Lars Guttfriend. Lanky blond hair, and a preternatural tan which seemed to be somehow genetic. You’d think he was an Icelandic prince, but in fact, he was from Philadelphia. He claimed to be the son of wealthy socialites, and that “Lars” was a family name, but there was something a little too Gatsby-esque about all that; Alison didn’t buy it. With or without a tan, all these East Coasters started to look and sound the same to her after a while—the edge too consistently inauthentic, the social manners too practiced. Everybody had so many agendas running you couldn’t make heads or tails out of what was going on in anybody’s brain unless you put it all down to just constant power plays, which she found too wearying to even contemplate. In any event, Lars kept looking at her like she was some sort of strange yet wonderful art object. It seemed a little practiced, like the sort of thing a movie director was supposed to be doing, constantly eyeballing pretty actresses and wondering what their best angle was.
But he could stare all he wanted. Alison’s attention turned to the next temptation, course number seven, halibut in sea butter foam. She decided that since it was fish she was going to just go ahead and eat the whole thing and then shamelessly lick the plate. She knew that Ryan didn’t actually give a shit if she put on a few pounds. The not-eating rule had more to do with some total fantasy he was having that Lars would invite her back to his fabulous penthouse suite at the Soho Grand and ravage her, which would not be quite as sexy on a full stomach. Ryan’s cooing obsession with Lars was a little extreme frankly; he seemed to have some sort of major crush on the guy. He’d probably have a better shot than I do, her brain observed idly, and as soon as the thought skittered through her she stopped to look at it. Three weeks ago, she was dreading the possibility that she might have to sleep with this movie director just because. Because that’s what starlets do. So this idea was maybe good; maybe Lars was gay, and she was going to be his beard for a little while, and maybe she’d get a few auditions out of it, and she’d meet some important people, and that would be that. The question of whoring herself out could be put on a shelf for another couple of months.
“The halibut is delicious,” noted the woman to her right. What is her name? Is she married to one of these men in suits? There was no boy-girl-boy-girl nonsense going on at this table; Lars had directed everyone to their seats, but the plan seemed to be to put the girls on one side of the table so the boys could do business on the other.
“You know what, Kate”—what a save—“the halibut is so awesome I’m throwing caution to the wind,” Alison told her.
“You’ve been very good all night.” Kate actually reached for a roll and buttered it. The butter, they had been told by their master waiter, was artisanal. It came from cows who only fed on the first clover of spring, or sage leaves and pea sprouts, something like that.
“I’m a little mad at myself,” Alison admitted. “This food is amazing and I should not have worn this stupid dress, I should have worn a big baggy sweater.”
“You actresses have to be so careful,” Kate noted. “I couldn’t do it.” The woman was lovely, silver haired, probably over sixty, but the fact was she was definitely on the larger side. Her boxy jacket did nothing for her figure either. Alison realized with a pang of regret that she had assumed that the woman was not so important, because she didn’t carry herself with the same smug arrogance all the skinny people had. And of course half the men, across the table over there, were sizable to hefty. The other half were as wraith-like as medieval monks.
“How do you know Lars?” Alison asked.
“Oh, I gave him his first job, whenever that was, fifteen years ago?”
“You gave him his first directing job?”
“His first ‘job’ job. He was a PA. I was the line producer.”
“What are you now?”
“I’m myself now. I’m too old for your game.”
“Surely not,” Alison said politely.
“It’s not an easy business. It wears some of us out,” Kate informed her dryly. She reached for her wineglass with the definite air of someone who had finished the conversation.
Alison found herself strangely jolted at that. With that momentary inanity—surely not!—she seemed to have lost some unexpected chance, even if it was just a chance to tell a secret to a total stranger. The older woman was already looking to her right, as if considering the possibility that the brainless actress on that side of her would have something more interesting to say.
“I don’t like show business either,” Alison admitted, under her breath. It wasn’t the most brilliant of observations, but it snagged the other woman’s attention, momentarily, anyway.
“You seem to be doing fairly well for someone who doesn’t like it,” she said.
“It’s wearing me out. Sort of like this dress,” Alison said. “You can’t have a decent conversation with anyone. I don’t know how to talk anymore. And I’m so hungry all the time I can’t think. I’m ready to stab you in the heart over that roll with the butter on it. That’s all I’m thinking about half the time. And I’m so lonely.”
The older woman considered this, and set her wineglass down. “You’re very pretty,” she finally concluded. “It distracts people.”
“Oh.” Alison’s disappointment at the banality of that couldn’t be disguised. But Kate Whatever Her Name Was was waxing philosophic now.
“People don’t know how to talk to pretty girls. Especially when they’re wearing dresses like that. People generally don’t want to talk to dresses. They want to do other things to dresses, and with dresses, but conversation is not high on the agenda.”