Literacy and Longing in L. A. by Jennifer Kaufman Page B

affliction that affects so many sedentary, high-powered urban men and makes them look like Armani-clad pregnant chickens. He is also a good twenty years older than I am. Of course. I knew it. I knew they’d stick me next to someone like this. I can just hear Pamela now:
Oh, Dora, you have so much in common. You both like books. You both like the theater.
Meanwhile, he asked for Perrier. He doesn’t drink. What a bore. When the salad arrives, he asks for it with the dressing on the side. I hate when people do that. Oh no. Here it comes. The South Beach Diet. Save me. I’m glad I didn’t waste my new Prada jacket on this dud of an event. Now the agent is launching into an endless discussion concerning the SAG retirement plan, which interests the gyno, and the two of them then get into a serious discussion about the state of off-network shows, particularly those concerning bodily functions. I sip my wine. It’s not great but it’s getting better.
    Just as the beef tenderloin with risotto cakes is beingserved, I notice Palmer and his girlfriend seated at one of the A-tables on the other side of the podium. How could I have missed him? But I forget, he usually strolls into an event just as everyone is being seated. He catches my eye and waves. Oh Christ, he’s pushing out his chair. Dammit, I’m not in the mood to deal with this now. Palmer leans over Kimberly’s shoulder, sweeps back a frosted blonde tress, and whispers in her ear. I see her squeeze his hand in an annoying, knowing sort of way and then I am sure of it. He’s coming over here to fulfill a social obligation or, maybe, pay his respects as if I were his dowager aunt. I watch him walk across the room. There is this wealthy, sunny sparkle to his demeanor that I remember admiring when I first met him. He’s wearing an expensive, imported, impeccably tailored tuxedo with a trendy white pleated shirt, the kind that the young male turks of Hollywood wear to the Oscars and that require no bow tie. I’m certain that she picked it out for him. His sandy, gray-flecked hair is longer than I remember, and he has onyx-and-diamond studs and matching cuff links. He looks tall and victorious, moving with the graceful stride of a man who no longer has to worry about success or status. He stares straight at me with a kind of quiet resolve while the rest of the room stares at him.
    “Dora, you look terrific.”
    “So do you, Palmer,” I say, and I mean it.
    He has a bemused smile, taking in the various people at my table and making the obvious assessment. He raises his eyebrows. “Can I get any of you a drink? I’m on my way to the bar.”
    “I’m fine,” I say, and then realize he’s making an offer. “But I’ll come with you if you’d like.”
    He takes my elbow and more or less escorts me out of the rotunda and into the vestibule, where there is a small bar set up. It’s an odd feeling, me standing there with him, both of us all dressed up, calm and decorous, and making pleasant conversation that is completely unrelated to what I imagine either of us is thinking.
    I flash on the night we met, an event much like this. I was busy interviewing someone when Palmer sent me a glass of champagne from across the room. The waiter pointed him out to me and we smiled. We ended up going to a late-night bar, discovered our favorite book was
Huck Finn,
and, well, I don’t feel like going down memory lane right now.
    One thing is clear. The quick, overbearing petulance is gone. So is the bitterness and disappointment. Palmer is back to his old enigmatic, charming, sexy self. And I realize that he couldn’t have done it with me. It occurs to me that maybe, somehow, he’s heard about my little clandestine visits to his house. But no, that’s crazy, he couldn’t possibly know. Could he?
    “So, how’ve you been, Palmer?” I say, testing the waters, avoiding any physical contact.
    “Fine. I’ve been thinking about you,” he says with an endearing smile. He leans in