Lillian on Life by Alison Jean Lester

The sun was coming straight in through the windows, and I could feel the sweat trickling from my underarms into my bra.
    Gentlemen ask you questions about yourself and look like they find the answer very interesting. When I told the count what I did, he said, “A fine assistant is a precious thing.” He asked about the magazine’s methods for gathering news from behind the Iron Curtain. I certainly didn’t know much, but I talked anyway. He continued listening actively, then said, “Don’t worry. It will come up, the curtain. They will miss our wine too much.”
    â€œOh,” I said, “I’m sure those who drank it before are still drinking it now.”
    â€œPrecisely,” he said.
    By this time we were eating lobster. A pair of white-gloved hands kept appearing between us and replacing theprevious course’s plate with a clean one before I’d had time to finish. On the other side, another pair of gloves expertly served the next course between two large spoons. I wanted to eat but I was struggling. Between talking and enjoying the wine I couldn’t really apply myself to the food, and then they took it away. I noticed the count didn’t finish anything either, but where it may be elegant in a host I felt sure it was offensive in a guest. My napkin was covered in lipstick and upper-lip sweat.
    And then the waiters came in with sorbet, little glass bowls of sorbet arranged in a circle around the decorative tops of pineapples. Each of us received one, and a pretty glass of calvados as well.
    The count was talking to me as I looked down at my spoon, wondering if I could force myself to pick it up.
    â€œThis is what we call a
trou normand
,” he said. “A Norman hole. It’s something to clean the palate between very different courses. Traditionally it should be an apple sorbet, but I adore pineapple. Please.” He indicated that I should go ahead and taste it.
    I hate pineapple so much, it might as well have been a delicate serving of blood and hair. I tried to smile but it made my lip tremble. I looked at Willis, desperate for himto recognize my predicament and get on his white horse, but he was deep into some tall tale and had too much of a head of steam to switch tracks.
    He looked so happy. Stalling was my only option. “Please go ahead, Henri. I must excuse myself for a moment to use
les toilettes
.”
    â€œOf course, of course,” he said, standing, signaling to the valet. “Take your time.” God knows I would. I’d stay long enough for the sorbet to melt.
    The toilet was clearly designed for ladies, and quite recently. Maybe there weren’t any toilets on the ground floor originally. Maybe upstairs they were still connected to high cisterns and flushed with a long chain. I would have loved to creep up the stairs and look around, but there was the question of the valet. This toilet was modern, in a room with a tiled counter inset with a pretty porcelain sink. I could breathe in there, although the mirror showed me terrible things. I had known my lipstick would be gone, but I hadn’t anticipated that the nervous sweating I was doing would have begun to curl my hair. I looked mortifyingly Midwestern, but in my haste to leave the dining room I had left my handbag on my chair. So stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I made sure the door was locked, took off my jacket and camisole, and splashed my neck, chest, and underarms withthe extremely cold water that came out of the tap. It felt so good I did it again. I wet a corner of a linen hand towel and dabbed at my face. I decided that if I messed up my eyeliner I’d leave the château immediately, but I did okay. Before putting my clothes back on, I flapped them smartly to dispel the smell of distress. There was nothing to do about the curls, but I ran my fingers carefully through my hair so at least they would curl in the same direction.
    When I finally emerged, the unsmiling