ECLECTIC WRITER: Flattery ~ a shorty story ~ Fiction

Flattery

by:

Füsun Atalay

Author's Note: I was inspired to write this story after having read similar ones by Somerset Maugham and Geoffrey Archer. As they say, "Imitation is the best form of Flattery". Thus there is a double purpose to my selection of the title for this story. I brought into it not only my own extensive culinary knowledge, but also first hand personal experiences from attending many literary galas of the various Writers' Federations and Guilds of which I have been a member for over a decade.

a short story

Our eyes met over the masses of people who had crowded into the Salle Mont-Blanc on the mezzanine. She did not look totally unfamiliar although at that instant I could not recall where I had seen her before. She reached out to grab a glass from the tray carried by a white gloved waiter in black tuxedo, and started weaving among the chattering crowd towards me with a Cheshire cat smile displaying a perfect row of teeth behind her bright crimson lips.

"Dah-ling, how are you?" she cooed throwing her free arm around me before I had a chance to recollect her name or where I’d met her before.

Her familiar greeting did not help at all since everyone calls everyone else darling at these occasions. We were at the annual awards gala of the Literary Society and it was customary to socialize a bit and get over the jitters with the flow of wine and finger- foods passed around during the cocktail hour preceding the presentations.

She was quite a sight in her long, black velvet dress and several rows of large imitation pearls that dangled down to her waist. Her streaked, shoulder-length hair looked as if it were combed freely; and the charming little curls around her face detracted attention away from the reluctant age lines around her lips and the crows' feet around her eyes.

"I am just fine, and how are you?" I could not help but retort to an unimaginative strategy in reply.

"I see your "Moon Worshippers" is short listed for fiction. Wonderful!" she stopped another waiter and exchanged her already emptied champagne glass for a full one .

"Thanks. And how is the family? " I asked obtusely.

"Oh, what family !" she waved her hand supporting a rather oversized, square ruby in a dismissive manner. "Rodrigue and I are no longer together, you know. I mean, everybody knows. How is Mireille?"

"She’s fine," I replied. "I’ll be joining her in New York next month for her pastel exhibit". There was a brief pause in the conversation as I tried to think of what to say next.

"You don't really remember me, do you?" she asked amused as she wolfed down a mini quiche.

Just then, by some divine intervention, memory came back to me and I replied with a smile,

"How could anyone forget you, Evangeline? You may change your hairstyle, but the eyes never tell lies."

In all honesty, it was the way she had devoured that mini quiche after gulping down the champagne that helped me recall her name in the nick of time.

I had met her a little over two years ago in February during a book signing at Les Mots and continued chatting after I had written brief pleasantries and autographed all the books that were pushed in front of me by my numbered fans. The charming praises she lavished so generously on my novel must’ve made my head spin. After all, which budding new author could pass up such recognition by a lady who turned eyes upon her just by her dazzling presence?

It was approaching one o'clock when the book signing and a brief media interview were completed. It had been a fine morning, but now the real test of success came as I had to wait for the royalties to start rolling in. After having paid my airfare to France to join Mireille for her water colour exhibition, and the month's rent for the little pad we kept on St Denis, I had only a hundred and forty-seven dollars left in my pocket to last me through the next two weeks.

I noticed she was waiting for me, and as soon as I slipped on my coat to leave the book store she floated towards me wearing an alluring smile and a shiny, ankle-length mink..

"How about doing lunch, ?" she asked. "I’d be so honoured to dine with a promising young talent as you, and talk about your Archer's Revenge .

I was taken by surprise and instead of making up an excuse to get out of the proposal, my ego replied without thinking, "The honour would be mine. Did you have any particular spot in mind?"

She hadn’t given much consideration to it but The Torch, she remembered had a light lunch menu that should be agreeable. And besides, they had recently acquired Anton from The Plaza Athena. The names did not mean much to me who was more preoccupied with their budgetary implications rather than their culinary credentials.

The dining room was furnished with plush burgundy carpets, white linen covered tables, gold-rimmed china and sparkling silver. I realized one surely paid for the decor although one did not ingest any of it. There seemed to be too many waiters to attend to one's dining to allow one to relax and enjoy it.

We were shown to an intimate, round table near the fireplace and immediately handed gold embossed, oversized menus by the waiter in white gloves who asked if we would like to take an aperitif. I suspected that, as is the custom in such establishments, the guest's menu did not include the prices, and I bit my lips nervously.

Evangeline wasn’t a picky person. She knew what she liked and went for it right away.

Champagne would suit her just fine. The waiter brought a bottle nestled in ice inside a silver bucket. He poured the bubbly into two champagne glasses and disappeared with a reverent bow. I thought I might as well have some since I had not even planned on a drink of any sort.

Evangeline proposed a toast to my success and we clinked our glasses lightly. She was very animated and talkative mentioning names of people in the publishing business and captains of industry whose titles rang no bells in my mind. Then she went on to talk about Rodrigue, her third husband and his latest documentary project which had taken him to Papua, New Guinea until late spring.

When a lanky waiter appeared out of no where to take our lunch order, Evangeline confessed that she was very particular about her diet. So she ordered the Belgian endive salad with Chablis dressing, to be followed by filet of grilled Arctic Char served with chanterelles and fresh artichoke hearts drizzled with lemon-shallot butter. I swallowed anxiously when I made a quick mental calculation of the total of our luncheon at that stage and my eyes searched desperately for the lowest priced item on the menu.

Finally sensing that I was challenging the patience of the waiter who looked as if he had far more important business to attend to than to be detained by my indecisiveness, I picked a pasta dish whose claim to fame was described as having being lightly tossed with spring vegetables.

"Would Monsieur like a fresh salad or potage du maison?"

I looked straight into his eyes with resolve and assured him, "No, the pasta will suffice."

Evangeline appeared to be amazed at how little I selected to eat. "I have a theory," she was saying when her endives, glistening with the raspberry vinaigrette and sprinkled with fresh dill were served.

"A while ago I read this in a culinary text and I must admit that the source is quite an authority on his subject. She advises that one should eat like a king in the morning; like a queen at lunch; and like a pauper at night. It is much better on the digestive system."

I made up an excuse that I never ate much, if at all, at midday.

"Darling," she continued, "that is when you should fill yourself up so that you can burn all the calories you've acquired before you sleep. Now, I am a late riser myself, so I cannot partake of my king's share in the morning. But dining like a queen at midday and a pauper in the evenings is quite agreeable with me."

I forced a smile and a nod of compliance as I cheerlessly wondered what cruel twist of fate drove me to her at lunch time instead of dinner which might have been more affordable for a pauper like me.

Meanwhile Evangeline dug into her succulent, grilled Arctic Char with the gusto of someone who had not eaten since the night before, and like a pauper at that. My pasta primavera was more palatable than the disdainful expression on the face of the waiter who served it.

"I enjoy a well prepared seafood dish," Evangeline was saying as she wiped her mouth wickedly on the crisp, white, linen napkin where she left imprints of her crimson lips. "One should consume fish at least twice a week, you know." Then she launched into another topic of conversation on the theatre and the latest movies she had enjoyed.

Somehow my instinct had warned me that the queen's meal would not end without a royal dessert, so I tried to prepare myself , as much as I could, for the onslaught of the next round of order. Nevertheless, I could not help entertaining scenarios of my washing the dishes in the kitchens of The Hermitage until my hands turned into prunes in order to pay for the queen's lunch while the bold headline in the Daily Herald announced :

Writer Rights his Wrong !

The waiter, who seemed to know which side his bread was buttered on, inquired deferentially if Madam would like to see the dessert menu. "Would a cat like a canary?" I thought as I grew more uneasy trying to think of a reason why I would not take any sweets myself.

They all sounded scrumptious: Napoleons with fresh whipped cream, peach cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice cream, chestnut souffle napped in creme Anglaise, a dessert named "Death by Chocolate", and exotic fruits served in chocolate coated tuilles. Evangeline picked the most expansive concoction on the menu: a rum-pecan tart with slivered truffles served over fresh cream au Grand Marnier.

I was beyond shock, more resigned to my fate as it was being shaped by this painted creature whose mouth never stopped. Whether it was to receive food or to disperse lavish compliments on Anton's culinary expertise interspersed with comments on my writing technique, her lips were constantly moving. And all I could do, besides listen with a feigned interest, was try to convince myself that I disliked sweets- especially at midday.

Her hearty laughter caught me off guard when I signalled the arrogant waiter with the intention of asking for the addition. "Oh, you must be a mind reader! I would love a digestif after this wonderful fare."

The waiter who did not look like he was too worried about where his next meal would come from was only too happy to oblige by producing a list of digestifs as if he had been anticipating her request.

Then he looked at me with the same disdainful glance, and hissed, "I suppose Monsieur is not in zi habit of taking a digestif at midday?"

I replied with a confirming smile - if only smiles could kill! "I would, however, like a double espresso," I added. My mouth was dry; I had run out of water and saliva with all the gulping at the sight of the gourmet displays laid out in front of me. Coffee was the cheapest way of wetting my whistle and frankly, I was beyond caring at that point.

"You should get into better eating habits," my guest was advising me. "A sharp mind thrives on a healthy body. If you fill it with unnourishing foods and lethal doses of caffeine, you'll burn your candle at both ends, Darling. Remember the king, queen and pauper theory."

It was difficult at that instant to think of the king and queen, but I could somehow identify easily with the pauper. When she ran out of room in her belly and compliments to bestow upon me, she looked at her platinum watch and announced, "This has been a wonderful luncheon. I am so delighted to have dined with an up and coming talent such as you."

The waiter brought the verdict encased in a leather billfold. Discreetly I placed my hundred dollar note on top of the twenty and the ten dollar bills, and stood up to lead my guest to the vestibule. I really did not want to face the condescending waiter when he saw the paltry change that was left for his tip.

"Thanks again, Darling. Let's do this again sometime soon," Evangeline was saying as she eased herself into her black mink. "I hope by then you'll have another book out to autograph for me. You should also meet Rodrigue- he's such an adorable pussy cat in tiger's skin!"

I saw her out and into the taxi that was awaiting. Then I put my hand in my pocket to feel the ten dollars I was left with and started walking along Somerset Lane contemplating creative ways of stretching it until I flew to join my wife Mireille in Provence where I would probably have my first decent meal in two weeks.