Expectation

by Anna Hope

  ‘OK,’ says Cate. ‘So, what scares you, Dea?’

  ‘Having sex with my wife.’

  Cate laughs out loud, and an elderly couple on the adjacent bench turn their heads towards them.

  ‘Don’t mock. I’m talking scared on all levels. I’m talking X-rated horror. I’m practically incontinent.’ Dea grins. ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Any incontinence?’

  Cate laughs. ‘Caesarean, so no, not really.’

  ‘Aha, yes, of course. So, bits intact?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So, sex then?’

  ‘Not much, no. I haven’t been up for it lately.’

  ‘And how’s that going down? With your husband?’

  ‘Um. I think Sam might be finding it hard.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ says Dea.

  Cate turns to her. ‘Who, Sam?’

  ‘Yeah. How long have you been together?’

  ‘Not long. A year and a half.’

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  A small hesitation and then, ‘Online,’ says Cate.

  ‘Go on,’ says Dea. ‘I love a good origin myth. What was it you fell for?’

  ‘He’s funny. Or he can be. He’s talented. He’s a chef. For our second date he invited me to his flat. He cooked for me there.’

  ‘Nice. What did he cook?’

  ‘Chicken,’ she says, ‘roasted in cinnamon. He made his own flatbreads.’ She smiles. ‘That was pretty much the clincher. No one had made me a flatbread before.’

  Dea gives a low whistle. ‘Me neither. I might have turned, for a homemade flatbread.’

  ‘Yeah, well, they were pretty good. And then he took me to Marseille – he’d lived there for years – and I sort of loved that, the way he knew his way around the city … the way he spoke French. And not long after that I was pregnant.’ The look on his face when she told him. The unsullied joy. How disarmingly cellular her own response. ‘He asked me to marry him, and I said yes.’

  ‘Blimey, quick work. How was it?’

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘The wedding?’

  ‘Oh.’ Cate wrinkles her nose. ‘You know – pretty weird. I was huge. It was just a few of us – a registry office, a meal at a restaurant. All I wanted was to have a few drinks, but I couldn’t, obviously. My dad flew in from Spain and made a terrible speech. My stepmother got out of it on champagne. It was the first time they met Sam. I just kept thinking that it was all a bit shotgun and entirely unnecessary and wishing I could get drunk. I couldn’t work out who we were doing it for.’

  ‘And now you don’t want to have sex with him.’

  ‘Yeah. No. Yeah.’

  ‘Well,’ Dea grins, ‘you know, I think that’s entirely normal. I think having sex with a man is extraordinary. All that penetration.’

  ‘It’s not all bad. Sometimes it’s actually quite good.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Cate hesitates and then, ‘I was with a woman once,’ she says.

  ‘Really? Well I never.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … I think I was in love with her. I miss her.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Lucy? She was an activist, I suppose. She liked to climb trees.’

  ‘Sexy.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I have no idea. The States, probably. That’s where I left her. If she’s still alive. She was going to be arrested, so she went to ground. I’ve been looking a bit, lately. Trying to find her again.’

  ‘Okaaay.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So you don’t want to have sex with your husband but you’re looking for old lovers online? Sexy, illegal lovers online.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Really? What’s it like then?’

  ‘She was important to me. For all sorts of reasons. Not just sex. Anyway, it’s probably good I haven’t found her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure she’d approve of what I’ve become.’

  ‘What have you become?’

  ‘Less.’

  Dea is quiet, regarding her. That expression she has – curious, amused, alive. It is strange, thinks Cate, but she does not mind being seen by her, being stretched gently on the rack of her attention.

  ‘So, come on,’ says Dea. ‘Just one woman? Or more?’

  ‘One more. After Lucy. But it was a disaster. It ended very quickly. And I realized I wasn’t gay. I just loved a woman. One woman. Once.’

  ‘Aha, the old Gertrude Stein line.’

  ‘Do I have to define it?’ Cate says, defensive now.

  ‘No,’ says Dea. ‘Sorry. Of course you don’t.’

  Cate watches her face, but there is no judgement, just that same amused look.

  ‘Does he know?’ says Dea.

  ‘Who, Sam? A bit, not all.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should tell him?’

  ‘I think it might be confusing.’

  ‘Confusing for who?’

  Cate falls silent. ‘That’s a lot of questions,’ she says quietly. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’ Dea rolls her eyes. ‘Jesus. Are we going to go into my sexual history now? Now that is an X-rated horror. I’ll tell you one day. I’ll give you the director’s cut.’

  Cate laughs. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Are they flirting? She can’t tell.

  ‘But not now. It’s freezing. Come on,’ says Dea. ‘Let’s go somewhere and get warm.’

  They stand and Dea threads her arm through Cate’s. ‘Hey,’ she says, as they near the edge of the garden. ‘You never said what scared you. If I have sex with my wife, then what are you going to do?’

  Cate thinks. ‘Honestly? It’s my house. Sorting it out. Unpacking the boxes from the move. I still haven’t done it. It terrifies me.’

  ‘Well, first of all, let me say that I think the pressure for women to have a perfect home is one of the greatest heists of capitalism. Which I am resisting daily on principle, as I’m sure you’ve seen from the state of my own house. But, you know, since it scares you so much, I think you should face it. Unpack the boxes. Sort it out. Have a gathering. Invite me round. And Zoe. Get Sam to cook. You never know’ – Dea winks – ‘maybe we’ll all get pregnant again.’

  Later that evening, when she hears Sam come home from work, Cate gets out of bed and goes down to the living room, where he is already installed on the sofa, beer in hand, computer propped on his chest.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, and goes to sit on the opposite chair.

  ‘Hey.’ He pulls off his headphones.

  ‘What are you watching?’

  ‘Just some crap.’

  ‘How was work?’

  ‘Tiring. Boring. I’m over it. Really. Plating up someone else’s food.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you …’ she says.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I met someone.’

  ‘What?’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Who?’

  ‘Another mum. At that playgroup, the one Alice told me to go to. The one you told me to go to – so I could make friends. And I was wondering if I could invite her over, for a gathering. I was wondering if you would cook.’

  ‘A gathering? What’s a gathering?’

  ‘Sam. Please.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few weeks’ time. I thought I might invite Hannah down, Nathan. Make an evening of it.’

  He frowns. ‘I don’t know, I have to check my shifts.’

  ‘Sam,’ she says. ‘You said I should meet people. I’ve done it. I’ve met people. Dea, and Zoe.’

  ‘Wait, they’re gay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Canterbury has lesbians?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  He takes a swig of beer.

  ‘So can I tell them we’ll do it? Will you cook?’

  He thinks. ‘OK,�
�� he says. ‘But let’s invite Mark and Tamsin too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why not? We owe them a dinner. It’s been ages since Mark has eaten my food. It might get the ball rolling. Encourage him to invest.’

  ‘Great!’ she says.

  Fuck.

  Lissa

  He does not call. She does not call him. He does not text. She does not text him. She looks at her phone. Keeps it in her pocket. Waits for the buzz of a message, but a message does not come.

  She has forgotten how this goes. How you cede your power to the man after sex. How this appears to be a fundamental universal law. How you can move from sane to crazy in a few swift moves. Even if they are the husband of your best friend.

  The. Husband. Of. Your. Best. Friend.

  Think about that for a moment. Examine it. Let it sink in.

  Press night goes well. The cast may be a little pushed, a little forced, but the play has its own engine, its own life force, and as they take their curtain Lissa can sense the excitement, see it reflected in the eyes of her fellow actors – it is working, the play is alive, they are part of something good.

  The whispers go round the bar after the show that there were plenty of press watching, that they should expect a decent handful of reviews, and this news evokes in Lissa a familiar sense of relief and dread.

  By Saturday morning there are four reviews online. The Telegraph, the Independent and The Times are all four stars. The Evening Standard carries a five-star review: Where has Johnny Stone been? With a talent this rare he should be a household name. It’s taken an out-of-the-way theatre and a little-known director to give him the opportunity to shine.

  Helen is a young actress on the cusp of something huge.

  And of Lissa, the reviewer writes that she is as languid, lost and dangerous a Yelena as I have ever seen.

  She gets a message from Cate.

  Saw the reviews! Wish I could come. Having a thing in Canterbury – December 10th. But I think you’re performing?

  Thanks, Lissa writes back. But you’re right. I’m performing. Hope all’s well.

  She leaves her phone in the house and goes for a walk around the park. It is market day, but the weather is cold and the crowds are thin. She feels conspicuous, there is every chance she might bump into either Hannah or Nathan or both of them together – buying bread or bacon or croissants or fish. Are they still having sex? Hannah and Nathan? What are they doing now? She could go round there. Just knock on the door and stay for a coffee. Hey, Han! Nathan seduced me. Yeah, on Thursday, in his office! Have you ever fucked there? On the sofa? And that thing with his thumb. Is that what he does to you?

  Perhaps he is fucking all of them, she and Hannah and the long-limbed, succulent girls who rise from his sofa and leave it warm. Perhaps none of them knows him at all.

  Or perhaps it is she who does not know herself.

  She wonders if there is a word for a woman like her, perhaps a Greek word – a special sort of word for a special sort of woman, one who betrays her friend.

  Oh, Hannah. Oh, Jesus.

  She buys herself a croissant and takes it home and eats it alone, standing up at the sink.

  Ticket sales rise in response to the reviews; they are 80 per cent full on the weekdays and then sold out on Friday and Saturday evenings. Their group warm-ups take on a celebratory air. When they have all completed their vocal exercises, their stretches, their articulation exercises and their pacing out of the stage, they gather in a circle and throw a ball to each other to tune up their reflexes. Ten minutes before the first half they sing their Russian folk song. Occasionally the younger men try out Cossack moves, before they high-five each other and whoop as they disperse to their dressing rooms to listen for the call for Beginners on the tannoy.

  Only Johnny does not warm up. Instead he sits on the stage on the lounge chair that Vanya favours, wearing his crumpled linen costume, hat pushed down on his head, and does the crossword, looking up occasionally at the antics of the other actors with one eyebrow raised. When they sing he gets to his feet and wanders out for a cigarette.

  Lissa is grateful to have something to do, somewhere to go in the evenings; grateful to have the ritual of performance to hold her, to know where to stand, how to speak, where to put her hands.

  She gets a text from Hannah. Bought tickets! Me and Nath coming a week next Thursday.

  Great! she writes back, as her stomach swills with queasy fear.

  The end of the first week, her mother comes with Laurie. After the performance they are waiting for her in the bar. Sarah holds Lissa’s face in her hands. ‘Wonderful, darling, wonderful – properly good. No review in the Guardian, though?’

  If a play goes on stage and the Guardian doesn’t review it, does the play really exist?

  ‘Nothing in the Guardian, Ma, no.’

  Laurie steps up and hugs her close. ‘Best you’ve been, Liss, best you’ve been.’

  On the Monday of the second week her father comes with his wife in tow.

  ‘Well done, sweetie. You looked beautiful,’ he says. ‘Reminded me of your mother when she was young.’

  Beside him her stepmother nods away like a nervous bird, gripping her handbag beneath her arm. ‘I enjoyed it,’ she says. ‘Not a lot happens though, does it?’

  No, Lissa agrees, not a lot happens. When she suggests a drink her father looks willing, but she sees her stepmother touch his arm and he turns to Lissa with a small, helpless shrug.

  People’s agents come, those with pulling power bringing casting directors with them: The Globe, the National, a TV company. The inevitable whispers pass around the dressing room before the show – so-and-so is in tonight, so-and-so is in – and the knowledge of these people watching, people who have the power to change the course of your life, spikes the blood. Now the pecking order shifts and changes, no longer the simple calculation of talent, the meritocracy of the stage. Michael’s agent seems to bring half of London’s TV and theatre people with him, and Helen’s agent comes three times, each night with a different casting director in tow. Lissa sees them in the bar after the show, huddled in a corner as though engaged in vital affairs of state, the industry people leaning in, faces attentive, serious, as they listen to what the young actors have to say.

  Her own agent comes finally – unaccompanied by casting directors, in the middle of the third week, when the show is a little flat. She sees her sitting in the back row, a small woman with unruly red hair, and as she is changing out of her costume Lissa gets a text.

  Wonderful. Had to get away, speak tomorrow?

  The next day she checks her phone often, waiting for a phone call that doesn’t come.

  Thursday arrives and she spends the day feral with anticipation. She writes Nathan a message. You coming with Hannah tonight? She hears nothing back. But as soon as she steps out on stage she sees Hannah, sitting alone, an empty seat beside her, and she is flooded with disappointment and relief.

  Afterwards in the bar, Hannah hugs her. ‘Amazing, Liss. Loved it. So she was worth it in the end?’

  ‘Who?’ She feels strangely disoriented. Her friend here before her, the knowledge of her transgression blazing within her.

  ‘The Polish director.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ says Lissa, ‘I guess she was.’ Her eyes rove over Hannah’s face. ‘Nath didn’t feel like coming then?’

  ‘He got held up at work. He sends his love.’

  ‘His love? Really?’

  ‘Hey, did you get a message from Cate?’ Hannah says. ‘Inviting you to Canterbury?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m performing. Are you going to go?’

  ‘I think so. We need to get out of London. Me and Nath. Do something spontaneous for a change.’

  Lissa laughs. ‘Spontaneity’s not your forte, Hannah,’ she says. ‘If you want to do something spontaneous, go somewhere else. Go to Berlin. Go to New York. Go to Belize.’

  Hannah looks at her – a quick, hurt look. ‘Well,’ she says quietly, �
�maybe I’ll start with Canterbury and see how I go.’

  Lissa smiles, and a strange, bitter taste fills her mouth.

  Her birthday comes around – she is thirty-six now, playing twenty-seven. She tells no one in the cast. It is freezing, as she leaves the house to visit Sarah, with a fierce, bitter wind. Sarah gives her the usual handmade card, but there is no present this year.

  ‘I’m just rather busy,’ Sarah says in the kitchen. ‘The new work’s consuming me somewhat. Did I tell you? I’ve got an exhibition in the summer. The gallery in Cork Street came through.’

  ‘Can I see?’ asks Lissa. ‘What you’re working on?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Sarah tilts her head, pondering, then: ‘No … I rather think not.’

  When their coffee is finished, Lissa lingers as her mother rises. Outside, the wind has died down, and sunlight strikes the winter garden. ‘Do you fancy a walk?’ she says. ‘It’s brightened up. We could go up on the Heath.’

  ‘Work,’ Sarah says, already heading for the door. ‘You’re welcome to stay but I have to work.’

  Lissa stays where she is, listening to her mother’s footsteps mount the stairs.

  On the wall of the living room is one of Sarah’s portraits, a picture of Lissa at the age of eight, or nine. She remembers sitting for it so clearly still: it was summer, and hot in the attic, but she didn’t mind being up there, Saturday morning after Saturday morning in that old flowered chair. She would sit there with her book – her legs flung over the arms of the chair, the sunlight slanting in from the skylight – as Sarah prepared her paints, set up her easel. Then finally, when everything was ready, she would turn on the radio and start to paint, and Lissa would sense it, the concentration, the way she had all of her mother’s attention at last. How safe it made her feel.

  Then, one morning, on the pavement outside the school gates, a different sort of painting appeared. Simple white lines, the silhouettes of children drawn in chalk. Everyone standing around, disturbed, as at a crime scene, wondering what they were.