Or I could call my agent.
‘Hi, Gemma, it’s me. Yes, I’m fine, work is going well. How is that gorgeous boyfriend of mine? He’s well too, thank you. Abusive? Yes. Unhelpful and self-absorbed? Yes, bless. What is happening to my proposed article, “The Art of Everyday Love: How to Retain the Romance in Your Relationship”, that was going to be so useful in publicising the paperback of Suburbs of the Heart? Well, seeing as you brought it up, it’s fine; well, as fine as a piece of self-delusional garbage can ever be.’
Clowns are good listeners.
I looked behind me but of course there was no one there. I sat down resting my throbbing head against the kitchen table. A lorry rattled by, birds sang; apart from that there was silence. I shook myself and got up to make a cup of coffee. I needed to work. I was at least two pages away from my daily target of five.
Then came the discreet clearing of a throat.
I said clowns are good listeners.
Coco? There he was, preening. What the hell are you doing here?
Ah, you’ve missed me, that’s nice.
I shook my head slowly from side to side like an old donkey trying to shake off a troublesome fly. I was not well. Obviously I was not well if Coco the manic-depressive clown …
Bipolar; these days we prefer the term bipolar, Coco interrupted, looking self-important.
… my childhood imaginary friend, whose last appearance at my grandfather’s funeral I had put down to grief and stress and then all but forgotten about, had reappeared.
Actually, imaginary friend was stretching it. Coco had always been more of an imaginary bully. Of course I had tried to tell that to my grandfather and my mother. I had wanted them to help me get rid of him but it had been useless. They had been so determined in their desire for me to be special, imaginative, amusing that convincing them that all I actually wanted was a nice, cosy, ordered childhood with regular mealtimes and firm but fair discipline had been completely impossible.
Now he was back. People had warned me that I was working too hard. What they had not known, because I had not told them, was that although I was indeed working harder than ever I was actually achieving less. Sentences that would normally spring from my fingertips like children rushing out to play were hanging back, sulking in the doorway of my mind, and having to be coaxed out with bribes of coffee and wine and late-night television.
I wrote two thousand words a day. I always wrote two thousand words a day. It used to take me about five hours. Now that time had nearly doubled but I kept at it until my task was done. One day it might be the inscription on my gravestone, ‘Say what you like about Rebecca Pearl Finch but she kept at it.’
Maybe I was ill. Perhaps I was having a small breakdown. In which case I could not be held responsible for those unhelpful comments I made to Angel-face. Not being well would also explain my overreaction to what was simply a bad patch in my and Dominic’s relationship.
Patch? Coco slapped his thighs in mirth. Patch?! And I suppose Australia is a smallholding?
I would not let him distract me. All I needed was some rest, maybe a quick course of antidepressants and before I knew it everything would be back to normal.
And as I was sick and in need of a rest there would be nothing wrong with me having a bath, although it was the middle of the afternoon and I hadn’t finished my two thousand words. If you’re sick you’re off the hook.
I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and it was like being shown my face ten years on.
I’d sue the dermatologist, Coco said.
I undressed, bending down to pull off my tights, when a sharp pain stabbed me at the base of the spine.
Coco suggested suing the yoga teacher. I made a mental note to seek specialist advice.
I found Charlotte Jessop’s number on the hall table in the silver box where I kept all those cards you pick up at parties and conferences when wine-induced bonhomie makes two strangers decide they are destined to be best friends, or landscape gardener and client, or cat breeder and cat owner, only to have forgotten all about it by the next morning. Charlotte and I had been introduced at the launch party for my friend Maggie Jacobs book, If Fifty Is the New Forty and Forty Is the New Thirty Does that Mean I’m Twenty? Charlotte, who was a therapist, had a special mention in the book and was also, Maggie told me, the relationship expert on Good Evening, Britain. While I was embarrassed at not remembering having seen her on television or even having heard of her, Charlotte Jessop was perfectly happy to admit that she had only read part of one of my novels and that was in order to get a handle on the mindset of ‘a certain type of woman’.
‘Why didn’t you tell her to go stuff herself?’ Maggie said afterwards.
I explained that as I had spent my entire professional life being patronised why should I start minding now?
I dialled Charlotte Jessop’s number. Her receptionist told me that they were now taking appointments for the period beginning the 1st of June. From the tone of her voice – a mixture of pity, triumph and incredulity that anyone could be misguided enough to presume that Ms Jessop was easily available – I deduced that dashing people’s hopes was the most satisfactory part of her job.
‘I really do need to see her sooner than that.’
‘I could put you on the list for cancellations but I have to warn you that there are already several people ahead of you, so the likelihood –’
‘I think I’m having a breakdown. I’m already behaving irrationally and there’s no telling what I might do next.’
‘In the case of an acute condition you should go immediately to your local A & E.’
‘When I say I’m behaving irrationally I mean I’m not being myself. I need help but it’s not an emergency.’
‘In the case if you’d like to call again on Monday when I will be starting the new appointment list –’
‘I’m seeing clowns.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I’m seeing manic …’ Coco wagged his finger. ‘I’m seeing bipolar clowns.’
‘Please hold.’
I waited, then, ‘This is Charlotte Jessop. How may I help?’
‘Oh, hello. It’s Rebecca Finch. We met a while back at Maggie Jacob’s launch party.’
‘Rebecca Finch? Oh yes, the romance writer. You say you’re hearing voices too?’
I nodded into the receiver.
‘Both. ‘Just one voice, though.’ It was important to be as clear as possible when speaking to a professional.
‘Then I think you’d better go to your local A & E. Would you like me to arrange some transport or do you have a friend or relative who can take you?’
‘No, no, it isn’t at all like that. Coco is an old friend. OK, maybe not friend exactly … anyway, I know he’s not real. He’s there, which is why I’m calling you to make an appointment, but he’s not there, if you see what I mean. I’m very tired. That’s probably all it is. Exhaustion. I’ve heard that one can hallucinate from pure exhaustion, so that’s probably it. I just felt that it would be a good idea …’
‘Come to my rooms at six tomorrow evening. I’ll hand you back over to Della and she’ll take your details.’
There was a brisk click in my ear and, ‘Right then, Mrs …’
‘Ms Finch.’
‘Right then, Ms Finch, you seem to have somehow got yourself an appointment.’ There was a brief pause as her professionalism battled with her disappointment. ‘Now if I could have your full name and address.’
Therapy, eh? Coco somersaulted down from the curtain rail, where he had been hanging upside down from his knees. It won’t work.
Medication, I told him. Against hallucinations.
Coco could not go any whiter, his face-paints saw to that, but he was definitely shaken.
I felt better and more in control having made the appointment and as Dominic was in Sussex seeing a client I had the evening to myself to think things through. I decided I would phone Angel-face and tell her … tell her what?
I sat back in the chair, thinking. Reason One. Reasons to believe in love. That shouldn’t be too hard. I believe in love because …
You have to believe in love. Coco was standing at my shoulder. In the same way you have to believe in imaginary bipolar clowns, because it exists.
And that’s supposed to be helpful?
Suit yourself.
‘Reason One: love exists:’ Obviously I needed something more. ‘I love therefore I am.’ Which sounded quite good but what did it actually mean? I tried, ‘Reason Two: love is a good thing.’
Or was it? Yes, some love obviously was; the kind between parents and children and brothers and sisters and friends. But romantic love? The love in question right now, the love with which I dealt in my books, was it such a good thing? Had we invented romantic love simply as a way of placing our mating on a higher plane than the other animals? Was that why it so often ended badly, because it was just a construct? No, that couldn’t be right because people had always indulged quite happily in sexual encounters with no pretence of love attached. So was romantic love there to make us settle for one person for long enough to bring up a family? That did make sense. It made sense but it usually didn’t work. I wrote, ‘Romantic love is a sensible emotion enabling stable parenting.’ But lack of sense, of proportion and clear-sightedness was integral to the concept of romantic love. I tried, ‘Romantic love is a senseless, muddled set of emotions enabling stable parenting.’ Somehow that didn’t look right.
‘Reason One: romantic love is.’
Then I decided the best way to help Angel-face and undo some of the damage I had done by my thoughtless remarks was to find her some example of lasting love. I wrote, ‘Ronald and Nancy Reagan, my mother’s cousin Deborah and her husband Alistair …’
Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun, Coco chipped in.
I told him there was no evidence that Adolf Hitler loved anyone at all and that even if he had it wasn’t in any way what one would call an encouraging example. Instead I wrote down, ‘Héloise and Abelard.’
And that really did end well, Coco smirked.
An hour later I gave up and made myself some more tea.
At eight o’clock I phoned Bridget.
‘Did Angel-face tell you about our lunch?’
‘Ha!’
‘Sorry, what’s that?’
‘Ha! I said ha! She’s here now. In fact she’s been here all evening talking about breaking off her engagement. Right now she’s in her old room clutching her teddy. She’s thinking of calling off the wedding.’
‘Because of our lunch?’
The food was that bad? Coco looked concerned.
‘Because of your conversation; yes, I’m afraid so. And you know you upset her or why else would you call?’
This was true but what was also true was that I had expected, in return, to be reassured that Angel-face was absolutely fine and that of course she hadn’t taken anything I said to heart. The weight of responsibility descended upon me and out shot self-justification.
‘But that’s silly. She can’t blow hot and cold like that, depending on the views of whoever she spoke to last.’
‘You’re not whoever, Rebecca, you’re her godmother. Her favourite godmother, to whom she has looked up all her young life, a godmother who’s given her signed first editions of every one of her novels about the wonders of love.’
‘Oh God, I know, I know and I’m really sorry.’
‘You said better luck next time. That’s what you told her. At the lunch to celebrate her engagement.’
‘God, I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve already said that. By now God will be bored and asking you to do something about it. So have you?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so? Well, why don’t you come over here and share your insights with your god-daughter.’
‘The thing is …’ I paused, feeling my way through the conversation. ‘These days, what with people living so long – I mean for example we don’t die in childbirth the way we did previously … which of course is a tremendous thing.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way.’
I laughed a little too uproariously.
‘No, what I’m trying to say –’
‘Yes, what are you trying to say?’
‘OK, as we all know, back when marriage was in its heyday, people’s chances, women’s in particular, of surviving more than eleven years or so into the marriage were substantially slimmer. Add to that the fact that women no longer need marriage to achieve social standing and economic security and you see how the goalposts have moved. Until death us do part, for one – or two if we’re talking goalposts, obviously. So I’m thinking maybe, just maybe, we should consider a first marriage at an early age as a sort of starter marriage.’
It was Bridget’s turn to pause.
‘What did you just say?’
‘I said that maybe …’
‘I know what you said. I just don’t believe you did.’
‘OK, I didn’t.’
By now I was exhausted. It had been a long day. Actually, it had been a long forty-two years. Good ones, of course. I was a very lucky woman, who had been a very lucky child. Lucky lucky lucky not to be like my sister, stuck in a wheelchair, unable to talk or read, and dying when she was still in her thirties. Lucky not to be like my mother with her broken child and lost love. Lucky to be healthy – give or take the odd nervous breakdown and imaginary clown – lucky to be a perfectly attractive and successful novelist with a handsome and charming partner. So, Rebecca Pearl Finch, smile, even if you don’t mean it. Smile with your lips and your face will smile with you. Smile with your face and your head will smile with you. Smile with your –
‘Rebecca? Are you there?’
‘Yes. Yes. Sorry. Yes, I am.’
‘Let’s be sensible here. Why don’t you come over? We’ll have a glass of wine and you can tell Zoe yourself. Cheer her up. Tell her she got it all wrong.’
‘It’s almost bedtime.’
‘You’ve got a car.’
‘Dominic’s got it.’
‘Then take the tube, or a cab.’
Bridget had put the phone down. I sat back and closed my eyes, straining to recall the state of mind and the thoughts that had made me able to write my books of happy-love-everlasting. It was like bobbing for apples: just as a loving memory was within my grasp it ducked away and I was left splashing about in the cold waters of my disillusionment.
I went across to the bookcase and brought out a copy of Suburbs of the Heart, turning to the last page and reading that final line: ‘And as she lay in his arms a voice –’
I was interrupted by Coco appearing at the controls of an old biplane, wearing goggles and a leather airman’s hat, and towing a sign that read ‘Lies, All Lies.’ He finished off with a neat loop-the-loop.
I closed the book with a bad-tempered slam.
I hope your pennant gets caught in the propeller.
The bridges, Chelsea and Albert, were lit up, as was the Embankment; the lamps reflected in the water, making the evening brighter than the gloomy day that had gone before it. Across the river in Battersea Park shadow-figures were running. I understood the value of exercise; for example, I always kept my twice-weekly appointment at the yoga studio, but generally I was a walker, not a runner. You missed so much when you were running. After all, we were made to run away from things or towards things but hardly just for the sake of it.
I found Angel-face sitting on the floor in her room, her back resting against her old bed, which was single and virginal white. I sat down next to her.
Angel-face did not look up.
‘I’m thinki
ng of breaking it off.’
‘Your mother told me.’
Angel-face turned her huge, velvety-brown eyes on me, eyes that were confused and filled with anxiety.
‘It’s your fault.’
‘I know. Your mother told me that too.’
‘Today at lunch I asked you a question and at first you had no answer. Then when you did it was horrible.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I put my hand on her arm giving it a little rub. ‘But, Angel-face, you have to make your own decisions, trust your own feelings. It really isn’t fair to put all this on me. I’m hardly the first person to say these things.’
‘No, you’re not, but you are the first High Priestess of Romance to do so. And you know how I’ve always looked up to you. You can’t just allow yourself to be looked up to and then deny any responsibility. So when you tell me that, in your view, there’s no hope for me and Zac then I take it seriously.’
‘Now you’re exaggerating, Angel-face. I never said there was no hope. I expect I did say –’
‘That the odds by and large were not in our favour.’
‘Even if I did, you can’t live your life like that, saying you won’t do anything because it’s a risk. And disappointment is relative to expectation. Some marriages obviously break up for good reasons: abuse, criminality … but many, in my view, end because of too high expectations.’
‘And whose fault is it that we do have these expectations?’ Angel-face asked.
I sighed; I could see the way we were heading.
‘Mine, I expect. But, Angel-face, don’t you see that I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t, because first you tell me I’ve ruined things for you by what I said at lunch and by not being all starry-eyed and romantic and then you tell me I’ve ruined things because I am starry-eyed and romantic.’
‘That’s right,’ Angel-face said trying to look assertive but I could see that she was close to tears; her eyes were open wide and her lower lip was trembling.
Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers Page 3
