“I’ve only read the introduction so far, I will get to it, I’ve been doing a little research that distracted me. Pamela Thing emailed me.”
She glanced at him, sharply. “Thing’s wife?”
“Ex-wife. Yes.”
“I can’t think of a benign reason to be e-mailing your former husband’s new . . . what is she, girlfriend I suppose—girlfriend’s former father-in-law.”
“It’s professional. She’s asked me to critique a paper she’s writing. We’re not former, Iris.”
“Oh, I know, I know. Christ, on what?”
“Orgasmic childbirth. I think she’s decided I exemplify everything she hates about the—what did she call it?—medical patriarchy, and so she wants me to comment and show her the holes they’ll all find when it’s published so she can plug them in advance.”
“Was ‘holes’ her word? She can’t be a very rigorous academic if she can’t find her own holes. Nor a very good gynecologist, now I come to think of it.”
“She said something along the lines of never being able to anticipate the sly ways in which the Establishment seek to quash the revolution—”
“Oh she didn’t! Does she listen to herself?”
“I assure you she did. I think I embody The Man. Because of the forceps.”
“But that doesn’t mean you actually have to do it,” said Iris, irritated. Philip’s acquiescence to the exploitation of others made her own dependence upon him less comfortable, and also less a mark of distinction somehow. “You can just say, ‘No, you crackpot, I’m retired.’ Also, it’s perfectly obvious to anyone with half a brain that there are certain moments a girl doesn’t want to be thinking about sex, and I need not tell you that childbirth is among them. Why does she think the so-called establishment should be hell-bent on depriving women of their right to orgasm during childbirth in any case? Actually don’t tell me, I really couldn’t care less.”
“I’ll send you the paper to read.”
“Please don’t.”
“She also said something about Gwen and the boy.”
Iris’s ears pricked up. “What boy? Gwen’s got a boyfriend? How unbearable that that busybody should know before we do. What did she say, who is he? Is he from school?”
“Not a boy, the boy, their son. Whatshisname. Nathan.”
They had drawn up outside the theater, where the bright bulbs of the awning cast a gleam into oily, puddled gutters. Iris paid for the cab while Philip set about the awkward business of clambering out of it—on the one hand easier than the low-slung seats of a normal car; on the other more challenging for the larger step down to the pavement. Iris managed to stay occupied until he had succeeded and had straightened up, restored to dignity, and then slipped her arm through his. They made their way into the heat of the foyer.
“What did you mean?” she demanded, when they had settled in their seats, picking up where they had left off after various digressions and excursions for programs, bathroom visits, procuring of reading glasses in order to see their phones clearly enough to turn them off, and some inquiries to ascertain in which bar Iris had booked the interval refreshments.
“She seemed to imply that there was some sort of romance going on between Gwen and her son. It seems rather unlikely.”
Iris stroked the glossy program that lay in her lap and considered.
“It’s horribly likely, when you stop and think,” she said, eventually. “You throw two teenagers together, curiosity and hormones flying about, and it suddenly seems obvious. They’re tripping over each other, it’s bound to cross their minds eventually.”
“You don’t think it’s true? Gwen’s such an innocent.”
“If it hasn’t happened already, we should warn them that it might, so they can head it off at the pass,” Iris whispered, as the lights fell. “Despite Julia’s best efforts, Gwendolen can’t be expected to remain twelve forever.”
17.
Sébastien Benaim was an obstetric consultant at the Homerton and his wife, Anne, a cardiologist at the Royal Free. Sébastien and James had worked together ten years ago when they were all new Londoners—James from Boston, the Benaims from Paris. The family lived a ten-minute walk away, on Hartland Road, a pretty terrace of ice-cream–colored blocks in whose front gardens the Camden Town revelers regularly threw bottles and cigarette boxes, or nightclub flyers in acid pinks and greens, or intermittently relieved themselves through the spear-headed railings. “If you live in Camden, you must ’ave many parties,” Sébastien had told James when he’d invited him for New Year’s Eve, “ozzerwise ze parties everyone else is ’aving will drive you crazy.”
They arrived late and the kitchen was hot and crowded; five or six people were already dancing rather drunkenly in the darkened living room. The Benaim children, a boy and girl of seven and eight, were in their pajamas and jumping together in a corner, giggling. Julia saw Claire, James’s registrar, crouched on the floor over a laptop, controlling the music. She was a poor and impatient DJ, and two-thirds of the way through a song would become enthused about her next selection and abruptly replace mideighties singalong Madonna with harsh-edged euro electronica, or a sensual R&B anthem with the title song of a Disney movie. It was loud, and even in the kitchen people shouted at one another to make themselves heard. It was a real party, Julia thought, surprised by the stirring of pleasure and recognition within her. Not civilized canapés. Not dinner for three couples and a discussion of school policy changes and university application forms. A loud, messy, drunken, badly behaved party. The copious wine was excellent. Curls of smoke drifted in from the small back garden; a fat spliff circulating around a circle of cardiologists. The music grew louder. I am not old, Julia reminded herself, and found herself smiling, happy she’d dressed up, happy she’d thought to wear makeup, and to pay attention to her hair. She grinned at James, who grinned back, buoyed by the same remembered freedom. He handed her a champagne flute from the kitchen counter.
“And the best part is,” he said, continuing a wordless exchange aloud, “that they’re busy, they’re apart, and we don’t have to lay eyes on either of them till at least lunchtime tomorrow. Prosecco?”
Julia nodded and held up her glass; they were toasting their liberty as Sébastien came over to them and put an arm around each of their shoulders. After a decade, he retained a preposterously extravagant accent. “’Ow are you, James?” He slapped him heartily and turned to Julia. “I love zis man. ’E made me laugh every day. Now it is dull wizout him. ’Ow is the eye chlamydia? You did not know that James as ‘chlamydia of the eye,’ but ’e does, I am convinced of it. One of the best moments of my whole life was in ze operating room,”—James, too, was laughing and shaking his head, covering his eyes with both hands—“when zis man decided to operate on an énorme Bartholin’s cyst wizout glasses.” He mimed a fountain, or explosion. “And whoosh. Pus in ze eye. Even ze poor patient she was laughing at ’im. Such joy, you brought us all. It was a sacrifice, you know?” Sébastien nodded approvingly at their full glasses and excused himself, just as Claire bounced over.
Julia had met her in passing several times before, a slim, Chinese-American woman in her midthirties with short-cropped hair and a large diamond-and-ruby cocktail ring slung on a chain around her neck. This evening she was in a pair of black leather pants and high-top white sneakers, and looked, Julia thought with envy, about twenty-five. She kissed Julia and high-fived James. Julia noticed that Claire’s nails were painted with a sparkly black polish Gwen would have loved. When did I stop wearing nail polish? Julia wondered, watching the tips of Claire’s fingers flash prettily as she gestured. Why? The idea returned as if from another lifetime, together with a memory of admiring her own hands as they moved, claret-tipped, across the piano keys. Gwen would howl with laughter at the very thought of her mother so adorned. Can anything make a woman feel more ancient than her own teenage daughter?
“When did yo
u guys get here? You missed Rebecca and Sam; they were going to another thing. You need to get Rebecca to tell you about the amniotic band we had the day before yesterday, I can’t even. It fell off. On the floor. I’m going back, this music’s terrible; I’m saving Guns n’ Roses for later”—she pointed at James—“we’ll get the whole disco break crew.”
“What’s an amniotic band?”
Claire gave Julia a dark look. “Truly—in this case, don’t ask.”
“I’ve just been hearing about eye chlamydia, I’m not sure it can be worse.”
“Oh yes, but luckily your man is the world’s only known sufferer. No one he’s taught ever forgets glasses when they go near a Bartholin’s cyst now; it’s truly a cautionary tale. James is the only consultant to admit he’s fallible; the others are too grand. Or too weird,” she concluded, and then handed Julia the bowl of strawberries she’d been holding and returned to her station on the floor. The song changed again, and there were whoops of appreciation from somewhere in the dark depths of the room.
It was different to be at a party together. Almost immediately they were pulled apart by conversational tides but she could look across at James and recall the stranger he had been, not so long ago. She talked to his friends and felt his eyes on her and stood taller. She saw Claire say something and laugh with her whole body angled toward his, her hand for a moment on his forearm and thought, That man chose me. It seemed impossible good fortune. She alone would go home with James and, for tonight, there would be no children, no drama, no competition. Just the two of them, the way it had never been at the beginning. Second relationships are starved of precious, nourishing solitude, and second couples must snatch for it with jealous determination. They cannot put themselves first, but must not put themselves last. We will, she resolved, try harder to be alone.
Julia felt a hand on her waist and suddenly James was beside her. His eyes were bright. He took her wrist and led her down a corridor and into a dark spare bedroom, in which coats and bags were piled. James pushed the door closed, and pressed Julia against it.
“I missed you.” His hands were moving beneath her skirt. “Don’t run away with a boring cardiologist. Be with me.” For a moment his mouth was at her throat, but the door behind them began to open and they sprang apart. His eyes glittered at her in the darkness.
It was Claire, apparently amused to find them there. “Just getting lip balm from my bag, don’t mind me, lovebirds. Just so you know, it’s almost midnight.” She rummaged in the pile of coats for a moment and then was gone, closing the door rather pointedly behind her.
Alone, they remained apart, looking at one another.
“We need to behave,” said Julia softly, with regret.
“I don’t want to behave.” James took her hand in his. “Let’s go home.”
From the living room they heard the sound of a countdown. Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! This would be the year. She would learn to be assertive with her daughter, she would fight for time and space with this man whom she loved so fiercely; at half term they would send Nathan to America and leave Gwen with Iris and they would book a holiday just the two of them. Six! Five! Four! A fresh start. No more guilt. She would remember that she was allowed to be happy. Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!
• • •
ACROSS LONDON, Gwen was waiting for a night bus. She had spent the early part of the evening with Katy and two other school friends at a pizza restaurant on Haverstock Hill. At ten thirty, Katy’s mother had arrived to take them all back for a sleepover and to see in twelve o’clock armed with ice cream and Maltesers, and cans of sparkling apple juice that Katy’s father would later decant into champagne flutes for them, thereby mortifying Katy. Gwen, as arranged, had hidden inside the restaurant.
After the car had pulled away Gwen had tugged her hood over her face and walked down the hill to Belsize Park tube station, where she’d got the train to Waterloo, an unexpectedly exhilarating adventure. She had never before been allowed to go out on New Year’s Eve. Her mother would argue she was not yet old enough now, but in the last days Julia had proven that she knew nothing about her daughter, her needs or principles, and no longer cared to pay attention. She was too busy with her own repulsive romance. And it turned out that there was a camaraderie in London on New Year’s Eve, a carnival air on the Tube encouraged by the jovial announcements of the driver, and the makeup and glad rags and mounting anticipation of the passengers. Gwen could not know this would later sour into a less benign atmosphere, a bright-lit, bristling tension charged with disappointed hopes, too much alcohol, furious energy as yet unspent. In this same train there would be fights, and sobs and jeers, and possibly vomiting. But for now, while the night still held promise, all was celebratory. The mayor’s drinking ban was openly flouted. A man in a rhinestone-studded denim jacket and gold sunglasses played music. In high spirits and higher hemlines, a group of girls at the other end of the carriage called out song requests and one, beneath a towering, backcombed beehive, stood up and began to gyrate around the central pole. Gwen smiled to herself, and was rewarded with a fleeting grin from a woman who sat opposite, in the midst of applying her mascara. The plan was going easily, and well. Julia, who had dropped her off and had chatted to Katy through the car window before disappearing to her own, private, exclusive and excluding plans, would never learn that Gwen was spending the evening with Nathan. Last year Gwen and Julia had shared pizzas from the same restaurant and watched Calamity Jane till midnight. It was amazing how much her mother, who had once known everything, did not know.
Since the discovery on Christmas Day, the household had moved together through various phases. Acceptance would follow, Nathan had asserted, since they’d dwelt so exhaustively in rage and denial. He was waiting out his father’s disappointment as if it was a rainstorm and he happily settled in the window of a café with a newspaper and a hot chocolate, nowhere special to be. The squall would pass and he would venture back into the pale, clean-washed sunshine. He would be forgiven—had probably been forgiven already. Gwen felt less secure. Julia’s immediate fury, though it had been startling and uncharacteristic, had turned out to be the easiest to navigate. Gwen was accustomed to her mother’s fierce devotion and so her mother in a fit of violent feeling was, at least, feeling violent feelings about her. In the quiet isolation of late December, that pocket of slow, padded time between Christmas and New Year when families turn in on themselves, hibernating, or festering, Julia and Gwen had been forced by sheer exposure to return to a superficial approximation of normality. Julia’s temper cooled to chill disappointment. The household had grown steadily calmer, but the unaccustomed rift between mother and daughter remained in place. Gwen had no choice but to cleave tighter to Nathan, and to stand resolutely by her choice.
The bus came, bright and busy, and from it poured a steady stream of revelers. Out came the tourists in plastic rain ponchos heading for set meals at chain restaurants booked months ago, online; she pushed her way on, her height for once an advantage, and a text from Nathan pinged through. Where RU? Don’t like you wandering the streets. Can I come get you somewhere? RU safe? She began to feel the rends in her cocoon slowly knitting back together. Wasn’t this growing up? Moving on, forging new bonds, and graduating into independence? If so, perhaps this desperate sadness and longing for her mother that she felt was usual, too, and would pass, in time.
On the bus, she wrote back.
Instantly he replied, Party’s long. I’ll meet you. Let’s go just us to the river, baby, can go later to Charlie’s. Bisous.
The parents did not expect them home (nor care, Gwen told herself, the taste of new, bitter cynicism on her tongue). She had said she’d stay with Katy; in her bag a pair of clean underwear, a toothbrush, sneakers for tomorrow morning, the contact lens case she’d painted with nail varnish rainbows. Nathan had told the truth: he was sleeping at Charlie’s with a mixed group of fifteen other school friends, only omit
ting the additional information that Gwen would join him. The night would offer little privacy other than that afforded by darkness and a sleeping bag but this, already, was an improvement upon the late-night tiptoeing and furtive anxiety of home. Around them would be other teenagers with sympathy, and romantic concerns of their own.
K, she wrote back, and then almost as an afterthought, for though she’d never told him, she knew he already knew, Love U.
18.
This time, Philip prepared by standing quietly to recall the name of James’s son in advance, as well as the name of the play that he and Iris had seen together when the subject had arisen, and the name of the current book he was reading, just in case. It was not possible to consider all contingencies, but with this cache he felt able to ring Iris and inform her, “I believe it’s true that a romance has begun between Gwen and Nathan,” with the easy, conversational flow of a late-night radio host. His memory was not getting worse, thank God. But, despite online Sudoku, it was not getting any better.
“Well I suppose it’s not incest.”
“Don’t be ludicrous, of course it isn’t.”
“Aren’t we relieved she’s finally having a romance of any sort? Perhaps there are wiser places to look for it, but since when have teenagers been known for their wisdom?”
“This is a little different,” Philip told her. “Imagine what will happen when they fall out.”
“Well, why should they fall out? What if it all ends happily ever after and we can throw the four of them a cozy double wedding in a few years’ time? One of Julia’s students can play the ‘Wedding March.’”
Philip sat down, heavily, in his armchair. “I don’t understand why you are being facetious about this, it’s your granddaughter we are discussing. It’s horribly inappropriate. And it will put terrible strain on Julia’s relationship with James.”
The Awkward Age Page 11
