The Society Game

by H. Lanfermeijer

  We sat down for lunch and I watched Jane flurry around this small kitchen to serve us. The smell was intoxicating, I could already taste herbs with red wine. I pinched my hand to distract me from my stomach craning its way out of my body, screaming at me to take a huge portion of whatever was about to be served from the steaming pots.

  Jane was attentive but remained jittery. I did little to sooth her as I was preoccupied with talking to James but his attention was fixed on her and trying to ease her work load and he prefixed every sentence with ‘Janey’. But how could he call her Janey? He hardly knows this woman? She was awkward, with a straight blonde bob which enhanced her razor nose. The straight edge of her fringe complimented her slightly buck teeth which forced a permanent smile. It was, at least, a comely solution to a peculiar facial feature.

  ‘I hope you like this – it’s chicken and tarragon hotpot. It’s my mum’s recipe. The chicken is from the farm shop down the road and they’re reared on corn, hence the yellow colour. All the vegetables are from either my mum’s garden or ours,’ she said as she sat down to eat with us.

  ‘Ours?’ She’s far too familiar with James having only known him for a short while.

  ‘The peas are last year’s; obviously kept in the freezer but it’s a bit too early for fresh peas,’ she added.

  ‘Last years? I didn’t know you have been living here that long?’ I quizzed.

  ‘We haven’t but I have,’ she said. ‘James moved in not long ago but he helped me pick the peas last year. Please tuck in and I hope you like it.’

  A year? James has only just mentioned you…

  ‘It looks delicious, Jane.’

  ‘Have you come far?’ she enquired.

  ‘Not too far, no. It was an easy drive,’ I replied.

  I hope you noticed my Mercedes SLK in your driveway next to your shopping bicycle.

  Small talk dominated the conversation and after a while I wanted to just ask her to leave me and James alone to catch up (after-all, I had not seen James in… was it over a year?) Unfortunately, she was too genteel to sit quietly and instead talked about the local school her son went to or the gardening, which she enjoyed. Eventually I resorted to turning my shoulder away from her and towards James. I asked him direct questions about his latest work project and how was Carolanne when he saw her? Anything that excluded Jane from the conversation. Yet she persevered and interrupted.

  ‘We saw Carolanne again yesterday; Toby needed to borrow our hedge trimmer. They were passing but ended up staying for dinner, which was wonderful, wasn’t it James? Twice in one week. I do love Carolanne and Toby is so funny; he joked about their neighbour’s dog. Oh, he did make us laugh! Ah and we got some of his newly brewed beer – what has he called this batch? Dogs’ breath beer? How funny! Oh, and Carolanne is lovely, and she’s looking so well, I always wonder whether…’

  ‘Anything else going on with you James?’ I interrupted. James looked over to Jane and answered, ‘Actually we do, have some news,’ he began.

  ‘We’ve known for a little while but we wanted to be sure.’

  James leant over to hold the hand from a beaming, gleaming Jane.

  ‘We’ve just had our first ‘little un’ picture and so far all’s good.’

  My stomach lurched when I realised his riddle.

  ‘We’re due mid-October and you’re one of the first to know,’ she added.

  My breath was short and I managed a smile to disguise my jealousy, my deep, instantaneous, crippling jealousy.

  ‘Congratulations, I, er, didn’t know you were trying.’ I mustered, but I actually did not want to know the answer. Instead I wanted to sit at their table and hold onto my chair. I wanted them to both quietly get up and go away and leave my head to swim around the fact that this petite young girl was to have my James’ child.

  ‘We hadn’t really been trying to be honest. I suppose you would call this little one a happy surprise,’ she said. ‘It didn’t seem real until the scan and we heard the heartbeat of our child.’

  A sound I will never hear.

  James then looked at me and beneath the table he grabbed my hand and gave it a small squeeze with an accompanying wink.

  It wasn’t enough. I continued to listen to her excited talk for their future as I writhed in secret agony over the lack of mine. Finally, the tortuous lunch came to an end and I hurriedly made my excuses to leave as soon as I could.

  I walked to the front door and I looked around once more at their home. This pretty cottage had housed many families; it kept each one safe and warm and nurtured each child that came under its roof. It was now the turn of James and Jane and for the next phase in their lives they got to live in the loving embrace of this old lady. I turned to Jane and I was suddenly struck by her sweetness. But worse than this, I knew from her smile and unassuming manner that she was an honest and loving woman who would be a giving mother. In contrast, I had shown myself to be the bitter house guest who did not deserve the sweet hospitality from this lady. She hugged me and I left.

  In my car I could feel the clutch of depression around my throat. Tears began deep in my stomach and they rose steadily towards my eyes. I tried to stem their flow by staring at the car in front of me or turning my music up. As they eased their way into my tear ducts I shouted at myself to stop being pathetic.

  I was now on the M25 and I had a further four junctions to contend with in this enclosed box. The traffic was beginning to slow and a red sign ahead warned me there was ‘Queuing traffic’ after the next junction. My breathing quickened as I felt claustrophobic, surrounded by other cars who were slowing down in their lane or weaving in front of me to take advantage of the slightly greater speed my lane had over the next. I became intensely irritated by old cars assuming they could overtake my Mercedes. The presumption of these cars fuelled my anger and I began to hit my useless steering wheel for leading me onto this motorway which no longer served its purpose as a road. There were back roads I could have taken which would have avoided this pileup, yet I was trapped by old cheap vehicles laughing at me for having a sports car on a road with a top speed of 5 mph.

  ‘Where do you think you can go?’ I screamed at a green 1982 Fiat Panda; ‘cutting me up only gets you two metres closer to the inevitable standstill!’

  It had squeezed in front of me and now my view was of a ‘Caution: child on board’ sticker.

  ‘You think you’re so clever? Who are you? No one. Nothing! That’s who!!’

  My car slowed to a stop and I was able to press my hands into my soggy eyes,

  ‘What’s so special about her? Nothing, nothing, she’s nothing!’

  ‘She is pathetic,’ I reasoned. ‘Nothing better than me, nothing! I bet she purposefully got pregnant just to catch James. Yes, that’s what happened, she knew she would never have him otherwise.’

  I concentrated on slowing my breathing down as I changed from first gear to second.

  ‘…don’t be stupid, there is no room for you in front of me!’

  I sped up a little to close the gap between my Mercedes and the Fiat to stop a Blue Vauxhall nudging its way to my lane. I watched it as it surrendered its claim and I felt a small surge of satisfaction as it pushed its way in behind me.

  This lull in anger gave way to a familiar hatred of Olivia and once more the devil depression chatted in my ear.

  ‘How sweet Jane was. How kind and gentle she was. It was fate that James should meet her and the gods have given them their child. Whereas you, Olivia, you have nothing but this traffic jam,’ he said.

  I had heard his voice many times but this time I was angry enough to chat back.

  ‘She is ugly with her straight hair, sharp face and buck teeth. What could James see in her?’ I seethed.

  ‘He saw a spirited, contented woman with a love of her life, something you have lacked for many years, and as for sharp features: her h
air maybe straight and her nose too long but her smile welcomes any stranger. You cannot compare yourself to her. And what about your imperfect face? Your eyes are too small, your nose is too bulbous and your smile is distorted by your discoloured crooked teeth.’

  I heard him laugh then I heard a car horn as I was jolted to move away from staring at my teeth in my wing mirror to place my hand back on the steering wheel and catch up with the queue of traffic that had moved way ahead of me.

  ‘You are correct,’ I replied; ‘my teeth are crooked and they are not perfectly white, who am I to laugh at another when I need to perfect myself?’

  This realisation that life could be sorted so easily silenced the drone of criticism from my depressive companion. He clearly agreed and backed away and my tears dried up for the final part of my journey.

  Within days I was checked into Mr Sherpova’s dental practice and I had him peer into my mouth and reassure me that I would very soon have a beautiful smile as I deserved.

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘You are a pretty little thing and it would be a shame to spoil your face due to the odd wonky tooth.’

  It took less than fifteen minutes for Mr Sherpova to convince me that porcelain veneers were the ideal option to ensure a brighter smile. He added that the price was relative to the result; I could choose an over the counter tooth whitener for as little as £30 but, ‘Really, will that give you the smile you deserve?’

  Mr Sherpova was an elderly Egyptian-looking man. His brown skin had a greyish tinge and he seemed to quiver each time I nodded to any of his supporting argument for veneers.

  ‘Your smile could last up to fifteen years and after that you simply return and we redo the procedure which is a great result for me as I get to see your pretty face once more.’

  He offered me an insincere smile to round off his insincere compliment.

  ‘Fifteen years you say, that’s certainly better than I expected.’

  ‘So veneers it is then, Ms Olivia?’

  ‘Sure, yeah sure.’

  ‘Good girl, a better choice. Beauty and brains what a wonderful combination. You listened well and understood it all; not many pretty women can do that.’ He smiled and his assistant squirmed.

  I was not entirely convinced by all of his points but my mind was distracted by the uncomfortable position I was in. The consultation took place entirely on a typical dentist’s chair with Mr Sherpova leaning over me and his dental assistant hovering behind. I was intimidated by my ignorance of all the different procedures. His rehearsed speech was my research so I based my decision to spend £1200 per tooth on whatever he advised.

  Within weeks I was checked into his Kensington High Street dental surgery to have each tooth filed down to a stump. He then made a mould of my teeth to get an impression of each one to have made into an individual veneer.

  I had temporary caps fitted and I returned a couple of weeks later to have the permanent veneers fitted. It took a couple of hours to bind each tooth and I had to listen to the dentists hollow observations about my beautiful face, but afterwards I didn’t care as I left with a Disney Cinderella smile that brightened any cloudy day.

  As I displayed my teeth to my ‘luncheon to late afternoon wine and evening champagne club’, I paused over the thought, how easy it was to change my life by my looks. But why stop with a smile? My nose, my slouching eyes, my unshapely bottom; it was all easy to alter to the style I wanted. And why should I not contemplate a change? My forties were approaching and society does not think twice about changing hair colour to deceive others? So why would it be so difficult to tweak the area beneath the hairline?

  My dear Jason, the summer my forties arrived, you were finishing university and I know you had invited me to your graduation. I am sorry that I did not attend but hopefully, now you understand that I felt I could not come because on that day in July, my nose was recovering from being broken in three places. I did explain to your mother the problem, but back then I could not be photographed with the front of my face covered by bandages.

  However, your graduation picture resides in my room on my table and each time I apply my makeup I look at the picture of you in your gown in front of your university fountain. You are surrounded by love from your mother, dressed in green with a proud smile, and Colin hugging both you and Janet. There was no space for me wearing a white mask on your happy day.

  That said, I regret many things but not sharing your life and hailing your great achievements has marred mine. I wish I could relive that July and, if I could, then I promise that, regardless of my face, I would have been there to watch you claim your master’s degree and I would have hugged you until you felt the pride I have for you, my darling Jason.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jason

  I put my aunt’s manuscript down and nudged Jessica awake. I’d been seeing Jess for two months but I’d known her from university. We were friends for years before she agreed to go out with me.

  ‘Jess, do you remember my graduation?’ I asked,

  She sleepily looked up at me and reluctantly replied, ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘We were only given two tickets weren’t we? Two tickets and if we wanted more then we had to go through a faff of getting them via the admin department and everyone complained as they wanted their brothers and sisters there – remember?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. It was a pain to get my brother in as well as my parents when I graduated, but they explained it was to keep the numbers down in the ceremony hall.’ Jessica still had her eyes shut,

  ‘Aah right,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know the reason for it but then I never needed to go through the crap of trying to get more tickets as I only needed two for my mum and dad, yet my Aunt Olive said she’d been invited?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I never invited her. I didn’t even know whether she could or couldn’t come as I didn’t invite her. Not important, in the great scheme of things, but she had one of her nose jobs at the time of my graduation and she has my graduation picture on her dressing table – didn’t even know she had one. I remember that day though, not so much for the ceremony but for the hangover I nursed all day.’

  Jess went back to sleep but that night I lay awake thinking about my aunt, but also getting wound up by the last-minute breakfast meeting that was organised at 7 am. I needed to catch the 5.18 train which meant I needed to be out of bed by 4.15 am.

  This is an hour our body is at its lowest temperature as it’s following its natural circadian rhythm under the premise that we are in a deep sleep. Therefore, to have an alarm shake our brain back to consciousness and our cold body back to life is a painful experience – far more painful than if this siren sounded just one hour later. To avoid this piercing pain my brain decided it would be better to just remain awake and periodically look at the clock and calculate how many hours remained of achievable sleep. As these hours decreased my anger and stress increased over my denied sleep. This anger continued as I shaved, showered, dressed and boarded the train.

  The street lamps were still on and bedroom curtains were still shut but I was dragging myself to work to accommodate the senior director as he wanted the Stockley project account figures in early.

  One benefit of getting an early train is having a seat. Usually, my fellow commuters are standing on my foot, pushing me into the back of others, flicking their hair in my face or farting on my leg and it wafting up my nostril. For many years I have spent the first hour of my days this way.

  When I arrived at work there was a scattering of work colleagues already at their desk. I sat down and opened the presentation file I had been working on all weekend.

  ‘Have you heard, buddy?’ called Neil from the desk adjacent to mine. He was a twenty-seven-year-old with love for pin stripe suits. His hair was cut short and gelled until it shone like a swimmer emerging form his chlorine pool.

  ‘Obviously not Neil. I’ve
just arrived.’

  ‘Been here since six, usually am; get a lot of work done that way.’

  ‘Good for you. Spit it out then, what am I supposed to have heard?’

  ‘Yeah bud, meeting cancelled.’ Neil was now standing to emphasise the word cancelled. My jaw bit into my polystyrene coffee cup.

  ‘Why?’ I screeched.

  ‘Who knows bud, but probably be rescheduled either late eve or another dawn meet tomorrow. What I’ll say to you bud, is don’t plan anything.’

  Neil sat down triumphant in his delivery of this irritating news. I sat at my desk staring at my computer screen, reluctant to turn it on to start my day.

  ‘I need a new job. I need a new life,’ I chanted to myself.

  I looked at my phone as a distraction to the angry mood that was bubbling in my stomach. I decided to try my luck and see if my mum was up yet. She usually woke early and enjoyed tidying the house before Dad joined her for breakfast.

  ‘Well I was actually just reading the paper before your father trudged down but I’d rather be speaking to you darling,’ she said after I had spat out my frustration.

  ‘Darling, your father and I have said time and time again you need to look elsewhere. Show them you mean business with your feet.’

  ‘Nice idea Mum, but my bank manager might have something to say about that idea,’ I sighed.

  ‘Well if you can’t then you can’t, but please find more time for yourself my darling. You’ve been wanting to join an amateur dramatics for years, well now’s your chance. See if Jessica would like to do it with you?’

  ‘Again, nice idea, but I literally have no spare time to get a paper let alone join an amateur dramatics. Ah, it doesn’t matter.’