Read Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes for Free Online Page B

dilemma to wax witty about the Reagans. Instead, she set her jaw grimly and waited in silence for the final ritual of this inane tribal extravaganza.
The rain let up a little. A kilted band trooped bravely along the pier. Fireworks exploded in the pale gray skies, while a blond woman in limp marabou feathers argued audibly with the guard at the entrance to the press platform.
“But I am with the press,” she pleaded. “I just don’t have any … uh … card with me today.”
The guard was unyielding. “Look, lady. You got your job, I got mine.”
Mary Ann went to the edge of the platform and shouted down at the sentry. “She’s with me,” she lied. “I’ll take responsibility for it.”
Elated, the wet-feathered blonde beamed up at her savior and yelled: “Mary Ann! Thank goodness!”
Mary Ann replied in a monotone, already embarrassed. “Hi, Prue.”
It was a sad sight, really, this ersatz socialite looking like Big Bird in a monsoon. Prue Giroux had apparently come un-glued since losing her job as social columnist for Western Gentry magazine. Her life had been built around parties— “events,” she had called them—but the invitations and press passes had dried up months before.
Among the people who thought of themselves as social in San Francisco, no one was more expendable than an ex-columnist—except maybe the ex-wife of a columnist. Prue was obviously feeling the pinch.
Fluffing her feathers, she wobbled up the steps in spike heels. “You are so sweet to do this,” she said, speaking much more quietly this time. “Isn’t this just the most thrilling thing?”
“Mmm,” Mary Ann replied, not wanting to burst her bubble. Prue’s naiveté was the only thing about her that invited respect.
“Look!” Prue exclaimed. “Just in time!”
Wearing a white hat and a beige coat, the Queen approached the gangplank on the arm of the President. As Mary Ann signaled her cameraman, thunderous applause swept across the pier and Prue Giroux sighed noisily. “Oh, Mary Ann, look how beautiful she is! She is truly beautiful!”
Mary Ann didn’t answer, engrossing herself in the technicalities of her job. The entire spectacle took less than fifteen minutes. When it was over, she slipped away from Prue and the crew and downed a stiff drink at Olive Oil’s, a waterfront bar adjoining the pier. She sat at the bar, beneath a row of signal flags, and watched the Britannia as it steamed toward the Golden Gate.
The man on the stool next to her hoisted his glass in the direction of the ship. “Good riddance, old girl.”
Mary Ann laughed. “I’ll say. Except the old girl isn’t out there. She’s flying to Yosemite.”
Her barmate polished off his drink, then teased her with warm brown eyes. “I meant the ship.” He had an English accent, she realized.
“You must be with the press,” she said.
“Must I?” He was being playful again. Was he trying to pick her up?
“Well, the accent made me think … Oh, never mind.”
The man laughed, extending his hand. “I’m Simon Bardill.”
She gave him a businesslike handshake. “I’m Mary Ann Singleton.” Her first real assessment of the Englishman made her realize how much he looked like Brian. He had the same chestnut curls, the same expressive eyes (though brown, not hazel), the same little tuft of fur sprouting beneath the hollow at the base of his neck.
True, his face was somewhat more angular—more foxlike than bearlike—but even a disinterested observer would notice the resemblance. There was an age difference, of course, since this man appeared to be in his late twenties.
He sensed her distraction immediately. “Uh … I haven’t lost you, have I?”
She smiled apologetically. “For a moment, maybe. You look a lot like … somebody I know.” To say “my husband” would have sounded far too intimate. Even so, the remark still came off like a pickup line, so she added hastily: “You must be from around here.”
“Nope,” he replied. “From there.”