Thankfully, if Terry’s mouth had become bulbous and mildly unsettling, it was not yet actually disturbing. But it wasn’t alone in betraying the telltale signs of tamper. Her forehead was so smooth she might have been dead, since no expression or mannerism seemed to make it move above the eyebrows, and the eyes themselves had become very fixed in their orbit. Of course, more or less all this stuff, carrying with it, as it must, horrible images of the pinning and stretching and sawing and sewing of bloody skin and bruised bone, has come about in my lifetime and I can’t be alone in finding it an odd fashion to have developed alongside the supposed liberation of women. Cutting their faces about, presumably to please men, does not strike one as a convincing mark of equality. In fact, it feels uncomfortably insecure, a Western manifestation of female circumcision or facial disfigurement or some other dark and ancient method of asserting male ownership.
Plastic surgery is better now than forty years ago, when it was largely reserved for actresses and foreign ones at that. But even now, when the results can be spectacular, there is a high and ironic price to pay, because for most men it’s a turnoff to end all. The knowledge that a woman has been sliced about diminishes to nothing one’s desire to see her without her kit. Although here I admit that women pay less high a price than men. Women who have ‘work done’ lose their sexual power over men. Men who resort to it lose everything.
Terry had reached my table. ‘My God! You look-’ She hesitated. I think she had been planning to say ‘exactly the same!’ but, having come nearer and actually seen me, it was obvious that my appearance had altered so completely that I should carry a passport to prove my identity to anyone who has not met me since the Sixties. ‘Fantastic!’ she said instead, which did the work perfectly acceptably. I smiled. I had already got to my feet so I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Now, you do look fantastic,’ I said and we sat, jovial and comfortable in our generous dishonesty.
A bland and pleasant-looking waiter stepped in briskly to tell us that his name was Gary and he very much hoped we were going to have an enjoyable evening, a hope I shared, even if I can never really see why it should matter much to the Garys of this world either way. He poured out two glasses of ice cubes, with a little water, and explained the specials, which all seemed to be frightening and hitherto unknown kinds of fish, and then, after promising to bring us some Chardonnay, he left us to our own devices. ‘So, how is life in California?’ This wasn’t a very original opener, but I had by this stage of the Damian Mission, acquired the habit of going in gently, knowing that I would be investigating the paternity of their young before the night was out.
She gave a bright, generalised smile. ‘Great!’ she said, which was what I expected. I knew that with Californians this first act of any conversation is obligatory, where all decisions they have ever made are the right ones. Later, in some cases, the truth level may improve, but even for those rare individuals who long to unburden themselves of their pain they must still observe this ritual. Rather like having to eat the bread and butter before Nanny will give you cake.
‘You never felt the need to go back to Cincinnati?’
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t what I wanted. Not really. Greg’s business was here.’ She smiled and waved her hand towards the window. We could just hear the sounds of the sea under the restaurant hubbub. ‘And there are no complaints about the weather.’
I nodded, mainly because one is always supposed to agree with this, but I can’t be the only Englishman who finds those endlessly sunny days rather dull. I like our weather. I like the soft light of its grey days and the smell of the air after rain. Most of all I like the sudden changeability. ‘If you’re tired of the weather in England,’ goes the old adage, ‘just wait for five minutes.’ I know it makes it hard to arrange outdoor events and no hostess with a brain would plan anything that was completely weather dependent, but even so… Anyway, I let it go.
Nice Gary had returned and poured out some wine, while we took a final glance at the menu. ‘Is it possible to have the seafood salad but without the shrimp or the calamari?’ Terry had begun the dismemberment of the official suggestions that is part of eating out with a West Coast resident. ‘And what exactly is in the dressing?’ Gary answered as best he could, but he did not achieve a sale. ‘Is there chicken stock in the artichoke soup?’ He thought not. But did he know? No, he wasn’t completely sure. So he went to the kitchen and returned with the happy news that the stock was vegetarian friendly, but while he was away, Terry had moved on. ‘Is there any flour in the tempura batter?’ I looked at her. She smiled. ‘I’m allergic to gluten.’ It was something that obviously pleased her. Gary, of course, was used to this. He was probably a West Coast boy himself and had grown up in the certain knowledge that only people of low status order off the menu as it is printed. However, I think we were all coming to realise that Terry was approaching the moment when, even in Santa Monica, a decision might be required. ‘I think I’ll start with some asparagus, but no butter or dressing, just olive oil. Then scallops, but hold the mixed salad. I’ll take hearts of lettuce, plain.’ Gary managed to write all this down, relieved no doubt that his release was on the horizon. He turned to me. Too soon. ‘Can I get some spinach?’ Why do Americans say ‘get’ in this context? They are not presumably planning to go into the kitchen and fetch it themselves. ‘Mashed but not creamed. Absolutely no cream.’
She turned to me, but I spoke first. ‘You’re allergic to dairy.’
She nodded happily. Meanwhile, Gary had noted every detail on his little pad. She still hadn’t finished. ‘Is the spinach cooked with salt?’ With infinite and, I thought, admirable patience, Gary ventured that yes, the spinach was cooked with a little salt. Terry shook her head, as if it were hard to believe in this day and age, ‘no salt when they cook it.’ I could not imagine how, even under this provocation, Patient Gary kept his cool. He hoped that would be possible. ‘It’s possible,’ said Terry. ‘No salt.’ By now I could see that even Gary, that laid-back boy from sunny California, was ready to sink his pencil deep into Terry’s neck and stand by, watching, as the blood oozed out around its tip. But he nodded, not trusting himself to give a vocal response.
He turned to me and we exchanged eye contact, recognising our alliance in that strange way that one can befriend a total stranger who has been a co-witness to impossible behaviour. ‘I’ll have the artichoke soup, a steak, medium rare and a green salad.’ He seemed almost bewildered that the process had been so speedy.
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
With the hint of a sigh, he was just moving away, when Terry spoke again. ‘Is there mayonnaise in your coleslaw?’
Gary paused. When he spoke again his voice had acquired the super-softness of a doctor’s when dealing with a potentially dangerous patient. ‘Yes, madam,’ he said. ‘There is mayonnaise in our coleslaw.’
‘Oh. Then forget it.’ She dismissed him with a slight, insulting flick of her hand and picked up her glass for another drink.
In justice, having been a silent witness for so long, I felt the need to intervene. ‘Terry.’ She turned, surprised perhaps that I should have an opinion. ‘There’s always mayonnaise in coleslaw.’
Again that little shake of the head in wondering disbelief. ‘Not in our house,’ she said and Gary made his escape.
