by Will Self
I need to be close to her and also to her husband, Paul. I’ve never met him – of course, but I’m always aware of his after-presence in the house when I attend my sessions. I know that he’s an architect, that he and Jill have been together for fourteen years, and that they too have had their vicissitudes, their comings-together and fallings-apart. How else could Jill have such total sympathy when it comes to the wreckage of my own emotions? Now I need to be within the precincts of their happy cathedral of a relationship again. Jill and Paul’s probity, their mutual relinquishment, their acceptance of one another’s foibles – all of this towers above my desolate plain of abandonment.
It’s OK, I’m going to Jill’s now. I’m going to Jill’s and we’re going to drink hot chocolate and sit up late, talking it all over. And then she’ll let me stay the night at her place – I know she will. And in the morning I’ll start to sort myself out.
Another cab ride, but I’m not concentrating on anything, not noticing anything. I’m intent on the vision I have of Jill opening the front door to her cosy house. Intent on the homely vision of sports equipment loosely stacked in the hall, and the expression of heartfelt concern that suffuses Jill’s face when she sees the state I’m in.
The cab stops and I payoff the driver. I open the front gate and walk up to the house. The door opens and there’s Jill: ‘Oh . . . hi . . . it’s you.’
‘I’m sorry . . . perhaps I should have called?’ This isn’t at all as I imagined it would be – there’s something lurking in her face, something I haven’t seen there before.
‘It’s rather late – ‘
‘I know, it’s just, just that . . .’ My voice dies away. I don’t know what to say to her, I expect her to do the talking to lead me in and then lead me on, tease out the awful narrative of my day. But she’s still standing in the doorway, not moving, not asking me in.
‘It’s not altogether convenient . . . ’ And I start to cry – I can’t help it, I know I shouldn’t, I know she’ll think I’m being manipulative (and where does this thought come from, I’ve never imagined such a thing before), but I can’t stop myself.
And then there is the comforting arm around my shoulder and she does invite me in, saying, ‘Oh, all right, come into the kitchen and have a cup of chocolate, but you can’t stay for long. I’ll have to order you another mini cab in ten minutes or so.’
‘What’s the matter then? Why are you in such a state?’
The kitchen has a proper grown-up kitchen smell, of wholesome ingredients, well-stocked larders and fully employed wine racks. The lighting is good as well: a bell-bottomed shade pulled well down on to the wooden table, creating an island in the hundred-watt sun.
‘He’s ending our relationship – he didn’t say as much, but I know that that’s what he meant. He called me “an emotional Typhoid Mary”, and all sorts of other stuff. Vile things.’
‘Was this this evening?’
‘Yeah, half an hour ago. I came straight here afterwards, but it’s been going on all day, we had a dreadful fight this morning.’
‘Well,’ she snorts, ‘isn’t that a nice coincidence?’ Her tone isn’t nice at all. There’s a hardness in it, a flat bitterness I’ve never heard before.
‘I’m sorry?’ Her fingers are white against the dark brown of the drinking-chocolate tin, her face is all drawn out of shape. She looks her age – and I’ve never even thought what this might be before now. For me she’s either been a sister or a mother or a friend. Free-floatingly female, not buckled into a strait-jacket of biology.
‘My husband saw fit to inform me that our marriage was over this evening . . . oh, about fifteen minutes before you arrived, approximately . . .’ Her voice dies away. It doesn’t sound malicious – her tone, that is, but what she’s said is clearly directed at me. But before I can reply she goes on. ‘I suppose there are all sorts of reasons for it. Above and beyond all the normal shit that happens in relationships: the arguments, the Death of Sex, the conflicting priorities, there are other supervening factors.’ She’s regaining her stride now, beginning to talk to me the way she normally does.
‘It seems impossible for men and women to work out their fundamental differences nowadays. Perhaps it’s because of the uncertainty about gender roles, or the sheer stress of modern living, or maybe there’s some still deeper malaise of which we’re not aware.’
‘What do you think it is? I mean – between you and Paul.’ I’ve adopted her tone – and perhaps even her posture. I imagine that if I can coax some of this out of her then things will get back to the way they should be, roles will re-reverse.
‘I’ll tell you what I think it is’ – she looks directly at me for the first time since I arrived – ‘since you ask. I think he could handle the kids, the lack of sleep, the constant money problems, my moods, his moods, the dog shit in the streets and the beggars on the Tube. Oh yes, he was mature enough to cope with all of that. But in the final analysis what he couldn’t bear was the constant stream of neurotics flowing through this house. I think he called it “a babbling brook of self-pity”. Yes, that’s right, that’s what he said. Always good with a turn of phrase is Paul.’
‘And what do you think?’ I asked – not wanting an answer, but not wanting her to stop speaking, for the silence to interpose.
‘I’ll tell you what I think, young lady.’ She gets up and, placing the empty mugs on the draining board, turns to the telephone. She lifts the receiver and says as she dials, ‘I think that the so-called “talking cure” has turned into a talking disease, that’s what I think. Furthermore, I think that given the way things stand this is a fortuitous moment for us to end our relationship too. After all, we may as well make a clean sweep of it . . . Oh, hello. I’d like a cab, please. From 27 Argyll Road . . . Going to . . . Hold on a sec – ‘ She turns to me and asks with peculiar emphasis, ‘Do you know where you’re going to?’
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Will Self’s The Quantity Theory of Insanity was shortlisted for the 1992 John Llewellyn Rhys Prize and won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize. He is also the author of Cock & Bull and My Idea of Fun.
Table of Contents
Cover
Half Title
By The Same Author
Title
Copyright
Author’s Note
Dedication
Contents
Between the Conceits
The Indian Mutiny
A Short History of the English Novel
Incubus or The Impossibility of Self-Determination as to Desire
Scale
Chest
Grey Area
Inclusion®
The End of the Relationship
A Note on The Author
