by Liz Byrski
The doorbell rings and Leo gets up to answer it, giving her a perfunctory pat on the shoulder as he passes her chair, and she is alone, in the silence, with Marcia.
‘Such a shame you weren’t here for the photojournalism exhibition,’ Marcia says. ‘It was so interesting, and Leo was fantastic of course, so good of him to step in and save the day when Bruno had the heart attack. And so clever of him to give such a brilliant speech at the last minute.’
Polly feels a stab of life returning. So she was right, he was filling in for someone else. ‘I’m sure he was,’ she says, finding now that words are actually forming in her head and making their way out of her mouth. ‘And the exhibition? Was it good?’
‘Fabulous. And of course we met up again in Manchester at Frank’s place. Do you know Frank? Frank Watson? No, well he’s a real sweetie, but a bit sad these days. But it was a great weekend, so many people we both know from the old days. Rather too much champagne and brandy though.’
Leo pops his head around the door. ‘I’ll be five minutes, or less,’ he says. ‘My neighbour can’t get into her apartment, I’m just going to see if I can help.’ And he is gone.
‘Such a good Samaritan,’ Marcia says, getting to her feet, ‘but I should make a move. I just popped in to pick up my glasses. I left them here the night before we went to Brighton.’ And she sashays out, down to the bedroom and returns with the purple-framed spectacles in her hand. ‘Thank goodness I have a second pair or I’d have been in deep shit!’
‘Have you known Leo for long?’ Polly asks.
‘Oh years,’ Marcia says, ‘but only five or six in a relationship. It’s casual of course, suits both of us.’ She leans forward slightly as though to share a confidence. ‘This is such a perfect set-up, isn’t it? I mean, who needs a full-on relationship at our age? Leo is such a darling, soooo brilliant, and such a wonderful lover. Who needs more? And here we are, Judith his wife in Cornwall, I’m his London woman, you’re his Aussie woman. Anyway, so nice to have met you.’ She reaches out a hand which Polly pointedly ignores.
She follows Marcia to the door, which Leo has left partially open. ‘Do mind how you go,’ she says, watching as Marcia steps into the lift, closes the concertina door and begins her descent. Then she steps back inside, grabs the heavy brass handle on the inside of the front door, swings it back then slams it shut with all the strength she can muster, and watches with satisfaction as its elegant, engraved glass panel shatters. She looks down at the scattered shards of glass, pushes them around with the toe of her shoe, then stamps on them, over and over again, feeling the shards crack and splinter beneath her feet, grinding the crushed fragments into the pile of the cream carpet. Then she steps back, closes her eyes and inhales deeply; she feels the anger surging through her veins but knows she has control of it now. She has breached the boundaries of her habitual good behaviour and it is powerful.
Seconds later Leo’s face appears in the empty space. ‘Oh my god!’ he says. ‘What the hell’s happened here?’ And he opens the door, steps inside and looks at the mess of glass. ‘I had this specially made,’ he says, crouching down to pick up a small shard. ‘It’ll cost a fortune to replace it. How did it get broken?’
Polly stands for a moment, watching as he gathers together a few of the larger fragments. ‘I smashed it,’ she says. ‘I slammed the door as hard as I could and it shattered. And then I stamped on some of the glass and ground it into the carpet.’
Leo straightens up. ‘You did what? Are you crazy or something, why would you do a thing like that? What’s the matter with you?’
‘You, Leo,’ she says. ‘You’re what’s the matter with me. You! You deceitful, lying bastard.’
‘Hey,’ he says, ‘steady on! What’s all this about?’
She stands there holding his gaze for a moment. ‘Well, let’s start with Marcia,’ she says. ‘Marcia who left her glasses on your bedside table, and with whom you’ve been having a relationship for five or six years.’
He drops his gaze. ‘Well . . .’ he begins, obviously startled. ‘Well I wouldn’t actually call it a relationship . . . I mean . . .’
‘A relationship is what Marcia calls it.’
‘She’s a friend. Am I not allowed to have friends?’
‘Do you sleep with all your friends?’
He sighs, moves closer to her and she steps back. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it’s not important, it means nothing.’
Polly holds her hand up to stop him coming any closer. ‘Bullshit,’ she says. ‘And it may mean nothing to you, or indeed to Marcia, but it means a hell of a lot to me.’
‘But, Polly . . .’ he lifts his shoulders, tilts his head to one side in a conciliatory manner. ‘It really isn’t important. I’m sorry if you’re upset. Marcia behaved very badly telling you . . .’
‘I’m not interested in Marcia’s behaviour,’ Polly says. ‘But I’m very interested in yours. What I’m particularly interested in is that you’ve lied to me from the moment we had lunch in Edinburgh.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
‘Really?’ She pauses, taking her time, lowering her tone. ‘Well then how would you describe the fact that the woman you told me was your sister is actually your wife, and her carer is your sister? Or is that not important either, is that not lying?’
The colour has drained from Leo’s face. ‘How did you . . . who told you . . .?’
‘Rosemary told me,’ she says, enjoying his look of panic. ‘She told me when I called and asked to speak to you or your sister, Judith. She said she felt I could have been given incorrect information. And you know what, Leo? From her tone I got the feeling that other people, other women, might have been given that same incorrect information before.’
‘You mean you phoned them . . .?’
‘I did.’
‘How dare you! You had no right.’
‘And I suppose you think you had every right to lie to me all this time? To make me believe you loved me, that we had a future together. You lied through all those months of messages, all those conversations about the future, about how we would manage it. Was it just an ego trip to make you feel young again? Well you’re not young, and neither am I. You are an old man, get used to it. You think that because you have a brilliant mind and some level of public recognition that you’re different when it comes to getting old. Well you’re wrong; brilliance will not save you from old age, from aching joints, incontinence pads, or senility. I fell in love with you – with your brilliant mind, your extensive knowledge. Well, more fool me, because what’s the point of brilliance if it has no place for honesty, no empathy or compassion, if it can’t get to grips with acceptance? What use is it without those? You are selfish, arrogant, emotionally ruthless, and a liar. What use is all that intellect and achievement if it makes you into a man who can love only himself?’
He stands there, apparently stunned, looking at her for a long moment. Then he drops the piece of glass he’s holding onto a side table, and turns away.
‘You really should calm down, Polly,’ he says. ‘You’re overreacting. There’s no need to get all emotional about it.’ And he walks over to the window and stands there looking out onto the street. ‘I mean, really, Polly, what did you expect?’
‘Expect? I expected honesty, consideration, commitment, love. And most of all, you lying bastard, I expected authenticity.’
There is a pause and he sighs. ‘What exactly did you say to Rosemary?’
‘That’s your response, is it? What did I say to Rosemary? Well, very little really, I didn’t need to, she obviously knew what was going on.’ She pauses, but there is no reaction, he still stands there with his back to her. ‘Next time I call I’ll fill her in on the details.’
‘You can’t do that,’ he says sharply, turning partly towards her but not looking at her. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘You made
it my business and I’ll do whatever I like. Maybe I’ll go and visit them, tell them everything, or perhaps I’ll just put it in a letter.’ She has no intention of doing any of this but she can see that it’s getting to him.
He turns fully now, looks her fleetingly in the eye, then beyond her. His face is expressionless, like a mask.
‘This really is very silly,’ he says. ‘You have everything out of proportion and you’ve obviously upset Judith and Rosemary, and probably Marcia as well. How am I supposed to deal with this? How am I supposed to clear up the mess you’ve made? I’m surprised at you, Polly, surprised and, frankly, disappointed. I expected better of you.’ And he turns away again, his back to her, his arms folded across his chest looking out of the window.
His words, his posture, the turning away all flick a switch in Polly’s head and in that moment she sees how well he knows her, how well he can play her, how he homes right in on her fear of male disapproval, knows how to side-step her rage and make her feel small, and powerless. She wavers for a moment, then knows that she must leave now, before he does more damage to her. And she grabs her bag which is sitting on the side table, walks out of the door, slams it once again and, ignoring the lift, runs down the wide curving staircase with its claret coloured carpet and out into the street.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Bali, May
‘So is that the last time you spoke to him?’ Alistair asks, handing her a large gin and tonic. ‘Did you speak again? Has he tried to contact you?’
Polly shakes her head and sips her drink. ‘No, thank goodness, not a word. I left his place, went back to my hotel, went online and changed my flights, and left the following morning . . . yesterday, no . . . two days ago . . . I’ve lost track of the time.’
She stops abruptly, drained by the effort of having told them the whole story, and by a long journey during which she relived her relationship with Leo over and over again, each time discovering clues that she should have picked up from the start. She had arrived here exhausted and heartbroken, and it is only now, that she has felt able to talk about it. The empowering rage she had felt in the apartment has long gone, banished by his final cruel cut of manipulation, his attempt to put her back in her box. And she is left now adrift in a sea of shame.
‘I hate myself,’ she says slowly. ‘I hate myself for believing his lies, for being sucked in by him, and for what reason? I still can’t work out why he did it. Why me? Why didn’t he pick on someone nearer home? Why not someone younger and glamorous? Isn’t that what ageing men do to help them feel younger?’ She takes a deep breath and then a large sip of her drink. ‘And in the end, you know, it was how he behaved right at the end that was so shaming, more even than the lies and manipulation. The way he dismissed everything I said, his failure to give me one shred of acknowledgement or respect. What did I do to deserve that?’
‘Nothing, darling,’ Alistair says. ‘You did nothing to deserve it; none of this is your fault. In fact it’s probably not about you at all, this is all about Leo, don’t you think, Steve? It’s all down to him.’
Polly shakes her head, brushing his reassurance aside. ‘I was vain enough to attribute his sexual failures to impotence or fear of it, but no, it was me obviously, because according to Marcia he’s a wonderful lover.’
Alistair laughs out loud. ‘Well she would say that, wouldn’t she? It’s what she wants you to think – that you’re the problem, because it’s certainly the same with her. That’s why she made a point of it. I don’t doubt for a moment that he can’t get his rocks off with her either. It’s not an uncommon problem at our age.’
‘Al’s right,’ Steve says, ‘at least about most of this. But part of it is about you. I think he did fall for you, Polly, that he loved you or thought he did, or might or could. He saw something in you that he wanted and needed. I suspect he actually saw your strength, your intelligence, and probably your ability to empathise. He saw a lovely woman who could make him feel good, solve some of his problems. But he’s a typical narcissist, his overall behaviour and particularly the things he said at the end, that’s classic narcissism. He was at least being honest then because those things don’t matter to him. The marriage is only a piece of paper – an annoying responsibility. The business with Marcia is not important to him. And he treats you like this because you aren’t important to him. The only thing that’s important to Leo is Leo himself. He is only interested in you and Marcia and his wife, anyone else at all, for what they can do for him – how you make him feel, and how he appears to other people when you’re with him. If this hadn’t happened now in the way it has, it would have eventually crashed in some other way when it got too complicated for him. He is the centre of his own world – everyone, everything else is expendable. That’s the narcissist for you; it’s a recognised personality disorder. Oh, and it explains the refusal to get a mobile too. Narcissists are secretive, a mobile would make him far too accessible. You could go on talking to Leo about all this, questioning him, forever, Polly, and you will never get anything more, because there is nothing more to get.’
Polly sighs, shaking her head, realising that maybe someday she will find solace in that, but that seems a long way off.
‘Of course, it’s very similar to what happened to Stella,’ Alistair says later, over dinner.
Polly stares at him. ‘Stella? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well, with that actor . . . what’s his name . . .?’
‘Neville Sachs,’ Steve says.
‘That’s him. Remember, Poll?’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ Polly says, helping herself to more salad. ‘I mean I know, or rather did know, Neville Sachs, but what’s he got to do with Stella?’
‘She didn’t tell you? She told me she’d written you a letter in case she forgot.’
‘Well she was going on about a letter before I left, but I don’t know where it is. And how do you know about it anyway?’
‘She rang me, soon after she’d written it. When was it now? Oh I remember, just after New Year, the day you left here, when you were on your way home. That’s right, it was before the stroke, that same day. She rang to tell me that she’d written you a letter about Neville Sachs.’
‘I’m still confused. Why did she write a letter if I was on my way home?’
‘Because she thought she might forget to tell you about it. About her and Neville Sachs.’
‘Are you saying she had a relationship with him? Surely not, he was an awful man, arrogant, self-obsessed, no concern for anyone but himself and . . .’ she stops. ‘Uh-oh, I see what you mean.’
‘Yes, well she thought if you knew what happened to her you might think twice about getting any more involved with Leo. I told her that no one wants to hear horror stories that might relate to the person they’re in love with. But she insisted you had to know, and then she insisted on telling me too.’
Polly laughs affectionately. ‘That sounds like Stella, no beating around the bush. So what happened?’
Alistair grimaces. ‘Well it was all a bit garbled and I can’t remember all the details and it was before you two met, but to cut a very long rambling story short Neville Sachs was married to a woman with some sort of mental illness. He had moved her to a cottage in Tasmania, with a carer, and he lived in Melbourne and never went near her. When Stella told me that I remember thinking there were elements of Jane Eyre to this; you know – the mad woman in the attic, the deception, the final hideous conflagration. Anyway, Stella knew nothing about the wife and fell madly in love with Neville because although she knew he was a deeply flawed person, she believed all that crap about the love of a good woman having the power to rescue a man from his own darkness. Pause for the sound of violins! Neville sounded a right bastard actually, and there are bits of the story that I’ve forgotten but the relationship went on for some time and eventually Stella got pregnant and then discov
ered that he was also having it off with another member of the cast of whatever play they were in at the time. And he already had a child by someone else. So she turned up at his door demanding an explanation, and he treated her rather like Leo treated you, as though she was stupid and emotional, making a fuss about nothing. They had a big fight and she slapped him across the face, and he pushed her and knocked her over and she fell down three steps between one part of the room and the other. And he just picked her up, pushed her out of the door and locked it. Being Stella of course, she wouldn’t give up, hammered on the door for hours, shouted and screamed. But she also began to feel sick and giddy, and she lay down on the doorstep and woke up hours later feeling terrible and the long and the short of it is that she miscarried the baby. Oh yes, and what made her call me was that she had woken up that morning, the day she called me, to find herself lying on the bedroom floor and it made her want to tell you, to warn you.’
There is silence around the table. Polly closes her eyes, thinking through the story again, her own sadness diluted now with sadness for Stella. ‘She never told me,’ she says quietly. ‘I thought we were so close but she never told me this.’
‘Don’t start making this into something about your not being a good enough friend,’ Alistair says as Steve refreshes their drinks. ‘Stella didn’t tell you because she was ashamed. She said that all her life she has been so ashamed that she never told anyone until she told me. And by that time she had already written it down for you, and I don’t think that was easy for her, after all that time. She was ashamed, and she kept blaming herself for not being good enough. But that’s what these bastards do, narcissists, they have no concern for anyone else, they can’t love anyone or anything but themselves and they leave a trail of heartbreak wherever they go.’
