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“Wait till you try this meat,” Harry tells Claire, leaning across the table. “It’s the best steak in the world.”
She looks at the prices and whispers to me, “Walter, it’s very expensive.”
It is expensive. This is not the kind of place where she would normally come if a man wasn’t paying. I can see her doing the math in her head. I remember what it is like to go out with a large group with expensive tastes when you only have a few dollars in the bank.
Once in college I joined some classmates at a restaurant on the Upper East Side, students down for the weekend on a spree. My first credit card sat chastely in my wallet. When my father had given it to me, he said, “Now, Walt, this is for use only in emergencies.” I had about fifty dollars in cash too, a fortune back then. One of our group, the son of a wine importer who had been raised glamorously in both Connecticut and England, casually informed us that he was having the caviar. Several others, equally privileged, did as well. I gulped when I saw the prices. He then ordered wine, champagnes and Bordeaux.
This was not the way I normally lived. Part of me was greedy for the experience, the other part appalled by the extravagance. And, mind you, we weren’t poor. But a closely controlled lifetime of allowances, boarding schools, country clubs, and college had kept me sheltered from this kind of decadence. Scrupulously, I ordered the cheapest thing on the menu. Chicken of some kind. It didn’t matter, of course. When the bill came we all divided it up equally. I was horrified to see that my share was nearly one hundred dollars. I had never spent anywhere close to that on a meal in my life. If my companions were equally aghast, they hid it. As I found out, that was the code. Gentlemen don’t quibble about the check. As I reluctantly handed over the card, I felt a tremendous fool, especially at the thought of those who had gorged themselves at my expense.
When I told my father what had happened, he assured me he would pay the bill. This time. “I hope you learned a lesson,” he said. “Next time I won’t bail you out.”
I turn to Claire and whisper, “Don’t worry. This is our treat. You’re our guest.”
She doesn’t say anything, thanking me instead with her eyes. They are truly lovely.
We order. Our drinks come. Then hot plates of saganaki, which is basically melted Greek cheese. Incredibly delicious. Taramasalata, bread, and olives. Wine. We are all laughing a lot, and Harry is standing up and telling a funny story in some kind of accent and doing a little dance, which has us all roaring.
Finally the steaks arrive. Large hunks of seared beef, thick, charred crusts of salt, pepper, and sparkling fat dripping down the sides. We fall on them like sled dogs.
“Oh my god, this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten,” gasps Claire.
The rest of us grunt appreciatively, too happy to stop chewing.
In midbite, I sense Claire tense. I look at her, thinking she might be about to choke. But it is not that. She sees something. I look around, following her gaze.
“What’s the idea, Winslow?”
It’s Clive. He’s standing over the table. Staring hard. He looks flushed.
“Clive,” says Claire. “What are you …?”
“Quiet. I’m not talking to you.”
Harry puts down his knife and fork. The rest of us sit expectantly. Ned pushes his chair back. The muscles bunch in his neck. Harry says, “Clive, I’ll ask you not to speak to Claire like that.”
“I’ll speak to her any bloody way I like. So,” he says, now turning to Claire, “have you fucked him yet?” Turning to Harry, he continues, “She’s a pretty good fuck, isn’t she, ’Arry?”
I notice him dropping his h’s, revealing his true origins. Yes, I know, I am a snob. But is that worse than pretending you are something you are not?
“Get out of here, Clive. You’re drunk.”
“So what if I am?” To Maddy he sneers, “You better watch her, or she’ll be shagging ’Arry the moment your back’s turned.”
“All right. That does it.” Harry is on his feet, moving toward Clive.
For a minute I think he is going to hit him. Clive seems to think so too because he involuntarily flinches, awaiting a blow that never comes. And Harry is a powerful man, maybe not as strong as Ned but big enough. You don’t play hockey the way Harry did and not be good with your fists. Instead he grabs Clive fiercely by the lapels.
“Clive, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but obviously you’ve had too much to drink,” he says. “I want you to apologize to my wife, Claire, and Cissy. Then I want you to pay your check and get out of here.”
Clive looks nervous but responds, “What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll take you outside and beat the hell out of you.”
By this time Anna is at our table, and diners sitting around us are staring. “What’s going on? Mister Harry, what are you doing?”
Harry releases Clive. “Nothing, Anna. One of your guests was just leaving.”
“Fuck off, ’Arry,” says Clive, regaining his composure as he retreats from the room. To Claire: “And fuck you too, you slag.”
Ned is about to go after him, but Harry puts his hand on his shoulder. “Let him go. It’s not worth it.” To Anna, he says, “My apologies, Anna. Hope that didn’t spoil any of your other guests’ appetites.”
“I don’t like that kind of thing here, Mister Harry,” she says. “I don’t want him coming back here. You can always come back. You’re almost like family, you, Mrs. Winslow, and Mister Walter.”
“Thank you, Anna.” Then he turns to Claire and puts his hands on her shoulders and asks, “Are you all right?”
She nods, her eyes red. “I’m sorry,” she chokes. “I’m sorry.”
“Some men just don’t like being dumped, eh?” someone jokes to break the tension. I think it is me.
“Harry,” says Maddy, rising regally to her feet. “I’m going to take Claire into the ladies’ room. Come on, Claire. Cissy, you come too.”
After they return, Claire is quiet. She doesn’t look at anyone. Maddy leans into Harry. “We should go.”
“Of course. I’ll go see Anna about the bill.”
The ride home is suffused with awkward silence. Ned and Cissy are in their own car, the rest of us in the old Jeep. Harry tries to make light of what happened. For once his natural charm is ineffectual. It is impossible to tell what Maddy is thinking. She is keeping her thoughts to herself. What will the two of them talk about later in bed, in the privacy of their own room? Will Maddy be angry? Will she be frightened? And what will Harry do or say? Would they say anything? I have no idea. This is unexplored territory. They have been married for nearly twenty years, and are so inseparable she even went with him on his book tours.
It is Madeleine who saves the moment. She turns in her seat, looks at Claire, who is sitting in the back next to me, and says, “I hope you know I think what Clive said is complete shit.”
Claire sniffs gratefully. “Thank you, Maddy.”
“No. You don’t have to thank me. It just sickens me that someone like him feels he can go about poisoning people’s minds just because he isn’t happy. He’s a stupid man, and he was trying to hurt you and us. We offended his vanity, and he had to lash out.”
I have almost never been more proud of her. She has always had the ability to cut through the extraneous and focus on the essential.
Harry is driving, concentrating on the road. Briefly, he looks at Maddy and smiles, and she smiles back. Unpleasantness