In the brief moment of thought he gave them, he imagined that they must be the property of his fourteen-yearold daughter, left under a couch on some past visit and only now dislodged by the cleaner. He kicked them back out of sight. The last thing a man wants in midseduction is to be reminded that the object of his lust is only a few years older than his own child.
Midseduction? Hardly. He hadn’t even started yet and the sun was already up. He would have to get a move on.
A boyish grin, a nervous halfsmile.
Extreme closeup on girl’s lips.
Lips part slightly, revealing white teeth teased by tip of tongue.
Fuck music plays. Bang, they are at it like rabbits on E.
Not quite. Even Oscarwinning directors can’t edit reality. The dull presex preamble had to be gone through, and there was not a great deal of time to do it in. It was Bruce’s own fault that they were so late. It was he who had suggested that they watch Ordinary Americans, a twohour picture, and they had sat through the whole thing.
It had been worth it, though, there was no doubt about that, a real ego buzz. There is nothing quite like having a gorgeous girl gasp at your masterpiece. Brooke had loved his film, or at least she had professed to – and done so with sufficient conviction to satisfy Bruce. It had been a very curious sensation, sitting beside this girl, all wound up to make a move on her but not wanting to disturb her enjoyment of his great work. Which would be more exciting, hearing her gasp at his powers as a director or at his powers as a lover? Every time he had got himself ready to chance brushing a gentle kiss along her delectable bare shoulders, those same shoulders shook with mirth at one of the many dazzlingly witty ironic juxtapositions of image and dialogue with which the movie was peppered. Every time he was ready to slide an arm round her or ‘accidentally’ lay his hand on top of hers, the movie arrived at another of his favourite bits and he had to stop to let her concentrate.
Bruce had lots of favourite bits and vanity had been stronger than desire. He had let her watch the whole movie unmolested. Hence the lateness of the hour, the coldness of the approaching dawn and the fact that he was not even at the proverbial first base. He cursed himself for not having made a shorter film. He had always thought about cutting the discotheque sequence; after all seventies kitsch had been done and doubledone. On the other hand, it was such a funny scene, the way the guy kept getting more and more stains on his white Travolta suit, first food, then wine, then puke and finally his own blood. Classic stuff. You couldn’t cut it; it would have been a crime. Still, it had added eight minutes to the movie. Eight minutes in which he could have been making love to his favourite ever Playboy centrefold.
The movie had finally come to an end, however, and they were back at his home. It was time to make a move.
‘It really is a wonderful picture,’ Brooke said.
She had said it a hundred times already. She knew it and he knew it. The awkward presex atmosphere had led them into one of those circular conversations in which nobody can think of anything to say and so instead, they continually retread ground already covered.
‘I can’t believe you sat and watched the whole thing on an editing machine. That shows real dedication.’ Bruce, too, had ploughed this furrow many times.
‘Well, you know, like I say, it’s such a wonderful movie,’ Brooke said again.
‘Well, I’m delighted you think so, but it still shows real dedication to have watched the whole thing like that… and on an editing machine.’
Brooke simply could not bring herself to comment further on the wonderfulness of the movie. They lapsed into silence.
Bruce looked at his watch. ‘Shit! It’s nearly four a.m.’ It wasn’t meant to come out like that, but he hadn’t realized it was quite so late. ‘I thought it was about two thirty.’
‘Is that a problem?’ Brooke enquired. ‘Did you have anything planned?’
‘I’m afraid so. My wife will be here at nine.’
This was disappointing news. Brooke had not been one hundred per cent sure what she wanted when she accepted Bruce’s invitation to come home, but meeting estranged spouses certainly wasn’t it.
‘I thought you said your divorce came through.’
It is true that Bruce had said this, in the car, as they left the Governor’s party. It hadn’t really been a lie. The whole world knew that he and his wife had parted irrevocably, and the thing really would be final in a day or two.
‘We are, practically. That’s why she’s coming round – money stuff.’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Oscar at night, alimony in the morning: life in the Hollywood fast lane.’
There was an uncomfortable pause. How could there not be? Two strangers already dealing with the difficult problems of whether to go to bed together and if so how to get to it, and now this. As chatup lines go, ‘My wife will be round in a couple of hours’ is only one step from ‘I am a regular druguser and I always share needles’.
‘Oh well…’ said Brooke. ‘It’s been a lovely night.’
He had not even offered her a seat. They were both still standing, looking at each other across a vast couch.
‘You really think so?’ Weak, so weak. He had meant it to sound boyishly anxious, nervous and attractive, but it hadn’t. How much better to have said, ‘It could get lovelier’ or ‘Not as lovely as you’ or even ‘Never mind that, how about a fuck?’ But no: ‘You really think so?’ Pathetic. For a moment Bruce recalled ‘I stand here on legs of fire’, and the erection that had been straining in his trousers for the previous three or four hours took a momentary dive.
Brooke was beginning to feel a little out of sorts herself. This big man, this Oscarwinning king of cool wearing pointy boots and Bogart’s tux was just standing there. What did he expect? Was she supposed to offer herself unasked? Was it a power thing? Maybe he thought a bit of polite smalltalk was beneath him. Maybe babes were expected just to climb aboard.
‘Yes, I do think so. It’s been a lovely night.’
This was absurd. She said something dumb, he said is that so? and she said yes, it was so. How long could they keep this up?
Brooke summoned up all her powers of imagination in an effort to advance the dialogue. ‘Kind of like a first date. You know, we had a dance, we saw a movie…’
‘That’s a nice thought. It’s been a long time since I had a first date.’
They were getting there.
‘Me neither,’ Brooke agreed, and then, after a tiny pause, she looked him in the eye and said, ‘Brings back the old firstdate question, doesn’t it? How far do you go on them?’ Well she couldn’t do any more than that. Not without actually taking off her clothes. Now it was up to him.
‘So… What’s the answer to that, then?’
She was annoyed. She certainly was not going to beg him to make a move on her. He had picked her up at the party, he had brought her to his home. He had to make some of the running, if only for form’s sake.
‘Well the rule in school was the boy gets a feel of the boobs but only from outside the bra.’ Her voice showed traces of the irritation she felt. ‘These days I tend to think the rule depends on the guy.’
She sat down. Bruce had still not offered her a seat but she sat anyway. Elegantly, beautifully, a vision. She crossed her legs and Bruce took a personal closeup on the slashed skirt of her dress falling either side of her knees.
‘Nice table,’ she said, studying her reflection in the shiny glass.
‘I like it.’
‘I can think of a good use for it,’ said Brooke.