LADIES OF THE DAY

With my next two ‘Ask Sylvia’ columns for the Boston Traveler put to bed, approved, today’s gift of luxurious freedom lightens my step, allows me to make spontaneous choices. The first one clobbers me. On my side of Revere Street I notice Val’s. It sings a song to me, ‘Come on in, Forget the din. Be at ease, Come in please.’ A handsome young man, surely dressed in an Armani suit, opens the heavy glass door for me. Six people are in a loose line waiting to be seated. The Maitre ‘d speaks softly to the Wurzburgers and leads the couple to a lovely table next to the central fountain.

Not being a total stranger here, nor a regular, I am patient, let my eyes wander over the many autographed photos of well known diners who habituate Val’s. A threesome of two ladies and an elderly gentleman follow the first couple. This leaves a smart looking woman, about 30, wearing extremely high heels with ankle straps, a huge Coach avocado colored leather bag over her shoulders that almost over- shadows her slender body. The simple bodice, low cut, is dark brown with no adornments. She and I make eye contact. She speaks to me first. ‘I hate to eat alone. Perhaps you’d like to join me.’ I graciously accept and offer her my hand. ‘My name is Sylvia. Yes, eating alone can be lonely.’ ‘My name is Val, not the Val from this place but plain Val from New York.’ I instantly like her. The maitre ‘d is gracious and sits us close to the fountain. He’s no dummy. Two singles at a table for 2 is better than two singles at separate tables.

Magic begins to work. Val and I are instant new ‘old friends,’ She talks, I listen. I talk, she listens. I hold back telling her about my column, that I am well known in Boston. Val spurts out her past. She is in the theater, was in a revival of ‘Oklahoma’ three years ago and had a helluva good time doing ‘Mama Mia, last season. ‘Oh, yes, ‘I was in ‘Hairspray’, the lead dancer in 2001.’ I am impressed but it is my turn. ‘Do you read ‘The Boston Traveler’?’ Val says she has little time for reading, gets the current news on line. ‘Well, Val, pick one up and look for ‘Ask Sylvia’ on the page next to the comics. That’s my daily column. I’ve been doing this for five years and have a lot of readers.’ I can see questions forming in Val’s mind for me, questions I don’t want to hear.

There is a rock on Val’s left hand, ring finger, that must be five carats. It sparkles as the fountain lights caress it. Simple, definitely 18 carat gold earrings almost touch her shoulders. You don’t earn money for these baubles as bit players. I come right out and ask her what she does when she isn’t on the stage. ‘This and that. I keep busy.’ Hmnn.

My delicious veal picatta is no longer on my plate, nor is anything else. Val calls the waiter over and asks for two glasses of Valpolicella, her favorite wine. No wonder. It is chilled, fruity, a bit dry and has her name on every bottle. We split the check . I thank Val for inviting me to sit with her. ‘Let’s get together again soon. Here’s my card, Val.’ She does not give me one of hers. We walk to the glass door and I notice an elderly gentleman finishing lunch. He’s almost bald and paunchy. As we ‘girls’ pass his table he winks boldly at Val and whispers something. Val nods a yes to him.

Foolish though my thinking must be, I get a funny feeling about Val’s work, go home and start my search of the web. I list the shows and dates in NY that she said she was in, go over all cast members and find no Val. Call me a Prude. Call me old fashioned. Call me hasty, but I am not going to meet her again even if she calls me. What I may do is write myself a letter (incognito), change the circumstances somewhat and see what my readers think of me keeping my standards high. The Boston Traveler is now up to 75cents per daily copy on the street.

Buy one Monday and reply. I am in dire need of assurance that I am right.