THE PRIVATE PARTY

10

Dressing, alone in the locker room, you do not see Philip. You are a little sad that he did not stick around. He likely has a wife and a beautiful baby to go home too. He probably has a warm little bungalow in the suburbs somewhere, somewhere far from Transfertown. Not a room with a kitchen above the Matador cafe.

            There is a gentle knock, and since your jeans and boots are on, you say “Come in.”

            It is Emerson, the young man who opened the door for you when you first interviewed for the Owner. He is wearing a suit but he does not have white gloves on this time.

            He asks politely how you are feeling, if you enjoyed yourself, if there’s anything you need. He is holding your envelope. He says it was a great evening, everybody is very happy. “In fact,” he says, proferring the envelope, “the Owner would like to see you, before you go.”

            “Okay,” you say, buttoning your shirt. “Where is he?”

            “He’s right outside. May he come in?”

            You smile at this. The Owner has seen every inch of your body, and maybe even inside it. You admire his conventions of respect.

            “Yes,” you say, feeling like a great actress in her dressing room, “please show him in.” You think you should have a silk gown on, a mirror lit with rows of gaslamps, stacks of flowers, champagne in a silver bucket. “Welcome to my boudoir.”

            The Owner enters and stands far from you, by the door. He does not put his hands in his pockets or lean against the wall; he stands still and contained with his hands by his sides, and yet he looks perfectly relaxed. The Owner is not a man of wasted gestures. “I just wanted you to know,” he says, “how pleased we are with your performance. Thank you.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Did you enjoy yourself?”

            You shrug. You don’t want to be honest about this; you want him to know what a favour you are doing him. “Sure.” But you feel a flush on your face. You look away from him, busy yourself with putting on your sweater.

            “Good.”

            You turn to look at him, shake out your hair. You tilt your head to one side so your hair falls over your shoulder. This is usually a very effective gesture.

            But the Owner is already not looking at you. He has taken out his phone and is frowning at the screen. “Well,” he says. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

            You know he is about to turn and leave. “How’s your boy?”

            “My boy?” He looks up at you.

            “I heard you talking on the phone,” you say, “the first night I was here. I thought you were talking to a kid. It’s none of my business.”

            “I do have a boy,” he says. “He’s wonderful. I don’t see him enough. I work too hard.”

            “It must be hard,” you say. “Do you have someone to...”

            “It’s hard to bring up a child on one’s own, yes. Of course I have help. But it’s not the same as...”

            “On your own, it’s hard.” You want to tell him about your sister, about how you understand care. But the Owner has not invited any personal information from you. You do not ask him about where his wife went. “What’s his name?”

            The Owner seems to hesitate. Then he says  softly, “Theo.”

            “That’s a lovely name.”

            The Owner nods, puts his phone in his pocket. He’s about to go.

            You say, “I’d love to meet him some time. I’m good with kids.”

            The Owner smiles. “Sure,” he says. “Some time. Have a good evening.”