(At a very classy garden party , in one of the few large private gardens in the heart of the City.)
- You’ve been staring at me.
- I have.
- Well you’ve been doing it too much, too obviously, and I want to know why.
- Excellent — And you deserve to. I’ve been staring at you for a number of reasons; firstly, because you are very beautiful; secondly, because you are very sexually attractive — in both your physicality, but also — more importantly, in my view, in your body langu ..
- Enough of that! Fine, I get it — you’re a dirty old man, and you think it’s fine to make women feel uncomfortable if you want to build up some wank fantasy material. That’s what I came to tell you, and that’s done. If I see you doing that any more, to anyone here, I’ll come over shouting, next time, and make a big scene — understand?
- As it happens, I am not a wanker.
- Wha..? Oh, you know what — I really don’t want to know, you nasty old perv..
- My intention, in staring at you, was not what you claim — I wanted, in fact, to provoke an exchange like this — to learn more about you.
- Me? (taken aback, a little, then a quick recovery) — Oh, no you don’t — that’s worse! You think that you can actually chat me up this way — that, just by staring at me, that makes you interesting to me — that a woman will be so impressed by your attention — by your appreciation of her ‘body language’ that she will think you’re interesting? Pathetic.
- Again, you have me wrong. I am not in the slightest concerned by whether you find me interesting, or attractive. I am trying to discover whether I will continue to find you interesting and attractive. You probably won’t be happy about this, but, so far, I do. Fascinating, in fact.
- FASCINATING! (voice raised, people look). O now I am flattered! A big word, and all to my lucky little self! How dare you? You push the male gaze thing onto me, creep me out, following me round the garden with your eyes; I put you to rights and still you think you can impress me with ‘fascinating’? Pathetic — that’s what I call your kind. Are you some sort of masochist, perhaps — you like being trashed by a strong, confident woman, in public — is that it?
- Not at all. I am, by chance, untrashable, here. You see, it is my party. I will, however, hold my hand up to something you said — the power of the male gaze. I do contend, though, that there is an equivalent female power — it can be equally unsettling to find a woman staring at you. And usually there is no question at all of her thinking positive thoughts about one, either. A woman staring at one is almost always a sign of disapproval — and, if it comes from a stranger, it can be extremely unsettling.
- So, one non-apology, immediately on the heels of pulling another privilege rank — you’re rich and important, as well as male. Well, that settles it, doesn’t it — I’m obviously about to be swept off my feet, helplessly ensnared by a man twice my age, because he likes my tits and the way I walk and finds me ‘fascinating’ — not only this, but he knows how to appear to apologise. Wonderful! Mister, I don’t care if this is your party, I am quite prepared to embarrass you in front of your guests, and to be thrown out, too — what a fuss that will make — yes, I’m not on the invite list, so you can no doubt pass me off as some troublesome gate-crasher if you want, but I promise you I’ll make you rather uncomfortable first.
- My dear girl, I have no intention of ejecting you from the party — you are quite the most interesting thing about it. And I want you to feel free to behave exactly as you wish with me — not just now, incidentally, but at all times — be your wonderful self. It may be useful for you to know, though, that I have already identified you to some of the more influential ladies on the committee as — as you say — a potentially troublesome interloper, so that your embarrassment tactic might backfire, just a little. In fact, here comes Lady Featherstonhaugh, probably to give me moral support. Shall I tell her that I find you delightful — refreshing — or yes — I can see you understand that I am teasing you. Please, do, say whatever you wish. I will guarantee that you will not be thrown out, or otherwise ill-treated. All the responsibility, all the blame for this interlude lies with me. Here she comes!
- Lady Featherstonhaugh, so kind of you; please, meet, ah .. my .. new acquaintance .. ah ..?
- Jack. And if you’ve come to find out what the fuss is about, I’ll tell you; your — whatever he is — patron? — here is a sexist pig, who has spent a fair amount of time in the last hour staring at me in the most objectionable way, and I’ve told him, very clearly, that it’s insupportable, outrageous, and downright rude.
(after a pause) Thank you for managing to tell me that in a normal tone of voice, ahh .. Jack, isn’t it? We have important guests here, as I’m sure you are aware.
As it happens, I completely agree with you. Mr Karsh and I have been thoroughly frank with one another on this subject on several occasions.
But the thing is, you see, that this whole institution depends upon such relations. If you look around, you might guess, I suppose, that a good third of the older women present here — the ones who are our funders — beyond, of course, the incredible generosity of Mr Karsh; these women are mostly — to put it crudely — ‘trophy wives’, of one kind or another.
And, like it or not, these women are people — they are women, just as much as you are. You may decry their choices, may decry the structure of society that offers them such choices — and so on, and so on — and you would probably find that I agree with you in many ways — that in fact, I might be able to extend your arguments, since I have been making them since before you were born.
However, I do not see that it will advance the cause of the Opera House one jot to upset all these women, in this place, at this time — to attack their life choices far more hurtfully than you could attack Mr Karsh.
As a feminist myself, I have to say, that the sorts of programmes Mr Karsh generously supports in thirty countries across the world, and in ten projects in this city alone, make more material difference to the advancement of the position and condition of women in society than anything I have ever been able to do in a lifetime.
All that said, my advice to you, clever and confident as you appear to be, is that you walk away now. If Mr Karsh is interested by you, then he will find a way to occupy your thoughts, whether you like it or not.
No, I cannot give you any more time; I’m terribly sorry; I am afraid I have important people to satisfy. Enjoy yourself, my dear. Ah! here comes a fresh tray of champagne — please, do, take a glass; it’s the VIP grade — so much better than the fizz you’ve been given so far. Take two!
Mr Karsh — I hope you will have a little time for some of the ladies later?
- Of course — I am at your service.
(A silence. Jack is a little pink. She half turns, as if to leave, without another word, without meeting Karsh’ eyes. He watches, apparently disinterested, half smiling as usual. She hesitates, then, slowly, slightly awkwardly, turns back to him.)
- I .. um. It .. it’s good that .. that you fund those .. things. Not that a rich man like you shouldn’t be doing that — and probably more, but .. but that .. it does sound like .. a lot, already. And it doesn’t mean you get to be a jerk.
(Silence. Jack gets pinker. Karsh makes no effort at all beyond smiling and looking into her face. Jack is clearly in a quandary, shifting her stance, unable to decide whether to look at him, or at the ground, or into the distance, unable to decide whether to stay or go.)
- It’s been very interesting to talk to you, Jack. Thank you for coming over. I won’t apologise, as you have noted, for staring at you. I will, if you would like it, make a ten thousand donation to a charity of your choice. As you say, I should be doing more. Write me a note and hand it to the girl on the programmes table on your way out. I’m afraid I must do my duty by Mrs Featherstonhaugh, now.
(Jack looks up, clearly startled and dismayed to be said goodbye to so soon. She stares, but clearly cannot think what to say. At last, she almost blurts;)
- I .. I can’t think of .. I mean .. I .. I won’t be able to research a ch-charity toda .. here, though.
(Karsh looks at her, lets her know he understands her, knows that this is an excuse, that she wants to see him again. She flushes. He waits, but she seems tongue tied. He relents at last;)
- If you want to see me again, I lunch early most Tuesdays at the cafe by the Serpentine. We can discuss your chosen charity then, if you wish. Maybe we can have a conversation about feminism? Who knows?
(His smile is genuine, but Jack’s is unconvincing. She leaves soon afterward.)
