brief survey of Carolyn’s white terrycloth shorts and light cotton blouse, Val looked down at her own clothes: paint-smeared jeans and a sleeveless V-neck gray T-shirt. “Sorry, I look like hell.”
Carolyn was looking at her admiringly. “You look terrific. Like a working artist. Come in, let me get you something to drink. You look hot and tired. And thirsty.”
“No, I—well, just for a minute. But not in the living room—I don’t want to smear ochre over your blue carpet.”
Carolyn led her into the kitchen. “I’d be grateful if you’d do that to the sofa.”
Val leaned against the sink and drained a glass of ice water, refilled it from the tap. “Why did you buy that sofa if you dislike it so?”
“Paul thinks it’s elegant and I suppose it is. I thought I could get used to it. I don’t think he really likes it much either, but we won’t do anything till we get another house. A bigger and better house,” she added with more than a trace of sarcasm.
“With a bigger and better pool for you not to swim in.” Grinning, Val poured her remaining water into the sink and rinsed the glass. “Why don’t you come over today? To see some of my work?”
She followed Val down a narrow concrete path, moss growing between its wide cracks, to the small house of yellow stucco overhung by two date trees and surrounded by patches of thick ivy and many broad-leaved plants encroached upon by weeds. Ferns crowded the shade along the fence that divided this house from Carolyn’s backyard. The whine of insects permeated the quiet. A few white butterflies darted among sparse marigolds poking their heads out of the weeds that reached into the path and brushed at Carolyn’s ankles as she picked her way along, careful of her footing in her wedge-heeled sandals.
“It’s very private back here,” Carolyn offered.
“I’ve learned why privacy is so prized by the rich. Most of us in our entire lives never learn what true privacy is—never experience it.” Val opened the unlocked door of her house.
The living room would fit into less than half of hers, Carolyn estimated. It smelled of paint and turpentine, and was dominated by two huge abstract paintings of red and green hues covering virtually the entire expanse of two walls. A bay window with useless gauze curtains tied to its sides allowed dappled light to wash the room. Beside the window, on a battered and paint-smeared table, was a large canvas propped against a box, flanked by a chaotic jumble of paint tubes, brushes soaking in glass containers, cans of oils, sketch pads, pencils, and other paraphernalia Carolyn could not identify. The room was furnished with a worn tweed sofa not much larger than a loveseat, an equally worn armchair with a minute wooden footstool, a scarred bookcase overflowing with paperbacks and topped by a small television set, a card table covered by a vivid red print cloth and apparently serving as a dining room table. The only source of artificial light appeared to be a pole lamp in a corner, its metal shades aimed downward at the armchair. Sketch pads and sections of the Los Angeles Times were stacked on a coffee table which was a simple square of pale, flimsy wood.
“There’s not much to see,” Val said. “It’s pretty small, especially the kitchen—which could be even smaller, as far as I’m concerned. Look around if you like.”
Carolyn glanced into a room the size of her own walk-in closet, its flooring buckled linoleum, and crammed with a small refrigerator and stove and sink, a few cupboards.
The bathroom was tinier, with a shower and no bathtub. Bright blue shag covered the floor. Two thin, gaily striped towels hung from metal rings.
“Neal has the big bedroom,” Val said with a chuckle. “I don’t care where I sleep. I think it’s important for a youngster to have privacy, don’t you?”
“It was important to me when I was growing up.”
Neal’s room contained a single twin bed and a dresser, a small desk
Carolyn was looking at her admiringly. “You look terrific. Like a working artist. Come in, let me get you something to drink. You look hot and tired. And thirsty.”
“No, I—well, just for a minute. But not in the living room—I don’t want to smear ochre over your blue carpet.”
Carolyn led her into the kitchen. “I’d be grateful if you’d do that to the sofa.”
Val leaned against the sink and drained a glass of ice water, refilled it from the tap. “Why did you buy that sofa if you dislike it so?”
“Paul thinks it’s elegant and I suppose it is. I thought I could get used to it. I don’t think he really likes it much either, but we won’t do anything till we get another house. A bigger and better house,” she added with more than a trace of sarcasm.
“With a bigger and better pool for you not to swim in.” Grinning, Val poured her remaining water into the sink and rinsed the glass. “Why don’t you come over today? To see some of my work?”
She followed Val down a narrow concrete path, moss growing between its wide cracks, to the small house of yellow stucco overhung by two date trees and surrounded by patches of thick ivy and many broad-leaved plants encroached upon by weeds. Ferns crowded the shade along the fence that divided this house from Carolyn’s backyard. The whine of insects permeated the quiet. A few white butterflies darted among sparse marigolds poking their heads out of the weeds that reached into the path and brushed at Carolyn’s ankles as she picked her way along, careful of her footing in her wedge-heeled sandals.
“It’s very private back here,” Carolyn offered.
“I’ve learned why privacy is so prized by the rich. Most of us in our entire lives never learn what true privacy is—never experience it.” Val opened the unlocked door of her house.
The living room would fit into less than half of hers, Carolyn estimated. It smelled of paint and turpentine, and was dominated by two huge abstract paintings of red and green hues covering virtually the entire expanse of two walls. A bay window with useless gauze curtains tied to its sides allowed dappled light to wash the room. Beside the window, on a battered and paint-smeared table, was a large canvas propped against a box, flanked by a chaotic jumble of paint tubes, brushes soaking in glass containers, cans of oils, sketch pads, pencils, and other paraphernalia Carolyn could not identify. The room was furnished with a worn tweed sofa not much larger than a loveseat, an equally worn armchair with a minute wooden footstool, a scarred bookcase overflowing with paperbacks and topped by a small television set, a card table covered by a vivid red print cloth and apparently serving as a dining room table. The only source of artificial light appeared to be a pole lamp in a corner, its metal shades aimed downward at the armchair. Sketch pads and sections of the Los Angeles Times were stacked on a coffee table which was a simple square of pale, flimsy wood.
“There’s not much to see,” Val said. “It’s pretty small, especially the kitchen—which could be even smaller, as far as I’m concerned. Look around if you like.”
Carolyn glanced into a room the size of her own walk-in closet, its flooring buckled linoleum, and crammed with a small refrigerator and stove and sink, a few cupboards.
The bathroom was tinier, with a shower and no bathtub. Bright blue shag covered the floor. Two thin, gaily striped towels hung from metal rings.
“Neal has the big bedroom,” Val said with a chuckle. “I don’t care where I sleep. I think it’s important for a youngster to have privacy, don’t you?”
“It was important to me when I was growing up.”
Neal’s room contained a single twin bed and a dresser, a small desk
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