The Love Story of Missy Carmichael

by Beth Morrey

  “Dawson!” And they were off, Leo borne across the room to a group of students who welcomed him enthusiastically, the conquering hero returned, while I was left at my table with my bottle and no one to share it with.

  He was gone for nearly half an hour of chat and backslapping, by which time the bottle was empty and I was ready to stage my own protest, with banners and chanting and lashings of self-righteousness. When he finally ambled back, tie askew and eyes alight with flattery, I was stony-faced, arms crossed and entirely drunk. Leo slumped at the table and raised his eyebrows at the dregs.

  “Put it away, did you?” he observed, re-tying his shoelaces.

  “Nothing else to do,” I muttered, tapping my foot and waiting for an apology.

  “Sorry, darling, you know how it is.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, as he saluted various admirers, and finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “You just . . . you just don’t understand,” I said, wincing at my own inadequacy.

  He turned to me, surprised. “What?”

  “How hard it is. You. With your . . . PhD. And me, with my . . . coffee mornings.” Nothing would come out right; I was too drunk. But it was spilling out all the same. Some of the anger from the demonstration had infected me, lit me up inside, and now the fires were raging and wouldn’t be put out. “It’s not fair.”

  He was baffled. “What’s not fair?”

  “You get to do everything. And I don’t get to do anything at all. Just sit rotting at home.” I was slurring now, and it was awful, but I couldn’t help myself. He was the dictator, I was the disgruntled populace and this was my coup, badly prepared and already out of control. But off I went anyway.

  So he sat there, bored and irritable, drumming his fingers as I railed at him, and I could tell I wasn’t even touching the sides, nothing was hitting home because he could just tell himself I was drunk and it didn’t matter. It wasn’t fair. So many years spent blunting my brain and making endless sacrifices, large and small, that he had no idea of, couldn’t even comprehend, while he suited himself in every possible way. That complacency—that sublime self-absorption—had scratched away until the wound was red-raw. The urge to land a blow was overwhelming, and I found myself wanting to say it, wanting to tell him the thing I’d spent so many years burying, the one thing that must never be said, must never even be thought of, because that would be the end of everything. Before I could stop myself, it was out there.

  “You have no idea what I’ve done for you. What I did. It can never be undone.”

  Even as it left my lips I wanted to recapture it, stuff the words back in until they choked me. Leo, who’d managed to score a whisky, paused with the glass against his lips, finally engaged, frowning.

  “What have you done?”

  I was teetering on the abyss, but immediately started scrambling back, petrified by the depths.

  “Nothing.”

  “You were about to say something. What did you mean? What can never be undone?”

  “Nothing, I don’t know what I meant. Nothing.” I closed my eyes to banish it. “I’m sorry, I’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

  Leo put down his glass and took my hands, then lifted my chin to make me look at him. “Missy, is there something you want to say to me?”

  With a supreme effort of will, I looked back at him and smiled into the clear blue of his gaze. “No, Leo. I’m sorry. I’m just tired. It was a bit overwhelming back there.”

  He squeezed my hands. “I know.” Then he grinned devilishly. “Fun though, wasn’t it?”

  I managed a laugh as he pulled me to my feet. “Mrs. Carmichael, even with dripping hair, you look very beautiful tonight. Would you like to dance with your husband?” His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked down at me.

  The band was playing a slow tempo number I didn’t recognize. He drew me into his arms, I leaned my cheek against his chest and we swayed together, the soles of our shoes clinging to the tacky dance floor. I could feel him nodding above my head to his comrades, still jockeying for an audience, and the words of the song bled into my brain as we circled: “Keep your head, and keep your calm . . . that way you’ll keep your guy.”

  “Bertie,” I whispered. In the noise and darkness of the cellars, no one could hear me, or see the tears that trickled down my cheeks as I contemplated how close I came to ruining it all. Shattered into a million pieces, like that window in the River Suite.

  * * *

  —

  Bobby licked my hand encouragingly. “It’s 1974,” I said, jolting myself out of my reverie and tapping the answer sheet Sylvie was scribbling on. They all stared at me.

  “The junta,” I elaborated, pleased I could finally contribute.

  “We know, dipshit,” said Angela through a mouthful of crisps.

  “We’re on the year of Saddam Hussein’s birth now,” said Denzil. “Keep up.”

  Dave, the quizmaster, was a middle-aged northerner who fancied himself as a comedian and kept saying things like, “Look at your phone, you’ll be on your way home,” and engaging in banter with the team tables, which were mostly made up of rather nerdy-looking men. Sylvie tutted every time he attempted a gag, and Angela, already tipsy, kept shouting “Bingo!” at indecent intervals. Denzil kept the drinks coming, though would occasionally slip Sylvie an answer out the side of his mouth.

  Bobby returned from an under-table raid, and I smoothed my hands either side of her silky ears and breathed in her doggy smell, shaking off the memory hangover. Gazing into my eyes, she burped gently, and I recoiled at the stench.

  Most of the questions went over my head—in the TV and Film round I had barely even heard of the programs mentioned, and although I knew some of the films, the questions were too obscure to attempt an answer. The name of the boat in Jaws? Sylvie was furiously making notes. Angela leaned across and scribbled something, and they both dissolved into giggles. I reached for a crisp and held it out under the table. Seconds later I felt a tickle of fur, and it was gone.

  “Hey, Missy,” said Denzil. “You OK?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know anything.”

  He gave me a lopsided smile. “You have untapped potential. That’s why you’re here.” I met his gaze for a second and thought what a kind man he was, so far removed from the shady stranger I’d tried to avoid on Bobby’s first walk. That’s what the dog did for me, got me past that first awkward hurdle. I could do the rest. Or at least I was learning.

  As we went into the final round, Dave tapping the microphone and everyone wincing at the feedback, I looked around the table at my friends and thought if only I could answer one question, just one question that no one else knew, then I could go home happy. Just let me tap in to my potential.

  “Final round, ladies and gents,” coughed Dave. “And this one’s on . . . DOGS.”

  The nerds groaned. Our table cheered.

  “Yesssssssss,” crowed Angela, giving our neighbors a V sign. Denzil rubbed his hands together and Sylvie twirled her pencil and winked at me. My celebrations were rather more muted; despite Bobby resting her head in my lap, it wasn’t my strongest subject.

  “This round’s a bastard,” announced Dave. Then he dropped his microphone and said “Shit” into it as he picked it up.

  “Full house!” yelled Angela.

  “Get a move on,” snapped Sylvie, arranging her pencils.

  “Question one,” said Dave, “what is the name of Hagrid’s dog in Harry Potter?”

  I knew this (Fang). But then, so did everyone else. And so it continued. Adam Bede’s dog (Gyp), Mr. Rochester’s dog in Jane Eyre (Pilot), Dorothy’s dog in The Wizard of Oz (Toto). They knew dogs I didn’t know, like the name of Elliott’s dog in E.T. (Harvey) and the dog in Back to the Future (Einstein). We were doing well—we could tell from the pained looks at the tables around us as we gathered m
omentum and became more and more exultant. We got the name of the dog in Peter Pan (Nana), and then came the final question, and Sylvie said it always came down to that one, that quizzes were won or lost on this last chance, so we had to get it right.

  Dave cleared his throat and belched into the microphone. Bobby wagged appreciatively.

  “Last one, ladies and gents,” he said. “Make it count. What’s the name of Odysseus’s dog in the Odyssey?”

  There was total silence for a second, and then someone snorted in derision.

  “What the fuck?” said Angela. She looked at Sylvie, who shrugged and looked at Denzil, who shook his head. Then they looked at me.

  Heady with gratification, I leaned forward and whispered quietly, but with total confidence, “Argos.”

  Angela pulled a face. “The shop?”

  “Odysseus’s dog,” I replied firmly as Bobby licked my hand in support.

  “Very well,” said Sylvie, marking our answer sheet. “You’d better be right. My reputation is at stake.”

  “Tap, tap,” said Denzil, knocking the side of his head with his knuckle and grinning at me.

  I sat back, flooded with an immense satisfaction. Dave and the barmaid retreated to tot up, and Denzil went to get more drinks. Scumbag College, the reigning champions, kept sneaking us suspicious glances. It was going to go down to the wire. After an agonizing wait, Dave returned to the microphone, holding the sheaf of answer sheets in one hand and a pint of beer in the other.

  “Well, it was a close one, chaps,” he announced, taking a sip. “But the winners, by just one point, are . . .” He looked down at the sheet. “Votey McVoteface!”

  Sylvie erupted out of her chair, turning toward the crushed-looking Scumbag College with her fists raised in jubilation.

  “In your FACE, IT Crowd!” Angela roared as Sylvie did a victory turn of honor and narrowly avoided being hit by a paper airplane. There were several boos. No one likes a bad winner.

  I fed Bobby a crisp as Denzil went up to collect our prize. We won £42 and a signed Bernie Sanders coloring book, which Angela clutched to her chest in ecstasy. Several of the other teams came up to congratulate us and to stroke Bobby, and Sylvie told all of them I’d been the only one of us to know the name of Odysseus’s dog. Just one other person in the room had known, an elderly gentleman from a team called Mason and the Argonauts, who tipped his straw fedora in my direction as he left. We spent £30 on more wine and staggered home with it, frittering our last £12 on fish and chips, which we shared leaning on the wall of my front garden, feeding Bobby bits of the batter and reliving our victory. I felt like a student again, holding a greasy paper bag and laughing as Angela did impressions of the computer geeks hunched around their answer sheets.

  “You were all magnificent, especially me,” concluded Sylvie, licking chip oil off her fingers. “I must go home and pop an anticipatory aspirin before bed. It’s been a pleasure, my darlings. Toodle pip!” She sailed off into the night, back to Decca, Nancy and Aphra.

  “You’re all right, Missy,” said Denzil, saluting me drunkenly, turning and weaving his way in the opposite direction.

  Angela hiccupped and tipped herself off the wall. She began to lurch down the road, then suddenly turned back to me, holding up a finger. Her eyes were struggling to focus. “Don’t forget to vote tomorrow,” she warned, and veered off toward her flat.

  I opened my gate, letting Bobby through to the garden for a last sniff and looking up at the sky, velvety and remote, a few stars twinkling despite the city lights. Eventually she returned and lay at my feet, the noble hound.

  “He fulfilled his destiny of faith,” I said to her, dashing a tear. “He hung on.” But she’d gone again, weaving her way into the rosebushes until all that remained was rustling.

  “Argos,” I whispered. He was me, and Leo was Odysseus, and, despite everything he’d done, and I’d done, I would always wait for him, no matter how long it took.

  Part 3

  Friendship always benefits; love sometimes injures.

  Seneca

  Chapter 23

  I knew Leo was having an affair before he did. He started waking earlier, helping to get breakfast ready, even taking Alistair to school occasionally. He was cheerier than usual, as if suppressing a kind of glee, and most of all, he was more focused. Leo frequently had a distracted air, “away with the Tories,” as his great friend Tristan always said, his head in his books. But in those days he was more present than I had ever known him, spending less time in his study, suggesting day trips, even making dinner a couple of times, leaving the kitchen in an almighty mess. He was trying harder, and I couldn’t work out why, until one day I saw him looking at himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He smoothed back his hair, then caught me looking at him and grinned guiltily. He was guilty.

  He used to smooth his hair like that when he was with Alicia. I saw him once, outside her room, preparing for his entry. He caught sight of himself reflected in the window and did the same gesture, flattening the unruly tufts at his temples. I became constantly on edge, searching for signs of him straying. Whenever he went away to a conference, convinced he was with her, I looked through his receipts for clues, checked his pockets, read his appointments diary. There was nothing incriminating to be found, but it made no difference.

  And then we met her one day, when we dropped by his office to pick up his bag on our way to the theater. His secretary handed it over, fussing over some papers, and as we left, a girl carrying a pile of books walked past. He greeted her, rather flustered. “Carrie! I didn’t know you would be here.” She turned, feigning surprise, and I knew immediately. She was small and red-haired and of course she was one of his students. I could tell from the way they were with each other that nothing had happened; they were at the circling stage, a consummation devoutly to be wished. That expectation, the holding back, must have been thrilling for them both. “We mustn’t hurt Millicent or the children.” To imagine yourself a martyr, in the grip of a grand passion, and then to finally give way—what a roller-coaster ride! They were at the top of that first hill, anticipating the summit. There was no way anyone could stop them going over.

  So I didn’t say anything in the end, just let them ride it out. He was never so crass as to buy me flowers, but at the height of his little peccadillo, he did take me out to dinner at a smart new restaurant in Islington. That night, sitting in a kind of atrium, all dim lights and discreetly piped classical music, I watched him fiddle with his cutlery and thought how much I loved him, despite it all. He caught my gaze in the candlelight and his eyes crinkled at the corners in the not-quite-a-smile he reserved just for me. I believed he felt particularly well-disposed toward me throughout the whole sordid episode, probably grateful for having such an obliging wife who looked the other way and didn’t make a fuss. Not making a fuss was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  We had a few months of him doing odd jobs around the house, replacing a broken banister spindle, clumsily pushing the vacuum cleaner round the house a few times and one day, absurdly, bringing home an enormous rocking horse for Alistair. Poor Ali was too old for it, but the sight of him politely thanking his father made my heart contort with the pity of it. It was a handsome thing, hand-carved with a real horsehair mane and a velvet saddle. I could never bear the touch of velvet, it made my skin crawl.

  Then all of a sudden it came to an abrupt halt. Leo arrived home one night looking deflated, said something about feeling tired and that he’d been working too hard. Then he disappeared into his study and started writing his new book and we all went back to normal. The hottest love has the coldest end. I saw her on Gower Street a few weeks later, arm in arm with someone her own age. After it had gathered enough dust in Ali’s room, I gave the horse to a children’s home in Highbury. When I told Leo, he prepared to object, and then stopped himself—as good an admission as any. He liked to think of him
self as fundamentally decent, and it can’t have sat well with him, all that sneaking about. I was always much better at dissembling.

  As the years went by I came to terms with it and even believed that in some ways it strengthened us. Perhaps stepping so close to the edge made him realize he didn’t really want to jump off. The affection he felt for me during that time lingered, while his infatuation passed. As the children grew older, they didn’t take up so much of my time, and I became less exasperated, able to concentrate more on being a wife. After I got used to Ali leaving home, it was rather nice being just the two of us, pottering about together. He ventured from his study for dinner and we would talk about his research, and enjoy the occasional outing—Oxford, Bath, Brighton—Leo in the bookshops and me whiling away the time in galleries and cafés. We’d invite friends for dinner, go to the theater, take the odd trip abroad. Like our huddle on the dance floor at Tristan’s wedding, expanding the oikos and then contracting again, but always staying connected, humming along to our song.

  We were coasting, idling along the tracks, the ups and downs behind us. But then Leo got ill and everything went off the rails altogether.

  * * *

  —

  I was thinking about Leo’s illness the morning after the quiz as I got ready to go out and vote, feeling quite upbeat after our stunning victory, and having dodged a hangover. It was a dull day after the balminess of the night before, with the threat of rain, so I took my umbrella and set out with Bobby, who was in fine fettle, skittering this way and that.

  After a quick circuit of the park, saluted by Denzil and sympathizing with Sylvie’s headache, I made my way to the polling station in the school hall round the corner from my house. As we neared our destination though, my pace slowed and I became more thoughtful. After all, Leo was a Eurosceptic. Skepsis . . . ancient Greek for “doubt.” Maybe it would be nice to let him have his say, in absentia. It wasn’t as if it would make a difference—ultimately, this was a precipice I could jump off on his behalf, safe in the knowledge that everyone else would catch me.