There was a picture of Robert Pattinson in the Financial Times the other day. It was from his newly-released movie “Bel Ami"; he was looking louche and European, wearing period costume. How did the article put it?: “Here is his ‘Twilight’ impassivity – weird, lucent-eyed, fixed of stare, sullenly magnetic . . .”
Naturally I brought it to lunch to show Apollonia and Cathleen. “I have something for you,” I said casually to Apollonia, and slid the newspaper into her hands . . .
Such a desperate erotically-charged whinny you have never heard. She leapt to her feet, moved backward slowly until her shoulders met the refrigerator, and slowly slid downward until she was sitting on the filthy kitchen floor, the paper clutched in her hands, staring at the picture of her dream/demon lover. “He’s perfect,” she cooed. “Look at him. Just look at him.”
Cathleen had no idea what Apollonia was looking at. “What did you do to her?” she shrieked at me. “You’ve finally driven her over the edge.”
“Pattinson,” I said.
“Oh,” Cathleen said. “Patterson.” (It amuses her – and me too – to call Robert Pattinson by the wrong name, because she knows it irks Apollonia deeply.) “Give me that.” She ripped the paper from Apollonia’s trembling hands. “Oh Jesus,” Cathleen moaned, inspecting the photo. “He’s hideous.”
Apollonia recovered slightly and went over to the cafeteria sink to rinse her plates. “I don’t care what either of you thinks,” she said dreamily. “This movie is going to be a masterpiece. It’s been in the can for a while, you know. They’re only just releasing it now.”
“By ‘can,’ I assume you mean ‘toilet,’” I said, and Cathleen and I snickered.
“Huh huh,” Apollonia said. “Laugh away. I’m glad I amuse you both. You have no idea.”
“No, we don’t,” Cathleen said.
“We really really don’t,” I added.
Ah: poor Apollonia. The heart has its reasons, whereof reason itself knows nothing.
But oh dear. Robert Pattinson.
Now leave me in peace with my Chris Evans posters.
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