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“Of course you did,” she called from the kitchen. “Do you want tea? I
was having a little wine. You’re not driving, are you?”
“No.”
When I got to the kitchen, the dog was on the floor and Bianca was
pouring a glass of Chablis.
“Whoa,” I said. “Stop. That’s—”
“Let’s just finish it.” She poured until the bottle gave out and handed me
the overfull glass.
Why had I come? Was I looking for a mother? Bianca was the only one
available of the three, but she didn’t seem capable of comfort or wise
words.
“Thanks.” I took the wine and sipped it.
“So what brings you?” She sat at the nook and I sat across. “You can’t
need money.”
“No.”
Mr. Tubbs scrambled up next to me.
“Oh, he likes you!” Her delight seemed genuine. “What then? Tell me.
You need something. Wait! I have it.” She leaned in to look right at me, and
even in a tipsy haze, she managed to look right through me. “You’re bored.”
“Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“Is it that obvious?”
With a satisfied smile, she leaned back and crossed her legs. “I know
you is what I know. You get this look like you’re about to do something
reckless. Whenever I saw that look, I’d have to run and find you something
to do or you’d get ‘fuck fashion’ printed on all the hanger tape.”
“It was ‘fashion is for losers’ and it gave Papillion a little edge.”
“Which we were sorely lacking that season, I’ll give you that.” She
raised her glass and drank. “After Basile died, we never really had the
same… I don’t know…”
“Authority?”
“No, not that. More…”
“Conviction?”
“Yes!”
“Like we were playing the old hits but didn’t have the balls to stand by
a new song.”