Etiquette and Vitriol by Nicky Silver (classic fiction .txt) 📗

every hour. My skin gets firmer and my hair grows thicker. And where Phoebe has the beginnings of a cataract or two, I’ve the mischievous glint of youth and possibility. It’s miraculous really. It’s unbelievable. (She goes to Tony) Should this keep up, I’ll soon take to jacks and hoops. And by year’s end, I’ll be in a crib. I mean, I’ve always had a spirit for living, but this is really new. . . . And I know you’re to blame. You’re responsible. I was aging, until I met you, and now, it’s reversing. My God, I am lucky.

(Tony squirms, barely awake, at her touch.)

TONY: I’m the lucky one.

CLAIRE: Make love to me.

TONY: Again?

CLAIRE: Ravish me on the sofa. I’ll reupholster in the morning.

TONY: You’ll wear me out.

CLAIRE: I’d love trying.

(They kiss.)

I adore your lips. If you were nothing more than a pair of lips, I’d still love you.—Have me in the broom closet! We’ve never done it in the broom closet. It’s a room, I feel, that’s been ignored.

TONY: Later.

CLAIRE: Oh all right. Then get me a drink, would you darling?

TONY (Doing so): You talk so much about your age, and you know, I don’t know how old you are.

CLAIRE (On the floor): We’ve never made love on this spot! We must.

TONY: How old are you?

CLAIRE (Taking the drink): Thank you—I am thirteen.

TONY: I know that’s not true.

CLAIRE: And a half.

TONY: How old is your son?

CLAIRE: Philip? Twenty.

TONY: So you must be—

CLAIRE: Ten years younger than when we met and five years younger than this morning. You are Ponce de Léon!

TONY: All right.

(They kiss.)

Did you look at the slides?

CLAIRE: I couldn’t—

TONY: I worked very hard.

CLAIRE: I meant to, darling, honestly. But that idiotic Hillary Beekman kept me on the phone all morning. The poor wretch is suicidal. She says her marriage is over. Her husband’s left her. And you know, she just had her face done, for him really, and now he’s walked out. But her face is so tight she looks happy about it.

TONY: I think this series is my best work.

CLAIRE: I couldn’t hang up.

TONY: She’s a horrible person.

CLAIRE: You mustn’t judge people.

TONY: She’s always drunk.

CLAIRE: You’ve only met her twice.

TONY: She was drunk both times.

CLAIRE: No, no. That’s a speech impediment. She can’t say her S’s.

TONY: You promised you’d look at them.

CLAIRE: I know I did, and I am sorry. But I couldn’t abandon her. Hillary is absolutely my best friend in the whole world.

TONY: You never say anything nice about her.

CLAIRE: Exactly. (Changing the subject) Now tell me. What are you going to wear tonight?

TONY: This.

CLAIRE: Oh Tony, be serious.

TONY: I am.

CLAIRE: You just can’t wear jeans to an opening at the Met.

TONY: Why not?

CLAIRE: I’ll know everyone there. What will they say?

TONY: You’ve taken a handsome young lover with bad taste in clothes?

CLAIRE: You delight in tormenting me.

TONY (Out): It is fun.

CLAIRE: I loathe you. I absolutely abhor you. I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live.

TONY: That’s a relief.

CLAIRE: You’re evil.

TONY: You adore me.

CLAIRE: Say you’ll dress.

TONY: We’ll see.

(They kiss.)

CLAIRE: Don’t you understand? This is an opportunity. It’s a place to meet people. You never know where you’re going to sell a painting. Please don’t argue about it. And besides, I want tonight to be special. My husband comes home tomorrow and I’ll have to spend some time with him.

TONY (Getting a drink): I don’t see why.

CLAIRE: Because I have to. He’s my husband.

TONY: I don’t believe you are married. I’ve never met this phantom husband. I think he’s a figment.

CLAIRE: I’m married and he returns tomorrow, so this is our last night of reckless abandon. For a while at least—I want to make love in the fountain at Lincoln Center! We’ve never done it in the fountain at Lincoln Center!

TONY: And you want me to dress?

CLAIRE (Coy): I’ll buy you a suit in the morning.

TONY: Promise?

CLAIRE: Anything.

(They kiss and hold their embrace. Amy enters, unnoticed by them.)

AMY: I’m going to kill myself. I want to die.

(They ignore Amy. As a result, she becomes highly dramatic.)

I said, I’m going to kill myself!!—Mother?

CLAIRE (Looking about): Amy?

AMY: I don’t want to live any longer. I want to die!

TONY (Turning Claire toward him): Darling?

CLAIRE: Pet.

(Tony and Claire resume necking as Amy tries, vainly, to gain Claire’s attention.)

AMY: What is life anyway but a hollow, sinking sham? I’m so tired of everything: the random absurdity, the bleak hopelessness, the utter despair. What’s wrong with me? I’m so pretty. Men are nothing but genetics gone mad! I’d like to take a gun and kill them all—I know! I’ll become a lesbian! I don’t mind women. I find women appealing. I enjoy looking at myself.

CLAIRE (Turning her head): Did you—

TONY: Your tongue tastes divine!

CLAIRE: I’ve had a mint!

(Tony and Claire resume necking.)

AMY: Although a bullet to my head would be quicker. Mother, do you have a gun?

CLAIRE (Turning her head): I’ve no idea. Look in my purse.

TONY: You smell like fresh bread.

CLAIRE: You lynx!

(Tony and Claire resume necking.)

AMY: I WOULD LIKE SOME ATTENTION PLEASE!!

(All three are shocked by Amy’s force.)

Thank you.

CLAIRE: Did you say something?

AMY: I announced my imminent suicide.

CLAIRE: Don’t be rude, dear. Greet your uncle Tony.

AMY: He’s not my uncle.

CLAIRE: Good enough.

AMY: I’m not stupid. I have no uncles. You and Daddy have no siblings and I won’t pretend you do.

TONY: She seems disturbed.

AMY: I’m right here in the room. Don’t discuss me in the third person!

CLAIRE: Tony, you are pathologically sensitive to my daughter’s moods.

TONY: Thank you.

AMY: It’s over!

CLAIRE: What’s over?

TONY: Should we guess?

CLAIRE: Ooooo, what fun!

AMY: Everything is over. My youth, my life, my relationship with Maxwell.

TONY (To Claire): You smell like Hershey’s Kisses.

CLAIRE: And you’ve a thrilling profile. You should be on a coin.

(Tony and Claire resume necking.)

AMY: As you know, Maxwell and I have been seeing each other steadily for several months. I thought he loved me. I thought he cared about me. But everything is transient. After every summer dies the swan!

CLAIRE: Maxwell? Maxwell? Was he that young