As they enter, they shower one another with air kisses and big hugs. A virtual catechism of exclamations ensues: “You look fabulous; did you lose weight?” is followed by “Your hair is amazing; what have you done to it?” and accompanied by “I swear you look better every time I see you; can you please tell me what it is that keeps you this way?” The ritualized greetings are evidence of, rather than a substitution for, affection; these women like one another.
Having known each other for years, they look forward to their now infrequent meetings. When they were younger, it seemed they had all the time in the world. Time these days is spent on work both fulfilling and exhausting, on children young and old, on partnerships both business and personal. Their time is always borrowed or begged from elsewhere.
The dozen women shrug off their jackets or scarves as a handsome young waiter takes them to the coat check; in return he proffers small green disks with numbers on them. Then, laughing and talking, they follow one another into the dimly lit, dark-paneled space, with its large scrubbed oak refectory table. An antique linen runner makes a white line down the center. The low-ceilinged room is illuminated only by candles cradled in tin wall-sconces. Oak benches flank the table, and as a result everyone makes room for, and yet in some way snuggles up to, her fellow diners. Each woman plops her bag behind her, as if marking territory, and unfolds a delicate handkerchief linen napkin on her lap.
A group of women speaking at once means the room is already loud. Bottles of red and white wine meet across the table and are exchanged like dancers in a quadrille.
But not everyone is happy with her partner. Here’s what one writer is thinking as she looks at the woman seated to her right:
This one’s a handful. Look at her eyeliner. Too heavy. Like she used a Sharpie. Somebody should tell her to put her hair up. Somebody has really not loved this woman enough. She’s voracious. The only thing she wants in the world is more of everything: more affection, more attention, more power. She thinks she’s everybody’s best friend. She thinks she’s a good listener and she thinks she has everybody else’s number. She’s looking at me and is relieved that, though we’re about the same age, I look older. Somebody should tell her that her lipstick is too dark. It makes her look savage, no matter what she tells herself. She’s suspicious of me. She should be. She wants me to ask about her next book. She wants me to ask about the movie somebody’s making of her early short story. She wants me to ask about her colleagues and connections, her editors and agents. She wants me to prove that I’ve done my homework. She wants me to prove my worth. She loves this process. She wants me to perform for her sake. I could pull a rabbit out of a hat and then say I’m going to kill it to read the entrails and she would love both parts. The magic and the slaughter. But I’ve had my tricks for a long time. Maybe they’re past the expiration date but I’m good at them. Watch out.
The woman on her right smiles and raises a glass. Watch out.
3 Responses to At the Writers’ Dinner
literarytype - July 7, 2010 at 10:29 am
Sisterhood isn’t so powerful after all, I guess.
osugrad - July 8, 2010 at 11:43 am
Au contraire, mon frere. Don’t let Gina’s characterization fool you into thinking women won’t work together when the chips are down. Well, some women anyway…
jdsalinger - July 8, 2010 at 6:30 pm
Yes, quite true. I’ve been at writer’s conferences where the women gang up on the men writers quite effectively. It’s a sight to behold.