Free Mortal Friends by Jane Stanton Hitchcock Page B

and whispered to me, “I wish they’d shut up and die already. I’m famished,” it kind of broke the spell.
    However, when Bob saw how much I loved the arts, he made an effort to discuss the productions we saw rather than treating them as tiresome preludes to a party. My efforts to get him to appreciate culture were not always successful. I caught him nodding off during the Bolshoi’s splendid production of La Bayadère —but the minute I gently nudged him, he roused himself, grabbed my hand, and kissed it gently, as if to thank me.
    For the first time in what seemed like an eon, I was having fun. I’d forgotten what it was like to get all dressed up and go somewhereglamorous on the arm of an attractive and important man. The juices were flowing. I was basking in the fun. If I wanted to see a certain production or exhibition, I merely had to mention it to Bob, and that night we had tickets. Bang—just like that!
    Every time Maxwell drove us up to the front of the Kennedy Center or the National Gallery or just about any place, people stopped and stared at that fabulous hunter green Rolls and then at us as we got out. We always had the best seats in the house and the best tables at gala dinners. We were photographed and written up in the columns. The number of “important” people who suddenly took an interest in me was staggering. People who barely knew me, people who wouldn’t have spit on me before, now made beelines across crowded rooms “just to say hello.” All because I was dating Bob.
    I told Violet how much I liked Bob and how my status in life had suddenly changed because I was seeing him. She said wisely: “Listen, Rev, when there’s a new queen on the horizon, people want to jump on her golden coach so she won’t forget them if she makes it to the throne. And you may make it. Just don’t sleep with him.”
    In between the obligations of this hectic social life, Bob and I managed to wedge in a few cozy dinners at good restaurants where we swapped heavily edited versions of our life stories. I knew the unexpurgated versions would come later when we got to know each other better. Bob’s thumbnail sketch was that he’d been married once and had two grown children, a boy and girl, of whom he was obviously fond and proud. The boy owned a large organic farm in Kentucky; the girl was a dermatologist in California. He was loath to talk about his first wife. When I asked him why he’d gotten divorced, he simply said, “We were married young and grew apart”—a safe, stock answer upon which he refused to elaborate.
    Another taboo was Melody. When I broached the subject, he absolutely refused to talk about her—which Violet assured me was a good sign.
    “When they talk about the exes, it means they’re not over them,” she said confidently.
    Bob asked me quite a bit about my own life, which was a novelty right there. Most of the men I’d dated in Washington were only interested in talking about themselves—what Violet and I dubbed the “I-I-I” syndrome, pronounced Aiyaiyai . I could call Violet after a dateand say simply, “Aiyaiyai!” and she’d know exactly how the evening went.
    I glossed over the topic of my ex-husband, putting a humorous cast on our doomed marriage. “I thought he had talent. He thought I had money. We were both wrong.” Enough said.
    Bob seemed very interested in the fact that Grant had been an old beau of mine, and that I’d actually introduced him to Violet.
    “Grant’s a rich, good-looking guy. How come you didn’t grab him?” he asked me.
    I explained that talking to Grant was like playing tennis against a backboard. I always felt like I was getting my own shot back. I refrained from telling him about a sexual encounter I had with Grant, much as I would have liked to, as it explained a lot.
    One night not too long after we started dating, Grant had invited me back to his house after dinner. In the midst of some hot and heavy petting on the couch, he got up and