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"Not at all."
Greg pointed to an apartment block a few steps away. "That's Joanne's building," he said. "Have a good time." Then he walked away.
Somewhat bemused, Woody went to the entrance. But he soon forgot about Greg's romantic life and started to think about his own. Did Joanne really like him? She might not kiss him this evening, but maybe he could ask her for a date.
This was a modest apartment house, with no doorman or hall porter. A list in the lobby revealed that Rouzrokh shared her place with Stewart and Fisher, presumably two other girls. Woody went up in the elevator. He realized he was empty-handed: he should have brought candy or flowers. He thought about going back to buy something, then decided that would be taking good manners too far. He rang the bell.
A girl in her early twenties opened the door.
Woody said: "Hello, I'm--"
"Come
on in," she said, not waiting to hear his name. "The drinks are in the kitchen, and there's food on the table in the living room, if there's any left." She turned away, clearly thinking she had given him sufficient welcome.
The small apartment was packed with people drinking, smoking, and shouting at one another over the noise of the phonograph. Joanne had said "a few friends" and Woody had imagined eight or ten young people sitting around a coffee table discussing the crisis in Europe. He was disappointed: this overcrowded bash would give him little opportunity to demonstrate to Joanne how much he had grown up.
He looked around for her. He was taller than most people and could see over the heads. She was not in sight. He pushed through the crowd, searching for her. A girl with plump breasts and nice brown eyes looked up at him as he squeezed past and said: "Hello, big guy. I'm Diana Taverner. What's your name?"
"I'm looking for Joanne," he said.
She shrugged. "Good luck with that." She turned away.
He made his way into the kitchen. The noise level dropped a fraction. Joanne was nowhere to be seen, but he decided to get a drink while he was there. A broad-shouldered man of about thirty was rattling a cocktail shaker. Well dressed in a tan suit, pale blue shirt, and dark blue tie, he clearly was not a barman, but was acting like a host. "Scotch is over there," he said to another guest. "Help yourself. I'm making martinis, for anyone who's interested."
Woody said: "Got any bourbon?"
"Right here." The man passed him a bottle. "I'm Bexforth Ross."
"Woody Dewar." Woody found a glass and poured bourbon.
"Ice in that bucket," said Bexforth. "Where are you from, Woody?"
"I'm an intern in the Senate. You?"
"I work in the State Department. I'm in charge of the Italy desk." He started passing martinis around.
Clearly a rising star, Woody thought. The man had so much self-confidence it was irritating. "I was looking for Joanne."
"She's somewhere around. How do you know her?"
Here Woody felt he could show clear superiority. "Oh, we're old friends," he said airily. "In fact I've known her all my life. We were kids together in Buffalo. How about you?"
Bexforth took a long sip of martini and gave a satisfied sigh. Then he looked speculatively at Woody. "I haven't known Joanne as long as you have," he said. "But I guess I know her better."
"How so?"
"I'm planning to marry her."
Woody felt as if he had been slapped. "Marry her?"
"Yes. Isn't that great?"
Woody could not hide his dismay. "Does she know about this?"
Bexforth laughed, and patted Woody's shoulder condescendingly. "She sure does, and she's all for it. I'm the luckiest guy in the world."
Clearly Bexforth had divined that Woody was attracted to Joanne. Woody felt a fool. "Congratulations," he said dispiritedly.
