The Loop by Nicholas Evans Page A

seemed to have lost about thirty pounds and had a different, shorter haircut. Courtney was wearing a no doubt hugely expensive black linen shift with a wide red belt. Her high-heeled sandals were red too and made her taller than he was, which was about five-ten. Her lips were painted to match the belt and the shoes.
    Helen was wearing a dress too, her best in fact: a mud-colored cotton print dress, bought two summers ago at The Gap. She briefly considered crawling under the table.
    Her father saw her and waved and pointed her out to Courtney and Courtney waved too. Helen quickly stubbed out her cigarette and as they arrived outside the dusty hedge of the terrazzo , she stood up and leaned over it to give her dad a hug and, in so doing, knocked the table so that the wine bottle toppled, emptied itself over the skirt of her dress, then rolled off and shattered on the floor.
    ‘Whoa there!’ said her father.
    A waiter torpedoed to the rescue.
    ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ Helen wailed. ‘I’m so stupid.’
    ‘No you’re not!’ insisted Courtney and Helen almost snapped back, What the hell do you know? I’ll be stupid if I want.
    Her father and Courtney had to go around and in through the door of the restaurant to get out to the terrazzo , so Helen had a few moments, with some rather too intimate assistance from the torpedo-waiter, to dry her dress. He was on his knees in front of her, rubbing her thighs with his cloth. Everyone was staring.
    ‘That’s fine, thank you. That’s fine, really. STOP!’
    Mercifully, he did and disappeared and Helen stood there damply, shrugging and grinning like an imbecile at the people at the neighboring tables. Then she saw her father and cranked her face into what she hoped resembled a smile. He opened his arms and she let him hug her.
    ‘How’s my baby girl?’
    ‘Wet. Hot and wet.’ He kissed her. He was wearing cologne. Cologne! He stood back, pinning the tops of her arms so that he could inspect her.
    ‘You look fabulous,’ he lied.
    Helen shrugged. She had never known how to react to his compliments. Nor anyone else’s, come to that, not that she got that many. Her father turned to the lovely Courtney, who stood to one side, looking warmly on.
    ‘Baby, I want you to meet Courtney Dasilva.’
    Helen wondered if they were expected to kiss and was relieved when Courtney held out a tanned and elegant hand.
    ‘Hi,’ Helen said, shaking it. ‘Great nails.’
    They matched the belt, the shoes, the lips and, probably, the underwear too. Helen’s own nails were like a trucker’s, all stubby and chipped from working all summer in the kitchen at Moby Dick’s.
    ‘Why, thank yooou,’ Courtney said. ‘You poor thing, is your dress ruined? Howard, honey, we should go buy her another. There’s a great store just around—’
    ‘I’m fine. Really. Actually, I always do it, to cool off. And if we run out of wine I’ll just wring some out.’
    Howard-honey ordered champagne and after a couple of glasses Helen started to feel better. They talked about the weather, New York in the heat and about SoHo, where Courtney, of course, wanted to get a loft. Helen couldn’t resist asking her with a straight face what she was going to keep in it, Christmas decorations or what? Courtney patiently explained that loft, in this context, meant a sort of large apartment.
    The waiter reappeared and told Helen she wasn’t allowed to smoke which, considering they were sitting alfresco on the terrazzo breathing traffic fumes, seemed less than logical. It was disappointing too because she had already noted Courtney’s disapproval and wanted more. She had only just taken the habit up again after quitting for seven years and drew perverse pleasure out of being the only biologist she knew who smoked.
    They ordered. Helen went first, opting for the fish terrine then a heavy-duty pasta number to follow. Then Courtney said all she wanted was an arugula salad with lemon juice, no dressing, and then her new,