Food, Sex & Money

by Liz Byrski

  Lila had paused and looked at Fran. ‘I like this,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Fran, I like it very much,’ and she read on, intermittently aloud: ‘I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired … And make up for the sobriety of my youth … Who wrote this poem?’ she asked, turning the frame in her hands and reading the poet’s name at the bottom. ‘Jenny Joseph, I see. Is she a friend of yours, Fran? I’d like to meet her.’

  Fran shook her head. ‘She’s English. The poem was written in the sixties.’

  ‘Pity,’ Lila said. ‘She knows a thing or two, this Jenny Joseph. ‘I shall go out in my slippers in the rain, And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens …’ And Lila read softly on to the end of the poem and sat for a moment staring at it as a tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto the glass. Then she pulled down the sleeve of her cardigan and wiped the tear away. ‘I think this is one of the nicest presents I’ve had in my whole life, Fran,’ Lila said, crossing the room to kiss her.

  A couple of weeks later, Lila had called and asked Fran to drop by and pick up a bag of old clothes to deliver to the charity shop. Fran was on her way home after interviewing a famous visiting gourmet chef and was not far away, so she made the detour.

  ‘It’s me, Mum,’ she called, letting herself in through Lila’s back door. ‘Oh, a new dress! What a lovely colour.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lila said, twirling slowly for Fran to admire the purple and lilac print. ‘I spent my whole pension on some new things, come and look.’ And she drew Fran into the bedroom where a variety of different outfits in various shades of purple, lilac and lavender were spread out for inspection. And on the wall above Lila’s bed, replacing the Mediterranean seascape, was the poem. Since then Lila had purpled her life, a little at a time, from her wardrobe, to her bed linen, to the cotton mats she crocheted for her dressing table, to the purple mugs she bought to replace her old china.

  ‘I left it a little late, really,’ she said thoughtfully when Fran commented on the newly acquired purple bathmats and crocheted toilet roll cover, ‘so I have to make up for lost time.’

  Fran thought she was lucky that so far Lila had not chosen to splash out on the red hat, or experimented with spitting, both of which were options considered in the poem.

  Taking a couple of surprisingly lively steps back from the water’s edge, Lila appeared to be showing David a dance step, and Fran watched in fascination as David put his right arm around Lila’s waist and took her right hand in his left, and the two of them began a stately dance. She held her breath trying to stifle the sob that rose in her throat. Silhouetted against the late afternoon sky she could see David’s new fragility. It was spiritual more than physical, although he was also thinner than when he had gone away. But since he had broken his news she had noticed other things; the slight discolouration in the whites of his eyes, the shadows beneath them which she had, at first, attributed to jet lag, the sudden onset of fatigue; things apparent only to a mother now searching constantly for signs.

  David turned Lila gently, swaying to and fro and laughing, throwing back his head, the soft fair hair, so like Fran’s own, catching the last gold of the sun’s rays. Did he really understand what this meant? Did he understand what it meant for relationships, for his work? Late that night, after they had sat for hours talking, crying, hugging or holding hands, each trying to comfort and reassure the other, David had eventually drifted off to bed and Fran, whose response to most crises was first to acquire as much information as possible, had done some research on the Internet. She had to assume that he knew as much as she did, probably more, and she wanted to ask him, but he seemed to prefer to let it rest and now she was trapped, the victim of her own restless knowledge.

  ‘Look at those two,’ Sylvia said, sitting down beside her, nodding towards the pair dancing by the water. ‘Aren’t they beautiful? Don’t you wish you had a camera?’

  Bonnie sneaked a look at her mother, who had turned her chair to capture the last of the sun’s rays on her face. She breathed a sigh of relief that she had managed to stop herself from pointing out that Irene wasn’t wearing sunscreen. Since the conversation about Greece and then her talk with Sylvia, she had been shocked at the number of times she’d had the urge to organise Irene, or say something relating to her safety. The effort of restraining herself was enormous and she had begun to wonder if she had been as neurotic with Jeff. Probably not. He’d certainly have told her if it had annoyed him and, anyway, men just loved to be the centre of attention, to feel they were being looked after. In a couple of weeks’ time Irene would be on her way to Greece and Bonnie would be alone again; the prospect of the empty house hovered threateningly like the entrance to a cave.

  She wondered how her mother had coped with her first months as a widow and realised that when she and Jeff had returned to Zurich, three weeks after her father’s funeral, she had given little thought to the huge burden of grief and adjustment that Irene was facing alone. Bonnie felt a deep sense of shame that she could have been so insensitive.

  ‘Brushing up your tan before you head off to Italy, Irene?’ Lila said as David led her back to her chair. ‘I hope you’re going to send me a postcard.’

  ‘It’s Greece, Lila,’ Irene said, opening her eyes and turning towards her. ‘And of course I’ll send you a card. I’m certainly not going to lose touch with you again. And when I get back I’m going to bore you to death with my photographs.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll enjoy that,’ Lila said. ‘And, Bonnie, you’re to come and see me while your mum’s away. I want to show you my unit. I’m changing everything to purple, like the poem. I want you to see it.’

  ‘Another bottle of champagne, I think,’ Bonnie said several hours later, struggling out of her chair and making her way, somewhat unsteadily, to the fridge.

  ‘I don’t think I’d better,’ Sylvia said. ‘I’m supposed to be driving.’

  ‘You’re already past it,’ Fran cut in. ‘You’d better leave the car here and we’ll share a cab. So, let’s just have one more?’

  ‘No, no!’ Bonnie said, steadying herself against the fridge door. ‘You can’t possibly go home. It has to be a sleepover, like in the old days. Go on, say you’ll stay.’

  It was well after nine, and David had taken Lila home, leaving Fran free to spend the evening with Sylvia and Bonnie at Irene’s house.

  ‘A good idea,’ Irene said, getting up from her chair. ‘Neither of you should drive. I’m off to bed now but all the beds are made up, and you’re welcome to stay.’

  ‘See,’ said Bonnie, weaving her way triumphantly back across the room with the champagne. ‘You must stay or Mum’ll be disappointed.’

  Sylvia looked at Fran and raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay with you?’

  ‘Fine – I’ll phone David and let him know. But what about you, will Colin mind?’

  ‘Stuff Colin,’ Sylvia said, and Bonnie’s eyebrows almost shot off the top of her head. ‘He’ll be out but I’ll leave a message on the machine.’

  Bonnie took extra care refilling the glasses and then sank back into her chair, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs under her. ‘I am extremely drunk,’ she announced. ‘I can’t remember when I was ever as drunk as this. Here’s to meeting again.’ They raised their glasses and chorused the toast.

  ‘This is so nice,’ Sylvia said, resting her bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. ‘Just like old times, except we used to be sharing secrets in the bedroom while the adults were in the lounge. Now it’s the other way around.’

  Bonnie grinned. ‘Secrets, yes…’ She paused, trying to make sure the words came out right, and held up her hand as they began to laugh at her. ‘Stop laughing at once, both of you. If we’re saring shecrets – I mean, sharing secrets – I have a very serious question to ask Fran.’

  ‘Ask away, Bon,’ Fran said, shaking with laughter, swinging her legs up onto the couch and settling back against the cushions. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘I can only ask while seriously under the influen
ce, so you have to forgive me in advance.’

  ‘I forgive you in advance,’ Fran said, trying to keep her face straight.

  ‘The olive grower,’ Bonnie said. ‘Is the olive grower your lover?’

  Fran spluttered into her champagne. ‘Ah,’ she said, getting her breath back, ‘wouldn’t that be nice. But actually, Bon, the olive grower and his partner are the two most gorgeous gay men I’ve ever met in my life. So, unfortunately, no. There hasn’t been a lover in my life for the last ten years at least.’

  Bonnie looked crestfallen. ‘Amazing,’ she sighed. ‘I was so sure. I thought if I ever needed advice on that score you’d be the one.’

  ‘Not me, darl, certainly not me. For enormously fat women in their fifties, lovers, like really nice clothes, are not on the radar.’

  ‘Such a shame,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’d constructed such a sexy scenario for you. And anyway, you’re not enormously fat. I’m sorry about the lover, though.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Sylvia, ‘although frankly I think celibacy may have a lot going for it. Men are not my favourite species at present. But I could help with the clothes, Fran. If you draw what you want I could make it up for you, or we could design it together. I am a demon with the sewing machine.’

  Fran sat forward. ‘Really, Syl? That would be fantastic. I can never get anything nice in my size. If you’re big you’re supposed to be broad shouldered and tall as well. All we big women aren’t like Maggie T, and I always end up with shoulders near my elbows and waistlines round my knees.’

  ‘I could make you some lovely things,’ Sylvia said. ‘We can work out the patterns and then we could go together to that fabric shop just off Lygon Street. They have gorgeous materials from Europe, really unusual.’

  ‘Me too,’ Bonnie said. ‘Can I come? I know that shop, I used to go with Mum years ago – the one not far from where we had coffee, Syl?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Sylvia said. ‘I nearly went there that day but something stopped me. Something amazing stopped me.’ She paused, her heart suddenly beating faster as she realised that speaking it would make it real, and then there could be no going back. After this she could no longer pretend to herself, to Colin, or to anyone else, that nothing was happening.

  ‘I saw Colin with another woman, a younger woman, holding hands, and then I saw them a second time and he was kissing her.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Caro said, dumping herself on the sofa and kicking off her shoes. ‘You mean she’s not coming home tonight?’

  David shook his head and handed his sister a cup of coffee. ‘That’s right. I took Grandma home and Mum’s staying at Bonnie’s place. She phoned about half an hour ago. D’you take milk, Mike?’

  ‘I’ll just have a beer, thanks, Dave,’ Mike said, helping himself to a can from the fridge. ‘We came back early to surprise Fran. Caro said she was having a Mother’s Day lunch, but there was no one here, so we hung about for ages, then we went home and came back again.’

  ‘She even had her mobile switched off,’ Caro said irritably. ‘I can’t believe she didn’t tell me it was a picnic instead.’

  ‘Why would you need to know?’ David said, sitting down with his coffee. ‘You’d opted out of Mother’s Day and were having a romantic weekend.’

  ‘Is that what she said?’ Caro asked, putting down her mug and slopping coffee in the process, ‘that I’d opted out of Mother’s Day?’

  David shook his head. ‘No, that’s what I said. Mum said you were going away for the weekend to celebrate the baby.’

  Caro, slightly mollified, got up and went to the kitchen to collect a dishcloth. David had annoyed her immensely ever since he got back from Qatar. He’d seemed pleased about the idea of being an uncle but also vague and distracted, and she’d always been jealous of the way he and Fran got on. It went back to the divorce, and David being four years older, suddenly becoming the man in charge of things, or at least that was how it had seemed at the time. In her heart, Caro knew she was probably being unfair, but knowing something and getting rid of the feelings attached to it were worlds apart. Resenting David and competing with him had become part of who she was, and it was easier when he was away.

  ‘So much for trying to do the right thing,’ she said, mopping up the spilled coffee. ‘Well, I suppose she was pleased to have you there. Was it deadly boring?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ David said in a tone that got right up Caro’s nose. ‘It was great – sort of old-fashioned and nice. I like those women, wish I’d met them before. Strange how they all lost touch. Anyway, they’ve clearly stitched up the gaps and are making up for lost time. Did you two have a good weekend?’

  ‘Terrific,’ Mike said. ‘We went to this gorgeous boutique bed and breakfast place. Wonderful food, lovely scenery, and it’s attached to a vineyard – superb wine.’

  David raised his eyebrows at Caro. ‘Should you be drinking wine?’

  ‘A glass now and again won’t hurt,’ Mike said, smiling at her and reaching out for her hand. ‘Not now she’s past the first trimester.’

  Caro moved closer to him. Mike was such a great ally in her struggle to be as good as David. ‘Just because you’re on the wagon it doesn’t mean everyone else has to be,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not. But sometimes there are very good reasons,’ David said. ‘I just thought it was supposed to be bad for pregnant women – ’

  ‘So what’s your very good reason?’ Caro cut in sharply. ‘Did you join AA or something? I seem to remember that a night getting wrecked used to be one of your favourite regular pastimes.’

  David paused, drawing in his breath. He hadn’t anticipated this but they would have to know sometime. ‘Mmm, it sure was,’ he said. ‘But I had to give it away. You might as well know, I’ve got Hep C.’ He looked across at Mike. ‘You’d know what that means – stuffed liver, nausea, all the rest of that crap. I had to come home to see a doctor here, organise medication …’

  ‘Oh, my god!’ Caro said, putting both hands protectively on her stomach. ‘It’s not catching, is it? I mean, you won’t give it to the baby?’

  SEVEN

  Sylvia let herself in through the front door pausing briefly to ensure that Colin had, as usual on a Monday morning, left to do his hospital visits. She dropped her handbag on the bottom step of the stairs and wandered through to the kitchen, where the smell of burnt toast and cold coffee hung in the air. Evidence of Colin’s breakfast was distributed across the benchtop and the table; a multigrain loaf surrounded by breadcrumbs, the toaster with one blackened slice standing to attention, the coffee plunger with the still-warm grounds in the bottom, plate, knife and cup on the table alongside the butter dish and his favourite Oxford marmalade minus the lid. Even his chair stood as he had left it, pushed back from the table, jutting out into the centre of the room.

  Sighing, Sylvia covered the butter and the marmalade and put them in the fridge. She was about to move the plate and cup to the sink when she stopped herself. He could find it as he had left it. She imagined his shock when he returned at lunchtime and a tiny but satisfactory sliver of revenge was shaved from her dense store of anger and resentment.

  A fluorescent orange Post-it slip glared at her from the corkboard where they left messages for each other. ‘YOU MISSED KIM’S MOTHER’S DAY CALL!!!’ it shouted. Colin was a purist when it came to punctuation so the extra exclamation marks were clearly intended to be guilt-inducing. Sylvia sat down at her usual place at the table, taking in the clumsy domestic reproaches. It was, she thought, all pretty crass for a man who espoused sharing the domestic load and had, at times, even laid claim to feminist views generally. Was this the best he could do to punish her for her absence? Not very creative. She was sure she could do a lot better when the time came for dishing out punishment. But punishment wasn’t really what she had in mind – turning her back on the whole bloody lot of it was far nearer the mark. Now that she had told Bonnie and Fran about Colin’s infidelity, she would have to act, but she was still
no nearer knowing how to handle it.

  ‘No,’ Bonnie had said, shaking her head and reaching over to refill their glasses. ‘No way, you must have got it wrong, Syl. Not Colin, he’s a minister, and … they just don’t – ’

  ‘Bastard,’ Fran cut in, ‘the absolute bastard. Of course she hasn’t got it wrong. She saw them together twice, for heaven’s sake. What would you have thought if you’d seen Jeff – ’

  Bonnie gasped and clapped her hand across her mouth. ‘He wouldn’t have, he just wouldn’t … Fran, how could you suggest … ?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Fran flushed. ‘Sorry, that was stupid and insensitive, of course not, but you see what I mean? Of course Sylvia hasn’t got it wrong.’ She turned to Sylvia. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Sylvia shrugged and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Packing a bag and leaving is looking very attractive but it’s not that easy – nowhere to go, no income, nothing belongs to me. The week I got married my mother gave me advice about keeping a separate bank account and I was shocked at the idea. Wish I’d taken her advice.’

  Fran nodded. ‘I know what you mean. It would have been like you expected something to go wrong. Anyway, you have got somewhere to go, you can come to me. Even with David home I’ve got plenty of space.’

  ‘Or you could come here, ‘ Bonnie volunteered. ‘I know Mum wouldn’t mind, and she’ll be away for ages.’

  Sylvia looked around the kitchen and wondered what Colin had been thinking when he left the note and the breakfast mess. Had he intended her to feel guilty about staying away overnight? Did he feel guilt about his infidelity, his dishonesty, his deception? In view of his own misdemeanours, discretion and generosity might have been a more diplomatic response to her unscheduled absence. She was still overwhelmed with the longing just to get up and walk away, to avoid painful discussions and arguments about what had happened and why. Independence beckoned enticingly but it was a mirage that evaporated each time she tried to focus on it.