She suddenly wishes she didn’t have to take off her mask. Maybe she’ll simply refuse to take it off. She has a right to change her mind. Perhaps she’ll just arrange to see Strad another time, someplace safer, more familiar, such as Barb’s apartment. These thoughts are calming her. And she decides right then that, in fact, she won’t take off her mask. There. She feels much better now.
“God, it’s so loud here,” he complains.
“I know.”
“This cake is great. Here, have a bite,” he says.
“No thanks, I’m not hungry.”
“It would make me so happy if you would taste it.”
Her anxiety returns. Obviously he’s trying to get her to take off her mask.
She will give in without giving in. “Okay,” she says.
She takes the fork he’s handing her, on which rests a piece of tart, and lifts the bottom of her mask just enough to slide the bite into her mouth.
She chews and releases the mask to where it was. “Mmm. It’s good,” she says.
Lily glances at Strad. He is solemn. Clearly he’s disappointed that she hasn’t removed her mask as she’d promised she would. Well, tough.
Taking it upon herself to get the conversation going again, she says, “So, Barb tells me you’re a musician. What kind of music do you play?”
“Wait,” he says. “I’m still recovering.”
“Recovering?” she asks, puzzled.
“Yes,” he says, gazing down, looking almost pained.
“From what?”
“That glimpse of your chin,” he replies, softly.
She doesn’t respond.
“I think I’d like to get together again, based solely on your chin.”
“Ah.” She doesn’t know what else to say. All she can think about is how relieved she is that the music worked well enough on her chin. And not only that, he wants to see her again. Things could not be better.
They chat about various things. He tells her about the evening he spent having dinner with the Knights of Creation at Barb’s apartment, and how they attacked Jack and then were handcuffed for dinner to a ballet bar and then were sectioned off for dessert by a transparent plastic sheet hanging from the ceiling. Lily tries to react as though she wasn’t there. But conveying amusement and amazement while masked is not easy and has to be done entirely with voice and body language, which she does as best she can by flinging her head around and laughing loudly.
Then Strad moves on to the topic of Lily’s music. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s her music playing, right now,” he says, finger pointing up, ear cocked. “That’s if you can hear it above all this howling. God, you’d think we were in a day care center. Anyway, if that’s her music, probably before we leave here today we’ll have bought at least five books each.”
Lily laughs. “Really?”
“Oh yeah, you’ll see. Lily’s got phenomenal talent.”
Suddenly, a floor manager appears at their table.
Lily and Strad stare up at him, wondering what it’s about.
The manager leans toward them and says, in a hushed voice, “Excuse me, your mask is upsetting the children. I’ve had a few complaints from mothers. Would it be too much to ask you to please remove it? I apologize for the inconvenience.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was the cause of the crying,” Lily says.
The manager nods sympathetically, waiting for her to take it off.
Lily frantically wonders if her music is loud enough to work its magic. It did okay with her chin, apparently. But she’s gripped by an irrational fear that now the effect won’t work.
She’s tempted to tell the manager, “In my bag I have another, much more attractive mask that the children might prefer. Could I just switch masks in the bathroom?”
But why postpone the inevitable? She did not spend weeks struggling to create music that would beautify her just to keep her face hidden.
She prays that when she takes off the mask, Strad will not recognize her. If he sees Lily, the embarrassment would kill her.
She lifts the mask and puts it in her shopping bag. “No problem. Out of sight, out of mind,” she says.
Both men are staring at her. They look dumbstruck.
The manager regains his wits first, and says to Lily. “You know, you look very familiar. Do I look familiar to you?”
Lily studies his face. He’s in his late twenties, dark hair, glasses, nice-looking. “I don’t think so,” she says.
“Hmm. Could I have your number or give you mine so we can figure out where we might have met before?” He chuckles, mock sheepishly. “Otherwise I know it’s going to nag at me.”
Strad snaps out of it. “You must be joking. We’re on a date. Please leave us alone.”
“Apologies.” The manager leaves.
“Can you believe his lame pickup line?” Strad tells her.
She smiles.
“It’s so quiet now. It really was your mask causing all the crying.” He attempts to shake his head at her flirtatiously, but he seems nervous. He glances around. His smile fades. “Do you always have half the people in a room staring at you?” He adds in a whisper, “Especially the male half?” He attempts another flirtatious look of reproach.
“Let’s ignore them,” Lily says.
They talk about various things. His childhood. Hers — partly made up so it won’t match Lily’s. He asks her about her tastes in everything. He tells her about his music and acting ambitions.
Their conversation is interrupted by the approach of a distinguished older man with a warm, intelligent face who hands Lily a book. “Excuse me. I just want to give you a copy of my autobiography that was recently published. I hope you’ll enjoy it.” His accent sounds French.
Lily hesitantly takes the book, entitled This Is Not an Autobiography.
“Oh. Thank you,” she says.
“You’re quite welcome,” the man replies, bowing to her and then to Strad before walking away.
Lily opens the cover and sees a handwritten message to her: “For the stranger who spoke to me without speaking. I’d love to know your thoughts on this — or on anything. Danny.” And a phone number is scribbled underneath.
“Do you mind if I take a look?” Strad asks.
Lily gives him the book.
He reads the message, snorts, and tosses the book on the middle of the table.
Lily picks it up and reads the back cover, which seems to annoy Strad, who says, “So who the hell is this guy?”
“This says he’s a legendary French photographer.”
“Yeah, bullshit.”
“The photo looks like him,” she says and quickly puts the book down, not wanting to annoy Strad further.
They resume their conversation, which gets interrupted ten minutes later by yet another man — this time a tall and extremely good-looking one.
“I don’t believe this,” Strad mutters through clenched teeth.
The man looks down at Lily without saying a word and places a little piece of paper on the table in front of her. She picks it up. It reads: “You deserve the best. Let’s have coffee.” His phone number is underneath.
She chuckles nervously and looks up at him. He smiles at her before strolling off.
With an air of indifference (in order to calm Strad), Lily lets go of the paper. It flutters to the tabletop. Strad reaches for it, reads it, and, with scathing disdain, calls out after the man, “What are you, a male model or something?”
The man pivots on his heels and comes back to the table. “Pardon?” he says, looming over Strad.