The Society Game

by H. Lanfermeijer

  I crept down and hid in earshot of my husband’s conversation. Mark was wearing gaudy, Bermuda shorts and an old white T-shirt that was misshapen and baggy around the neck. He was hunched over the desk and holding the phone close to his ear. His voice was a low whisper but still audible from where I was standing.

  ‘…agreed no more than a thousand… the same as before…’

  Mark wiped his mouth then brushed his hands through his hair. Around his side-burns grey strands had invaded his face and the odd grey friend had sprung up in places across his head. The hair was still full and swept away from his face, which was just beginning to fill out from the excesses of good cognac. Beneath his eyes, purple cushions were taking form and his forehead was starting to show the indentations of deep lines.

  ‘I need assurance she’ll be discreet… No don’t tell me ‘of course’, this is a different place than your girls are used to…’ He paused and stood up to look out of the window.

  ‘Okay, call when she’s five minutes away and I’ll direct her round to the back door. As I said to you at the beginning, my wife is asleep upstairs as she had a miscarriage earlier today so she can’t be disturbed… Yeah, yeah, funny, I’ll send her your condolences. Just make sure this Mandy woman is quiet.’

  Mark put the phone down and I quietly scampered upstairs. My suspicions were growling in my stomach that this was another woman, but not today? Surely, this was just an overly concerned husband who had ordered a pizza or maybe an Indian take-away. Maybe he just wanted to make sure the delivery lady was quiet and discreet so that I was not concerned about how much salt and fat he was eating?

  I went back to my bedroom and sat in front of my window. I could taste bile in my stomach as my body shivered and became taut every time I contemplated the notion this was not an Indian take-away. I couldn’t keep my head from resting upon the window pane; my tears dripped from my face onto the glass and marked their way down through the condensation from my breath. Eventually I spied a tall blonde woman walk from the far gates. She was dressed in a navy suit, with white high heels. From afar I allowed myself to presume that she could be a business woman and had an appointment with Mark, but as she got closer the shine on her Viscose suit suggested she was not here to sign a deal.

  I heard the muffled voices of Mark and this woman. I felt strong enough, on this occasion, to go down and confront whatever I was to be greeted with. The library door was now closed and as I reached for the handle I closed my eyes and begged to be confronted with Mark eating a pizza. When I opened them, my eyes confirmed he hadn’t ordered his dinner but he had ordered a woman. Her hair was bright yellow, coiffured and sprayed to the size of an eagle’s nest on top of her head. She wore a red lace, loose teddy which matched her red mouth. She was kneeling on the floor and Mark was standing in front of her slightly to the side still wearing his old T-shirt.

  I regret so many things about the exchange which then took place.

  There are many exchanges I have had in my life which, if I was allowed to re-enact them then I would be the victor from my eloquent and commanding speech (which in reality, I subsequently had in the privacy of my head). As the prosecutor I would be able to shrivel their defence to a jibbering mass of apologies and the woman would be grabbing for her clothes and running for her car, cowardly leaving a pathetic, crying man in her the wake. Unfortunately, the actual exchange was Mark turning around and yelling.

  ‘Get out!!’

  And the woman’s mouth creaked open to smile like a snake on a tree about to pounce on a helpless rat for its dinner.

  This was my first regret. The second was allowing myself to be ordered away like a waiter and saying nothing, not even a whimper in protest.

  In my shock I closed the door and ran back to my room. When I got there, I paced the floor until I felt the residual blood from my miscarriage drip down my legs. All that had happened had distracted me from me, and I had not attended to myself in many hours. This blood reminded me that my stomach still ached from the procedure and the blood needed to be cleared away.

  My final regret was sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for her to leave and in my low, depressed state, one of my thoughts was actually feeling embarrassed for my husband that he had been seen by someone, anyone, still wearing that old grey tatty cheap T-shirt. As soon as this thought entered my head I slapped my cheek and berated myself for my worrying more what a prostitute would think of my husband’s dress sense than the humiliation and betrayal of his wife.

  Finally, I heard her leave and after a long while I heard another bedroom door close. I knew Mark had gone to bed in another room. I eventually fell asleep upon the cold tiles with my head resting upon my bloody towels in the en suite bathroom.

  Mark was not there in the morning and I didn’t see him for a further month. I wandered the house like a zombie, sleeping for hours during the day and lying awake at night, I cancelled every lunch date and beauty appointment. The only time I left the house was for a doctor’s appointment three weeks later to check there was no infection from the miscarriage.

  ‘All is well, Olivia, I know this is a hard time for you but you will get pregnant again; you’re still a young thirty-four year old woman. Give it another month and try again but, in the meantime, just enjoy the time with your husband as I’m sure this time next year you will have a little one to occupy your time.’

  ‘Definitely,’ I said, ‘my husband is keen to start again, he’s even bought me a new-born romper suit to cheer me up! He’s been so supportive and we are looking forward to adding to our happy home in Cavendish Avenue.’

  I knew it was a cheap lie but it was a tiny, momentary boost to my ego by scoring points from an unmarried, frumpy, but kind and concerned doctor. I doubt she even noticed the name drop of Cavendish Avenue or even cared, but to me, at that moment, I wanted to feel superior. It didn’t last long, like most ego statements I just felt foolish as soon as I’d said it.

  There would never be a baby for me as Mark didn’t get close to me or chose to love me again. He isolated me more over the coming years and although he never physically hurt me again, he hurt me in so many other ways; but none so great than how fate chose that I would never get to love my own child.

  I still see the baby I should have had wrapped warmly and safely in my arms. I often see him as a two year old giggling around my feet then asking to be picked up with outstretched arms. I see his blond curls and his rosy cheeks and I hear his laughter as he explores life with me by his side. Even today, as I sit in my chair, I can see the triumph in his eyes as he wins medals for his sporting abilities or for his school achievements and I can feel the swell of pride as I watch my baby grow to a man.

  Over the years I found myself taking peeks in strangers’ prams just to glimpse their sleeping baby or I would be transfixed by young mothers playing with their children in the park. But when they moved on then I fell out of my trance and continued to live the days fate had given me of shopping, lunching and pampering.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  About eighteen years ago

  Tatiana came to visit me one December. I was grateful to see the woman who had all but disappeared from my life for over two years. Her secret jealousy of me meant she was running a personal social race against me and many of her equally affluent friends. Only when she felt she was gathering a competitive speed to overtake me would she then knock on my door. The race she was running was turning into a sprint for the social gold medal and today she felt confident in her pace to knock on my door.

  ‘He’s a futures banker in oil and energy and stuff like that,’ she enthused.

  ‘He reckons he will hit the big one when he gets the promotion as he’ll head a team of five and, therefore, get a share of the profit they make per year as his bonus. His bonus last year was around three million but he definitely thinks it’ll be more like seven this year – courtesy of his underlings. He is soooo sweet to
me and he has bought me a gorgeous new mini car. Oh, Ol, look at these diamond earrings he bought me when we were out in Stratford-upon-Avon last weekend.’

  Tatiana leant across into my chair space and thrust her earlobes into my face. She was still as slim as the day I met her, though I suspect her efforts to remain slender extended to a chemical buzz to extinguish the nuisance hunger pangs. Her hair was now cropped into a neat bob that framed her face. The lines of age were creeping across her forehead and the once youthful glow had faded beneath dark foundation. Her lips were pursed as she waited for my comment about her earrings. I smelt the distinct smell of Tatiana that swept me back to our London flat we once shared: a vile mixture of perfume and nicotine, enhanced with a few drops of sugar-free mint gum.

  ‘Wow they’re stunning Tats, really clear and a great cut and size,’ I dutifully said.

  ‘Yeah, all of that and they were so expensive, but I don’t think it matters when you’re in love; and I think he’s going to pop the question as we were also looking at rings but I didn’t like any of them and he said I deserved something really special and…’

  I started to fade out of the conversation. I could feel the warmth of my usual tired eyes dragging me away from the room I was in to a buzzed, fuzzy space – a recent standard ‘state of being’ where I perched on the cusp of consciousness and unconsciousness. If I gave in then I would fall into a deep sleep but if I fought, then I would stay awake. That day my fight was weak and all I could muster was an unenthusiastic grasp on reality. My head was supported by my right hand, my eyes were heavy and my blinking was slow so that at times a blink would last long enough for a glimpse of restful sleep to invade my consciousness.

  ‘…He is always taking me out, Ol, aah and to the most incredible places; for example, just off Soho there is a roof top terrace restaurant. No one and I mean no one but the select few know about it… But the way he tells me he loves me, Ol, he’s so tender and genuine… I know he’s planning to ask me really soon…’

  A secret slumber was taking hold of me and my last fight was to move around in my chair, but all I wanted was to curl up again in my bed and close my bedroom door to the world behind me and sleep. Instead I was kept from my bed by Tatiana droning on about Clive or Cliff or perhaps she said John? Yes, it was more like John.

  Look at her, so animated in her gusto about some bloke who takes her out and buys her jewellery just so he can sleep with her, I thought.

  ‘We’ll probably be going skiing to Canada this year,’ she continued, ‘he has some works do there and wants to show me off to his work friends…’

  Only so they can judge you and give you a rating out of ten; if you score more than eight then he will keep you for another season until either a nine comes along with a red smile to suck his money from him or you drop down the ranking to a seven then six then a nothing and you will be gone.

  ‘…I’ve met his sister and we are now the closest of friends – she soooo gets me and where I’m coming from; she absolutely loves me…’

  That’s one good sign as these men keep their families apart from their women unless they deem them suitable to meet the parents and siblings.

  ‘He’s away now until the end of the month, on business…’

  Not a good sign…

  ‘It means I have all this time to catch up on my dearest friends.’

  Thanks for squeezing me in every two years…

  ‘He’s in the States so it’s hard to talk, as if he’s not in a meeting then he’s in bed or I’m in bed because of the time difference and I can’t call him in case I disturb him, but he texts all the time…’

  And there it was! John, Cliff or whoever, was in fact Dick, the usual prick with money – away when he pleases and his women are where he wants them: at home deluding themselves they were in love and this love was shared by the two of them.

  Tatiana’s voice now hummed through my head and I wavered in my chair. I moved to wake myself up then inadvertently blurted out, ‘He sounds like a typical prick. Give up, it won’t last.’

  The sound of my own voice jolted me back to my pale blue living room. I looked at my silver rug, confused as to whether I had actually said these words or merely thought them. I looked up to Tatiana and her stunned gasp confirmed that my thoughts had escaped from my mouth.

  ‘Excuse me, Ol? Tony is not a prick, I love him and he loves me!’ Her mouth was still a surprised O which gave me just enough time to squeeze in, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, of course he’s not, and he sounds amazing, really sorry,’ before Tatiana launched into an attack.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I don’t hear from you in ages, I try calling and calling. Everyone is worried as you are never around and, seriously, Ol, you look a mess. And you think you can judge me?’ She paused: ‘I don’t know where you’ve gone but what I’m looking at isn’t my Ol. Tell me one thing: when was the last time you washed your hair?’

  This attack was in fact gentle but my defence barrier was weak and my mouth began to quiver.

  ‘Ol?! Please what is wrong?’ her voice had softened and her tenderness cuddled me. I was surprised by her sweet retreat.

  ‘What is the matter? Please I want to help. As I said, everyone is concerned by you but no one can get in. Quite frankly Ol, I’m amazed you said yes to me visiting today. You’ve put me and others off for ages.’

  The quiver on my mouth gave way to a yell, then a yelp and the tension on my chest burst in front of the one friend who in hindsight, I should never have allowed to see the cracks in my head.

  ‘Mark is seeing other women and doesn’t care. There are many other women who sometimes come back here – here, to my home Tats, my home and I can’t say anything. I mean, I literally can’t say or do anything about it but dutifully hide away in my room. I never see him and if I do then I’m a nuisance to him. His friends come back here and treat me like I’m their personal butler but I say nothing – nothing! And it’s because serving his friends gives me an involvement in Mark’s life. Except, he doesn’t see me as his servant instead I think he sees me as his dog at home in the country; an animal that has its kennel on the first floor, covered in as many designer cushions as it likes.

  Do you hear me, Tats? I’m an animal to him that he bought for Christmas and regrets buying. I sit on my cushion waiting to be petted but instead I watch my master bring woman and drunk friends back to kick me about and, Tats, I say and I do nothing… Nothing!!’

  The pressure had been released from my chest and for a short while I could breathe long restful breaths.

  ‘Does he hurt you? Physically I mean?’ Tatiana’s voice was still soft.

  ‘No, he doesn’t hurt me; it was a figure of speech.’ I slung my head low and cried.

  ‘He just doesn’t love you the way you would like?’

  Tatiana paused and I could hear her draw a deep breath.

  ‘He doesn’t hurt you but he doesn’t love you the way you would like.’ Tatiana straightened her skirt, ‘Sweetie, get over it.’

  Tatiana then looked at me and cupped my head in her hand.

  ‘You have so much here. So what if he doesn’t whisper sweet nothings, after a while no man does. All women, and men for that matter, need to understand that love is lust; it’s no deeper than a mattress and lasts no longer than the time spent on it.

  But we kid ourselves that any subsequent feeling is a gift given to us by fate. It is not. It’s an arrangement for two people to coexist and these two people continue together because one receives what they want and so stays and vice versa. For you, Olive, it’s his bank account, it is the ability to buy whatever you want; you can go wherever you want and do whatever you want. You don’t live in a kennel, you live in an enormous house with a pool and a gardener. You have a choice of sports cars and a top Range Rover.

  Sweetie, take hold of your life, look at it, smell it and tell me you d
on’t have everything you desire. The only payment you need to make is to accept Mark and his occasional visits, and if you’re looking for love then you have lost sight of what your relationship is made of.’

  Tatiana lent back in her chair and when she resumed, her voice was lowered by an octave;

  ‘Now sweetie, if you want to keep that credit card then you have to deliver what Mark wants from you. That is, his wife in the country that his friends secretly desire, which gives Mark the cache of a sexy wife at his country estate. You’re there to show off and shut up. So use your plastic and sort your look out. You look tired and things have started to sag. For example, I’m thinking about Botox as I know these lines, the ones just here…’ she pointed to around her mouth then onto between her eyes, (I didn’t want to add that she should also be pointing to her forehead).

  ‘I’m also thinking about fillers for my mouth as I can already see the fine lines being drawn around my lips. Olive, it is for me, to give me the confidence to keep Tony, the man in my life whom I claim to love. You need to do the same sweetie, you need to take on the women Mark is choosing and make sure he looks at you once more.’

  I could have argued for love, that it’s not just a hormone thrown to us by our manipulating, controlling brains but it is a heavenly present to reward us for taking on the challenge of living. It is there to colour the spring with blossom and to warm our hearts in the winter. It is there to make us feel the majesty of our bodies and rejoice that we were chosen by God to be on this Earth and to create another being as blessed payment for finding the one given to us by the angels to love and cherish.