"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.
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