lover, and he couldn’t stand not knowing exactly what she thought. He respected her opinion, of course.”
Max laughed. “Old rock and hard place choice. What did you tell him to do?”
Constance said gravely, “I told him that when the current affair ended, to find himself a woman who was illiterate in English.” She left Max chuckling.
Cocktail parties, Charlie always grumbled, meant funny food that you never would make for yourself or order in a restaurant, and standing up too much being polite to people you didn’t know or give a damn about. If numbers meant
Toni led the way upstairs to show them the rooms, and Constance followed. At the top of the steps when she turned one way, and Paul, Victoria and Toni went the other, she heard Victoria murmur, “You didn’t warn me that it was a madhouse, Paul.” Constance laughed softly to herself.
Charlie always said people were either coaster-carrying types, or wet-glass-and-hardly-a-second-look types. He put his wet glass down where it was convenient, sometimes remembering a napkin or even a coaster under it, but not usually. From what little she had seen of Victoria, Constance decided, she was another wet-glass type, while Paul without a doubt was a coaster carrier. She imagined that his house, apartment, wherever he lived, would be like a museum. First impressions, she knew, could be misleading, but there they were. Victoria found the world interesting, the people in it more interesting; her bright eyes and little smile of acceptance said as much. And Paul was a sufferer who suffered most especially at Victoria’s hands. Why? Constance wondered. And why did it amuse Victoria, as she felt certain it did, to see him in pain? She shrugged and began to move her things in the bedroom to make space for Janet.
A little later Constance was saying to Max, “I saw your fence when I drove in. An impressive fence.”
He laughed delightedly. “Isn’t it, though? And tomorrow you get a tour behind the fence—the first building is ready for a grand unveiling.” He raised his voice a bit. “Paul, Victoria, you want to see inside the condo tomorrow? A grand tour.”
Paul and Victoria had been trailing after Janet who was putting names to the various pieces of art in the living room. It appeared that most students who ever had passed through here had left pieces behind. When Constance glanced in their direction she saw that Johnny Buell was at the doorway and had come to a complete stop with the question.
“I’d love to see inside the fence,” Victoria said, and Paul shrugged.
Johnny Buell entered the room and joined Victoria and Paul; Janet introduced him, and soon they were all laughing as they drifted into the hall, out of sight. It was not yet four thirty; Toni and Ba Ba had taken Tootles upstairs to get ready for the party. Toni was good with hair. Tootles had said vaguely. Victoria had not changed yet from her jeans, nor had Paul, and Johnny was in tan slacks and a matching shirt, his working clothes. Constance assumed they would all drift apart now and adorn themselves properly. The cocktail party was scheduled from five to seven, and then, Tootles had said emphatically, she intended to vanish until eight, or else the guests would never leave, and they had to eat a real dinner, didn’t they?
Constance had decided to go up to change when Max said, “I suppose you shouldn’t ask an art critic to write up something, should you? Her show, I mean. Or the condos either, far as that goes.”
“Let me tell you about a client who consulted with me once,” Constance said. “He was a poet, and quite good, according to his reviews. The problem was his lover. This was what brought him to me for advice. He said that every time he became really involved with a woman, it ended when he asked for an honest opinion about his work. He was afraid to ask the current lover, and he couldn’t stand not knowing exactly what she thought. He respected her opinion, of course.”
Max laughed. “Old rock and hard place choice. What did you tell him to do?”
Constance said gravely, “I told him that when the current affair ended, to find himself a woman who was illiterate in English.” She left Max chuckling.
Cocktail parties, Charlie always grumbled, meant funny food that you never would make for yourself or order in a restaurant, and standing up too much being polite to people you didn’t know or give a damn about. If numbers meant