Non-swimmer
Sir: Followers of the 'Low life' column may be interested to learn that she who would drown in Mr Jeffrey Bernard's eyes is normally a woman of discretion. However, realising that she has become an ongoing butt of Mr Bernard's humour, a sort of female 'Norman', she feels driven to point out that she, too, has a few stories to tell. Her lot is not an easy one.
For example: the other evening she arrived at the appointed hour to meet the writer for dinner — having, incidentally, done her very best to emulate the style of one Miss Virginia Mayo, an American cinema actress of the Forties for whose talents Mr Bernard had expressed great admiration. Mr Bernard's arrival had pre- ceded her own. Indeed, he had already eaten, and now, head on table, was sound asleep. Inviting her to order, the res- taurateur assured her that this was nothing new and that her companion would wake up in an hour or two.
She who would drown in Mr Bernard's eyes felt the situation to be an appalling embarrassment but, nobly, decided to sit it out. One consideration, among many, stood out particularly. Might not the other diners assume that it was her boring conversation, that indeed she, and not vodka, had driven him into this state of unconsciousness? Eventually Mr Bernard awoke. 'Let's go out to dinner,' he sug- gested enthusiastically.
She will not dwell on the matter of getting him to sign a cheque for a meal he could not remember eating. Suffice it to say, it could be rivalled only by that of getting a signature on the death warrant of Charles I.
Mr Bernard, 'trapped in a sartorial time warp', as one magazine put it, nags her endlessly for not wearing stiletto heels, seamed stockings, skin-tight skirts and much cleavage. Any protest from her that the baggy look is in, is met with the contempt previously reserved for anyone who thought Ascot had to do with a heating device. Once, having massaged his pugilistic shoulders for an hour and a half, a discussion on male attitudes had de- veloped. Refreshed, Mr Bernard leapt to his feet and as he playfully flung a crum- pled shirt into her aching hands to be ironed the words 'of course I'm not chauvi- nistic', were heard to issue from his mouth.
Still, it is essentially the childlike quality of Mr Bernard that is so disarming. When she talked to him of the delights of parenthood he looked at her with all the horror of one who has just seen Banquo's ghost. `But / am a child,' he wailed. And it is this delightful juvenile quality that restrains her from emulating one Miss Esther Williams, an American cinema ac- tress of the Forties for whose talents Mr Bernard had expressed great admiration, and learning to swim.
She who would drown in his eyes
17 Cecil Court, Fawcett Street, London SW5
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