by Sue Margolis
Dan needed the whiskey because it took the edge off his pain. Receiving the news from Dr. Harper that he wasn't dying hadn't eased his misery in the slightest. In a perverse, twisted way, Dan almost wished he had cancer. The knowledge that he didn't only put pressure on him to cheer up.
Nothing, not even whiskey, could control the anger he felt towards Anna. There were moments when he would imagine she was in the room with him. Then he would shout and swear and scream the place down. Afterwards he would look round for something to smash. Even in his misery, he decided, smashing crockery was a cliché. Besides, Beany only possessed two dinner plates and a couple of cereal bowls. Without these, they would have to eat straight from the frying pan. Instead, when Dan felt himself overcome with rage, he would take it out on Beany's telephone directories. Last night he had ripped the pages of the L-to-Z book from their spine. For some reason he had then taken the last few pages and ripped them to shreds. Beany had come home to find Dan fast asleep, buried in Zweigbergs, Zussmans and Zwebners.
He came back into the living room and put his feet up on what passed as a coffee table. He sipped his tea. Through his hangover, he was vaguely aware of Heather and Tim interviewing some strident and deeply unpleasant American feminist about her latest book. He decided he could either cope with her bellowing voice or his headache, but not both. He picked up the remote and pointed it at the screen. It was then that he noticed Heather was holding up a copy of that morning's Daily Mercury. He took his feet off the table and leaned forward. Anna's huge byline almost leaped out at him from the television screen.
“Now, those of you who have read this morning's Mercury,” Heather was saying, “will be aware of an article which appears across several pages, and which is deeply critical of the ideas put forward in The Clitoris-Centered Woman. The article was written by the journalist Anna Shapiro and she joins us this morning. Anna, welcome. . . .”
Dan could hardly believe what was happening. Hadn't it been enough for Anna to humiliate him in private? Now she was about to inflict even more pain on him by letting the whole world know about her affairs. He sat with his finger hovering over the off button on the remote control. The debate between Anna and the feminist, who he now realized was Rachel Stern, had started to get quite heated.
“I think what you have to realize, Angela,” Stern was saying to Anna, “is that in order to become a truly clitoris-centered woman, you have to be determined. You must have balls. . . . Am I allowed to say balls on Briddish television?”
Heather giggled uneasily. “Well, maybe just this once. Oh, and by the way, it's Anna, not Angela,” she added.
“Whadever,” Stern continued stonily. “You see, my point is that women who have affairs and are found out, or women who have affairs and end up falling in love, are essentially weak and unfocused. Instead of concentrating purely on the sex, they get carried away with the whole romance bit. By now their heads are completely in the clouds and they get careless and—”
Clearly furious, Anna cut across her.
“I don't consider myself to be either weak or unfocused,” she spat. “I did my best not to fall for the men I slept with. In the end it was out of my control. I just couldn't help falling for one of them. Then my husband found out.”
“Listen to me, Anita, you had your affairs and you screwed up because you didn't obey my rules. Honey, you are simply looking for someone to blame because you can't face taking the blame yourself.”
“That is a lie,” Anna shouted. Dan could hear tears in her voice. There was no doubt in his mind about why she was in such a rage. She had realized Stern was right and she couldn't bear it.
“The point is,” Anna said, going on an all-out attack, “that you are wickedly and cynically conning women into believing they can have a string of affairs without ever falling in love. I believe that eventually even the most “focused' of women will fall in love and then they have to face the appalling consequences—like I did. Have you even the remotest idea of the pain I am feeling?”
Dan watched as Anna started to cry and Heather reached out to touch her hand and give her a warm and caring look.
“I have lost everything,” Anna wept, “my husband who I have never stopped loving, my last lover, and I may even lose my children. I would do anything, absolutely anything, to get my husband back, but because of you it's too late. My life is over.”
“Gahd, where did you dredge up this bleeding heart?” Stern sighed.
Anna took a deep breath. “At least,” she said with forced calmness, “I have blood in me, and not silicone.”
Stern sat back in her chair and laughed.
“I'm sorry, I have no idea what on earth you are talking about.”
“Well, let me see if we can make things a little clearer,” Tim interjected brightly. “Rachel, you have always been highly critical of women who have cosmetic surgery.”
“Ab-so-lutely. Women do it because men are only interested in what they look like, not what they have to say. My message is that women must fight to make themselves heard by men.”
“In that case,” Tim said slyly, suddenly sounding a bit less bland, and more like a detective superintendent going in for the kill, “perhaps you would like to take this opportunity to explain why you decided to have cosmetic surgery, and why you chose to have it in this country rather than in the States?”
Dan couldn't take his eyes off Rachel Stern. She was twisting in her chair, her eyes darting all over the place. She was clearly desperate for somebody to rescue her. Dan thought she was going to do a runner, but she didn't move.
A moment later a man's head and shoulders appeared on the studio monitor and Tim introduced Alex Pemberton. Very calmly, Alex went through the list of cosmetic procedures he had performed on Stern. Over the last three years, he said, Ms. Stern had received breast implants, a new nose, chin and cheek implants and liposuction on her thighs.
Rachel Stern let Alex finish. Then, her eyes bulging, she began screaming so hard that the speaker on Beany's TV began to distort.
“I know what this is,” she yelled at Anna. “This is some kind of plot hatched by the press and the Briddish feminist movement to discredit me. You've always hated me in this country—just like you hate Steinem and Friedan. You mealymouthed Brits can't stand anyone with spunk. You despise anyone who stands up and shouts for what they want. Well, you won't get away with it. I will sue you”—she pointed to Anna—“and you”—she pointed to Alex—“and this entire friggin' TV company. . . .” With that she leaped out of her seat and tore off her microphone. Then she walked over to Anna, drew back an Armani-ed leg and kicked her in the shin. Anna yelped. Her hand darted to the pain. She got out of her seat, picked up the water jug from the lip-shaped table and poured water over Stern's head. Stern, looking like a half-drowned cocker spaniel, suddenly pulled Anna onto the floor, got on top of her and began tugging tufts of hair from her scalp and scratching her face. The camera followed them as they rolled over and over like a couple of boys in a playground bundle. Knocking over a couple of the flower vases on the way, they rolled towards the table where the At the Crack chef had left his gooseberry cobbler. Stern, who was on top of Anna, released her grip on her hair and managed to get hold of the Pyrex dish full of cobbler. Grinning like a demon, she plunged her hand into the pudding and began smearing Anna's face with warm gooseberry mush.
His heart pounding with fear and rage, Dan jumped off the sofa and knelt on the floor, his face inches from the television screen.
“Shit. Why isn't somebody bloody well doing something?” he shouted at the screen as he watched a mixture of blood and stewed fruit running down Anna's face.
Anna had retaliated by ripping open the front of Stern's blouse. The entire nation could now see her maniacally tugging at the front of Stern's skimpy red-lace bra. Dan could tell it was only a matter of seconds before Stern's breasts fell out. He was right. A moment later, the camera zoomed in on them. Dan flinched in disgust. They looked like two particularly large
and solid grapefruit halves which had been perched on her chest and covered in taut skin.
Finally two men in headsets and sleeveless black Puffa jackets waded in and managed to pull the two women off each other. As Anna and Rachel Stern were led away kicking and swearing, a tearful and shaking Heather stepped back onto the demolished set. She was accompanied by a grim-faced Tim, who wrapped a paternal arm round her shoulders.
Dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Heather looked earnestly into the camera and apologized for what she described as a despicable, contemptible and infantile display. She allowed a couple of seconds for a meaningful pause, during which Tim tightened his arm round her shoulders, before breaking into a smile and launching into a chirpy rundown of the program lineup. This included a two-minute featurette on how fifteen million people would be killed by flooding if world governments continued to ignore the dire warnings about the greenhouse effect, and film of her test-driving the latest Japanese hatchback, the Placenta Praevia. This apparently came with oodles of high-tech extras, including a hands-off telephone with a dial-by-voice gadget, which Heather said was particularly useful at traffic lights because it meant you could call up your friends' numbers at the same time as painting your nails.
Dan stood up and stabbed the off button on the TV remote. His pulse was still racing. The only thing he could think about was getting to Channel 6 and rescuing Anna from this mayhem. It was beginning to dawn on him that Anna was genuinely sorry for what she had done, and that he wasn't the only one in pain. From the moment he'd found out about her affairs, he'd understood intellectually that his hypochondria was to blame and that he had been responsible for driving her into the arms of other men.
The difference now, several days later, seeing her anguished face on TV, the sheer bloody wretchedness she was clearly suffering, was that he could actually feel the agony he had caused her, and appreciate for the first time the guilt she was now feeling for cheating on him. All he wanted to do was to hold her, to tell her how much he loved her—and make her understand that he forgave her.
He picked up his wallet and, wearing only his grubby jeans and a white T-shirt, which had been on his back for three days and was covered in Heinz tomato soup stains, ran to the front door. The Channel 6 studios were no more than a few hundred yards away, in King Street. It was only when he stepped onto the pavement that he realized his feet were bare.
As he sprinted to the corner of Beany's road, he felt a few spots of rain on his face. In less than a minute it was teeming down. His hair was soaked, his T-shirt was sticking to his chest and his jeans were covered in the filthy oily spray being shot at him from passing cars. The pavement was becoming slippery under his feet.
After a few more yards he began to feel breathless and he slowed down. A couple of women pushing toddlers in buggies looked at him, assumed he was some kind of schizo nutter on a bender, and gave him a wide berth.
Turning into King Street, he kept hearing Anna's voice saying, “I have lost everything. . . . My life is over. . . . It's too late.” “No it's not,” he sobbed as he ran. “I'm coming, I'm coming.”
The Channel 6 building was on the other side of the road. The traffic was almost at a standstill. Dan picked his way between bumpers. Gasping for breath, he almost fell into the gray-carpeted reception area. He walked over to the desk and spoke to the uniformed doorman.
“Excuse me, my wife is appearing, that is, she was appearing on . . .”
“Now then, mate, I know it's chucking it down, but you can't come in here. Here's a couple of bob. Go and get yourself a cuppa in McDonald's.” He held out a fifty-pence piece towards Dan.
“No, you don't understand. My wife's in the studio being beaten up by some mad American feminist.”
“I'm sure she is, mate.” The doorman stood up and walked around to the front of the desk. He put his arm round Dan's shoulders. “Look, why don't we have a look and see if your pills are in your pocket. Maybe you forgot to take them today. Shall we see what we can find?” He pushed his hand into Dan's jeans pocket. Dan swore at him and pushed him away.
“Right,” the chap said, finally losing his temper, “I've tried being friendly, now it's out you go.”
In a second Dan's arm had been thrust up between his shoulder blades and he was being frog-marched towards the exit. The two of them had just reached the automatic doors when an almighty howl came from behind them.
“Please, please don't . . . put him down. Dan, it's me.”
The doorman released his grip. He then watched Dan, who looked as if he'd just done a runner from Broadmoor, rush over to a woman who looked as if she'd spent several days sleeping rough under a gooseberry bush and wrap her in his arms. While Dan almost kissed the life out of Anna and told her he loved her over and over again, and Anna told Dan she was sorry over and over again, and Dan said he was sorry too, the doorman began speaking into his walkie-talkie.
“Gordon, it's Vic. I've got a couple of down-and-outs in reception. Both completely bonkers. I'd appreciate a hand.”
“Roger, ten four,” crackled the response.
Fearing violence from the pair, he then retreated back behind the reception desk.
Dan couldn't take his eyes off Anna, partly because he realized how much he adored her and partly because her face was still bleeding.
“Anna, look what she's done to you,” he said, looking at her torn, stained clothes and lifting a couple of strands of her hair out of some congealed blood.
“Don't worry, I'll be fine. The nurse put some Dettol on the scratches. She says they look worse than they are.”
“Come on,” Dan said, kissing her wounded face. “Let's get you home.”
“Not yet, I've got to wait for Brenda. She went back for my handbag.”
The next moment Brenda appeared. She took one look at Anna and Dan with their arms round each other and broke into a huge grin.
“You pair of smocks,” she said, realizing that Dan must have watched the Shapiro–Stern spectacle and decided to come and rescue Anna.
“That's schmocks, Brenda.” Dan laughed.
“Whatever,” Brenda replied as she hugged and kissed them both and handed Anna her bag. “Now I think I'll love you and leave you. There's somewhere I have to be at twelve and I want to get changed and put on some makeup.”
“Why? Where are you going?” Anna asked.
“Beany's taking me out for lunch,” she said merrily as she walked towards the doors. “And then tonight I'm going to watch him do his routine at the Comedy Store. See ya.” And she was gone.
Anna looked at Dan and smiled. “I had the feeling the other night when I spoke to her on the phone that there was something she wasn't telling me. C'mon. Let's go.”
“No, wait, look.” Dan pointed to one of the TVs which were mounted on the wall nearest the lift. His attention appeared to have been taken by a Channel 6 London news bulletin.
“And now we're going over live to the Brent Cross shopping center where our reporter, Kay Armstrong, has the latest on the incident. . . . Kay, perhaps you could recap and tell us exactly what happened. . . .”
“Well, Clive, a sixty-two-year-old woman, who, it appears, had been the victim of a stalker for some weeks, came into John Lewis first thing this morning to buy a roll of plastic carpet protector. The grandmother from Stanmore, whose name hasn't yet been released, had, within the last twenty-four hours, been given police protection. When she arrived at the store, neither the woman nor her police bodyguard, it seems, had any idea the stalker was following them.
“While the policeman went to get a cup of tea, the stalker cornered the woman as she stood at the cash desk. He threatened to swallow a bottle of turps if she tried to move and insisted on serenading her. For over an hour, I'm told, she stood at the cash desk while the elderly man, who is a resident at the Sadie and Manny Lever retirement home nearby, sang “You Are My Sunshine.'
“Neither the police nor the matron of the retirement home were able to calm the man, and the in
cident was only brought to an end when the woman knocked him out by hitting him on the head with her roll of carpet protector. He is recovering at the Royal Free Hospital. His injuries are thought to be minor. The hospital is also treating the woman for shock. No one is able to shed any light on how the man escaped, but a spokeswoman for the Sadie and Manny Lever Home has already promised to hold a full inquiry into the home's security procedures.”
Moments later Gordon, the doorman, who'd just finished his break, arrived in reception to help eject Dan and Anna. He was too late.
On the pavement outside the Channel 6 studios, a small crowd had gathered in the rain to watch as two hysterical down-and-outs pleaded with a cabbie to take them to the Royal Free Hospital.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sue Margolis was a radio reporter for fifteen years before turning to novel writing. She lives in England, and has also written Spin Cycle and Apocalipstick.
ALSO BY SUE MARGOLIS
SPIN CYCLE
APOCALIPSTICK
Praise for
NEUROTICA
“Cheeky comic novel—a kind of Bridget Jones's Diary for the matrimonial set.”
—People (Beach Book of the Week)
“A good book to take to the beach, Neurotica is fast paced and at times hilarious.”
—Boston's Weekly Digest Magazine
“This raunchy and racy British novel is great fun, and will delight fans of the television show Absolutely Fabulous.”
—Booklist
“A lusty laugh-out-loud tale about adultery.”
—Woman's Own
“Four stars . . . a tremendously funny, colorful and gripping read.”
—Mail on Sunday (U.K.)
“Uninhibited . . . joyous.”
