"I've gone into partnership with Pete," said Jez, when she rang a few days later.
"Pete from the pub?"
"Yeah. I showed him the earrings and he thought they were really cool. Thought we could do something with them. He's really into computers and he's got all this kit which he only uses for fun, so he suggested we set up a website and see what happened."
She sounded so casual. I could imagine her at the end of the line, rubbing one lock of hair between her finger and thumb as was her wont, her head tipped to one side, an eco-chick from the renegade hairs on her head to her dirty toenails.
"And what did happen?"
"Well, we've got a few orders."
"How many?"
I waited. Nothing more was forthcoming. In the background I heard a burst of raucous male laughter, and I lost Jez for a moment as she turned around to try and find out what she'd missed by being on the phone to her sister.
"Jez?"
"Yeah?"
"How many orders?"
"Oh, a few. I don't know. We've sent out about twenty, thirty pairs..”
"That sounds brilliant! How long have you had the website?"
"About ten days? Two weeks maybe?"
"Jez, that's absolutely fantastic! You've got your own business! What are you doing about distribution and stuff?”
"You what?"
"Sending it out. What are you doing about sending it out?"
"What do you mean? We put it all in boxes and send it out. How complicated can it be?"
My sister the businesswoman. I could only hope that Pete from the pub had more idea of what they would do if they actually found themselves in the position of having some success.
"So what do you do? Are you checking the orders as they come in? How are you working it out?"
Jez sighed.
"Toni, look, I have the creative drive. Pete looks after all the other shit. Come on, can you see me in front of a computer all day? No, I'm hanging out in the tepee making the stuff. I've got some new ideas as well, it's going to be really cool."
“And how's Pete, then?"
"He's good. We work well together. He gives me space."
"He gives you beer, too, I guess."
She laughed.
"Yeah, right, loads of it. And cider. I tell you. I'm in heaven here! Hanging out making beautiful things during the day and then coming to a friendly pub and getting uninhibited every night. It's good to be single again."
I knew she'd be waving her arms around, her head swinging ecstatically. Jez was good at ecstasy.
“Just be sure and practise safe sex, Jez."
"Oh, I am, I am. It's nice to be having any sex at all actually. Steve wasn't that keen most of the time."
"Really? I always imagined you'd be at it like rabbits."
"No, no, 'fraid not. But hey, I'm rediscovering my enthusiasm for the whole thing!" Another burst of laughter interrupted us, "Look, Toni, I gotta go. I'm missing all the fun. See ya!"
And she hung up.
Sometimes I missed Jez. Not all that often, we were very dissimilar, but now and then it would occur to me that she was the person in my life who knew most about me. I remember reading in some women's magazine in a dentist's waiting room the very obvious but nonetheless remarkable observation that one's relationship with a sibling is the longest relationship in life, longer than those with parents, partners or children, spanning in the normal way of things practically the whole of a life. When we were children we fought constantly. She was always content to be herself, giving into whatever urge moved her. I was always on the road to somewhere; towards school, towards big school, towards university, into a career, upwards in my career. I embraced my duty and my duty was to make others proud of me. Jez just wanted to like herself, and she succeeded in that, never really doubting for one moment that things would be ok, that her mother goddess would take care of her. I envied her her liberation. I don't think she ever envied me my 'success'.
The phone rang again. I picked it up straight away.
"Hello?"
All I could hear was the pub noise and then Jez's laughter and away from the receiver, "Barry - you're such a tosser!" and a guffaw.
"Jez! Hello!" I bellowed into the receiver, "Hello!"
"Oh, hi sis, Sorry about that. Look, I was just wondering, would you like to come down for the weekend, you know, chill, enjoy the sunshine, listen to the birds, bond with your sister?"
I was touched.
"I'd love to. That'd be great. When were you thinking?"
"Well, I don't have a very full agenda. What about this weekend?"
"I'll come Saturday. I don't know if I can stay."
"Cool. Come to the pub. See you then." Another burst of laughter interrupted us and Jez decided she'd surrendered enough fan time to me and hung up.
"Well," asked Simon, "What did she say?"
"It was Pete's idea. The chap from the pub. He thought they could do something with the jewellery and he sorted out the website page."
"Good for him." Simon was flicking through the paper thoughtfully, "Didn't strike me as an obvious entrepreneur, I must say."
"No. But he had expanded into B&B."
"Yes, there is that," he turned a page, "Nice chap too, didn't you think?"
"Stop it!" I laughed, "She's only just out of one relationship, don't start plotting another for her. She can manage her own life."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes. She has ideals. I admire her for sticking to them."
"So do I. I wasn't talking about that, I was talking about her ability to search through a barrel of perfectly healthy apples and select the one really maggotty one. Did I gather that she is currently sexually active?"
"Very, from the sounds of it."
He nodded "I think that's a healthy development for a woman who's been locked up in a relationship with a Steve for seven years."
He came over and sat next to me, putting his head on my shoulder.
“Aren't we lucky, baby bird?"
"We are." I turned and planted a kiss on his warm forehead. He smelled of garlic from our supper. He insinuated his arms around my waist and I threw mine around his shoulders. We sat like that for a while. I bestowed kisses on his forehead while he nestled against my breast until, uncomfortable, I gently pushed him and he moved away and went back to his paper, quiet, accepting, entirely secure within the marital cocoon. I watched him surreptitiously as I tidied away for the evening, feeling an urge to talk to him about important things but not quite knowing where to start.
“I'm going up there on Saturday."
"That'll be nice. Do you want me to come?"
"No, not really. I'd quite like to have a proper chat with her."
"Fine. I'll do beans on toast for when you get back then, shall I?"
"That'd be lovely."
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Chapter 9: Toni sends flowers to an old flame.
Simon and I had a good patch for a month or so after the Frederik episode; lots of sex, very few rows. I made an effort and cooked. He made an effort and booked restaurant tables. We went out on our own together and talked to each other and then we flirted with one another when we were in company. We had the children's names conversation, the one which always gave us a sense of permanence. It didn't make me feel uneasy. Every time I looked at him I was aware of loving him deeply. It was fun.
Then a combination of things happened which set me back. Firstly I made some playful comment about Simon's waistline. He took offence and joined a squash club. He got fanatical about it, which didn't worry me too much as I knew it was a phase which would last a month at the most, but which left me alone in the evenings. I decided to clear the backlog of things I had been meaning to do for ages. I met up with old friends; I cleaned the fridge; I decided to put the photographs in the album. This was a major exercise, since the house was full of photos which had been lying around since before our wedding. There were four years to sort out. I laid them all over the floor in months and then edited them down and planned the layout. Of course it sounds much more straightforward than it is. An exercise like this involves hours of reminiscences and recriminations - you pore over your photographs, analysing yourself, wondering about other people, smiling and cringing by turn. It's simply something that can't be done quickly - I didn't manage to get up to date. It's like clearing out desk drawers and coming across old letters. I did that too.
I found a shoebox full of love-letters. When Simon and I got married we both swore we'd got rid of our respective hordes, but I cheated and I think he did too. I spent a whole afternoon when my electronic diary said I was 'working at home' sitting on the floor by my bed reading old letters. From Marc, my first love. Well, my first grown-up love.
The letters were full of a desperation which I had never experienced with Simon - perhaps the difference between first love at twenty-one and wearier, but sounder, love in one's thirties. My attachment to Marc was palpable, electric; it shuddered through me all the time I was with him. It isn't the same with Simon. We don't love each other as a castaway loves the fragment of wood he clings to. There is no insecurity. We know what our future holds. It holds each other. We will watch subtle changes in each other; he will notice over time that the skin on the backs of my hands is growing papery; it will suddenly occur to me that he has developed an interest in interior design that he didn't have when he met me. I have changed because of him. We seem to have grown into a couple, a being with two heads and four legs but a co-ordinated method of movement. I struggle against it. I am surprised by photos of us the way we used to be, I don't remember us being like that. I'm not sure how I feel about the changes. We can plan for the future without feeling that it is daring, a risk, willing fate to turn against us and throw a monumental spanner in the works. I would never admit it out loud but I miss the danger.
When Simon came home I snapped at him for no real reason and compared him unfavourably to Marc, which was unfair since there was about fifteen years between the Simon of now and the Marc of then. Of course a comparison of the you of now with the you of then would provide a useful control, but that kind of experiment is not usually conducted in as scientific a fashion as it should be.
The next day was Saturday and I was meeting my friend, Julia, in the big out-of-town shopping centre to get essential bits and pieces. It was a great glass domed structure, attractive in an impersonal, functional, light-reflecting, temple-to-shopping way.
When our feet were sore and our throats dry we made our way to the coffee shop, a teeny bit more expensive and more splendid than Starbucks. In the middle of the room was a circular bar, its menu whispering of the usual lattes and mochas, espressos, americanos and cappucinos, all promised with shots of hazelnut or Irish cream. Machines hissed as they pressed water through thick coffee grounds; milk protested as it struggled through pipes to emerge bubbling and blustering in fine white china. Around three quarters of the bar were clusters of aluminium chairs set around blond beech tables on a blond beech floor. Two creamy leather sofas sat against the walls, customers lounging in them. A man and a woman clad in black leather jackets, black trousers and roll necks reclined in one of them, talking unsmilingly, glancing around occasionally to check that we were all looking at them. The tables were inhabited by motley assortments of humanity; couples discussing sofas, parents harassed by impatient children, elderly people complaining that you couldn't get just a coffee these days. To the left of us was a group of tables with computer terminals on top of them. All but one were occupied, mainly by teenagers in pairs, giggling and cupping their arms around the screens protectively. A man with long hair and sandals played computer games and an elderly couple were reading about Viagra. One young girl wrote a long e-mail, tapping away without looking at the screen. I couldn't help but glance over and caught sight of a few words: "and then I told her to fuck off because she was going out with Nick and why should she be even talking to Dave and she said 'You slag' but she's the slag.......” Julia caught me looking and dug me in the ribs or I would have kept on reading.
"I need to check up on something." I said, "It won’t take long. I don’t get to surf the net at work. And my laptop's knackered."
I sat down at the spare terminal and tucked my plastic bags under the table. A spotty youth glared at me and then swore under his breath as Julia nudged him with her huge handbag and scraped a chair up next to me.
"Is there a problem?" I asked, looking him squarely in the eye.
His eyebrows drew into a single black line and he slouched back in his seat and pulled insolently at the crotch of his trousers, which were about a foot from where his underpants should be. I quite enjoyed the opportunity of showing off to Julia, who’s unspeakably Luddite and revels in it. She'd been out of the business for several years. The pony-tailed boffin came over.
"D'you want any help' he asked, eying the numerous bags of shopping and visibly dismissing us as big haired housewives, "Been here before?"
"No, thanks," I said, my fingers flying over the keyboard, "We'll be ok."
"Wyile you're there, said Jules, "you couldn't check some jewellery sites, could you? I'd rather get something unusual for my niece than buy them at Accessorize again. But if there's nothing, we'll have to go there."
As we looked at the list of odd jewellers, my eyes were drawn to one particular entry: "Jez's Jazzy Jewellery". I scrolled down and clicked the mouse on it. My sister's face looked out at me, her head tipped forward to enlarge her eyes, all kohl and red hair.
"My God," breathed Jules, "It's your mad sister. What's she doing there? I'd have thought she'd be against all that in principle."
I shrugged and clicked again and saw some photos of those hen-feather earrings, purple and green and fuchsia and orange, each dangling from my sister's distinctive lobe, a wisp of hair curling away from the ear. There were also some interestingly twisted wire earrings, also adorned with those primitive clay beads. They looked good. Someone had been to a great deal of trouble creating the display.
I was almost too surprised to speak.
"Well, good for her," said Jules, sitting back and folding her arms. "She's absolutely astonished me. I thought she was a complete airhead and she's proved me wrong. Serves me right for judging a book by its cover. Don't ever let me tell anyone off again for dismissing me as a housewife."
"Do you want to order some?" I asked.
"God, no!" Jules said, too quickly, "I don't like them that much. I'd worry where the feathers had been."
"Well I can help her there - they're from hens, and I wouldn't expect Jez to have washed them too conscientiously…"
"Still, fair dos, eh? I hope lots of people do buy them. And don't catch anything from them. It might be a good idea to have a word with her on the hygiene front, though, before she dispatches too many pairs."
We had a laugh and moved on, browsing through some other quirky sites.
"So what else can we do?" asked Jules, her stomach muscles sore from laughing.
"Track down old friends?" I offered.
"Excellent idea!"
A few keystrokes and I was ready.
"Ok then," I said lightly, "who do you want to find? What about in the US?"
Julia leaned forward eagerly.
"Oh, what fun! Let me see, write down Kristen Cembrowicz." She spelled it out.
"Do you know what state she's in?"
"Pennsylvania."
The screen said that there were two hits. Julia whooped and bounced on her chair. There were several options; Julia wanted to send a card.
"There she is! Let me! Let me!"
I pushed over the keyboard and she typed a short message, giving her home phone number and exhorting Kristen to call.
"She was brilliant, Kristen, I met her on holiday in Greece. She was 'doing Europe'. I hope she calls. Go on now. It's your turn - who are you going to look up?"
I looked upwards thoughtfully for a respectable length of time and then brightened my expression as if an idea had just occurred to me.
"I know."
I keyed in the name MARC LARSEN. State NY.
There were fourteen hits. I narrowed my search.
MARC P LARSEN.
One hit. My hands were shaking. I could feel I was blushing.
"Ok, sweetie, what's the story here? Holiday romance?" Julia was smiling broadly at me, elbowing me in the side.
"Sort of. First love. We were lost in France together when I was twenty. Big stuff at the time." I tried to sound casual. I didn't feel it.
There was an option to 'Send flowers'. I picked it.
"Oh well, in for a penny..." I said, and Julia's mouth made an 'o' at me.
What on earth do you say? My fingers hung in the air as I gazed at the prompt, waiting for inspiration.
"Hi!" I wrote, and paused.
Julia looked at me.
“He'll need more of a clue than that, sweetie."
"Here's a blast from the past. I happened upon you here. What would I do but drop you a line?! Hope you're well and enjoy the flowers. Toni.”
As I wrapped up and filled in all the relevant details Julia looked at me approvingly. It is impossible to enter in your card details as if you’re being spontaneous. It was clear as crystal, even to Julia, that there was more to this than met the eye.
"What would Simon say, eh? Are you going to tell him?"
"I might. It depends. Now what shall we do now?"
“Don’t change the subject. Who is this man? Eh? Eh?”
“I just told you. He’s an old friend. Really old.”
“Married?”
That was the flip side of making contact in such a reckless way. I hadn’t actually thought of that, and those flowers would be going to his home. Excellent.
“Probably. Most of us are, aren’t we?”
“And how would you feel if Simon got flowers from an old flame out of the blue?”
“Much the same as when he gets pawed by them at weddings – resigned. I know it means nothing. Unless she’s very wet, so will she.”
I didn’t feel quite as insouciant as I sounded.
“Now come on. Your babes will need their Mum back soon.”
I didn't tell Simon when I got home. I was remorseful almost immediately though, so I'd picked up a couple of steaks at the food store and I made a sauce "au poivre" to go over it. We had supper in the dining room for once, over a candle, and we talked. I'd made a pavlova and I insisted we take it to bed with our glasses of brandy. I wanted to smear cream over him and lick it off but he didn't want to sleep in sticky sheets, so I made do with feeding him and being fed and then straddled him when he was trying to watch Match of the Day.
Then a combination of things happened which set me back. Firstly I made some playful comment about Simon's waistline. He took offence and joined a squash club. He got fanatical about it, which didn't worry me too much as I knew it was a phase which would last a month at the most, but which left me alone in the evenings. I decided to clear the backlog of things I had been meaning to do for ages. I met up with old friends; I cleaned the fridge; I decided to put the photographs in the album. This was a major exercise, since the house was full of photos which had been lying around since before our wedding. There were four years to sort out. I laid them all over the floor in months and then edited them down and planned the layout. Of course it sounds much more straightforward than it is. An exercise like this involves hours of reminiscences and recriminations - you pore over your photographs, analysing yourself, wondering about other people, smiling and cringing by turn. It's simply something that can't be done quickly - I didn't manage to get up to date. It's like clearing out desk drawers and coming across old letters. I did that too.
I found a shoebox full of love-letters. When Simon and I got married we both swore we'd got rid of our respective hordes, but I cheated and I think he did too. I spent a whole afternoon when my electronic diary said I was 'working at home' sitting on the floor by my bed reading old letters. From Marc, my first love. Well, my first grown-up love.
The letters were full of a desperation which I had never experienced with Simon - perhaps the difference between first love at twenty-one and wearier, but sounder, love in one's thirties. My attachment to Marc was palpable, electric; it shuddered through me all the time I was with him. It isn't the same with Simon. We don't love each other as a castaway loves the fragment of wood he clings to. There is no insecurity. We know what our future holds. It holds each other. We will watch subtle changes in each other; he will notice over time that the skin on the backs of my hands is growing papery; it will suddenly occur to me that he has developed an interest in interior design that he didn't have when he met me. I have changed because of him. We seem to have grown into a couple, a being with two heads and four legs but a co-ordinated method of movement. I struggle against it. I am surprised by photos of us the way we used to be, I don't remember us being like that. I'm not sure how I feel about the changes. We can plan for the future without feeling that it is daring, a risk, willing fate to turn against us and throw a monumental spanner in the works. I would never admit it out loud but I miss the danger.
When Simon came home I snapped at him for no real reason and compared him unfavourably to Marc, which was unfair since there was about fifteen years between the Simon of now and the Marc of then. Of course a comparison of the you of now with the you of then would provide a useful control, but that kind of experiment is not usually conducted in as scientific a fashion as it should be.
The next day was Saturday and I was meeting my friend, Julia, in the big out-of-town shopping centre to get essential bits and pieces. It was a great glass domed structure, attractive in an impersonal, functional, light-reflecting, temple-to-shopping way.
When our feet were sore and our throats dry we made our way to the coffee shop, a teeny bit more expensive and more splendid than Starbucks. In the middle of the room was a circular bar, its menu whispering of the usual lattes and mochas, espressos, americanos and cappucinos, all promised with shots of hazelnut or Irish cream. Machines hissed as they pressed water through thick coffee grounds; milk protested as it struggled through pipes to emerge bubbling and blustering in fine white china. Around three quarters of the bar were clusters of aluminium chairs set around blond beech tables on a blond beech floor. Two creamy leather sofas sat against the walls, customers lounging in them. A man and a woman clad in black leather jackets, black trousers and roll necks reclined in one of them, talking unsmilingly, glancing around occasionally to check that we were all looking at them. The tables were inhabited by motley assortments of humanity; couples discussing sofas, parents harassed by impatient children, elderly people complaining that you couldn't get just a coffee these days. To the left of us was a group of tables with computer terminals on top of them. All but one were occupied, mainly by teenagers in pairs, giggling and cupping their arms around the screens protectively. A man with long hair and sandals played computer games and an elderly couple were reading about Viagra. One young girl wrote a long e-mail, tapping away without looking at the screen. I couldn't help but glance over and caught sight of a few words: "and then I told her to fuck off because she was going out with Nick and why should she be even talking to Dave and she said 'You slag' but she's the slag.......” Julia caught me looking and dug me in the ribs or I would have kept on reading.
"I need to check up on something." I said, "It won’t take long. I don’t get to surf the net at work. And my laptop's knackered."
I sat down at the spare terminal and tucked my plastic bags under the table. A spotty youth glared at me and then swore under his breath as Julia nudged him with her huge handbag and scraped a chair up next to me.
"Is there a problem?" I asked, looking him squarely in the eye.
His eyebrows drew into a single black line and he slouched back in his seat and pulled insolently at the crotch of his trousers, which were about a foot from where his underpants should be. I quite enjoyed the opportunity of showing off to Julia, who’s unspeakably Luddite and revels in it. She'd been out of the business for several years. The pony-tailed boffin came over.
"D'you want any help' he asked, eying the numerous bags of shopping and visibly dismissing us as big haired housewives, "Been here before?"
"No, thanks," I said, my fingers flying over the keyboard, "We'll be ok."
"Wyile you're there, said Jules, "you couldn't check some jewellery sites, could you? I'd rather get something unusual for my niece than buy them at Accessorize again. But if there's nothing, we'll have to go there."
As we looked at the list of odd jewellers, my eyes were drawn to one particular entry: "Jez's Jazzy Jewellery". I scrolled down and clicked the mouse on it. My sister's face looked out at me, her head tipped forward to enlarge her eyes, all kohl and red hair.
"My God," breathed Jules, "It's your mad sister. What's she doing there? I'd have thought she'd be against all that in principle."
I shrugged and clicked again and saw some photos of those hen-feather earrings, purple and green and fuchsia and orange, each dangling from my sister's distinctive lobe, a wisp of hair curling away from the ear. There were also some interestingly twisted wire earrings, also adorned with those primitive clay beads. They looked good. Someone had been to a great deal of trouble creating the display.
I was almost too surprised to speak.
"Well, good for her," said Jules, sitting back and folding her arms. "She's absolutely astonished me. I thought she was a complete airhead and she's proved me wrong. Serves me right for judging a book by its cover. Don't ever let me tell anyone off again for dismissing me as a housewife."
"Do you want to order some?" I asked.
"God, no!" Jules said, too quickly, "I don't like them that much. I'd worry where the feathers had been."
"Well I can help her there - they're from hens, and I wouldn't expect Jez to have washed them too conscientiously…"
"Still, fair dos, eh? I hope lots of people do buy them. And don't catch anything from them. It might be a good idea to have a word with her on the hygiene front, though, before she dispatches too many pairs."
We had a laugh and moved on, browsing through some other quirky sites.
"So what else can we do?" asked Jules, her stomach muscles sore from laughing.
"Track down old friends?" I offered.
"Excellent idea!"
A few keystrokes and I was ready.
"Ok then," I said lightly, "who do you want to find? What about in the US?"
Julia leaned forward eagerly.
"Oh, what fun! Let me see, write down Kristen Cembrowicz." She spelled it out.
"Do you know what state she's in?"
"Pennsylvania."
The screen said that there were two hits. Julia whooped and bounced on her chair. There were several options; Julia wanted to send a card.
"There she is! Let me! Let me!"
I pushed over the keyboard and she typed a short message, giving her home phone number and exhorting Kristen to call.
"She was brilliant, Kristen, I met her on holiday in Greece. She was 'doing Europe'. I hope she calls. Go on now. It's your turn - who are you going to look up?"
I looked upwards thoughtfully for a respectable length of time and then brightened my expression as if an idea had just occurred to me.
"I know."
I keyed in the name MARC LARSEN. State NY.
There were fourteen hits. I narrowed my search.
MARC P LARSEN.
One hit. My hands were shaking. I could feel I was blushing.
"Ok, sweetie, what's the story here? Holiday romance?" Julia was smiling broadly at me, elbowing me in the side.
"Sort of. First love. We were lost in France together when I was twenty. Big stuff at the time." I tried to sound casual. I didn't feel it.
There was an option to 'Send flowers'. I picked it.
"Oh well, in for a penny..." I said, and Julia's mouth made an 'o' at me.
What on earth do you say? My fingers hung in the air as I gazed at the prompt, waiting for inspiration.
"Hi!" I wrote, and paused.
Julia looked at me.
“He'll need more of a clue than that, sweetie."
"Here's a blast from the past. I happened upon you here. What would I do but drop you a line?! Hope you're well and enjoy the flowers. Toni.”
As I wrapped up and filled in all the relevant details Julia looked at me approvingly. It is impossible to enter in your card details as if you’re being spontaneous. It was clear as crystal, even to Julia, that there was more to this than met the eye.
"What would Simon say, eh? Are you going to tell him?"
"I might. It depends. Now what shall we do now?"
“Don’t change the subject. Who is this man? Eh? Eh?”
“I just told you. He’s an old friend. Really old.”
“Married?”
That was the flip side of making contact in such a reckless way. I hadn’t actually thought of that, and those flowers would be going to his home. Excellent.
“Probably. Most of us are, aren’t we?”
“And how would you feel if Simon got flowers from an old flame out of the blue?”
“Much the same as when he gets pawed by them at weddings – resigned. I know it means nothing. Unless she’s very wet, so will she.”
I didn’t feel quite as insouciant as I sounded.
“Now come on. Your babes will need their Mum back soon.”
I didn't tell Simon when I got home. I was remorseful almost immediately though, so I'd picked up a couple of steaks at the food store and I made a sauce "au poivre" to go over it. We had supper in the dining room for once, over a candle, and we talked. I'd made a pavlova and I insisted we take it to bed with our glasses of brandy. I wanted to smear cream over him and lick it off but he didn't want to sleep in sticky sheets, so I made do with feeding him and being fed and then straddled him when he was trying to watch Match of the Day.
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Chapter 8: Freddie - oh dear! Maybe things aren't so bad...
"Heyyyyy! Toni! You haven't changed at all!"
Frederik had. He had changed almost beyond recognition. His quiff started some way further up his head than I remembered and there were fewer strands therein and more lacquer thereon. What hair he had was not exactly blond any more, but then not exactly grey either. It looked somehow colourless. His skin was for the most part also without colour except that his cheeks were rosy, not with youth but with beer. Beer had also had a detrimental affect on his waistline. Eerily, however, he appeared to be wearing the same clothes he had had on a decade before. He wore a white T-shirt stretched tight over his belly, a denim jacket with its collar turned up, jeans and leopard-skin winkle-pickers. He didn't look like a European lawyer. He looked like a superannuated student. Which was, of course, exactly what he was.
I wanted to turn and run. People at the bar rested their pints against their chests and nodded meaningfully in his direction. He was thrusting his hands at me, his thumbs up, his knees bent, and his "Heyyyy" had the force of several dozen decibels. I smiled wanly and went over.
"Freddie! You look great."
He smiled with false modesty and passed a hand over the structure which had been his hair. Then he smiled roguishly and punched me in the side.
"You look better! God, your guy, he's a lucky guy!" He took a swig from his bottle of Sol with a lemon segment stuck in the top. Reg the landlord didn't run to lime. The Sol had probably been gathering dust since the beginning of the last recession.
"So why are you here, Freddie? It's term time, isn't it?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Yeah, I guess. But hey, I had to get away. All work and no play, you know?"
I guessed he wasn't running any risks at all on that score. I nodded sagely.
"So what are you doing these days?"
"Well, like I said, I'm still working for my masters, but I've started a company as well. My brother Willem and me, we operate an Elvis memorabilia business on the Intemet. These shoes, for example," and he brought the winkle-pickers up into sharp focus before my eyes, "These shoes are fifties originals."
"They weren't actually owned by Elvis, were they?” I asked, genuinely impressed.
"No, but they might have been," he wiggled a fat finger in my face.
"Ok, so it's memorabilia in a fairly loose sense, then."
His brow was furrowed. "Huh?"
"I mean, it's fifties stuff, really, rather than Elvis memorabilia, isn't it?"
He was still confused.
"No, it's Elvis - you know, fifties, Memphis, US of A. Rock and Roll."
He was doing that thumb thing again.
"Whatever."
"But what about your course? When can I say I know a European Lawyer? When are you going to be practising in the Hague?"
"Oh that. Well, it's kinda difficult. It's not really me, but my Dad wants me to be some stuffed shirt lawyer, so I have to keep on with my studies or he'll cut off my allowance."
He swigged once more nonchalantly at his beer. I gulped air, trying to take in the full moment of this statement. I did a quick calculation. The man was thirty-two.
"Are you happy still being on an allowance?" I asked, trying not to sound as shocked as I was.
His expression indicated that he hadn't thought about it deeply. He looked surprised.
"Why should I not be? I am my own boss."
He frowned and straightened his back, which pulled his belly up, revealing most of his jeans, but not his belt.
"Nobody tells me what to do with my money. The old guy doesn't know that I'm here in Britain. Why would I tell him? It's my decision, right?"
"Right. So what are you doing here, then?"
"Vacation, man," he nodded, "I'm here to check out London."
"I'm afraid most of the Mods and Rockers have gone now." I smiled at him and was met with a vacant nod, "But there's still a lot to see. Why are you in Bath? Friends?"
“I met a girl in Rotterdam one night. She was vacationing with her friends and she gave me her address. I called her from the airport and asked if I could come and stay. She was real surprised to hear my voice."
She'd probably thrown away his address with relief and a hint of foreboding, praying that he'd lose hers. It could have been me - but he'd never had romantic ambitions in my direction.
"So are you in contact with anyone from Toulouse days?"
"No, not really. I had a call from Charlotte. She's living in the States. She sounded kinda surprised that I was still at the same address. I don't know, you guys, you've all moved on so far ahead of me."
He smiled and shook his head merrily.
"So what's Charlotte doing these days?"
"I think she said she was a buyer at some department store? Blumendahl, I think. Yeah, Blumendahl."
"Bloomingdales."
"No, Blumendahl."
"Whatever. She was heading that way six years ago. Good job. But then she did study fashion after France, so she had the right training. Why did she call you?"
"She was coming to Holland and wanted to get hold of her old lover."
"Oh, of course, Stefan. Do you still see each other?"
"Yeah, from time to time. He's busy though. He's a personnel manager for some big shot company in Amsterdam. He never seems to have the time to party."
"You could just go out with him for a quick drink, or a coffee, couldn't you?"
I tried not to sound sanctimonious.
"Yeah, right!" he said dismissively, a look from under his transparent eyebrows indicating that this could not possibly be so.
I remember feeling like this. I remember feeling that a life without drink was no life. I remember feeling that it should be surfed on a wave of alcohol-fuelled bonhomie, that what mattered was not the content of what you said, but how amusingly and how loudly you said it. I remember endless conversations made up entirely of one-liners and punctuated by theatrical belly laughs, as if we were all competing to be the one having the best time.
"Hey, you used to like your drinking like me!" he said, correctly.
"I still like a drink," I bridled rather, "But I can't afford to drink all the time. Work and all that. I suppose I changed; grew up a bit."
He sniggered, "Got old, you mean!"
I winced. Wasn't that what I was always accusing Simon of? The truth was, I'd never been a good drunk. After the laughter and the high spirits I would turn into an introspective but vociferous bore; thinking the world would be fascinated by my business, exaggerating my problems where necessary to enhance their entertainment value. I found inappropriate people wildly attractive. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise this.
Frederik had started to talk, oblivious to the fact that he had only half my attention.
"What about Marc, have you seen him recently? God, you two were so hot!" and he shook his hand loosely and blew on his fingers, just in case I was in any doubt as to his meaning.
"No, no. Last thing I heard he was making commercials. He's probably married now."
"You think? He didn't seem like the marrying type of guy to me. A lover, yes - husband, no."
"Really?" I said with some surprise.
"Yeah, he was too into his films. I thought he'd be working at that. Commercials, huh? I expected he'd be doing big movies by now; you know - Rocky, Rambo, that sort of thing."
I felt that appraisal discounted the validity of anything he had to say on the subject of auteur-addict Marc. I sat back to watch my erstwhile friend and allowed him to talk.
He’d been at the home of his English acquaintance for four days now and she'd suggested he go out for the evening. Apparently she had a partner and a short fuse. I bet, I thought. She must have been driven insane.
After we'd talked for a couple of hours about what had happened to us in the time since we'd been real friends, which in my case was quite a lot of work and in his case a lot of the same as before, he was anxious to find a 'rock place' to go dancing. It turned out that his day involved rising at midday, missing lectures, having lunch, playing at being a businessman on the internet (but earning bugger all) and then going out drinking until six in the morning before collapsing on a mattress in the room he shared with his brother in the house they shared with four others. He was by far the oldest there, but the others were no spring chickens. By the time I had weaselled out of clubbing with him I was almost sick with disappointment and disillusion. When Simon asked how the evening had gone I didn't feel up to telling him. But we snuggled down together and made warm and tender love when we got to bed.
Frederik had. He had changed almost beyond recognition. His quiff started some way further up his head than I remembered and there were fewer strands therein and more lacquer thereon. What hair he had was not exactly blond any more, but then not exactly grey either. It looked somehow colourless. His skin was for the most part also without colour except that his cheeks were rosy, not with youth but with beer. Beer had also had a detrimental affect on his waistline. Eerily, however, he appeared to be wearing the same clothes he had had on a decade before. He wore a white T-shirt stretched tight over his belly, a denim jacket with its collar turned up, jeans and leopard-skin winkle-pickers. He didn't look like a European lawyer. He looked like a superannuated student. Which was, of course, exactly what he was.
I wanted to turn and run. People at the bar rested their pints against their chests and nodded meaningfully in his direction. He was thrusting his hands at me, his thumbs up, his knees bent, and his "Heyyyy" had the force of several dozen decibels. I smiled wanly and went over.
"Freddie! You look great."
He smiled with false modesty and passed a hand over the structure which had been his hair. Then he smiled roguishly and punched me in the side.
"You look better! God, your guy, he's a lucky guy!" He took a swig from his bottle of Sol with a lemon segment stuck in the top. Reg the landlord didn't run to lime. The Sol had probably been gathering dust since the beginning of the last recession.
"So why are you here, Freddie? It's term time, isn't it?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Yeah, I guess. But hey, I had to get away. All work and no play, you know?"
I guessed he wasn't running any risks at all on that score. I nodded sagely.
"So what are you doing these days?"
"Well, like I said, I'm still working for my masters, but I've started a company as well. My brother Willem and me, we operate an Elvis memorabilia business on the Intemet. These shoes, for example," and he brought the winkle-pickers up into sharp focus before my eyes, "These shoes are fifties originals."
"They weren't actually owned by Elvis, were they?” I asked, genuinely impressed.
"No, but they might have been," he wiggled a fat finger in my face.
"Ok, so it's memorabilia in a fairly loose sense, then."
His brow was furrowed. "Huh?"
"I mean, it's fifties stuff, really, rather than Elvis memorabilia, isn't it?"
He was still confused.
"No, it's Elvis - you know, fifties, Memphis, US of A. Rock and Roll."
He was doing that thumb thing again.
"Whatever."
"But what about your course? When can I say I know a European Lawyer? When are you going to be practising in the Hague?"
"Oh that. Well, it's kinda difficult. It's not really me, but my Dad wants me to be some stuffed shirt lawyer, so I have to keep on with my studies or he'll cut off my allowance."
He swigged once more nonchalantly at his beer. I gulped air, trying to take in the full moment of this statement. I did a quick calculation. The man was thirty-two.
"Are you happy still being on an allowance?" I asked, trying not to sound as shocked as I was.
His expression indicated that he hadn't thought about it deeply. He looked surprised.
"Why should I not be? I am my own boss."
He frowned and straightened his back, which pulled his belly up, revealing most of his jeans, but not his belt.
"Nobody tells me what to do with my money. The old guy doesn't know that I'm here in Britain. Why would I tell him? It's my decision, right?"
"Right. So what are you doing here, then?"
"Vacation, man," he nodded, "I'm here to check out London."
"I'm afraid most of the Mods and Rockers have gone now." I smiled at him and was met with a vacant nod, "But there's still a lot to see. Why are you in Bath? Friends?"
“I met a girl in Rotterdam one night. She was vacationing with her friends and she gave me her address. I called her from the airport and asked if I could come and stay. She was real surprised to hear my voice."
She'd probably thrown away his address with relief and a hint of foreboding, praying that he'd lose hers. It could have been me - but he'd never had romantic ambitions in my direction.
"So are you in contact with anyone from Toulouse days?"
"No, not really. I had a call from Charlotte. She's living in the States. She sounded kinda surprised that I was still at the same address. I don't know, you guys, you've all moved on so far ahead of me."
He smiled and shook his head merrily.
"So what's Charlotte doing these days?"
"I think she said she was a buyer at some department store? Blumendahl, I think. Yeah, Blumendahl."
"Bloomingdales."
"No, Blumendahl."
"Whatever. She was heading that way six years ago. Good job. But then she did study fashion after France, so she had the right training. Why did she call you?"
"She was coming to Holland and wanted to get hold of her old lover."
"Oh, of course, Stefan. Do you still see each other?"
"Yeah, from time to time. He's busy though. He's a personnel manager for some big shot company in Amsterdam. He never seems to have the time to party."
"You could just go out with him for a quick drink, or a coffee, couldn't you?"
I tried not to sound sanctimonious.
"Yeah, right!" he said dismissively, a look from under his transparent eyebrows indicating that this could not possibly be so.
I remember feeling like this. I remember feeling that a life without drink was no life. I remember feeling that it should be surfed on a wave of alcohol-fuelled bonhomie, that what mattered was not the content of what you said, but how amusingly and how loudly you said it. I remember endless conversations made up entirely of one-liners and punctuated by theatrical belly laughs, as if we were all competing to be the one having the best time.
"Hey, you used to like your drinking like me!" he said, correctly.
"I still like a drink," I bridled rather, "But I can't afford to drink all the time. Work and all that. I suppose I changed; grew up a bit."
He sniggered, "Got old, you mean!"
I winced. Wasn't that what I was always accusing Simon of? The truth was, I'd never been a good drunk. After the laughter and the high spirits I would turn into an introspective but vociferous bore; thinking the world would be fascinated by my business, exaggerating my problems where necessary to enhance their entertainment value. I found inappropriate people wildly attractive. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise this.
Frederik had started to talk, oblivious to the fact that he had only half my attention.
"What about Marc, have you seen him recently? God, you two were so hot!" and he shook his hand loosely and blew on his fingers, just in case I was in any doubt as to his meaning.
"No, no. Last thing I heard he was making commercials. He's probably married now."
"You think? He didn't seem like the marrying type of guy to me. A lover, yes - husband, no."
"Really?" I said with some surprise.
"Yeah, he was too into his films. I thought he'd be working at that. Commercials, huh? I expected he'd be doing big movies by now; you know - Rocky, Rambo, that sort of thing."
I felt that appraisal discounted the validity of anything he had to say on the subject of auteur-addict Marc. I sat back to watch my erstwhile friend and allowed him to talk.
He’d been at the home of his English acquaintance for four days now and she'd suggested he go out for the evening. Apparently she had a partner and a short fuse. I bet, I thought. She must have been driven insane.
After we'd talked for a couple of hours about what had happened to us in the time since we'd been real friends, which in my case was quite a lot of work and in his case a lot of the same as before, he was anxious to find a 'rock place' to go dancing. It turned out that his day involved rising at midday, missing lectures, having lunch, playing at being a businessman on the internet (but earning bugger all) and then going out drinking until six in the morning before collapsing on a mattress in the room he shared with his brother in the house they shared with four others. He was by far the oldest there, but the others were no spring chickens. By the time I had weaselled out of clubbing with him I was almost sick with disappointment and disillusion. When Simon asked how the evening had gone I didn't feel up to telling him. But we snuggled down together and made warm and tender love when we got to bed.
Chapter 7: The present is an unsatisfactory place
"Why don't you just grow up, Toni? You're not bloody eighteen any more!"
"Well at least I'm not bloody middle-aged like you!"
"Yes, you are, Toni. That's exactly the point, you are middle-aged, and it's bloody ridiculous to be wandering about pretending you're still a teenager."
I knew he was right but I resented him, of all people, being right about me.
"Just because you grow up doesn't have to mean that you grow old"
"And just because I don't want to go to clubs or grow a goatee beard and dress like a fucking student doesn't mean I'm old. I'm in my late thirties, and so are you. Don't sulk at me because I'm not pretending to be something I'm not. I'm happy with me, Toni. I thought you were too."
"I was once," I muttered, knowing that he was right, "but I didn't know you were going to turn out to be such a bore. Anyway, I'm in my mid-thirties."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he laughed mirthlessly, grabbed his jacket, and turned to the door, "I'm going to the pub."
The door slammed shut.
For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Until death us do part. Fat chance.
Three years ago we had a dream of a wedding day. Simon wore a kilt and I wore a fabulous gold silk empire-length dress with a floor length veil and very high pointed shoes. It was very Audrey Hepburn. His face was slightly flushed with pleasure all day long. When I looked at him I thought I'd never seen anyone so handsome. I kept finding his eyes upon me and feeling his arm creep round my waist and squeeze me. All our friends got on. Even our parents could stand being in the same room for six hours. We ate salmon and drank champagne in a local hotel. We disappeared up to the bridal suite just before the strawberry pavlova to consummate the marriage. The best man had palpitations because we didn't tell him and he was worried about the speeches. When we came down again my lipstick was smudged. I laughed too loudly at all the jokes. Then we went away to Majorca for two weeks and spent most of it in our hotel room. He was my soul's other half.
But I hadn't counted on his ageing so fast. He takes afternoon naps at the weekends when I want to be out doing things. When he gets home he changes into shapeless sweat pants and T shirts. He watches too much TV.
I am young. Chronologically, of course, we're the same age, but in every other respect I'm decades younger. I keep abreast of fashion. I buy in cheap and cheerful shops, whereas he's already taken to the men's outfitters' type of place. I like to go out, try out the new bars and clubs. My music purchases include current hits; his collection atrophied at Genesis. Just before Christmas last year he joined the Sunday Times Wine Club. That way, he reasoned, he could be sure of giving our friends decent wine. He reads gardening columns.
It's all such a shame.
The phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Toni? Hi! It's your old friend Frederik here, calling from Holland!"
"Freddie!" I said, "Hi! How are you?"
"I'm great as ever, Toni. And howsabout you?”
Frederik is Dutch. He is also an Elvis fan. Or he was when I knew him, back in those halcyon days in Toulouse with Marc. He was delightfully aimless. Everybody liked him enormously when he wasn't there and then found him slightly irritating when he was. He had a quilt and turned his shirt collars up. He wore an open zip-up cardigan or a satin bomber jacket with a loud motif on the back. He affected a southern fifties drawl which led him to say things like "howsabout" with total seriousness.
"I'm well. What are you doing these days?"
"Oh I'm still a student. I'm working for my masters in European Law. It's a drag."
"Not enjoying it then?"
“Hey, you know how it is. It kind of gets in the way of my party time."
"Mmm. So why are you calling, Freddie?"
"I'm in the area. Bath? Thought we could maybe get together and do some talking."
"That would be great!" I said warmly, making a mental note not to take Simon. Frederik would find him really dull. "There's a good pub at the end of our street. Eight tomorrow?"
We made the arrangements and I hung up. It would be fun to see Frederik again. He was a laugh.
Simon came in about eleven twenty. I was into the TV programme I was watching. It was just getting to the point where the detectives were going to get the final piece of evidence which would prove that the father was framing the mute homeless man for the murder of his son. But Simon wanted to talk.
"We need to talk."
"Can't it wait - it's just getting to the crucial stage here..."
"Oh, what's the point?"
He dropped his wet coat on the sofa and went upstairs, trailing 'Dogbolter' fumes. Real Ale makes anoraks of men. I sighed heavily and swept the coat onto the floor with my foot. By the time the father had confessed to the murder and was writing out his confession as the wife was led away hysterical with grief, Simon was snoring rhythmically in our bed. I ended up watching an American made for TV movie circa 1982, half my brain addressing its half-witted plot and the other half feeling dissatisfied with my lot. But we did both have to go to work in the morning, so I crawled resentfully into bed at about one, pressing the bedclothes down into a channel between our bodies, sighing heavily so that in the event that he was really awake, he would be left in no doubt about my feelings. Then I fell asleep miserably, reflecting that even if I was unhappy with him, it was probably true that I was even more unhappy with myself.
"Well at least I'm not bloody middle-aged like you!"
"Yes, you are, Toni. That's exactly the point, you are middle-aged, and it's bloody ridiculous to be wandering about pretending you're still a teenager."
I knew he was right but I resented him, of all people, being right about me.
"Just because you grow up doesn't have to mean that you grow old"
"And just because I don't want to go to clubs or grow a goatee beard and dress like a fucking student doesn't mean I'm old. I'm in my late thirties, and so are you. Don't sulk at me because I'm not pretending to be something I'm not. I'm happy with me, Toni. I thought you were too."
"I was once," I muttered, knowing that he was right, "but I didn't know you were going to turn out to be such a bore. Anyway, I'm in my mid-thirties."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he laughed mirthlessly, grabbed his jacket, and turned to the door, "I'm going to the pub."
The door slammed shut.
For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Until death us do part. Fat chance.
Three years ago we had a dream of a wedding day. Simon wore a kilt and I wore a fabulous gold silk empire-length dress with a floor length veil and very high pointed shoes. It was very Audrey Hepburn. His face was slightly flushed with pleasure all day long. When I looked at him I thought I'd never seen anyone so handsome. I kept finding his eyes upon me and feeling his arm creep round my waist and squeeze me. All our friends got on. Even our parents could stand being in the same room for six hours. We ate salmon and drank champagne in a local hotel. We disappeared up to the bridal suite just before the strawberry pavlova to consummate the marriage. The best man had palpitations because we didn't tell him and he was worried about the speeches. When we came down again my lipstick was smudged. I laughed too loudly at all the jokes. Then we went away to Majorca for two weeks and spent most of it in our hotel room. He was my soul's other half.
But I hadn't counted on his ageing so fast. He takes afternoon naps at the weekends when I want to be out doing things. When he gets home he changes into shapeless sweat pants and T shirts. He watches too much TV.
I am young. Chronologically, of course, we're the same age, but in every other respect I'm decades younger. I keep abreast of fashion. I buy in cheap and cheerful shops, whereas he's already taken to the men's outfitters' type of place. I like to go out, try out the new bars and clubs. My music purchases include current hits; his collection atrophied at Genesis. Just before Christmas last year he joined the Sunday Times Wine Club. That way, he reasoned, he could be sure of giving our friends decent wine. He reads gardening columns.
It's all such a shame.
The phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Toni? Hi! It's your old friend Frederik here, calling from Holland!"
"Freddie!" I said, "Hi! How are you?"
"I'm great as ever, Toni. And howsabout you?”
Frederik is Dutch. He is also an Elvis fan. Or he was when I knew him, back in those halcyon days in Toulouse with Marc. He was delightfully aimless. Everybody liked him enormously when he wasn't there and then found him slightly irritating when he was. He had a quilt and turned his shirt collars up. He wore an open zip-up cardigan or a satin bomber jacket with a loud motif on the back. He affected a southern fifties drawl which led him to say things like "howsabout" with total seriousness.
"I'm well. What are you doing these days?"
"Oh I'm still a student. I'm working for my masters in European Law. It's a drag."
"Not enjoying it then?"
“Hey, you know how it is. It kind of gets in the way of my party time."
"Mmm. So why are you calling, Freddie?"
"I'm in the area. Bath? Thought we could maybe get together and do some talking."
"That would be great!" I said warmly, making a mental note not to take Simon. Frederik would find him really dull. "There's a good pub at the end of our street. Eight tomorrow?"
We made the arrangements and I hung up. It would be fun to see Frederik again. He was a laugh.
Simon came in about eleven twenty. I was into the TV programme I was watching. It was just getting to the point where the detectives were going to get the final piece of evidence which would prove that the father was framing the mute homeless man for the murder of his son. But Simon wanted to talk.
"We need to talk."
"Can't it wait - it's just getting to the crucial stage here..."
"Oh, what's the point?"
He dropped his wet coat on the sofa and went upstairs, trailing 'Dogbolter' fumes. Real Ale makes anoraks of men. I sighed heavily and swept the coat onto the floor with my foot. By the time the father had confessed to the murder and was writing out his confession as the wife was led away hysterical with grief, Simon was snoring rhythmically in our bed. I ended up watching an American made for TV movie circa 1982, half my brain addressing its half-witted plot and the other half feeling dissatisfied with my lot. But we did both have to go to work in the morning, so I crawled resentfully into bed at about one, pressing the bedclothes down into a channel between our bodies, sighing heavily so that in the event that he was really awake, he would be left in no doubt about my feelings. Then I fell asleep miserably, reflecting that even if I was unhappy with him, it was probably true that I was even more unhappy with myself.
Friday, 24 December 2010
Chapter 6 Toni's birthday - Simon gets romantic
The note said "Your birthday present is at Fizzog. Be there at four. I love you, Simon."
Simon loves mystery and surprises. I knew this was going to be fun. He'd told me to be home from work by three thirty and I had been slightly piqued on walking through the door to discover the house cold and empty. It was only when I went to the coat cupboard after calling "Hello, Hello" that I discovered the piece of paper stuck there with blu tack.
I changed quickly into my favourite jeans and a white shirt, and put on my camel blazer and good coat, just in case. Fizzog was the shop where I went to buy my cosmetics and to have my legs waxed and my wrinkles massaged. Sarah was pink with excitement when I went through the door.
"God, you are so lucky to have Simon. Just do me a favour and give me first refusal if you decide you don't want him anymore. In there!" she commanded, opening the door to her treatment room.
I went in.
"Well, where's my present then?" I asked, with mock impatience.
She consulted her diary.
"Full body massage, deluxe facial and make-up. You don't know you're born, Ms Topliss. Take your clothes off, lie down and lay this towel over you. I'll be back in a minute."
The modesty of the beauty therapy industry always tickles me. They'll rip hair from close to your most intimate body parts, and manipulate your cellulite and blackheads, but they won't stay in the room while you take off your trousers. As I undressed and wrapped myself in the soft white scented towel, I reflected with pleasure on the thought Simon had put into this. I hoped he hadn't got Camilla to book it for him.
I lapsed into silence while Sarah was working on me. She's good, she chatters during the operations which require your mind to be distracted, such as waxing and eyebrow trims, but she recognises that facials and massages should be enjoyed in silence and she allows me the luxury of my thoughts while she expertly oils and rubs. Then comes that wonderful time when she's finished and she gently lifts her hands off me and leaves the room, turning down the lights, and I breathe slowly and inhale the aromatherapy oils which coat my body.
When she'd finished and I'd dressed and emerged into the reception area, she handed me an envelope. Inside was a note: "Go to the balloon shop. Be there at five-thirty."
The man at the balloon shop smiled and handed me a six foot balloon, already blown up, with the legend "I LOVE YOU!" on the side, and a note saying "Turn left. Go next door."
Next door was a dress hire shop. I was kitted out with a little black sequinned number. They took my clothes with assurances that I would get them back the following day. I was allowed to keep the coat. The shop assistant was loving it all - she threw in the tights for free. Satisfied that I looked, as she put it, "the business", she handed me the next instructions. "Turn right. Walk to the corner of the street. Be there at six thirty."
I felt self-conscious emerging into the street in the dress, which was shorter than I would normally have chosen, and carrying the mighty balloon. People smiled at me indulgently and with traces of jealousy. As I approached the lamppost on the corner of the street he emerged from the side road, checking his watch. He was dressed in his evening suit and a long coat and carried an armful of roses and lilies, a copy of my wedding bouquet. He smiled with sheepish satisfaction at my approach and, for once, allowed me to kiss him in public.
An older couple walked by, shoulders in a permanent shrug against the autumn chill, pulling on their cigarettes.
"Steady on there, mate!" the man called out and his wife tittered gently.
When we came up for air Simon smiled self-consciously.
"I just wanted you to be absolutely confident that I hadn't forgotten your birthday."
"You've convinced me, darling. Thank you. I love it all."
He led me by the arm along the street to the floating restaurant in the harbour. After drinks at the bar we sat at a table laid with crisp white linen and heavy silver cutlery.
"I love you, Simon.
“Good,” he said, “I sometimes wonder.”
His tone was just the right side of humorous, but only just. I smiled sheepishly back at him.
"I’m sorry. I know that sometimes I'm completely unreasonable, honey. I can't help it."
"I know. And for some reason I love you and I will always put up with it."
He squeezed my hand.
"Look I know I'm a boring old fart sometimes. I can't help it. It's probably in my genes. After all, as you've pointed out more than once, when your Dad reads the Telegraph and your Mum's a big cheese in the Mother's Union, it's sort of expected of you. Sometimes I know you love me but please remember that I love you all the time. Every moment. Sometimes I jump on you and sometimes I don't. That doesn't mean anything. Imagine, though, if in response to one of your bursts of criticism I told you that was just the way I was. How well would that go down?"
I looked at his soft face and could only smile ingratiatingly. He was right. So far from perfect myself, I nevertheless expected perfection from him. I praised him constantly when I was feeling generous and therefore expected that he'd take my virulent attacks in his stride. But he was vulnerable and it hurt him. I would have to try harder to remember that.
It was a balmy evening and we walked home, slightly drunk, along the harbour and cuddled and laughed. I was loved and cherished and special and I wanted to make a fuss of him when we got to bed. We fell asleep sweaty in each other's arms, clinging together as we very rarely did.
Simon loves mystery and surprises. I knew this was going to be fun. He'd told me to be home from work by three thirty and I had been slightly piqued on walking through the door to discover the house cold and empty. It was only when I went to the coat cupboard after calling "Hello, Hello" that I discovered the piece of paper stuck there with blu tack.
I changed quickly into my favourite jeans and a white shirt, and put on my camel blazer and good coat, just in case. Fizzog was the shop where I went to buy my cosmetics and to have my legs waxed and my wrinkles massaged. Sarah was pink with excitement when I went through the door.
"God, you are so lucky to have Simon. Just do me a favour and give me first refusal if you decide you don't want him anymore. In there!" she commanded, opening the door to her treatment room.
I went in.
"Well, where's my present then?" I asked, with mock impatience.
She consulted her diary.
"Full body massage, deluxe facial and make-up. You don't know you're born, Ms Topliss. Take your clothes off, lie down and lay this towel over you. I'll be back in a minute."
The modesty of the beauty therapy industry always tickles me. They'll rip hair from close to your most intimate body parts, and manipulate your cellulite and blackheads, but they won't stay in the room while you take off your trousers. As I undressed and wrapped myself in the soft white scented towel, I reflected with pleasure on the thought Simon had put into this. I hoped he hadn't got Camilla to book it for him.
I lapsed into silence while Sarah was working on me. She's good, she chatters during the operations which require your mind to be distracted, such as waxing and eyebrow trims, but she recognises that facials and massages should be enjoyed in silence and she allows me the luxury of my thoughts while she expertly oils and rubs. Then comes that wonderful time when she's finished and she gently lifts her hands off me and leaves the room, turning down the lights, and I breathe slowly and inhale the aromatherapy oils which coat my body.
When she'd finished and I'd dressed and emerged into the reception area, she handed me an envelope. Inside was a note: "Go to the balloon shop. Be there at five-thirty."
The man at the balloon shop smiled and handed me a six foot balloon, already blown up, with the legend "I LOVE YOU!" on the side, and a note saying "Turn left. Go next door."
Next door was a dress hire shop. I was kitted out with a little black sequinned number. They took my clothes with assurances that I would get them back the following day. I was allowed to keep the coat. The shop assistant was loving it all - she threw in the tights for free. Satisfied that I looked, as she put it, "the business", she handed me the next instructions. "Turn right. Walk to the corner of the street. Be there at six thirty."
I felt self-conscious emerging into the street in the dress, which was shorter than I would normally have chosen, and carrying the mighty balloon. People smiled at me indulgently and with traces of jealousy. As I approached the lamppost on the corner of the street he emerged from the side road, checking his watch. He was dressed in his evening suit and a long coat and carried an armful of roses and lilies, a copy of my wedding bouquet. He smiled with sheepish satisfaction at my approach and, for once, allowed me to kiss him in public.
An older couple walked by, shoulders in a permanent shrug against the autumn chill, pulling on their cigarettes.
"Steady on there, mate!" the man called out and his wife tittered gently.
When we came up for air Simon smiled self-consciously.
"I just wanted you to be absolutely confident that I hadn't forgotten your birthday."
"You've convinced me, darling. Thank you. I love it all."
He led me by the arm along the street to the floating restaurant in the harbour. After drinks at the bar we sat at a table laid with crisp white linen and heavy silver cutlery.
"I love you, Simon.
“Good,” he said, “I sometimes wonder.”
His tone was just the right side of humorous, but only just. I smiled sheepishly back at him.
"I’m sorry. I know that sometimes I'm completely unreasonable, honey. I can't help it."
"I know. And for some reason I love you and I will always put up with it."
He squeezed my hand.
"Look I know I'm a boring old fart sometimes. I can't help it. It's probably in my genes. After all, as you've pointed out more than once, when your Dad reads the Telegraph and your Mum's a big cheese in the Mother's Union, it's sort of expected of you. Sometimes I know you love me but please remember that I love you all the time. Every moment. Sometimes I jump on you and sometimes I don't. That doesn't mean anything. Imagine, though, if in response to one of your bursts of criticism I told you that was just the way I was. How well would that go down?"
I looked at his soft face and could only smile ingratiatingly. He was right. So far from perfect myself, I nevertheless expected perfection from him. I praised him constantly when I was feeling generous and therefore expected that he'd take my virulent attacks in his stride. But he was vulnerable and it hurt him. I would have to try harder to remember that.
It was a balmy evening and we walked home, slightly drunk, along the harbour and cuddled and laughed. I was loved and cherished and special and I wanted to make a fuss of him when we got to bed. We fell asleep sweaty in each other's arms, clinging together as we very rarely did.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Chapter 5 - the last time Toni saw Marc
The last time I spoke to him, he called me at work.
“Hello, Toni.”
Even after years I knew him instantly. I knew by the way all my organs hopped.
“Marc! My God, where are you?”
“I’m in London.”
“Oh, my goodness. Why?”
He laughed. I loved the way he laughed. It bubbled up from his chest and burst out of his mouth, a muddy geyser.
“Gee thanks. You sound really pleased to hear from me.”
“Oh no. No. God, it’s so good to hear your voice. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Where are you? No, you’ve just told me that. You’re in London. What are you doing here?”
“Work. We’re making a commercial.”
“Oh, so that’s what you do these days, is it? Congratulations. Much nearer to your original ambition than me.”
“Well, a computer company might not be investigative journalism, but it’s a good career.”
“There were couple of glitches in my career planning. Like not doing any. Just going to papers and saying I really, really wanted to be a journalist didn’t seem to cut ice. Funny, that.”
I should have worked on the college paper, edited a special interest magazine, done hospital radio… anything. Instead, I just shot my mouth off about how well I was going to do in my journalistic career. To this day it still makes me want to spit.
“Anyway, enough of me. What’s the commercial for?”
“Shoes. They want to emphasise tradition so they send us to Great Britain for the shoot. Hey, I’m not complaining. Anyway, it fitted in with something else. My mom and dad are separating. She decided she wanted to move back to France, so she’s going to the apartment in Paris and they can sling shit across the Atlantic at each other.”
“I’m sorry. Not amicable then.”
“No, not really. Man, seven hours in an aircraft and she’s telling me what a bastard Dad is and I’m going “Yeah Mom”, and trying to think about something pleasant. So that’s why I’m talking to you.”
“I love this man,” I thought, “I will always love this man.”
“How did you find me?”
“Charlotte. I met her in New York. She was on holiday, and shopping as usual. She did love to shop, don’t you recall? Well now she has the money to do it in Bloomingdale’s, rather than in thrift stores. Anyway, she said she’s seen you and told me where you were working. I think she had romantic illusions about us.”
His laugh bubbled up again. I was sorry he found it so funny.
“Well, she always was a romantic, wasn’t she? So what is happening in your love life then? Married?”
“God, no. But I’m dating a real nice girl. She’s a lot younger than me, which has its disadvantages.”
“Oh really? I doubt most men would agree.”
“If they were honest they would. It’s like being in a Woody Allen movie. She laughs when I dance and thinks I dress like a geek. She’d probably tell you Fassbinder was a marital aid.”
“And the up-side?” I asked lightly, not wanting to know.
“Oh, you know, she’s cute and funny. She’s more trusting and less cynical than women my age. She doesn’t overreact when I want to look after her.”
He stopped abruptly. He probably sensed that this was inappropriate conversational territory.
“Do you still carry your little camera, or are you permanently attached to a camcorder these days?”
“Neither. The camera’s somewhere at home. In the basement probably. And I hate camcorders. Too clean. Too clinical. But anyway, Toni. Can we get together? Tomorrow or Sunday? I’m only here until Monday.”
“Sure. Tomorrow night? I’ll collect you from your hotel and show you the hip hang-outs.”
“Hip? God Toni, Either you’re way out of date or you’re trying pathetically to be young?”
We both laughed. We agreed times and hung up.
I’d decided on black trousers, T shirt and loose cotton jumper. Sexy but casual, I thought. I had high-heeled suede boots which were a more modern version of what I used to wear in France. It was a sort of visual allusion to those days. Of course he wouldn’t remember. Seeing myself in the glass doors to the hotel seconds before seeing him I realised the overall effect didn’t work on me. I was the wrong shape.
He opened his hotel room door and stood back smiling to admire the effect.
“My God, you haven’t changed at all!”
“Oh I hope I have. I save a fortune on hair products these days.”
“When he hugged me I held on for a fraction of a second too long and I felt him trying to disengage himself momentarily before he relaxed against me again. It was the first moment of awkwardness. I rubbed his back vigorously and patted him as I released him. As he led the way into his room I looked at him. He looked cool and expensive, dressed in stone coloured chinos and a grey cashmere sweater, his hair glossy and short. He smelled of man and Armani aftershave.
“Do you think I’m hip enough for the places you’re taking me?” he smiled.
“No,” I said, “but you’ll do.”
Over a drink from the mini bar we chatted inconsequentially. When we were in the cab he squeezed my hand.
“I guess you’re not married then. No ring and no mention of anyone you had to consult about tonight.”
“No. I can’t even claim to be dating.”
“Oh?”
“No. I spend time with my mates. I’ve even got women friends now.”
“Really? I always had you down as a man’s woman.”
“Well I was back then. Actually I was more exclusive than that, if you remember. There wasn’t really room for other women.”
I looked meaningfully at him and he looked back with a trace of sadness.
“No, Toni. There wasn’t. Not for a long time afterwards either.”
He patted my hand and looked out of the window.
Six years on and small rebuke notwithstanding I could still be silent more comfortably with him than with anyone else.
After drinks at a fashionable bar, which seemed like a bad idea when I realised I was the shortest, widest female in the place, we went on to dinner. We had aperitifs, a bottle of wine and a digestif too. As the meal progressed our conversation became more and more earnest, we leaned further over the table and occupied our hands moulding the candle wax into an intricate sculpture together. Its flame was a focus for our eyes leaving our mouth free for intimacies and indiscretions. I kissed him over the tarte au citron. It felt like coming home.
We fumbled in the back to the taxi and had inexpert sex in his hotel room. We rolled around and rumpled the sheets; we explored each other thoroughly, renewing our familiarity with each other’s bodies. It didn’t feel as right as either of us thought it should, but then the act was loaded with pent-up expectations. When I woke up the next morning with an appalling hangover and found him sleeping on his side next to me, his face creased by gravity, I rolled over and stroked the outlines which had developed since I remembered them. He’d been working out. His arms were a little more muscular; his tummy had lost its puppy roundness. There were white hairs glistening in his stubble. Hs mousy hair was greying slightly at the temples. I stroked his cheek and he opened his eyes and smiled sleepily.
“Hi, you,” he said.
I shuffled over and pressed my body into his, winding my arms around his neck. I kissed him, tasting old booze in his mouth. He stroked my back and rested his chin on my head.
“I shouldn’t do this, Toni”
“Why not?”
“I told you. I’m seeing someone.”
I’d assumed that she didn’t matter. I’d assumed that we understood that we were more important, that our relationship was the big one for both of us, that being together was our destiny. I’d thought this was a second chance.
“Oh, I see.”
I clung to him for a while until he shifted uneasily.
“Sorry, Toni, I need to scratch my back.”
“Let me do it for you.” I smiled, running my nails up and down.
He laughed.
“No, really.”
He sat up. For the first time, as I watched him giving his back a token theatrical scratch, things didn’t feel right. He kissed me and ran his hand down my body. I put my arm over my head to extend my torso and show it to its best advantage. I closed my eyes, aware not only of pleasure but also of a mild panic. He was going to leave and I hadn’t asked him everything I wanted to ask.
“Tell me more about your girlfriend.”
No, that wasn’t it.
His hand hesitated for a moment over my neck and was withdrawn.
“No, Toni. That wouldn’t be fair.”
I was rebuked.
“I’m sorry, Marc. I’m sorry this happened. I should have thought. Well, I did. I just didn’t think clearly, that’s all. I love you. That’s all.
I felt about two inches small. I didn’t want to whine. I didn’t want him to go back to the States with a picture of me as some desperate, whining woman with an obsession. I tried to laugh.
“Get me! Guess who hasn’t got lucky for ages.”
He smiled at me, stroked my hair and kissed me.
“I love you too, Toni. Of course I do, you know that. That’s why this happened. I guess I knew it would when I contacted you. And it’s my fault. You’re not letting anybody down. I am”
It seemed as if we got over it, though. He had to go off to work but we met later and spent some time together, sober, as friends. He talked about films, waving his arms around, still as enthusiastic as ever. We talked about books; found unsurprisingly that we’d enjoyed the same ones. He entertained me with stories of his work and I talked about my life, made a comedy of it. I went home that night after we’d had a burger and chips in a diner. He had an early start.
An unsigned card arrived in the post a few days later with a few lines of Eluard. It didn’t encourage a response. Then some weeks later I met a chap called Richard at a party and we started going out. He worked for Ford and took tango lessons in his spare time. I learned to tango. It was fun. By the time another card arrived from New York I was embroiled. I thought it was a sweet thought and filed it somewhere Richard wouldn’t come across it.
“Hello, Toni.”
Even after years I knew him instantly. I knew by the way all my organs hopped.
“Marc! My God, where are you?”
“I’m in London.”
“Oh, my goodness. Why?”
He laughed. I loved the way he laughed. It bubbled up from his chest and burst out of his mouth, a muddy geyser.
“Gee thanks. You sound really pleased to hear from me.”
“Oh no. No. God, it’s so good to hear your voice. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Where are you? No, you’ve just told me that. You’re in London. What are you doing here?”
“Work. We’re making a commercial.”
“Oh, so that’s what you do these days, is it? Congratulations. Much nearer to your original ambition than me.”
“Well, a computer company might not be investigative journalism, but it’s a good career.”
“There were couple of glitches in my career planning. Like not doing any. Just going to papers and saying I really, really wanted to be a journalist didn’t seem to cut ice. Funny, that.”
I should have worked on the college paper, edited a special interest magazine, done hospital radio… anything. Instead, I just shot my mouth off about how well I was going to do in my journalistic career. To this day it still makes me want to spit.
“Anyway, enough of me. What’s the commercial for?”
“Shoes. They want to emphasise tradition so they send us to Great Britain for the shoot. Hey, I’m not complaining. Anyway, it fitted in with something else. My mom and dad are separating. She decided she wanted to move back to France, so she’s going to the apartment in Paris and they can sling shit across the Atlantic at each other.”
“I’m sorry. Not amicable then.”
“No, not really. Man, seven hours in an aircraft and she’s telling me what a bastard Dad is and I’m going “Yeah Mom”, and trying to think about something pleasant. So that’s why I’m talking to you.”
“I love this man,” I thought, “I will always love this man.”
“How did you find me?”
“Charlotte. I met her in New York. She was on holiday, and shopping as usual. She did love to shop, don’t you recall? Well now she has the money to do it in Bloomingdale’s, rather than in thrift stores. Anyway, she said she’s seen you and told me where you were working. I think she had romantic illusions about us.”
His laugh bubbled up again. I was sorry he found it so funny.
“Well, she always was a romantic, wasn’t she? So what is happening in your love life then? Married?”
“God, no. But I’m dating a real nice girl. She’s a lot younger than me, which has its disadvantages.”
“Oh really? I doubt most men would agree.”
“If they were honest they would. It’s like being in a Woody Allen movie. She laughs when I dance and thinks I dress like a geek. She’d probably tell you Fassbinder was a marital aid.”
“And the up-side?” I asked lightly, not wanting to know.
“Oh, you know, she’s cute and funny. She’s more trusting and less cynical than women my age. She doesn’t overreact when I want to look after her.”
He stopped abruptly. He probably sensed that this was inappropriate conversational territory.
“Do you still carry your little camera, or are you permanently attached to a camcorder these days?”
“Neither. The camera’s somewhere at home. In the basement probably. And I hate camcorders. Too clean. Too clinical. But anyway, Toni. Can we get together? Tomorrow or Sunday? I’m only here until Monday.”
“Sure. Tomorrow night? I’ll collect you from your hotel and show you the hip hang-outs.”
“Hip? God Toni, Either you’re way out of date or you’re trying pathetically to be young?”
We both laughed. We agreed times and hung up.
I’d decided on black trousers, T shirt and loose cotton jumper. Sexy but casual, I thought. I had high-heeled suede boots which were a more modern version of what I used to wear in France. It was a sort of visual allusion to those days. Of course he wouldn’t remember. Seeing myself in the glass doors to the hotel seconds before seeing him I realised the overall effect didn’t work on me. I was the wrong shape.
He opened his hotel room door and stood back smiling to admire the effect.
“My God, you haven’t changed at all!”
“Oh I hope I have. I save a fortune on hair products these days.”
“When he hugged me I held on for a fraction of a second too long and I felt him trying to disengage himself momentarily before he relaxed against me again. It was the first moment of awkwardness. I rubbed his back vigorously and patted him as I released him. As he led the way into his room I looked at him. He looked cool and expensive, dressed in stone coloured chinos and a grey cashmere sweater, his hair glossy and short. He smelled of man and Armani aftershave.
“Do you think I’m hip enough for the places you’re taking me?” he smiled.
“No,” I said, “but you’ll do.”
Over a drink from the mini bar we chatted inconsequentially. When we were in the cab he squeezed my hand.
“I guess you’re not married then. No ring and no mention of anyone you had to consult about tonight.”
“No. I can’t even claim to be dating.”
“Oh?”
“No. I spend time with my mates. I’ve even got women friends now.”
“Really? I always had you down as a man’s woman.”
“Well I was back then. Actually I was more exclusive than that, if you remember. There wasn’t really room for other women.”
I looked meaningfully at him and he looked back with a trace of sadness.
“No, Toni. There wasn’t. Not for a long time afterwards either.”
He patted my hand and looked out of the window.
Six years on and small rebuke notwithstanding I could still be silent more comfortably with him than with anyone else.
After drinks at a fashionable bar, which seemed like a bad idea when I realised I was the shortest, widest female in the place, we went on to dinner. We had aperitifs, a bottle of wine and a digestif too. As the meal progressed our conversation became more and more earnest, we leaned further over the table and occupied our hands moulding the candle wax into an intricate sculpture together. Its flame was a focus for our eyes leaving our mouth free for intimacies and indiscretions. I kissed him over the tarte au citron. It felt like coming home.
We fumbled in the back to the taxi and had inexpert sex in his hotel room. We rolled around and rumpled the sheets; we explored each other thoroughly, renewing our familiarity with each other’s bodies. It didn’t feel as right as either of us thought it should, but then the act was loaded with pent-up expectations. When I woke up the next morning with an appalling hangover and found him sleeping on his side next to me, his face creased by gravity, I rolled over and stroked the outlines which had developed since I remembered them. He’d been working out. His arms were a little more muscular; his tummy had lost its puppy roundness. There were white hairs glistening in his stubble. Hs mousy hair was greying slightly at the temples. I stroked his cheek and he opened his eyes and smiled sleepily.
“Hi, you,” he said.
I shuffled over and pressed my body into his, winding my arms around his neck. I kissed him, tasting old booze in his mouth. He stroked my back and rested his chin on my head.
“I shouldn’t do this, Toni”
“Why not?”
“I told you. I’m seeing someone.”
I’d assumed that she didn’t matter. I’d assumed that we understood that we were more important, that our relationship was the big one for both of us, that being together was our destiny. I’d thought this was a second chance.
“Oh, I see.”
I clung to him for a while until he shifted uneasily.
“Sorry, Toni, I need to scratch my back.”
“Let me do it for you.” I smiled, running my nails up and down.
He laughed.
“No, really.”
He sat up. For the first time, as I watched him giving his back a token theatrical scratch, things didn’t feel right. He kissed me and ran his hand down my body. I put my arm over my head to extend my torso and show it to its best advantage. I closed my eyes, aware not only of pleasure but also of a mild panic. He was going to leave and I hadn’t asked him everything I wanted to ask.
“Tell me more about your girlfriend.”
No, that wasn’t it.
His hand hesitated for a moment over my neck and was withdrawn.
“No, Toni. That wouldn’t be fair.”
I was rebuked.
“I’m sorry, Marc. I’m sorry this happened. I should have thought. Well, I did. I just didn’t think clearly, that’s all. I love you. That’s all.
I felt about two inches small. I didn’t want to whine. I didn’t want him to go back to the States with a picture of me as some desperate, whining woman with an obsession. I tried to laugh.
“Get me! Guess who hasn’t got lucky for ages.”
He smiled at me, stroked my hair and kissed me.
“I love you too, Toni. Of course I do, you know that. That’s why this happened. I guess I knew it would when I contacted you. And it’s my fault. You’re not letting anybody down. I am”
It seemed as if we got over it, though. He had to go off to work but we met later and spent some time together, sober, as friends. He talked about films, waving his arms around, still as enthusiastic as ever. We talked about books; found unsurprisingly that we’d enjoyed the same ones. He entertained me with stories of his work and I talked about my life, made a comedy of it. I went home that night after we’d had a burger and chips in a diner. He had an early start.
An unsigned card arrived in the post a few days later with a few lines of Eluard. It didn’t encourage a response. Then some weeks later I met a chap called Richard at a party and we started going out. He worked for Ford and took tango lessons in his spare time. I learned to tango. It was fun. By the time another card arrived from New York I was embroiled. I thought it was a sweet thought and filed it somewhere Richard wouldn’t come across it.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Chapter 4 - Toni's hippie sister approves
Jez has no sense of time. She has little sense of anything, but she does have a wildly fulfilling relationship with the earth. She lives in West Wales because, according to her, Wales is a very ancient land. When she shared this with me I couldn’t help but suggest that all the earth was much the same age, which didn’t go down well.
She rang at about five to twelve on a Tuesday night from their local pub. It should have been closing time, only there was no such thing in that place in the back of beyond, where Jez and Steve stayed behind in the bar several nights a week until two or three in the morning. There was no great reason not to – it wasn’t as if either of them had jobs to go to, and the tepee didn’t take a lot of cleaning, especially as they rejected all cleaning preparations on ecological grounds, so that all Jez could do was wave a decaying duster at the mould. Steve didn’t help. His sense of social responsibility didn’t stretch to housework. Or tepee-work. Jez didn’t seem to mind.
“Can I bring my washing over this weekend?”
“Jez, if you truly believe that having a washing machine is wrong, doesn’t it seem a little hypocritical to cross the Severn to use your sister’s?”
“You can just say no. No need to get all superior on me. Anyway I’m coming over to a craft fair, so it’s a two birds with one stone thing, like.”
“I’m not going to say no. You know that. I’ve never said no. Do you want to stay the weekend?”
“Could I? That’d be great.”
Fine. Come on Friday. I’ll be home about six thirty. How’s Steve?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Cornwall, I think. Met some girl at Glastonbury and buggered off.”
“Oh, you poor thing! How are you holding up?”
”It’s cool. Things had been a bit tough for a while. We’re better off out of it. It was never supposed to be long-term anyway. Casual. You know.”
It had been casual for six years.
“You poor thing! How are you bearing up?”
“Ok. Yeah, fine. I’ve been doing lots of stuff. Pete paid me to decorate the pub and I’ve started making some wild jewellery.”
“Jewellery?”
“Yeah. Ethical. Reusing. Recycling – that’s the sort of thing. The feathers the hens leave around. I’m dying them and mixing them with clay beads. You’ll love them.”
“Great.”
“I’ve got a pair for you and one for Mum. Which she’ll never wear.”
“Well, feathers and beads. Not really her thing, is it?”
It wasn’t really mine, either.
When I told Simon she was coming for the weekend he groaned.
“Bloody vegan food for forty eight hours then.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll put some sausages in the back of the fridge for you. If you can handle the disapproval.”
“It’s not the disapproval so much as the forgiveness which I find so hard to handle. Being in the presence of goodness is difficult for lesser mortals like me.”
“No Steve though. He’s left her for another woman.”
“I didn’t know tepee dwellers did that sort of thing.”
“Well, this one did. Anyway, you never know. It might have been the tepee and not Jez he left. The other woman might have a cosy semi in Newquay.”
“She’s better off without him. She confuses being committed with being bright. God, wasn’t he the most boring man you’ve ever met? I always wondered what they talked about in the evenings. It wasn’t as if they could watch TV and ignore each other, was it?”
“You mean, like we do?”
“Exactly. Like all normal people do. They couldn’t even read books in winter. Enforced conversation.”
“They went to the pub, silly.”
“Not all night every night. They haven’t got the money. Anyway, I’m glad he’s out of the picture. She might find someone nice now. She might even do something with her life.”
Jez had brought Steve to stay with us on a number of occasions. He had surveyed the house with gloomy disapproval, self-consciously averting his eyes from the television when Simon watched the news, showing no interest in sport and questioning the provenance of every ingredient in our catering. He refused my carefully made lentil curry because I’d used commercial vegetable stock cubes which, he assured me solemnly, was almost certainly “contaminated”. He reluctantly accepted raw celery and carrots even though they weren’t organic, mainly because he would have starved otherwise. We didn’t think he’d ever actually used the bath or the shower when he had visited, and unlike Jez, he foreswore even the washing machine which he regarded as the devil’s invention.
The only time we visited them was for her thirtieth birthday. Anything less significant wouldn’t have merited an invitation. We were invited to bring sleeping bags and doss down on the floor of their tepee but Simon pleaded an old rugby injury and we stayed at the pub in a room with pink nylon flounces, a washbasin and sachets of coffee and tea.
The party at the tepee village was a gentle gathering. People sat around with plates of curried vegetables, children ran wild with snotty noses and joyous shrieks, an old dog slunk around the fire nuzzling in our laps for scraps before walking round itself three times and collapsing into a small circle. Their friends were pleasant and highly pierced, and I wondered what had possessed Jez to choose Steve when there were so many equally committed people with the humour and respect for other people’s lives which Steve so signally lacked. After quite a lot of cider brought by a kindred spirit in an ancient ambulance from an encampment in Somerset, people started playing folk music on recorders and guitars and the less self-conscious among the guests danced. Jez closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift on a cloud of music, cider and spliff. She had exchanged her habitual grey for something floaty and orange, and she wore earrings which jangled tinnily. Normally I count myself as quite an extrovert but here Simon and I were completely out of our depth. We enjoyed ourselves more than we expected to, though, despite the peeing uncomfortably in the woods with serried ranks of others so close that you could hear the hiss and see the steam rising from the earth. But we found the sense of shame of our materialistic lives overwhelming, and on the trip were wholly convinced of our personal responsibility for the ills of the planet. After a couple of days the feeling abated.
It hadn’t always been so. Jez at twenty-two had been quite ordinary, although she’d always held fairly ecologically sound views. Mum was surprised when she came home one day in 1975 and announced that she was vegetarian. Jez (or Jessica as she then was) ate cheese or eggs with her potatoes and veg for ages while we tucked into chops or sausages or mince. Then several years ago she decided that she was vegan and Mum muttered to herself that it was a good thing that Jez was moving out and how long would she keep this up when she had to fend for herself with these funny ideas. She was even a fruitarian for a couple of weeks once, but in the end even Jez wasn’t that committed.
Jez thinks she’s very mystical, although usually when she’s offers some proof of this she’s spectacularly wrong. On Friday night when he arrived Simon had already gone to bed. We sat down with cups of earl grey in the kitchen and she brushed a dirty fingernail over my cheek and said softly,
“You’re hurting, Toni. What about?”
“Nothing major,” I shrugged, “work problems, marital snits. You know. Normal stuff.”
Her face darkened with concern.
“Is he hitting you?”
“God, no! Why?” I looked at her with concern, “Steve didn’t hit you, did he?”
“No,” she shook her head, “Well, not seriously. He has a temper. Sometimes when we were pissed we’d end up having rows and thumping each other, but we were both as bad as each other.”
“My God! I thought you were gentle people!”
“Come on, it’s healthy! We didn’t bottle anything up.”
I watched as she reassured herself of this with a silent nod.
“I can’t imagine Steve showing any sort of emotion.”
“You didn’t like Steve, did you?”
“No, well, we didn’t really inhabit the same planet, did we?”
“You didn’t make it as obvious as Simon though.”
“You don’t exactly hide the fact that you’re not Simon’s greatest fan.”
Her face was a mask of resentment.
“Simon likes you. He just thinks you could do a great deal better than Steve. One of the many up-sides to Steve’s being off the scene is that Simon can get to know you a bit better.”
“Couldn’t be bothered to see me tonight, though, could he?”
“You arrived at eleven. He’s got to go in to the office early tomorrow. Give the man a break. You’ll see loads of him over the weekend when he gets back.”
She nodded, unconvinced and took another sip of tea. Brightening, she smiled at me.
“I can’t believe I haven’t seen you in such a long time!”
“Well, you haven’t been over regularly for ages. We guessed Steve wasn’t too keen on your coming over here.”
“I don’t know. He never really saw the point of leaving the village, except to go and get loaded at the pub. He hates cities. Too many people.”
For a moment she looked wistful, then she smiled.
“So where have you been on holiday since I last saw you? Don’t let me down; you’ve always been somewhere. Photos.”
“Prague, and I’m sure you’d love it. All sorts of Karma.”
She laughed and I went to the dresser to rummage in the drawer which held six years of photos which had never made it into albums. The Prague ones were lying on the top.
As we were flicking through them, she grabbed one and peered at it closely.
“Toni!” she shrieked, “Have you seen this?”
She shook the photo of the little girl on the bridge in front of my face.
“Look! Its whatsisname! The film guy. The one you should have married. What was his name?”
“Marc.” I said.
She peered again.
“It’s a sign.” She said.
“No, it’s not,” I said, “It’s a coincidence. Or, more likely, it’s someone who looks like Marc.”
“Bollocks! It’s him.”
She looked at me, all big mystic eyes.
“You must find him. It’s your destiny.”
As she gazed at me intently across the big solid kitchen table I was torn between a desire to laugh and an inclination to agree.
She rang at about five to twelve on a Tuesday night from their local pub. It should have been closing time, only there was no such thing in that place in the back of beyond, where Jez and Steve stayed behind in the bar several nights a week until two or three in the morning. There was no great reason not to – it wasn’t as if either of them had jobs to go to, and the tepee didn’t take a lot of cleaning, especially as they rejected all cleaning preparations on ecological grounds, so that all Jez could do was wave a decaying duster at the mould. Steve didn’t help. His sense of social responsibility didn’t stretch to housework. Or tepee-work. Jez didn’t seem to mind.
“Can I bring my washing over this weekend?”
“Jez, if you truly believe that having a washing machine is wrong, doesn’t it seem a little hypocritical to cross the Severn to use your sister’s?”
“You can just say no. No need to get all superior on me. Anyway I’m coming over to a craft fair, so it’s a two birds with one stone thing, like.”
“I’m not going to say no. You know that. I’ve never said no. Do you want to stay the weekend?”
“Could I? That’d be great.”
Fine. Come on Friday. I’ll be home about six thirty. How’s Steve?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Cornwall, I think. Met some girl at Glastonbury and buggered off.”
“Oh, you poor thing! How are you holding up?”
”It’s cool. Things had been a bit tough for a while. We’re better off out of it. It was never supposed to be long-term anyway. Casual. You know.”
It had been casual for six years.
“You poor thing! How are you bearing up?”
“Ok. Yeah, fine. I’ve been doing lots of stuff. Pete paid me to decorate the pub and I’ve started making some wild jewellery.”
“Jewellery?”
“Yeah. Ethical. Reusing. Recycling – that’s the sort of thing. The feathers the hens leave around. I’m dying them and mixing them with clay beads. You’ll love them.”
“Great.”
“I’ve got a pair for you and one for Mum. Which she’ll never wear.”
“Well, feathers and beads. Not really her thing, is it?”
It wasn’t really mine, either.
When I told Simon she was coming for the weekend he groaned.
“Bloody vegan food for forty eight hours then.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll put some sausages in the back of the fridge for you. If you can handle the disapproval.”
“It’s not the disapproval so much as the forgiveness which I find so hard to handle. Being in the presence of goodness is difficult for lesser mortals like me.”
“No Steve though. He’s left her for another woman.”
“I didn’t know tepee dwellers did that sort of thing.”
“Well, this one did. Anyway, you never know. It might have been the tepee and not Jez he left. The other woman might have a cosy semi in Newquay.”
“She’s better off without him. She confuses being committed with being bright. God, wasn’t he the most boring man you’ve ever met? I always wondered what they talked about in the evenings. It wasn’t as if they could watch TV and ignore each other, was it?”
“You mean, like we do?”
“Exactly. Like all normal people do. They couldn’t even read books in winter. Enforced conversation.”
“They went to the pub, silly.”
“Not all night every night. They haven’t got the money. Anyway, I’m glad he’s out of the picture. She might find someone nice now. She might even do something with her life.”
Jez had brought Steve to stay with us on a number of occasions. He had surveyed the house with gloomy disapproval, self-consciously averting his eyes from the television when Simon watched the news, showing no interest in sport and questioning the provenance of every ingredient in our catering. He refused my carefully made lentil curry because I’d used commercial vegetable stock cubes which, he assured me solemnly, was almost certainly “contaminated”. He reluctantly accepted raw celery and carrots even though they weren’t organic, mainly because he would have starved otherwise. We didn’t think he’d ever actually used the bath or the shower when he had visited, and unlike Jez, he foreswore even the washing machine which he regarded as the devil’s invention.
The only time we visited them was for her thirtieth birthday. Anything less significant wouldn’t have merited an invitation. We were invited to bring sleeping bags and doss down on the floor of their tepee but Simon pleaded an old rugby injury and we stayed at the pub in a room with pink nylon flounces, a washbasin and sachets of coffee and tea.
The party at the tepee village was a gentle gathering. People sat around with plates of curried vegetables, children ran wild with snotty noses and joyous shrieks, an old dog slunk around the fire nuzzling in our laps for scraps before walking round itself three times and collapsing into a small circle. Their friends were pleasant and highly pierced, and I wondered what had possessed Jez to choose Steve when there were so many equally committed people with the humour and respect for other people’s lives which Steve so signally lacked. After quite a lot of cider brought by a kindred spirit in an ancient ambulance from an encampment in Somerset, people started playing folk music on recorders and guitars and the less self-conscious among the guests danced. Jez closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift on a cloud of music, cider and spliff. She had exchanged her habitual grey for something floaty and orange, and she wore earrings which jangled tinnily. Normally I count myself as quite an extrovert but here Simon and I were completely out of our depth. We enjoyed ourselves more than we expected to, though, despite the peeing uncomfortably in the woods with serried ranks of others so close that you could hear the hiss and see the steam rising from the earth. But we found the sense of shame of our materialistic lives overwhelming, and on the trip were wholly convinced of our personal responsibility for the ills of the planet. After a couple of days the feeling abated.
It hadn’t always been so. Jez at twenty-two had been quite ordinary, although she’d always held fairly ecologically sound views. Mum was surprised when she came home one day in 1975 and announced that she was vegetarian. Jez (or Jessica as she then was) ate cheese or eggs with her potatoes and veg for ages while we tucked into chops or sausages or mince. Then several years ago she decided that she was vegan and Mum muttered to herself that it was a good thing that Jez was moving out and how long would she keep this up when she had to fend for herself with these funny ideas. She was even a fruitarian for a couple of weeks once, but in the end even Jez wasn’t that committed.
Jez thinks she’s very mystical, although usually when she’s offers some proof of this she’s spectacularly wrong. On Friday night when he arrived Simon had already gone to bed. We sat down with cups of earl grey in the kitchen and she brushed a dirty fingernail over my cheek and said softly,
“You’re hurting, Toni. What about?”
“Nothing major,” I shrugged, “work problems, marital snits. You know. Normal stuff.”
Her face darkened with concern.
“Is he hitting you?”
“God, no! Why?” I looked at her with concern, “Steve didn’t hit you, did he?”
“No,” she shook her head, “Well, not seriously. He has a temper. Sometimes when we were pissed we’d end up having rows and thumping each other, but we were both as bad as each other.”
“My God! I thought you were gentle people!”
“Come on, it’s healthy! We didn’t bottle anything up.”
I watched as she reassured herself of this with a silent nod.
“I can’t imagine Steve showing any sort of emotion.”
“You didn’t like Steve, did you?”
“No, well, we didn’t really inhabit the same planet, did we?”
“You didn’t make it as obvious as Simon though.”
“You don’t exactly hide the fact that you’re not Simon’s greatest fan.”
Her face was a mask of resentment.
“Simon likes you. He just thinks you could do a great deal better than Steve. One of the many up-sides to Steve’s being off the scene is that Simon can get to know you a bit better.”
“Couldn’t be bothered to see me tonight, though, could he?”
“You arrived at eleven. He’s got to go in to the office early tomorrow. Give the man a break. You’ll see loads of him over the weekend when he gets back.”
She nodded, unconvinced and took another sip of tea. Brightening, she smiled at me.
“I can’t believe I haven’t seen you in such a long time!”
“Well, you haven’t been over regularly for ages. We guessed Steve wasn’t too keen on your coming over here.”
“I don’t know. He never really saw the point of leaving the village, except to go and get loaded at the pub. He hates cities. Too many people.”
For a moment she looked wistful, then she smiled.
“So where have you been on holiday since I last saw you? Don’t let me down; you’ve always been somewhere. Photos.”
“Prague, and I’m sure you’d love it. All sorts of Karma.”
She laughed and I went to the dresser to rummage in the drawer which held six years of photos which had never made it into albums. The Prague ones were lying on the top.
As we were flicking through them, she grabbed one and peered at it closely.
“Toni!” she shrieked, “Have you seen this?”
She shook the photo of the little girl on the bridge in front of my face.
“Look! Its whatsisname! The film guy. The one you should have married. What was his name?”
“Marc.” I said.
She peered again.
“It’s a sign.” She said.
“No, it’s not,” I said, “It’s a coincidence. Or, more likely, it’s someone who looks like Marc.”
“Bollocks! It’s him.”
She looked at me, all big mystic eyes.
“You must find him. It’s your destiny.”
As she gazed at me intently across the big solid kitchen table I was torn between a desire to laugh and an inclination to agree.
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