Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

some of those sheets.”
    “You did?”
    “Yes, I did! What’s wrong with those sheets?”
    “That isn’t the point,” said Michael. “The point is … we have very little in common.”
    “Except sex.”
    Michael nodded. “Except great sex. And that has a curious way of canceling out the tacky sheets. Not to mention a belt buckle that says BILL and a shower curtain with a naked man on it.”
    “I think you’re an awful snob,” frowned Mary Ann.
    “Maybe so,” said Michael, “but at least it keeps me from overreacting to the great sex. If he had any style at all, I’d probably be in love with him by now.”
    “And you don’t want that?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    Michael thought for a moment. “It’s like this sweater. Have you seen this sweater, by the way?”
    “It’s nice,” said Mary Ann. “The color’s good on you. Is it cashmere?”
    Michael nodded. “Fifteen bucks at the Town School’s second hand shop.”
    “A steal!” She fingered a sleeve. “It’s almost new, Mouse.”
    “Not so fast.” Michael lifted his arm to reveal a dime-sized hole in the sweater’s elbow.
    “You could patch it,” Mary Ann suggested.
    “Not on your life. That’s what I’m talking about. I like that hole, Babycakes. It keeps me from worrying about my new cashmere sweater. I can have the style, the feel, the luxury of cashmere without any fussing and fretting. It’s already flawed, see, so I can relax and enjoy it. That’s exactly the way I feel about Bill.”
    “And how does he feel about you?”
    “He thinks of me as a fuck buddy. Period.”
    “How romantic.”
    “Exactly. So I take refuge in his atrocious taste and tell myself that it would never work out, anyway. Even if he wasn’t so crushingly unsentimental. Even if he didn’t keep Meat on top of his toilet tank.”
    “I don’t think I’ll ask about that,” said Mary Ann.
    “It’s a book,” said Michael.
    “Thank God. Tell me something sweet. What have you heard from Jon lately?”
    Michael managed a look of faint irritation. “You can squeeze him into any conversation, can’t you?”
    “I don’t care,” said Mary Ann. “He was my friend, too. He was generous and gorgeous and … he thought you were the greatest thing going. He was cashmere without the hole, Mouse. That wasn’t so terrible, was it?”
    Michael sighed wearily. “I don’t hear from Jon, O.K.?”
    “O.K. Sorry.”
    He didn’t bother to hide the wistfulness in his eyes. “You haven’t, have you?”

North to Alaska
    P RUE GIROUX WAS WEARING HEELS, FRANNIE NOTED. Stiletto heels on which she tottered precariously as she made her way along the rain-slick Promenade Deck of the Sagafjord. Her gown, as usual, was totally inappropriate, flouncy and cream-colored and dreadful.
    Her escort, on the other hand, was as debonair as the Duke of Windsor in his elegant blue blazer, crisp white collar and gray silk tie. Good heavens, thought Frannie, how does she manage to do it?
    Prue seemed to waver for a moment when she caught sight of Frannie in the deck chair. Then she smiled a little too extravagantly and clamped a hand on her companion’s arm, as if he were a trophy she was about to present.
    “Isn’t this marvelous?” she cooed, meaning the scenery.
    “Mmm,” replied Frannie. “Magical.”
    “Wasn’t Alert Bay the most precious place? One’s reminded of those little ceramic villages one buys at Shreve’s at Christmastime!”
    And sometimes, thought Frannie, one is much too common to get away with using “one” all the time.
    “Have you met Mr. Starr?” asked the columnist.
    The matriarch smiled as regally as possible and extended her hand, still recumbent and blanket-swathed. “How do you do?” she said.
    “Mr. Starr is a stockbroker from London,” beamed Prue.
    The woman is impossible, thought Frannie. Who else would volunteer her consort’s credentials so eagerly. “I adore London,” she said vaguely.
    The poor man seemed horribly uncomfortable. “I’m not a …”
    “He’s not British,” Prue interrupted, squeezing the man’s arm even tighter. “I mean … he’s not a native. He’s an American working in London.”
    “I see,” said Frannie.
    The man nodded to confirm Prue’s statement, clearly humiliated by her incorrigible pushiness. Well, thought Frannie, here’s one shipboard romance that won’t last the duration of the cruise.
    “Where are those precious little orphans?” asked Prue.
    Frannie did her best not to