Trouble

by Fay Weldon

  ‘It’s a kind of black pit within the periphery of myself,’ said Annette. ‘It’s as black and empty as outer space, and everything spins down into it and is lost.’

  ‘A black hole,’ said Gilda. ‘I used to feel that when Jackson my first husband left me and I didn’t know how to pay the rent. I think you’re describing anxiety, not terror. What’s making you anxious?’

  ‘The thought of me without Spicer,’ said Annette. ‘He said such terrible things to me last night, and I love him and I’m having his baby. How could he? Then he just went and slept all night in the spare room. He said he was frightened to sleep next to me in case I did him some terrible damage. He said I was a madwoman, and eaten up with hatred of men.’

  ‘What had you done?’

  ‘I broke some plates,’ said Annette, ‘and threw the book he was reading into the fire.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gilda, ‘you ought to expect some reaction. If you behave like a madwoman you get called a madwoman.’

  ‘He drove me to it,’ said Annette. ‘He wouldn’t eat the dinner I cooked. And he was late home and wouldn’t say why. And I lay alone on the bed all night with a headache and a black hole in my chest, and I must have dozed off because when I woke Spicer had left the house and gone to work, and without a word, without a note.’

  ‘You told me you didn’t sleep at all,’ said Gilda.

  ‘Gilda, this is serious. There was a difference in tone. I can’t explain it. I’m terrified.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound serious to me,’ said Gilda. ‘He’ll ring later in the morning and apologise.’

  At ten-thirty precisely the phone rang. Wendy put Spicer through.

  ‘Annette,’ said Spicer, ‘I hope you’re okay. I left you sleeping. You look lovely asleep: I didn’t want to wake you. I hope I didn’t upset you last night. I seem to get these moods these days.’

  ‘You upset me quite a lot,’ she said.

  ‘But you’re better now? It’s all forgotten?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘I love you very much,’ he said. ‘None of it’s your fault. You can’t help being what you are any more than I can.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said Annette.

  ‘Pauline just called. She and Christopher want us to join them at the opera tonight. I said yes. That’s okay, isn’t it? It’s Figaro.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Annette. ‘Mozart is always soothing.’

  There was a slight pause—

  ‘That’s not a dig, is it?’ asked Spicer.

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ replied Annette. ‘How could it be?’

  ‘It could suggest you needed soothing, which means you’re not going to let bygones be bygones. Well, never mind either way. We’ll meet up at the Coliseum at seven then: eat afterwards. Wear something lovely, especially for me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Annette. ‘Don’t I always? Spicer, you know you have a really remarkable memory? Last night you went through every single thing I said, in order, finding fault. The other side of appalled I was impressed.’

  ‘I don’t have time to talk now, darling,’ said Spicer. ‘Though I’d love to. I have a meeting. But yes, I do have a good memory. That’s Saturn’s doing, sextile my moon but, alas, also quincunx your sun.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Spicer. ‘Not your world. Must go. Kiss you.’

  ‘Kiss you,’ said Annette.

  ‘Gilda,’ said Annette, ‘you were quite right. Spicer phoned. The black hole feeling has gone. Last night was incidental, accidental. Put it like this: it was a little bit of emotional flotsam, washed up by the tides of togetherness. In ten years there’d be quite a lot to wash up.’

  ‘How poetical,’ said Gilda.

  ‘Thank you. I’m so relieved,’ said Annette. ‘And we’re going to the opera. I don’t know what Spicer was upset about and I suppose I’ll never know, and it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I know what it may have been,’ said Gilda, ‘and all I can say is I’m sorry. I was about to phone you. I told Steve a bit about what you told me about Spicer and you in bed, and he talked to Spicer about it over lunch, he now tells me. I’m not speaking to Steve, it doesn’t matter how many cups of tea he brings me. It was a confidence.’

  ‘I knew that,’ said Annette. ‘I didn’t bring it up. Spicer did mention it. I expect Steve was only trying to help.’

  ‘Steve likes everyone to be happy,’ said Gilda. ‘That’s his trouble.’

  ‘It’s over now anyway,’ said Annette. ‘It did upset Spicer. But all kinds of things seem to upset him nowadays.’

  ‘What do you mean by nowadays? How long has this nowadays been going on?’ asked Gilda.

  ‘Two, three weeks. I don’t know,’ said Annette. ‘Two or three years, for all I know. How would I know? Spicer keeps complaining I’m unperceptive. But how can I perceive things he doesn’t tell me?’

  ‘Steve expects me to read his mind and tell him what he’s feeling,’ said Gilda.

  ‘If I tell Spicer what he feels he goes berserk,’ said Annette. ‘He says he doesn’t like to think of me inside his head so I try to keep out of it. I take nothing for granted. Gilda, have you heard of the word quincunx? Spicer used it this morning.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither had I. I felt stupid. I looked it up. It’s a term used in astrology to denote a 150 degree separation of the planets in orbit: a stressful aspect, particularly in a compatibility chart.’

  ‘Nobody could be expected to know that,’ said Gilda.

  ‘It was a funny kind of word for him to use in a general conversation,’ said Annette. ‘And then there was sextile. That’s a good aspect, but it applied only to him, not to him and me.’

  ‘Don’t get paranoid, Annette,’ said Gilda. ‘If you worry about every little thing you’ll wear yourself out. Perhaps Spicer’s just getting you a his-and-hers chart for your birthday.’

  ‘Spicer would never do anything like that,’ said Annette. ‘He hates all that kind of gobbledegook. The religion of weak minds. Squelchy. So do I. And another thing—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wish Spicer hadn’t called at ten-thirty precisely. It’s as if he had it worked out, and was clock-watching. I’ll let her stew till ten-thirty, then I’ll call. He didn’t phone when he first arrived, he didn’t wait till after lunch. Those are the times he usually calls. But this wasn’t even any old time, it was on the dot.’

  ‘Annette, that’s insane,’ said Gilda. ‘Ten-thirty is as much any old time as any other. It just happened to be on the dot.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Annette. ‘Now I’m feeling uneasy again. There’s a sub-text I don’t understand. Well, I expect whatever it is will emerge: push itself out like the alien in the film, bursting out of the ribcage.’

  ‘What a horrid image,’ said Gilda. ‘It can’t be good for the baby.’

  Annette lay down on the marital bed and put Optrex pads on her eyes.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Hello, Susan.’

  ‘Are you okay? I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You haven’t been crying?’

  ‘Of course not. Being pregnant makes your eyes puffy.’

  ‘Yuk. It’s time you had new wallpaper in here. This lot’s dingy.’

  ‘It’s how Spicer and I like it,’ said Annette.

  ‘Why? It’s early eighties drear. Browny dinge.’

  ‘Because Spicer and I put it up together the week we moved in,’ said Annette. ‘There was no money for decorators.’

  ‘That’s why the pattern’s slipped,’ said Susan. ‘None of the little flowers match up. It’s a mess, and always has been.’

  ‘If it’s a mess it’s because you and Jason were crawling round our ankles,’ said Annette, ‘and tripping us up. Well, you were toddling: Jason was crawling. We like it the way it is. It’s our keepsake: our memento of the beginning.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ sa
id Susan.

  ‘And if we tried to take it down,’ said Annette, ‘the whole wall would come down with it. We’d have to re-plaster the room. That wallpaper was too heavy when it went up ten years ago and it’s heavier still today.’

  ‘That isn’t scientifically possible,’ said Susan.

  ‘Yes it is,’ said Annette. ‘It has sopped up pleasure, uxorious bliss.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Annette.

  ‘I’ll look it up,’ said Susan.

  ‘Look away,’ said Annette.

  The phone rang. Annette stretched out her hand. It was Gilda.

  ‘Annette? Did I disturb you?’

  ‘No. Not really,’ said Annette.

  ‘I think I know what the matter is,’ said Gilda.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your novel,’ said Gilda. ‘He’s jealous because you’re publishing a novel.’

  ‘Why should Spicer be jealous of a novel?’ asked Annette. ‘It isn’t even a proper novel. It’s a novella. I only wrote it for fun. The children were growing up, and work was drying up, and I had some time left over. And it isn’t coming out for months and months. No, that can’t be the matter.’

  ‘Steve says it might be,’ said Gilda. ‘Steve says perhaps your novella is about Spicer.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t about Spicer,’ said Annette. ‘If it’s about anyone it’s about my parents, and not even them, really. No, that’s a silly idea. It was Spicer who gave the manuscript to Ernie Gromback. It was Spicer who wanted it to see the light of day. I wanted to just put it in a drawer and forget it. Do you know Ernie Gromback the publisher?’

  ‘Everyone knows Ernie Gromback,’ said Gilda. ‘He’s given herpes to at least a dozen people I know.’

  ‘That’s beside the point,’ said Annette. ‘And I’m sure it isn’t true.’

  ‘Perhaps Spicer assumed Ernie Gromback would turn the manuscript down and put you off writing novels for ever.’

  ‘Well Ernie Gromback didn’t turn it down,’ said Annette, ‘and why on earth should Spicer want to put me off writing novels? It might bring in some money.’

  ‘Because he’s the kind of man who needs a woman’s full attention,’ said Gilda, ‘money or not.’

  ‘Sometimes I think you don’t like Spicer very much,’ said Annette.

  ‘You asked my opinion and I gave it,’ said Gilda. ‘If you didn’t want it, why ask?’

  ‘Don’t get huffy, please, Gilda,’ said Annette. ‘That’s the last thing I need. If anyone should be huffy, it’s me. You telling Steve about me and Spicer in bed, and still discussing it so far as I can see.’

  ‘Steve and I hate to see you and Spicer having marital problems,’ said Gilda. ‘Of course we discuss it. We couldn’t bear anything to happen to you. Spicer and Annette go together so well. The names fit. You are central to a whole lot of existences round here. I hope you realise that.’

  ‘Spicer and I are not having marital difficulties, Gilda,’ said Annette. ‘We are perfectly happy together. I just don’t like him being in a bad mood and me not knowing why. If I knew why, I could do something about it. That’s all.’

  ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ said Gilda. ‘Have a good time at the opera.’

  ‘Scent!’ remarked Spicer, in the foyer of the Coliseum. ‘I’d rather have you natural,’ and he nipped the skin of her neck with his teeth.

  ‘You bit me!’ said Annette.

  ‘I am showing my affection,’ said Spicer, ‘in a familiarly uxorious way. I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘It’s just a little public,’ said Annette. ‘And surprising. And actually, Spicer, I wear scent for me not you.’

  ‘Surprise,’ said Spicer, ‘is the stuff of life. Why hello Pauline, hello Christopher! Pauline, you look wonderful! How is architecture?’

  ‘In the doldrums,’ said Pauline and Christopher. ‘How’s the wine business, Spicer?’

  ‘Just fine,’ said Spicer.

  ‘How’s the pregnancy, Annette?’ asked Pauline.

  ‘Just fine,’ said Annette. ‘No sickness, and lots of energy.’

  ‘That’s because it’s a wanted baby,’ said Pauline. ‘One day we’ll have time and money to have one. Not yet. The future just isn’t certain enough. Everyone we know is redundant or bankrupt. But Mozart will soothe us. Civilisations crumble, art goes on for ever.’

  ‘Good lord,’ said Annette. ‘There’s Ernie Gromback and Marion. What are they doing at an opera?’

  ‘Searching for the culture,’ said Spicer, ‘they both crave and need. Do you know who they remind me of? Bob Hoskins and his cartoon lady in Who Killed Roger Rabbit?. He short, squat and vulgar, she the dream of his delight. Unreal.’

  ‘Everyone’s delight,’ said Christopher. ‘But that’s a harsh view of Ernie Gromback. He may be from the people but he’s a decent guy and they say he has a nose for a good novel. Others fail but he prospers.’

  ‘And besides,’ said Pauline, ‘he’s our guest.’

  ‘Why hello Ernie, hello Marion!’ cried Spicer. ‘Great to see you both!’

  ‘Ernie,’ said Annette, ‘and Marion. What a surprise! I didn’t know you were opera goers. Last time I saw you, Ernie, you told me you were a Marxist.’

  ‘Marx has let us all down,’ said Ernie. ‘Now there’s nothing left but the New Age. Marion drifts into it, and I drift after her. There’s money in it. Didn’t Pauline tell you we were coming, Annette? I asked her to tell you.’

  ‘I told Spicer,’ said Pauline, ‘and I assumed he’d tell Annette: he’s usually reliable. What else could I do? Chris only got the box at the very last minute: I was expected to fill it out of the blue. I can’t in person keep everyone fully informed. All I can do is delegate. I work too, you know. Why are you all blaming me?’

  ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ said everyone. ‘Mozart will soothe us.’

  ‘Gilda!’

  ‘Good lord, Annette,’ said Gilda, ‘I thought you were at the opera. Are you okay?’

  ‘I am at the opera,’ said Annette. ‘It’s half-time or whatever they call it. Gilda, I think I might have left the iron on in the bedroom and the kids are both out. You couldn’t possibly go round and make sure I haven’t? The key’s under the rose-pot.’

  ‘You are impossible,’ said Gilda.

  ‘Why does everyone think that?’ asked Annette. ‘All of a sudden. Or is it just I haven’t noticed till now?’

  ‘I mean keeping the key under the rose-pot,’ said Gilda. ‘That’s all. Everyone leaves irons on. Of course I’ll go. What are you wearing?’

  ‘My yellow silk dress, with a bronze silk sash thing which more or less hides me being pregnant, and my silver earrings. I look okay. In fact I look rather good. Pauline came straight from the office in a grey suit and I felt overdressed but then Ernie’s Marion turned up in red jodhpurs, a white lace blouse, a black riding cap and diamanté earrings so I felt under-dressed. That means I’m probably about right.’

  ‘Is Spicer being okay?’ asked Gilda.

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. He said he didn’t like me wearing scent and I was stupid enough to say I wore it for me, not him. It wasn’t even true: I was just surprised. But I think he must have taken offence: he sat as far from me as he could and we usually sit together: you know? If we can. We even hold hands. And then Ernie Gromback annoyed him by talking about books, and falling hardback sales, and paperback deals and so on, and then he started talking about Lucifette Fallen which made matters worse.’

  ‘Started talking about what?’ asked Gilda.

  ‘Lucifette Fallen,’ said Annette. ‘That’s the book I wrote, goddamn it. Hang on while I put in another coin … They think I’ve gone to the Powder Room. You can take forever in the Powder Room at the opera. It’s because everyone goes in their best clothes. Ernie said he wanted to bring publication forward to be nearer the baby’s birth, say mid-December.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ asked Gilda.

  ‘
I’ve no idea. I said it all sounded unhealthily commercial to me, because I thought that was what Spicer would want me to say, but Spicer said in for a penny, in for a pound—I ought to make as much capital out of the baby as possible and I could always go into labour in the middle of a chat show and so command maximum media attention.’

  ‘Was he being sarcastic?’ asked Gilda.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Annette. ‘I just don’t know. I can’t read him any more. So I can’t tell you if Spicer is being okay or not: I’m just not having a good time, which is why I’m talking to you. It’s all too nervy. Look, I really do have to go to the Powder Room now. I must go. Please check the iron. I’m sure it’s okay. I’d just feel better if you checked.’

  ‘I know, I know, I know,’ said Gilda. ‘Of course I will, Annette.’

  ‘Is there a new one-way system or is this taxi taking us the long way home?’ asked Spicer.

  ‘There’s a new system,’ said Annette.

  ‘You haven’t the faintest idea whether there’s a new system or not,’ said Spicer. ‘You just want everything to be easy and pleasant. Well, never mind. Here, give me your hand. You’re quite right: Mozart is very soothing. Did you see they were advertising a concert of Indian music? No, you wouldn’t have noticed. I expect you prefer the familiar tonic scale: Eastern music would pass you by. But I’ll try and get to it, if I can find the time and you’re prepared to let me out of your sight for an hour or two.’

  ‘Spicer,’ said Annette, ‘are you sure nothing’s wrong?’

  ‘It is really irritating,’ said Spicer, ‘to be asked all the time if something’s wrong. I can’t be laughing and chattering all the time, though I know you’d like me to be. Spicer, life and soul of the party. You don’t notice much, do you? From one-way traffic systems, to Indian music, to changes in me.’

  ‘What sort of changes?’

  ‘Everyone changes,’ said Spicer. ‘And it is normal for spouses to notice, unless they are hopelessly self-centred. Then it may indeed come as both a surprise and a threat.’

  Two tears ran down Annette’s cheek.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Spicer, ‘oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. You do know how to put the pressure on. How many years have I had of this?’