Playing Away

by Adele Parks

  "I'm going to be a bachelor girl," says Sam, "like Lucy." As soon as the words leave Sam's mouth, her brain registers the improbability of this statement. She hesitates and then adds defiantly, "I do have a good job; I'll buy a flat and I have my art classes."

  "How are the classes progressing, Sam?" asks Lucy. I barely contain my giggles. I think it is hilarious that Sam prefers to go to classes on a Saturday rather than the King's Road.

  "Fine. Actually, very well," says Sam with determination. "It's great to be learning again." I don't get it, the models aren't even men. "In fact I saw something that might interest you, Con." She hands me the summer timetable. "Photography classes. You are always taking photos, it might be a good idea to take up a hobby."

  My first reaction is mortification. It is a distressing and dismal realization. Sam obviously believes I've joined the ranks of the truly single. Why else would I need a night class? However, I am also grateful for her concern. Reluctantly I accept that she is right, learning something new would be good for me. I sud-

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  denly have so much time. Time I don't know how to fill. I do love taking photos, but my knowledge is slim.

  "Thanks, Sam," I say, as I put the timetable in my bag, "I might just give it a go." I try to ignore Lucy's amazed looks.

  We only leave the bar when we are forcibly ejected. I can barely stand. But, somewhat illogically, I don't feel horrendous. I feel awash with possibility. Sam and Lucy make plans to meet up the next night but I decline.

  "No, I've had enough alcohol units to last me until Christmas. I'm going to have a long bath and an early night tomorrow."

  "Good idea. Have a long hard think about things," says Sam. I scowl at her.

  "Yes, actually that is exactly what I planned," I snipe defiantly. "Because although none of you have actually said that I brought this on myself, and not a single soul has commented that if I'm looking for someone to blame, I need go no further than the mirror, and I have yet to hear the words 'fucking selfish bitch,' I do realize I am culpable, and what's more"—I'm yelling now, building to a crescendo with each "and"— "tonight is a big night. Tonight is the first night of the rest of my life. Tomorrow night I have a date with myself. Tomorrow night I am going to start thinkingV I stamp out a cigarette with unnecessary force.

  "Err, great," mutters Sam. "Well, if you change your mind you know where to find us." She scuttles away and I don't blame her. I am Beelzebub's spawn. Lucy raises her eyebrows. I change the subject by asking her how she thinks Norway's oil-fueled economy will deal with the falling crude oil prices. She is audibly impressed.

  "Connie, you've been reading The Economist!"

  "No, actually, I watch The News a lot," I reply, a bit sulkily. I don't understand why she should be so surprised. It isn't fair to imply that I never think about anything other than

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  myself. I fling myself into a cab. Lucy chooses not to notice my bad temper but waves and blows me a kiss. I sit alone with only my mortification for company. It is embarrassing that everyone's being so nice to me. So far all that has happened is that all my gorgeous friends have requested that I do a bit of soul-searching. They believe that basically I'm a decent enough person and if I do the soul-searching, I'll be OK. But fuck it, I'm not sure.

  Still, I owe it to them to try.

  And I owe it to myself.

  I go to work to fill in some hours. I get home, make myself a cup of tea and put on the stereo. This isn't easy. What to listen to? Nearly every song can sway my mood and judgment. What sort of weak person am I, that a few tacky lyrics can send me into a carousel of confusion? Most of my usual favorites are too painful. The sloppy lines, which I normally delight in, seem to be cruelly teasing me. Ill-advisedly, I decide to try a live and vicious experiment; just how much misery can a human being inflict on herself? I select "Love Is All Around." Blatantly, the choice is a travesty with lyrics such as J feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes, Love is all around me and so the feeling grows. I begin to cry. You know I love you, I always will. My mind's made up by the way that I feel. La la la la fucking laar. Who writes this sentimental crap? How do they know, hey? How do they know they will always love someone? Luke said as much to me the night he walked out on me. I admit the walking out isn't that surprising, I suppose, under the circumstances. I sigh. I doubt that a song entitled I'll conditionally love you, for a specific length of time, depending on the circumstances, has what it takes to make it to number one.

  Sobbing, I torture myself further with "When I Fall In Love," it will be for ever. Which I warble into a packet of fags that is doubling up as a microphone, Or I'll never fall in love.

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  In a restless world like this is, Love is ended before it's begun and too many moonlight kisses, seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.

  It is true. It is a restless world. I had, do, can, should, do again, love Luke. But it hadn't been enough to occupy me. Large, fat tears drop onto the stereo. Then I go distinctly upbeat.

  There's just no living without loving you. I consider calling the Samaritans but instead I manically boogie around the dining-room table. Flaying my arms and kicking my legs. I do this throughout "When Will I See You Again," "The Power of Love," "Don't Leave Me This Way," "Stay, I Miss You." Eventually I collapse onto a chair. Heaving breathlessly and sweating profusely. I am out of shape, gym visits were a lifetime ago. Sobbing, I admit, I am out of sorts too. Despite my virtuous intention of sitting down for a good old-fashioned think, for some reason or another, it hasn't happened. Suddenly it is midnight and I have worked my way through "I Love You Always For Ever," "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone"; by the time I hear "Touch Me in the Morning" I have abandoned the idea of tea, downed my third gin and tonic and I am booing hysterically.

  I go to bed.

  Ah well, all good intentions of mice and men.

  Christ, I have turned into Sam.

  The next day I sit down again, this time with renewed determination. I select Enya, make a cup of tea, I tuck my legs up underneath me and pick up a pen and paper. I chew the pen. I drain my tea. I get up to put the kettle on to make a second cup. Sit down again. Get up to turn the CD player down a bit. It is too noisy and distracting. Sit. I tap my pen onto the paper and start to think. The curtains are grubby, I certainly need to give them a wash. Goodness, what a lot of dust there is under the settee, I've never noticed that before. Just as I am

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  noting that the third picture from the right on the bathroom wall is actually a bit wonky, the phone rings. I pounce on it, grateful for the distraction. All this intensive soul-searching is exhausting.

  "It's me."

  "Hi, Tarn."

  "Darling, you're gushing. Does that mean you've just been laid or that you are very happy to talk to me?"

  "I'm very happy to talk to you."

  "Pity. Look, I'm sorry to interrupt you, I understand that today is the day that you are deciding what you want from life." Naturally my soul-searching is a matter of national debate. "Well, in my experience, darling, it is a couple of stiffies and one of them is a G&tT." I laugh. He continues, "But I suppose you'll want something much more dramatic, more creative than that. Darling, my heart bleeds for you. How dreadful to have such a compulsive nature that you are forced to complicate everything. Now you are out in the cold, harsh light of singledom. It's a bitter climate. All men are bastards, women simply aren't fanciable, the human race is doomed. Well, toodle pip. I just thought I'd call to let you know you still have friends."

  "Yes, thanks for that, Tarn," I stutter.

  I put down the phone and turn back to my pen and paper. The only sound I can hear is the clock ticking and the irony isn't lost on me. Tarn is right. It is a bitter, bloody climate. What possessed me? How did I land here? It is John's fault, the bastard. The heartless bastard. And Luke's—he is being such a cold bugger. I have been tricked, seduced and unfairly abandoned by one man, while at the same time
I have been neglected, taken for granted and fairly abandoned by another. Sam should have tried to stop me in Paris, I add self-righteously. Lucy has encouraged me all the way along. I am incensed. Daisy isn't exactly faultless. By having hot sex with

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  Simon she made me feel dull and dissatisfied. I become irate. Rose should also accept responsibility for some of this. She was such a frump. No wonder marriage was a turnoff when she was my real live role model. I blame my parents (although this is trickier, I am a little pushed to see exactly how they are accountable), my schoolteachers and my horse-riding instructor (for over-training me, which led to a big bum. They wouldn't have left me if I'd had a smaller bum). When I run out of people to blame I begin to blame inanimate objects. I blame faxes, conferences, telephones, e-mails. It is tiring all this blaming, so I go to bed.

  I wake up and the first thing I see is the blasted pen and paper. I shower and as I do so, I see a floating pen in front of me. I dress and prepare, but fail to eat breakfast. I read the back of all the cereal packs. What to do? What next? It is a Saturday. The whole day stretches out in front of me. A Saturday that leads to a Sunday and a Bank Holiday Monday. How cruel. The whole weekend is taunting me, "You're on your own! You're on your own!" I've never before been on my own for such a prolonged period. I'm a busy person who is usually surrounded by other busy people. I did Girl Guides and Youth Clubs as a child and then replaced them with shopping and boyfriends as an adolescent. O and A levels and my degree were a distraction and then back to men and all the associated sideshows: diets, clothes, makeup, parties, clubs, dates. Then I'd met Luke. Before I knew it I was planning a wedding and choosing carpets and glassware. Now, here I am, in my lovely fully fitted house with crystal and color-coordinated bed linen but sans husband.

  I have so much time on my hands.

  I have no distractions, asides, diversions or entertainment. Maybe I should ring my mum? I haven't spoken to her for a while. But then what would I say? I have no amusements to talk about, no occupation, no adventures.

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  No goals.

  No purpose. The fridge is humming. Lucky fridge.

  Blinding light. Hallelujah. It comes to me. Ringing my mum, or anyone else for that matter, is an avoidance technique. By calling her for a chat I would avoid the date I've made with myself to think about my situation. Carefully, I write that first word on the naked page.

  Avoidance.

  Avoidance, ah ah. I've stumbled onto something. It dawns on me why my mates are constantly asking me to think about things, because actually, I am not terribly good at thinking. Err, it's not my forte. I am great at feeling, I excel on gut instincts, emotions, going with the flow, compulsive behavior. And that is excellent. It's very passionate, exciting, dramatic. I guess I may have slightly neglected "thinking it through," "seeing the consequences," "considering the impact." Especially on other people. But to be frank those things don't exactly ring my bells. How many films are there named Enduring Encounters, Safe Liaisons or A Peaceful Night's Sleep in Seattle? I don't think so. The problem with the more humdrum aspects of life is that they are more humdrum.

  Enduring.

  Safe.

  Peaceful.

  I write the words on my notepad. It strikes me that these words define a good marriage. It strikes me that these are words that are different from anything I ever experienced before I married. I married Luke because he is my best friend. He is kind, considerate and loving. I love him but before I got married everything was immediate, risky, exciting.

  I am not like Sam. My raison d'etre had never been marrying. God, how shocking if it had. That is so pathetic. I was

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  keen on the chase, yes. And I liked blokes falling in love with me, admittedly. But it wasn't my be-all-and-end-all.

  Was it?

  It was.

  I hadn't been aware that I'd bought into the fairy tales and the films and the pop songs, but I had done just that. Was it the case that when I was systematically working my way through the Kama Sutra and the eligible males of London, that subconsciously it was my ambition to meet, marry, live Happily Ever After? But the fairy-tale books close with the church doors and I know why. Because there's nothing exotic in a conversation regarding lagging lofts. John talked to me about flogging logs. It is so rude, and raw, and different.

  And pointless.

  I mean, in retrospect, was I really interested in knowing how often he wanked off? No. But at the time it was sexy and alive. It was just that I missed noticing if men were cute, and I missed them noticing I was. I missed deliberating over what to wear. I missed them discovering things about me, and gossiping and wondering.

  I am tempted to leave it at that. Get up, make a cup of tea, have a walk, rearrange my video cupboard into alphabetical order. There I go. I have the answer. Luke is great, but marriage got too routine. I was bored, so I looked for adventure and John was the supplier of that adventure. Then I hear Lucy's voice in my head, what was it she said? . . . "John did mean something." I forget the video cupboard.

  John is a bastard. Hmmm. And yet I did want John, very much. Why was that? I was sure that we were . . . what is the word? Meant? Linked? Attached? It felt right.

  It felt familiar. It was familiar.

  Flirting. Chasing. Seducing. It's what I do. Did. Did before I met Luke. Did to Luke. Could it be that the sense of destiny had been nothing more than my repeating a familiar pattern?

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  Once I'd slept with him I was in too deep to admit to anyone, especially myself, that I'd made a mistake. Yet the more I got to know John the more I realized that there would be no delicacy, no intimacy, no trust, no flattery between us. How could there be? Old rules but a new game. I was married. He had slept with me because I was married. He didn't want familiarity, he didn't want it to go anywhere. He thought he was safe because I already had The One, or at least, Some One. He asked me only for what was wild, raunchy, sexy, dirty. I mistook his arrogance for passion. I confused the aching in my cunt for a longing in my heart. I fancied him soooooooooo much. That is a cold hard fact. If I could have, I'd have strapped him to me, and even then that wouldn't have been close enough. I wanted him inside me. I'd wanted to chop John up into tiny consumable pieces. I understood, for the first time in life, the expression, carnal knowledge. For a while I existed on another dimension. And, let's face it, I liked it there.

  It was exciting.

  But it wasn't real.

  It was about tight clothes, skinny limbs, hollowed stomach, pop music, smoking, drinking. As far as a supplier of drama and passion is concerned, John didn't disappoint. True to his word, he dished, ditched, distressed, depressed me. He is an irresponsible, disrespectful infidel.

  So there wasn't just one reason for my infidelity: the fact that I was bored or felt neglected, or did it because of old patterns, or fancied him excessively. It was all of those factors coming together at once. Why hadn't alarm bells rung after that first meeting in Blackpool? I was nearly derailed. I should have gone home and battered that thought around.

  If I could start all over again. I would still marry Luke.

  It all adds up to something very uncomfortable. It adds up to the fact that "nice" girls have affairs too. Especially nice girls who are vain and bored. In this situation nice girls can fall

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  for stunning insincerity. What's more, if they are incurable romantics, who really want to believe in the thrusting-passion-thing equaling destiny, they can get everything confused. The only difference between nice girls and not very nice girls is that nice girls are sorry.

  Very, very sorry.

  And they wish it had never happened.

  It is four o'clock on Saturday afternoon. I am swamped by cigarette fumes. I force open a window, assuring my neighbor not to be alarmed, there is no need for the fire brigade. I hunt out some potpourri and put the kettle on for about the millionth time. OK, to recap. I've learnt,
and can admit the following about myself: I love Luke, and by marrying him I achieved a lifelong ambition. Realization of this ambition left me bored and without a goal. John was a horn. Seduction is habitual. I've hurt my husband, perhaps irreparably. I am a selfish, sorry, fuckwit, not very nice, nice girl. I realize I am losing my sense of clarity. But there is definitely a good thought in there somewhere.

  H am so excited with my new understanding that I make the mistake of thinking Luke will be excited, too. After nearly a month of no communication I call him. He won't come to the phone so I call again and again—sober, drunk, hysterical, desperate, humiliated, oblivious. I leave pleading messages begging him to listen to me, to pick up the phone. On the occasions that he does, I'm met with, "Connie. I can't imagine you have anything to say that I want to hear. I don't want explanations, thank you." The days insist on thundering by; I'm paralyzed with fear as I begin to understand that he really doesn't want to talk to me.

  I write to him. Short notes imploring him to call. Funny, stylish and sentimental cards trying to explain. Long epistles detailing how sorry I am and screaming for forgiveness. I don't know if he even opens my letters. I realize that calling and writing are cowardly and so I go to see him at Simon's. Simon tells me he is away. I go to his football club, his office; I try to track him down on site. It seems that he has a sixth sense about when I'm going to turn up because he has always "Just left." His ability to walk away from me, without so much as a cursory glance over his shoulder, depresses me. Initially, I rail that it is typical, another example of his lack of passion, lack of

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  feeling, but that doesn't stack up. Even to me. Have I wounded him so deeply that he is unable to act in any other way than to walk away? I'm dripping in shame. I wonder if it would help if I explained that I wasn't seeing John when the fax came through? Would it help if I explained that I made a hideous mistake and I can see that now? I doubt it. Explaining it to myself has been an almost superhuman feat. Explaining it to anyone else—even if that "anyone else" is that amazing someone else, Luke—will be impossible.