Page 49 - WTP Vol.X#1

me and invited me in. She offered me a seat on a small sofa facing a large bay window. As I tried to settle myself on the sofa’s rim, she coiled her slender legs in a delicate wing-chair which was set, as on
a stage for a Noel Coward play, in the curve of the window that looked west into the afternoon sun. Glancing around the room, I took in a general im- pression of French blue as the light seemed to dance around her blond hair, styled in rich wedges. How old was she? Mid-fifties maybe. Someone who knew her way in the world. Looking directly at me through hooded blue eyes, she asked how well I was settling in. “They’ve put you in a decent room I hope?”
“It’s fine. Much larger than I’m used to.”
“You’ll warm it up I’m sure. Posters. An Indian bed- spread in all the colors of Joseph’s coat.” She smiled again and took a long, cool menthol cigarette out of a packet marked Consulate. “Americans are clever about these things.”
She was right. I fully intended to splash some color around my Victorian room. All my life I’d enjoyed decorating: moving furniture, putting roses in a vase. Still, I felt obscurely judged. Nothing I could possibly do by way of bedspread or pillows could match the elegance of her silk damask sofa or the modern print in scarlet and acid yellow which hung in a corner.
Her maroon high heels, made of fine leather, lay for- gotten on the carpet near her chair. I tried to take in the woman’s intense vibe—unlike any teacher I’d known. Granted most had been nuns in black habits which hung down to their ankles but even our few lay teachers in their modest tweed skirts seemed plain by comparison with this. She had an aura of restrained sexiness. I recognized it from my mother but wasn’t used to it in professors.
She held her cigarette up, carefully keeping the shaky column of ash away from the sleek Siamese cat who had taken up residence in her lap. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get accustomed to the lack of central heating. Most Americans do. Given time.”
On the whole I liked chilly rooms. They made my skin feel cooler, though I wasn’t about to mention this to her. What did she think of my skin? She must have noticed it. I had no idea how to explain my looks in
a simple way. With this very tactful Englishwoman, I probably wouldn’t have to try. I sat back on the sofa. “It’s not as if I’m from the Deep South,” I said.
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“It’s true they had no one to advise them how to
bring up a girl with heavy skin. No support group for ichthyosis, my skin difficulty, existed in those days.”
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