by Kate Fulford
“Don’t we all?” I responded.
“Yes, but Theresa is more needy than most. She comes from a very high achieving family.”
“Really?” I said, rather archly. “She’s never mentioned that.”
“And again, shut up,” said Claire. “She admires you, you know. You should be kinder to her.”
“Admires me? Why?” I was somewhat taken aback. My dislike of Theresa was so visceral that I was surprised to find she felt anything but antipathy toward me.
“Goodness only knows. She says she likes the fact that you don’t seem to care much what anyone thinks of you.”
“I do care what people think of me!”
“You care that they think what you want them to think of you, it’s not the same thing,” Claire explained. “And she would love to have what you and Gideon have. You’ve formed a strong bond with him that seems to be based on a relatively clear eyed assessment of each other’s strengths and weaknesses.”
“You old romantic.” I said. “How do you know so much about how Theresa feels anyway?”
“Other people do exist when you’re not with them Eve.” Claire replied.
“I know that!” I said, rather too emphatically. I do know it but I’m not sure that I entirely believe it. Doesn’t everyone believe that everyone else only truly exists when they are in one’s presence? “So how’s she getting on, with her course that is?” I added, to display that I really did know that Theresa existed when I wasn’t there. She was, I knew, studying for a doctorate at some weird sounding psychological institute. The application process had, apparently, been long and difficult. I had received a blow by blow account of how brilliantly she had done to secure a place at what she assured me was a world renowned centre for something that escapes me right now when I had run into her in a coffee shop in Chiswick a few weeks earlier (the only downside to living in Chiswick being that Theresa lives there too).
“It’s not going very well unfortunately.” Claire explained.
“Oh, that’s a shame, but back to me and my life.” I said before finishing the very last piece of my fruit tart. I might not be a big cake fan but I do like a good, French patisserie style fruit tart, and all the tastier for being paid for by someone else, in this case Claire.
“She’s had to take on a job to make ends meet,” said Claire. “The bursary she was hoping for fell through and her father won’t pay as he doesn’t think what she’s doing is worthwhile.” She obviously wasn’t finished with Theresa, even if I was.
“So she’s got to work! How appalling for her. Do you think we should organise a fund raiser? I could make muffins!” I have always had to work, from long before I left school, to have any money at all so forgive me if I couldn’t summon up much sympathy for Theresa.
“There’s no need for that,” Claire chided me. I don’t really know how Claire and I have maintained our friendship for so long as she disapproves of almost everything I say and do. I think I like her because she is a better person than I am and having her as a friend makes me feel like a slightly better person than I know myself to be. What she sees in me is an enduring mystery. Perhaps she thinks she will one day save my soul (she is a Born Again Christian, which is like a normal Christian but with full fat milk and an extra shot), although what one does with saved souls I am unsure. “So she is under a lot of pressure as she has no time to study and is too tired to be effective at work.” Claire concluded.
“Oh, that’s a pity.” I said. “Anyway, back to me and my problems.”
“Yes, Eve, back to you and your problems.”
“What’s so funny?” I demanded to know as Claire unaccountably let out a hoot of laughter.
“Nothing, my dear Eve, nothing. So, do you really think the whole thing was engineered by Marjorie because she wants to upset you or,” Claire looked at me pointedly, “are you perhaps guilty of the fundamental attribution error?”
“Is that the one where you can’t see the camel in the rich man’s eye because of the plank in your own?” I asked. Psychologists, I had learnt in one of the lectures I sneaked into while stalking (for want of a better word) Gideon, have discovered that there are simply hundreds of errors in the way we humans think. I could have told them that without all the dubious experiments.
“No, that’s from the Bible, sort of. The one I’m referring to is the one where we assume that the actions of others are due to their disposition while our own actions are caused by circumstances.”
“So you’re saying that I’m looking for some sinister motive to explain why Marjorie should want to ruin my birthday when in fact she was really just locked out?”
I should explain what we were talking about. Since my initial meeting with Marjorie she had positively showered Gideon and me with invitations to Sunday lunch and various other gatherings. I, for reasons with which any one in a new relationship might sympathise, didn’t wish to spend half of almost every weekend with Gideon’s parents. With a little ingenuity and only a very few untruths, I had therefore managed to head off a large number of these invitations and by the time my birthday came around it had been nearly two months since we had seen Marjorie and Malcolm. I’m not usually a great one for celebrating birthdays, but it was my first since meeting Gideon and coincided with our nine month anniversary, so I had decided to push the boat out a bit.
“That smells good,” Gideon announced as he came in the front door that evening, “I could smell it all the way up the stairs.”
“We’re having potted shrimps with melba toast to start,” I told him, “followed by roast chicken with mushrooms. It’s supposed to be guinea fowl with porcini but they both cost a fortune and I had already spent a bundle on the shrimps, and then we’re having a surprise pudding.”
“What’s the surprise?” Gideon asked.
“That there is no pudding, as we’ll be stuffed by then, but there is cheese and fruit.” There was going to be pudding, a chocolate fondant which is Gideon’s favourite but which I was afraid might be my culinary Waterloo and so had decided not to get his hopes up at this point. “And,” I said, thrusting a bottle towards him, “there’s champagne!” It was actually sparkling wine, but it was very good for the price.
“I’ll go and get changed and then I’ll be right with you,” he said, heading off down the hall towards the bedroom while I returned to my labours in the kitchen.
Amongst many other things living with Gideon had enabled me to rekindle my lifelong love affair with cooking. When you’re only cooking for yourself it’s difficult to get very excited about it. A big part of the pleasure I get from cooking is the pleasure it gives to others, and when cooking for one it is also difficult not to cook too much. However delicious any meal might be on its first outing, it rather loses its appeal by day three.
One of the very few memories I retain from my childhood, before I was orphaned (I know it’s perverse but I quite like the word orphan, it sounds romantic and vaguely Victorian, plus orphans often do pretty well in literature), is not so much a memory as an emotion, and it is of family meals. Not weekday teatime, but Saturday and Sunday lunch. I have a very strong sense of my family home being enveloped in a warm fug of cooking smells at weekends, smells that told me I was safe and loved. Aunt Audrey wasn’t at all interested in cooking, so much of the food I ate until I taught myself to cook was either boiled in a bag or rehydrated. I think I learnt how to cook so that I could create my own warm fug of love, and now I had someone with whom to share that fug. Gideon’s flat also had a very lovely and well equipped kitchen (it was the one room on which he had lavished any attention as he is also quite a keen cook) so I was able to go into warm fug overdrive.
It was as I did a final check on everything that the phone rang. I ignored it, as I often do if I am otherwise occupied. I can’t see why I should always leap to it whenever someone calls, it’s not as if I’m an emergency service. After a few rings it went to the machine and I forgot all about it. Having done all I could in the kitchen for the time b
eing I wandered down the hall to the sitting room carrying two glasses of Cava. It was early October but already quite cold, so I had lit the gas effect fire earlier to take the chill off the room. Gideon says it is the equivalent of throwing tenners up the chimney but he had it fitted, presumably at some expense, so I think it would be equally wasteful not to use it. I had also bought some candles for added atmosphere and so, having put the glasses down, I set about lighting them too. The room looked absolutely beautiful, aglow with soft light and dancing shadows. In truth it looks best of all like this as the harsh light of day only serves to highlight the poor quality of the decorating and the very much past their prime soft furnishings. I turned on the radio and couldn’t quite believe it when I heard a piece of music issuing from it of which I am particularly fond. I have no idea what it’s called (I think it’s something to do with a bird, possibly a lark, but I’m not sure) as despite many years listening to Radio 3 I have failed miserably to learn anything about classical music. If I am ever asked to be a guest on Desert Island Discs (unlikely I know, but one should be prepared) I’ll have a hell of a job humming tunes to mystified researchers in the hope of identifying my eight pieces. No matter, everything was perfect, just perfect.
“That was Mum on the phone.” Gideon poked his head around the sitting room door, clearly not intending to come in. “I have to go round there I’m afraid. I won’t be long.”
“What are you talking about? What’s happened?” I was genuinely alarmed. Something deeply important must have occurred or why would Gideon be leaving me, and on my birthday, to go to his mother?
“It won’t take long. She’s locked out and Dad’s at a golf club thing,” he explained. “I’ll take my spare keys round, let her in and be back before you know it.” He was already halfway down the hall as he said this last bit. “See you later.”
“Isn’t there a spare key somewhere she can use?” I called after him.
“Yes . . . no. I’ll explain when I get back. Bye.”
I was in bed, although not asleep, by the time Gideon returned at around ten thirty. I had eaten the potted shrimps and put the chicken in the fridge while the chocolate fondant, or at least the ingredients for it, were in the bin. I hate waste but I had thrown them away in a fit of rage after a fourth, ill advised, glass of sparkling wine. I had received regular text updates during the evening but they had done little to enhance my mood.
Marjorie had been so upset, so she claimed, by the loss of her keys that Gideon had had to stay with her until his father’s return. The spare keys had, it transpired, been in the shed where they were always kept but Marjorie had been unable, in her panic, to find them. Having gained entry to her house she claimed that she was worried that her keys might have been stolen rather than lost and that someone might try to enter the house. She had therefore insisted (or Gideon had offered, but I’m sure it was at her insistence) that Gideon stay with her.
I pretended to be asleep as Gideon slipped quietly into bed beside me. I thought this was for the best as I was quite certain that I wouldn’t be able to control my still simmering rage and I wasn’t really sure who I was most angry with. I was angry with Gideon for not coming back all evening and I was angry with his mother for ruining my birthday with her pathetic inability to find a key to, or be alone in, her own house. I knew, however, that I couldn’t justify my feelings to Gideon. I was, I feared, behaving like a spoilt child because my birthday had been ruined and it was hardly fair that I should seek to blame someone else for this when it was no one’s fault. And yet I was still angry and I couldn’t help but feel that Marjorie should shoulder most of the blame. She must, I reasoned, have engineered the whole thing. She must be trying to get back at me for all the Sunday lunch invitations I had refused and taken her revenge by ruining my birthday dinner.
“She may have unconsciously engineered the situation, I suppose.” Claire mused. “Her son hasn’t been in a cohabiting relationship for some years and she had become used to spending parental time with him. She is, by your assessment, in an unhappy pair bond . . .”
“Marriage,” I interrupted, “it’s a marriage.” Claire does sometimes take the psychology speak a little too far.
“Yes, marriage. But she isn’t getting what she wants from Gideon’s proximity since he became your, as you might say, boyfriend.” Claire concluded.
“So Marjorie is unconsciously engineering situations to spend time with Gideon without me or Malcolm being present?” I summarised what Claire seemed to be saying. “It’s not that she hates me? It’s possible I suppose,” I mused, “but if that’s the case what do you make of this?” I then related an incident that had happened only a few minutes before I had met with Claire that morning.
I was on one of the up escalators that slice through the middle of Peter Jones (it’s the name of the store, not a person) on my way to meet Claire when I saw Marjorie on one of the down ones. We were looking directly at one another. She couldn’t have failed to see me. I smiled and waved. She looked at me, a puzzled frown on her face. I returned the puzzled frown, assuming that she was signalling her puzzlement at seeing me here, although why this should have been quite so puzzling I was unsure as I am free to move around London as I wish. I signalled that I would follow her down the escalator, which I did, expecting to find her waiting for me at the bottom. I didn’t really want to see her, but I thought it would appear rude not to at least have a few minutes chat. When I got to the bottom of the escalator however, she was nowhere to be seen. I tried to pick her out from the hordes of shoppers circulating in the store and had almost given up when I caught a glimpse of her over by the lifts. She looked a little flustered as she waited, jabbing furiously at the button, presumably in the mistaken belief that this might make the lift arrive more quickly than it otherwise would. I waved frantically but failed to attract her attention as she turned back to the lift, the door of which was just opening, and stepped in.
“So, Claire,” I said, somewhat triumphantly, “what do you make of that?”
“I strongly suspect,” said Claire, wiping the last crumbs of a pain au raisin from her mouth, “that she didn’t see you.”
CHAPTER 4
It was only a matter of days after my meeting with Claire that I had reason to concur with her assessment of Marjorie’s behaviour. I had cycled over to Richmond to buy some jars of a particular brand of olives that Gideon can’t, apparently, imagine life without and which aren’t to be found anywhere in Chiswick. Buying them involved a roundtrip of several miles on my bike (such devotion). I was standing at the till explaining to a very chatty check out assistant why I had eight jars of olives when I was assailed by a very loud ‘cooee’. Not realising that the ‘cooee’ was directed at me – why should it be? I was far from home, and south of the river – I ignored it. I carried on ignoring it even as it got louder and louder until finally I heard my name being called in between the cooees.
“Cooee, Eve, cooee. It’s me, Marjorie. I’m over here.” And, sure enough, over there was Marjorie. “You must come home with me for a coffee,” she said, grabbing my wrist as soon as she was in reaching distance. I do not like being forcibly made to go anywhere but I felt that I couldn’t snatch my hand back without appearing rude. I therefore had to stand for several uncomfortable moments with my wrist held tight in Marjorie’s diamond encrusted claw like grip. “I insist,” she said, before finally releasing me when I nodded my assent.
Traffic being what it is in London my bike and I arrived at Marjorie’s house several minutes before she turned up in what I noticed was a brand new sports car. I have no idea what it was, I know very little about cars, but even I could tell it had probably cost rather a lot of money.
“It’s lovely isn’t it?” Marjorie said, simpering at the great hunk of metal as if it were a puppy. “Malcolm said I didn’t need a new car, but the old one had done over ten thousand miles, so it was time for a change.” My own car had done close to two hundred thousand miles but was not about to be replace
d. I didn’t mention this. “And anyway,” she continued, “I bought it with my money, so it’s not up to him, is it?” She looked at me coyly in the sort of ‘we girls must stick together’ way that I have always disliked. I have never felt a particular affinity with anyone based purely on their gender and, in my experience, women prone to this sort of gesture are those least likely to stick up for other women. All right for some, I thought as Marjorie opened the garage for me to stow my bike. She had looked at me rather askance when I suggested that I didn’t want to leave it outside where there was nothing to lock it to.
“You really think that anyone would want to steal that?” she had said, dismissing my trusty steed. I know it wasn’t a brand new car and she did have a point, but even so it seemed a little rude. I said nothing however and simply followed her through the front door, waiting patiently as she punched the code into the alarm system. So it was dangerous enough around here for her to have to protect her things but mine, it seemed, not so much.
“Now,” said Marjorie once we were ensconced in her huge kitchen with a cup of coffee in front of each of us (she had made instant, the coffee machine was clearly Malcolm’s domain), “I want to know all about you. Every little detail. Ian and I are very, very close and he has always shared everything with me. He has hardly told me anything about you though,” she let out a little laugh, “and I am dying to know all there is.”
Where on earth do you start when someone asks such a thing of you? Marjorie’s question was a bit like being asked to recite all the facts that you know about everything. What should I tell and what should I withhold? Where to begin? Where to end? My mind went blank.
