A Fashionable Affair by Joan Wolf Page B

other day, and she thought he looked extremely handsome.
    The play was wonderful, both funny and thoughtful, and the acting was superb. They decided to walk to Sardi’s for an after-theater drink and snack, and as they strolled down Shubert Alley, Michael commented on the quality of the perform ance.
    “I know,” Patsy returned. “Seeing Jeremy Irons and Glenn Close like that only confirms my deter mination to stay a million miles away from the mov ies.”
    “Have you had offers?” Michael asked curiously.
    “Not exactly, but I’ve had plenty of agents who swore they could find me a role and could launch me on a whole new career. I had lunch with one this afternoon, in fact. He couldn’t believe I wasn’t interested.”
    “Why aren’t you?”
    “Simple,” she replied. “I can’t act.”
    “That hasn’t stopped Marly Andrews,” he murmured.
    She grinned appreciatively. “Yes, well I hate making a fool of myself. And think how scandalized Mother would be. I saw this guy this afternoon only because he was a friend of Fred’s.”
    “Ah,” he said, “Fred.”
    They had reached Sardi’s and the maitre d’ proved very accommodating, finding them a table even though the restaurant was crowded. They ordered drinks and Patsy said she didn’t want anything to eat.
    “Are you sure?” Michael asked. “I’m going to eat. I only grabbed a quick sandwich for supper—I worked until after six.”
    “You go ahead,” Patsy replied. “I never eat this late at night. It’s the worst possible thing you can do—the weight just pours on while you sleep.”
    He looked at the spring-green size eight sitting so gracefully across the table from him. “Do you have to worry?”
    “I make sure I don’t have to worry,” she said firmly. “I eat three sensible meals a day and at the proper hours. I absolutely loathe dieting. It’s much easier not to have to.”
    “Makes sense, I guess.”
    “Besides,” Patsy said truthfully, “I’m not hun gry.”
    “Well, okay. But I’m going to have the biggest cheeseburger they can make.”
    While he ordered, Patsy sipped her white wine slowly, and when he turned back to her, she made an obvious attempt to brighten up.
    “What’s the matter, Red?” he asked softly. “You’ve been downcast ever since we left the thea ter.”
    She forced a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a wet blanket.”
    “What’s bothering you?” he repeated. “Was it the play?”
    She sighed. “Yes. It hit too close to home, I guess.” She looked into her glass and slowly moved the wine back and forth. “I guess I saw a little of myself in Annie,” she said, still looking at her drink, “and I can’t say I liked what I saw.” He didn’t answer, and she looked up to find him watching her gravely. “You know that scene at the beginning, when she tells her husband she’s in love with Henry and she’s leaving him? And then, when the hus band falls to pieces, all she can think of is that his distress is in such bad taste?” He nodded, still not speaking. “Well,” she continued unhappily, “it reminded me of Don and me. I broke up with him Sunday, you see, and he made the most ghastly scene. The thing was, he really meant it. He did care. And all I could think of was that his dramatics were in such bad taste. He made me feel guilty and uncomfortable, you see, and I just wished he would stop and go away.” She pushed her drink toward the middle of the table and said tragically, “I’m a terrible person, Michael. I don’t mean to be, but I am.”
    He smiled very faintly, although his eyes remained grave. “You’re not a terrible person, Red.”
    She felt tears sting her eyes. “What’s the matter with me?” she almost wailed. “I gave a year of my life to Don. I thought I loved him. And now I don’t care if I ever see him again.” She sniffed. “In fact, I hope I don’t.”
    He handed her his handkerchief. “You made a mistake,” he said matter-of-factly.
    Patsy blew