The Weekend: A Novel by Peter Cameron Read Free Book Online

handing the money to Nina.
    “What about a tip?” said Nina. “Shouldn’t we tip him? He’s got to drive all the way back to the city.”
    “I should think one hundred dollars included the tip,” said Laura.
    “Mother, give me a twenty. I’ll get reimbursed from the production company. They cover expenses like this.”
    Laura withdrew another twenty-dollar bill. She knew she would never see this money again. She didn’t mind throwing money away; she just minded throwing it away on Nina. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend,” she repeated.
    “I know,” said Nina. She went over to the window and looked out at the pool. Jerry was doing the dead man’s float in the deep end. “I didn’t know until this morning. I just felt sorry for Anders. He’s Dutch, and it’s his first film in New York, and he didn’t have anywhere to go this weekend. Everyone was going away. And you said the house was big.” She turned away from the window. “It’s nice, the house. Do you like it?”
    “It’s fine,” said Laura, “for a summer. But it has that awful renty feeling.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You can tell they came through and took every decent thing out of it. I had to go buy some cotton sheets and crystal. They had plastic wineglasses.”
    “It’s pretty, though,” said Nina. She turned away from the window. “Where do I sleep? Anders can sleep with me. We’re—well, we’re sleeping together. He’s really very nice. He’s Dutch. Let me go give Jerry his money, and get rid of him. Then we can have lunch. Have you eaten yet?”
    “No,” said Laura.
    “It’s really lovely here. It’s a bitch to get to, but it’s beautiful.”
     
     
    They ate outside, at an umbrella-shrouded table, beside the pool. Jerry and the mulberries and the gardener were gone, and Laura had relaxed a little. She didn’t like it when being with Nina made her act ill-humored and disapproving; it made her feel old and rigid, which was not how she saw herself, and she resented her daughter for eliciting those qualities in her. So she willed herself to relax.
    “Are you an actor?” she asked Anders.
    “No,” said Anders. “I’m an animal trainer. I train the pigeons.”
    “Anders can get a pigeon to do just about anything,” said Nina. She had pushed her chair back from the table, into the sun.
    “Do you work only for movies?” asked Laura.
    “Now, yes,” said Anders.
    “He did the dogs in Paws ,” said Nina.
    “I didn’t see Paws ,” said Laura.
    “Yes, you did. At least you told me you did. It was the one about attack dogs run amok.”
    “Do you specialize in violence?” asked Laura.
    “Action,” said Anders.
    They’re all such hypocrites, thought Laura: they make violent movies and call them action films. “But by action don’t you mean violence?”
    “Oh, Mother,” Nina said, “they’re just stupid movies. It’s entertainment. For teenagers. Do you have any sunblock?”
    “No,” said Laura.
    “God, I should have brought some. I’m not supposed to get any sun. I’m supposed to be a very pale prostitute.” She lit a cigarette and went over to the pool, where she sat on the first of the tiered steps that descended into the shallow end. “So what’s it like up here? What have you been doing?”
    “Not very much of anything,” Laura said. She was watching Anders peel green grapes with a penknife before eating them. While she generally admired people who peeled their fruit, removing the skin from grapes seemed a little excessive. He worked at each grape carefully and intently, and then popped it into his mouth quickly, as if the moist flesh might be damaged by prolonged exposure to the air.
    “Have you been working on your book?” asked Nina.
    “A little,” said Laura. “Arranging my notes.”
    “You are writing a book?” asked Anders.
    “About my late husband,” said Laura, “Ettore Ponti. He was an architect.” Actually, the book wasn’t really turning out. She