Women Drinking Benedictine (6 page)

“Meet my new friend,” she said grandly. The table was covered with cracker crumbs. Sally and Jane looked tired and tipsy.

Maurice moved around the table giving both Jane and Sally kisses on the cheeks. So polite and so French, utterly romantic, thought Amber, pleased with her find. She was thrilled, almost giddy.

“You must be sisters,” Maurice said. His French was lovely, all r's and throat sounds. Amber wanted to kiss his language.

“You look so much alike,” Maurice said.

“Imagine that,” Sally giggled. She laughed so hard she spat up the bubbles of her champagne. “The three of us, sisters?”

Amber did not look like her friends. They did dress alike—all of them wore a sort of traveling uniform. Identical black stretch pants, one hundred percent cotton with expandable elastic waistbands, perfect for hand washing in hotel bidets. On top they wore shapeless shirts, long sweaters, oversized vests. They dressed like onions, shedding layers as the afternoon sun rose in the Mediterranean sky, adding them when the chill of evening moved in. It was mere coincidence that Amber and Sally were wearing the same color Limited Express pullover that night. But Sally looked like someone's Russian grandmother, and Jane, with the pen sticking out of the bun at the back of her head, looked anything but pretty.

“Maurice and I are going for a walk,” Amber announced, deliberately changing the subject.

“What about dinner?” Jane asked.

“What about it?” Amber asked. Food was the least of her desires.

“Should we order for you?” Jane said, taking the pen from her bun as if she meant to write down Amber's dinner request.

“Do what you like,” Amber said and looked into Maurice's dark, dark eyes. His lashes were graying on the tips, giving him a gentle look. “And I'll do the same.”

“Be careful,” Sally warned.

“Oh, I don't think we'll have sex on the beach,” Amber said, knowing full well that Sally had not been talking about sex.

When Amber returned a short time later, she was alone.

She opened her menu, not wanting to answer any of their nosy questions about Maurice. “What'd you order for me?” she asked Jane, not caring that she had interrupted their conversation.

Jane pointed to the third item on the menu.

“You ordered me liver?” Amber asked.

Jane nodded. “You had fish last night, I figured you'd enjoy a nice piece of meat tonight.”

“Liver is not a nice piece of meat,” Amber said. “It is a waste-filtering organ.” She reached for the breadbasket, but it was empty. Suddenly famished, she sneered at Jane.

Jane slapped her hand away. “Someone had better be careful.”

“Where's your new friend?” Sally said, obviously trying to change the subject. “What was his name? Mario? Morris?”

“Maurice is running an errand. It's a matter of business and shouldn't take more than a few moments. He's coming to get me in a few minutes,” Amber said. She realized how thin his excuse sounded. But it was the truth. He had promised her he'd be right back for her.

Sally laughed aloud.

“You don't know him,” Amber said, coming to Maurice's defense a bit forcefully, considering her doubts. “He said he'd be back and I believe him.”

“You don't really know him either,” Sally said.

“Just because I have someone new in my life doesn't mean you have to get jealous,” Amber said smugly. “Green is not a color women wear well.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Someone new?” She looked under the table as if searching for something. “Someone new. However short-lived.”

Amber was hungry for a fight. “Well, it's not like you've got any men in your life.”

“Remind me again how many men you've had over the years?” Sally asked. “Fifty? Sixty? Or is three hundred a better guess?”

“At least I've had some,” Amber said.

“Like the ex-con?” Sally hissed.

“I went out with him. I never said I slept with him,” Amber said. But she had.

“The pizza delivery guy, Julia's uncle, your ex-boss.” Sally listed men Amber would have rather forgotten. “All fine examples of your better taste in men.”

“I'm warning you,” Amber held up her fist and shook it at Sally.

“Oh, skip the threats,” Sally said.

“Take this as notice, then,” Amber said, and turned her hand in front of her mouth as if closing a lock. She was never going to speak to Sally again.

“You really are too big for your britches,” Sally said.

“I'm too big,” Amber said. Again with the wordplay.

“I didn't mean it literally,” Sally said.

“Perhaps she just meant it figure-atively.” Jane leaned across the table.

“I wasn't talking about weight,” Sally said, her face pink with embarrassment.

“I guess not,” Amber said. “You never do.” She puffed out her cheeks like a blowfish.

The noises they made at each other were like cats hissing.

Amber looked over just as Maurice walked into the restaurant. She had not really expected to see him again, and she stood, knocking her champagne glass to the floor. It shattered when it hit the stone tiles.

“Maurice,” she cried dramatically and kissed him on the lips. She left the table without saying a word to her friends.

Maurice and Amber walked arm in arm through the streets of Antibes.

He was nice. Curious to know about her life back in Pittsburgh, he asked a zillion questions. Amber liked the attention. The night air was pink, the setting sun glowed with her happiness. When they got to the beach, they began kissing frantically. The pine taste of his cologne coated her tongue, reminding her that she had not eaten since noon.

She could feel the sand in her sandals. Her sunburned skin felt fresh and alive. She was not being stupid. Not with Maurice. She wasn't dreaming. She wasn't counting on wedding bells, as Sally always insisted she did. It felt nice to be appreciated. This is what life was all about. It was a shame she didn't meet men like this more often.

Maurice led her to the center of town, where, at the condom machine, he asked her for some money. She gave him one of her one hundred franc notes, which he slid into the opening before turning the knob. Her change spilled onto the street like money rolling from a slot machine. She was giddy and told him not to bother with the few francs that had rolled into the gutter.

“Don't be silly,” he scolded and pocketed all that he collected.

The hotel across from the train station was dingy. The smell of cooked and cooking cabbage was everywhere. The bedspread was worn, the rug was mustard-colored and stained, and the window had no view except of the tracks, which might have been construed as romantic if the sun had been shining.

“It's certainly not the Ritz,” she said.

The lamp beside the bed did not work. Had she been with Sally and Jane, they would have taken one look and walked out. They did not suffer dingy surroundings. A clean and well-equipped bathroom was essential to a pleasant stay. But Amber did not want to give the impression of being an American snob, so she squinted her eyes until the room took on a nice glow and told Maurice she was having a good time.

Maurice put his arms around her waist. “I have never loved so big,” he said. It sounded romantic in French and she was not at all embarrassed to undress in front of him.

He kissed her lips. “Your lips are so pretty,” he cooed, and she believed him.

He kissed her eyes. “Your eyes are so pretty.”

Her throat. “Your throat is so pretty.”

Her ears. “Your ears are so pretty.”

Her hair. “Your hair….”

Amber felt as if she were in the middle of a bad French lesson, but she did not want it to stop.

When they finished making love, Maurice asked for money.

“A few hundred francs, my pretty one,” he said in the same low throaty voice he had used to woo her.

Amber sat up in bed, fully awake, absolutely ravenous. She was sure a hotel directly across from the train station did not have room service.

“I need money.” Maurice shook her leg when he saw that she was not listening to his request. “I was supposed to meet a man tonight. That was my job. Instead I spent the time with you. Now I need the money.”

“I suppose you do,” Amber said. The disappointment of the night spread through her body like a sharp pain. She bit her lip, not daring to cry.

She would not let him ruin her night. She leaned over and kissed Maurice's hands. “Your hands,” she said in English, “are so pretty.”

Maurice, no longer interested in giving or receiving language lessons, rolled off the bed and got dressed.

“Sex, if you ask me, is highly overrated,” Amber said. “All that talk about how many calories it uses,” she said. “But really all you do is lie there on your back. Doesn't seem to burn anything.”

“You're very big,” Maurice said without emotion. “You must have lots of money.” It no longer sounded romantic.

“You probably burn more calories trying to find the channel switcher during a good night of television watching. All in all it's a real waste of time,” Amber declared.

Amber was upset, but not surprised. Her track record with men was annoyingly consistent. Sally had been right. She asked Maurice to walk her back to the hotel and he grunted something about a restaurant. She followed, thinking food, wine, or both might salvage something of the evening.

Instead Maurice took her to a crowded nightclub. He walked in ahead of her, and she lost him in the crowd.

In the small bathroom, a woman stood over the sink, gagging herself with her two fingers. Amber did not need to hear her speak to know she was American.

“You shouldn't do that,” Amber said. “It will make you sick.”

“That's the point,” the woman said.

American magazines and television were filled with horror stories about women like these, but Amber had never seen one in action. She watched the young woman throw up with abject fascination. Amber put her hands on her own hips, feeling the thickness, the bulk of her extra weight. And for the first time in years, she felt the strange pull of doubt, feelings she hadn't had since she was fifteen. She brought her finger to her mouth and pushed it past her lips, down her throat, until she could feel herself gagging.

She saw herself in the mirror and her mind cleared instantly. However disappointing the night had been, she would not turn stupid. She would not be ridiculous.

“Stop,” Amber said. She pulled on the woman's dress. “Stop this nonsense.”

“Have you ever been thin?” the woman removed her fingers from her throat and talked to Amber in the mirror.

Amber considered the question. “Not exactly.”

“Then go away,” she said. Her nose was runny. She reached for a piece of paper toweling, then dropped it to the ground when she had finished with it.

“Very glamorous,” Amber said. “Unbelievably romantic.”

“I locked the door,” the young woman said. “I didn't mean to be a public spectacle. I didn't expect a group discussion.” She grabbed her hair in a ponytail and bent over the sink again.

Amber knew she was talking to a woman who would never sign up for an Attr-ACTIVE Women's Group at the Jewish Community Center. But she was probably worth saving.

“The discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star,” Amber said. This was not one of Rosemary's, but considering the situation, it was appropriate—and probably true.

The thin woman rolled her eyes. “Leave me alone, you weirdo.” Amber had no idea why skinny women were so stupid.

“Food is a pleasure. One should eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a queen.”

“I would never eat a meal,” the woman said. “Ever.” She turned to the side and admired her thin shape in the cracked mirror.

Amber realized that she was wasting her words on this creature, but she felt empowered, full of strength and wisdom. She put all thoughts of the Maurice disaster aside and talked with pride and conviction. “The kitchen is a country in which there are always discoveries to be made. Eating is the one passionate thing left to us in these bleak times.”

“I don't want to discover anything,” the woman said. “I just want to be skinny. That's what I want.” She extracted a small tube of toothpaste from her purse. She squeezed a thin line onto her finger and moved it around her mouth, all odor disguised by the mint flavoring. “What I don't want,” she said, brushing her hair back with her fingertips, “is to end up like you.”

“You'll never be like me,” Amber said. “Never.” Not one to exert herself in a useless cause, Amber stopped talking.

The hotel room, with its smells of lavender soap, cinnamon candles, and peanut butter-chocolate treats, was at once warm and welcoming. Jane and Sally were asleep. Their thick noisy shapes, cocooned in extra blankets and pillows, made her weep with relief. She got under the covers and waited for morning.

Jane and Sally were her friends. She should not have fought with them. It was up to her to apologize—an act she would have to do with a great deal of care. She would have to be humble.

At first light she went downstairs to reserve their favorite table on the seaside terrace, then waited for them to come to breakfast.

Sally and Jane walked outside a short while later. They had showered and looked fresh and ready for a full day of sightseeing.

“How was dinner?” Amber asked, waving them over to the table.

“Excellent,” Sally said.

“Your liver was delicious,” Jane said. “You owe me 150 francs. There are no refunds in four-star French restaurants.”

Amber pulled out the money and handed it across the table. It was going to be rough. They would not let her off easily.

Jane read the newspaper. Sally flipped through the travel guide. They were doing a good job of ignoring her.