Neurotica

by Sue Margolis

  Brenda agreed they should ring the bell and give Gloria a chance to answer the door. Anna pressed the button. The chimes played three choruses of “Hello, Dolly!” There was no answer. Anna took out the set of keys to her mother's house she always carried. Gloria had given them to her just after she and Harry had moved to the house, in case of an emergency. She turned the key in the lock. The paneled door, which was guarded on the outside by two miniature stone lions, opened.

  The hall lights were on, illuminating Gloria's newly painted mural depicting a Venetian street scene. It covered three walls. Anna had first seen the mural a couple of weeks ago and told Gloria that cute didn't begin to describe it. Gloria's hall, she said, resembled the interior of a motorway cafeteria with ideas above its service station.

  The walls were covered with rows of charmingly dilapidated Italian houses with peeling terra-cotta paint. Each one had been given a wrought-iron balcony from which there trailed nonspecific purple and orange flowers. There were several small arched bridges crossing canals, as well as three gondolas complete with gondoliers and courting couples. There was even a sickeningly cute mouse poking its nose and whiskers out of a hole in one of the charmingly dilapidated bits of wall.

  There was, however, no sign of Gloria.

  Anna stood at the foot of the staircase and called to her mother. Silence. Brenda said she was going upstairs. They ran up, passing a doe-eyed Italian beauty hanging washing from her balcony, still calling. Gingerly they opened Gloria's bedroom door. The light was on, but the bed hadn't been slept in. For the first time Anna began to feel frightened. Brenda was almost hysterical.

  “Right, that's it. I'm phoning the police.”

  “No, Brenda.” Anna caught hold of her arm as she reached into her pocket for the phone. “Don't. Wait.”

  She walked along the landing to the airing cupboard and opened the door. Gloria was sitting cowering and shaking at the foot of the oversized hot-water tank. She was wearing her peach velour dressing gown and slippers and clutching her cordless phone. Her face was covered in a thick layer of night cream. This made the rims of her eyes, which were red and swollen from crying, look particularly hideous.

  “Mum!” Anna screamed. She put her arm round her mother and gently helped her stand up.

  “He's down there! He's down there!” Gloria sobbed. “I've been trying to reach your father in Tel Aviv, but the line's been permanently engaged.” Anna's arm was still round her mother's shoulders. Gloria was shaking like a water diviner's hazel twig.

  “Mrs. S., if there's somebody in the house,” Brenda was standing next to them now, “you should have phoned 999.”

  “No, you don't understand . . . I wanted to ask Harry's advice first.” Gloria took a deep, shuddery breath. “Now you two are here it'll be all right.”

  “Mum,” Anna said, looking confused, “what in God's name has been going on?”

  Gloria said nothing. She put the phone into her dressing-gown pocket and took hold of Anna's arm. She led her towards the staircase. Brenda followed. The three of them crept down the stairs, backs close to the wall, clutching each other like Enid Blyton children exploring a haunted castle. They tiptoed along the marble floor tiles as Gloria led them through the hall towards the downstairs loo. They stopped. Gloria stood in front of Anna and Brenda and gripped the brass doorknob. She paused and closed her eyes for a few seconds as if summoning strength. Then, very slowly, her eyes still closed, she opened the door a crack, reached in and turned on the light. Coming from inside was the sound of soft snoring. This was punctuated every couple of seconds by bouts of desperate wheezing and gasping. It was as if somebody was fighting for breath. The door finished opening. Brenda's and Anna's eyes shot towards the loo window.

  So there's me and Anna, quaking and bloody terrified—it's just like that bit in Close Encounters when they watch the spaceship land—thinking there's some maniac standing in the lavvy with 'is axe poised.” Brenda broke off to slurp some of her cocoa. “And the first thing we see is a great huge bunch of red roses and a box of Milk Tray which appear to have come in through the window and seem to be thrashing around in midair just above the loo seat. Then we see the horn-rimmed specs, the trilby and the half-open mouth and we realize there's a bloke stuck half in and half out of the window. Finally we work out that the sash must have broken, sending the frame careering down onto his back and trapping him.”

  By now it was nearly two in the morning. Anna had dragged Dan out of bed and made him come and sit with them in the kitchen, drink cocoa and listen to this latest installment in the Gloria and Gerald Brownstein saga.

  “So, I take it he is now safely tucked up in the nick,” Dan said, rubbing his face, which was creased and puffy with sleep.

  Anna and Brenda exchanged glances. Anna shifted from buttock to buttock on her chair.

  “Not as such,” she said, concentrating on dunking a Jaffa Cake into her mug and watching the chocolate melt and leave a trail in the cocoa.

  Dan yanked at the belt of his toweling dressing gown and tightened it. Anna thought he suddenly looked like a particularly gruff bank manager, albeit a very unusual one who attended his overdrawn clients in his dressing gown. Glowering, he sat waiting for her explanation.

  Anna said that it was Gloria, who, yet again, had refused point-blank to let them call the police. Once she had calmed down she had begged Anna and Brenda to let him go. She kept saying over and over that he was an old, ill man who needed psychiatry, not incarceration.

  Apparently, before he had got stuck in the window, Gerald had spent nearly an hour ringing on Gloria's doorbell and calling through the letter box, begging her to open the door because he was in love with her and wanted to give her some flowers and chocolates. She had kept shouting at him to leave them on the porch and go away.

  Finally everything had gone quiet. Gloria thought he had driven off, so she got ready for bed. Then, after a few minutes, she came downstairs to make a drink and heard him trying to break in through the loo window.

  By the time Anna and Brenda got to him, he was white with fear and fighting for air because the window had trapped him so tight he could hardly breathe. Seeing Brenda in her fatigues and because he was old, frightened and a bit confused, he assumed she was a policewoman and that Anna was a plainclothes detective.

  He spent the next five minutes, still half in and half out of the window, weeping and begging for mercy. He implored them to take pity on him as he was having a lot of trouble with his bowels and had to be at outpatients on Tuesday afternoon to get the result of his barium enema and Dr. Mednik, the nice Jewish gut doctor, had said his intestines were looking none too promising. According to Gerald, the doctor said he'd seen frankfurter skins with more life in them.

  Their anger beginning to subside, Brenda and Anna forced the window up a few inches and the three of them managed, without too much difficulty, to haul Gerald down onto the loo seat. He sat there for a few minutes trying to stop shaking and then, summoning up his last ounce of pathos, held out the roses and the chocolates towards Gloria. Gloria managed a half smile, helped him into the kitchen and made him a cup of tea.

  While he was drinking it she took Brenda and Anna into the living room and pleaded with them not to call the police. She said that if they let him go she would have another word with Julian at her obsessive-compulsive group and see what could be done to help Gerald.

  “Gerald, of course, still thinks we're real cops,” Anna went on. “So Brenda and I, having caved in and agreed not to call the police, decide the old boy should, nevertheless, be taught a lesson. So we march him out to his car, where Brenda screams at him to lean over the hood and spread 'em. Then she reads him his rights, frisks him, screams at him as if she's on some parade ground, telling him he's an abominable, vile and depraved piece of humanity who deserves to be castrated. Then she lets him go. . . . Come on, Dan, please try and understand. I'm beginning to think my mother is right. I really don't think Gerald is dangerous.”

  Da
n rubbed his face again and said he thought they were crazy, that they were not qualified to make judgments about a person's state of mind and that Gloria could be in serious danger. He then said he wasn't going to argue with them about it anymore, because he had some really interesting news vis-à-vis the wife of their honorable friend, the member for Lymeswold.

  They got to bed just after three. Brenda didn't bother trying to sleep. She was feeling too wired. After Dan had given her the dirt on Lavender Hardacre she had gone whooping and dancing round the kitchen before almost hugging the life out of him. Instantly adopting a new moral stance as well as setting aside her fears about being banged up in Holloway, she spent the rest of the night lying in bed planning how best to go about blackmailing the old tart.

  Dan left the house at seven because he had to be in Birmingham by ten to do an interview with the EC Commissioner for Herrings. As a consequence, Anna was forced to do the school run.

  When she got back she had a shower, woke Brenda with some toast and herb tea and then decided she would phone Alex to apologize for running out on him. She couldn't believe she had been so rude to the poor man. She had simply taken the call from Gloria, said that she was sorry she had to leave because her mother wasn't well and got up from the table.

  She rang the Harley Street number—Alex had chased after her as she was leaving the restaurant and pressed his card into her hand—but got the answer machine. He wouldn't be in for another half hour.

  She decided she would fill the time by making a further attempt to come to grips with Rachel Stern's leaden and incomprehensible introduction to The Clitoris-Centered Woman.

  The jacket blurb described Stern as a “passionate feminist,” and proclaimed that her previous work, “a scorching attack on cosmetic surgery and the women who betray their sex by going under the knife,” had “fundamentally changed” the way women saw their bodies. “Now,” it continued, “the fearless and outspoken author of Dermis, her prose as lucid and accessible as ever, turns her attention to adultery.”

  Anna flicked to the introduction, which was headed “Beyond the Political Economy—the Clitoris Under Capitalism.” She got about four paragraphs in before pronouncing it bollocks and deciding to try phoning Alex again.

  She expected to get some plummy secretary. Instead Alex answered.

  “Anna, I am so glad you rang. I was quite convinced you'd done a Lawrence Oates on me last night and I'd never hear from you again.”

  Anna began explaining what had happened, but Alex interrupted her. Apologizing profusely, he said she had caught him at the worst possible time. He was in between patients and having to manage alone as his secretary was off with flu. He suggested meeting the following afternoon for tea if Anna wasn't too busy.

  “A couple of patients have phoned to cancel their appointments, so I should be free just after four.”

  Anna said she was pretty sure she could get away and she'd look forward to it.

  They agreed to meet at Whittaker's Hotel just off Bond Street.

  Off for another bit of 'orizontal hold then?”

  Anna swung round on her chair to see Brenda standing in the bedroom doorway managing to grin and crunch Marmite toast at the same time.

  “I dunno if you realized,” she went on, as she waved her half-eaten slice of toast in the air, “but there wasn't even a trace of hesitation or guilt in your voice. I'm beginning to think you've found a new vocation. You should think about jacking in newspapers and teaching evening classes in practical adultery.”

  With that Brenda's grin faded, her face turned white and she ran into the loo on the landing to chuck up her breakfast.

  Anna came out of the tube station, walked along oxford Street for a few yards and then turned right. Walking down New Bond Street towards Whittaker's, she began thinking again about what Brenda had said. She knew she hadn't been serious, but she did have a point. Anna had to admit, she had become almost blasé about cheating on Dan. Now she knew he wasn't dying, the periodic guilt she had felt about deceiving him had disappeared.

  She had also proved to herself that she really could keep a hold on her feelings. Charlie had been gorgeous, intelligent and fun. A weaker woman might have allowed herself to fall in love with him, but she hadn't. She had refused to let their relationship go beyond the purely physical. She knew that even if she had continued seeing Charlie, she would never have allowed him to threaten her marriage. It would be the same with Alex.

  She stopped to look in Fenwicks' window. As she ogled a slinky black evening dress which was cut so low at the back it revealed the mannequin's buttock cleavage, her confidence suddenly descended into despair. The skimpy black dress, which called for granite-hard glutes and breasts like grapefruit halves, reminded her for the umpteenth time that day that she, with her bum like a bag of wet porridge and breasts like worn-out pillows in which the feathers had collected at one end, was about to jump into bed with a cosmetic surgeon.

  Anna turned right just past Russell and Bromley and crossed the road. Whittaker's was facing her. The hotel, which had only twenty or so rooms, was discreet and unspeakably expensive and was popular with Hollywood actors. They adored the pry-vacy and the “English country house charm.” The stars also appreciated the hotel's wonderfully understated touches. The management always saw to it that on every guest's bedside table was a selection of the works of L. Ron Hubbard.

  Anna walked into the hotel reception, which was small and cozy. Everywhere there were vases of beautifully arranged flowers and bowls of upmarket potpourri. The place smelled faintly of cinnamon and cloves. There was no reception desk, just a large bowlegged walnut table. Behind it stood a smiling young woman in a piecrust collar and cashmere cardigan. She said that Mr. Pemberton had arrived about five minutes ago, and directed Anna towards the lounge.

  Alex was sitting on a chintz sofa in the square bay window, flicking through a house copy of Tatler. As soon as he saw her he sprang to his feet. He was wearing another gray suit, lighter this time, over a pale-blue shirt with a buttoned-down collar. The tie was a trendy knitted one with broad navy and cream horizontal stripes. He looked much more fashionable than he had two nights ago. Anna wondered if he had changed his image just for her.

  He started coming towards her, beaming. Instead of continuing on across the room to meet him, Anna stood still for a few seconds, watching him. She knew she would never feel the same molten passion for Alex that she had felt for Charlie. Nevertheless sex with Alex, who still looked every bit as Aryan as he had in the Bhaji on the Bush, represented the kind of cultural heresy which Anna found utterly irresistible. Would that he knew it, Alex was about to become a bacon bagel. As she watched him draw closer, she realized that rebellion was up and about inside her belly, and ready for action. Maybe her mutinous urges would conquer her fears about the state of her body.

  As Alex reached her, Anna returned the smile and said hello. She stood on tiptoe and they kissed on both cheeks, Alex gently holding her upper arms. She was aware that the second kiss lasted fractionally longer than the regulation peck. For a couple of moments, Alex kept his cheek next to hers and she could feel him breathing in her perfume. He only stopped when his embarrassment intervened.

  “Anna, I'm so glad you could make it.” Anna detected a hint of nerves and anxiety in his voice. He started to fiddle with his watch strap. She knew he fancied her but suspected it might take ages for him to pluck up the courage to invite her to bed.

  “Come and sit down.” He motioned to her to go in front of him. She walked across the huge Indian rug towards the pale-turquoise sofa. She sat down and allowed her back to relax into the squashy feather cushions. Alex came and sat close beside her, and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa, just above her shoulders. Then, almost at once, looking to Anna as if he was having second thoughts about the appropriateness of such behavior, he quickly withdrew his arm and shifted himself towards the end of the sofa.

  They sat in shy silence for what seemed like ages. Finally, t
he lady with the piecrust collar came over and asked them if they were ready to order tea. Anna said she could murder a toasted teacake. They ordered toasted teacakes for two and, at Alex's insistence, a selection of cream cakes. The lady then reeled off a list of about ten different teas and said she could recommend the orange pekoe. Alex said it was Anna's choice. She said orange pekoe would be fine. The truth was she detested pretentious teas, but was too embarrassed to ask for PG Tips.

  “Anna, you look absolutely stunning,” Alex said when the lady had gone. As the June weather had turned chilly again, Anna was wearing her bright-pink imitation Chanel suit. It still had a trace of aioli down the front, but she'd managed to get most of it out with Fairy Liquid.

  “Thank you,” she said, blushing. Looking down at her lap she began picking off imaginary bobbles of wool from her skirt. After a few seconds her face met his again.

  “Listen, Alex, I'd really like to explain about the other night—”

  “There really is no need, you know.”

  “No, I want to.”

  She began by explaining how Gerald Brownstein had stalked her mother in the supermarket. She was in the middle of telling him the bit about the salami in Gerald's underpants when their tea arrived. Alex, who had thrown back his head and was roaring with laughter, didn't notice the lady with the piecrust collar, who was clearly not used to hearing stories about Jewish flashers being recounted in the hotel lounge, give Anna a look which could have dissolved iron filings.

  Anna poured them tea from the silver pot. They spent the next half hour sipping the orange pekoe from pretty bone-china cups as she told the story of how she and Brenda came to find Gerald Brownstein trapped in Gloria's downstairs loo window. She hammed up the climax for even greater effect.