by Nesta Tuomey
I must stave off the moment, she thought, and had a desire to slap on the warpaint and shower herself with her most expensive perfume. Her stomach lurched queasily. She moved in the direction of the bathroom then stood, hovering uncertainly between thresholds. No, maybe not this time. She turned back and began to dress. In another few weeks the nausea would vanish, if the maternity manuals could be relied upon. Meanwhile it was a matter of keeping faith with this belief. Mind over matter. He, her husband, was always saying so. She had listened to him, meekly accepting his morning offering of tea and toast, his assurance that food was the best thing for her, before throwing up all over his convictions. Now with one eye on the clock she made-up her face and slipped a chain of safety pins into her bag for later on. Just in case, she told herself. Elevenses, followed by a snack lunch, would almost certainly mean having to let out the waistband by afternoon. So be it. She looked in the mirror and her suited image returned her pale nod of approval. She hurried downstairs.
There was a pile of complaints on her desk. Selena sifted through them, deftly separating the merely aggrieved from the ones which really meant what they threatened. She worked for an upmarket laundry which confidently guaranteed to restore grandmother’s mechlin lace wedding veil, pristine as on the day she wore it. Not for nothing they styled themselves the Palace Laundry. Inevitably there were catastrophes. Her job was to prevent lawsuits and maintain the company’s image as spotless as their linen. So far she had managed to keep the legal wolves at bay. It was a well-paid, demanding job and, when advertised, had attracted a lot of applicants. Upward of eighty. Really, she had been very lucky to get it, married as she was and barely thirty-five.
She placed the most pressing cases in a folder, ready for this morning’s meeting, and dictated three letters into the dictaphone. When she was finished, she felt again a surge of nausea. Pen in hand, she doodled concentric circles on her appointment pad.
On leaving school Selena had taken a business studies degree, spent three years with an insurance company gaining experience, and moved on to devote seven years to an investment bank, which repaid her efforts with rapid promotion and almost worked her to death. Six months after marrying Jimmy, finding it impossible to be top on both fronts, she had resigned. She sought and secured another job. Back in an insurance office, the pace less hectic, she felt she had come full circle. She would have stuck it longer than four years – she liked her colleagues and the work, processing accident claims, was interesting – but he regarded it a waste of her earning power and began again scanning the business columns. The styling of the laundry advert had instantly caught his eye. ‘Top Girl Wanted.’ He had worked on her application all evening, taking pains to strike the right note, seeing it as a challenge. It would have been different if he had allowed her answer it herself – she added one more circle and enclosed the lot in a triangle. A dart of annoyance pierced her nausea. ‘A sure thing,’ was the way he had put it, laying down his pen with a pleased grunt. And so it had been. After the first interview she had been swept along to another and then, the field of contestants having narrowed, yet another. They would have preferred a single woman, they said, but were so impressed by her reply, or rather his, that it was the clinching factor. She was offered the job. Was she planning on starting a family? They had delicately tip-toed around the issue until, receiving no help from her, they finally came straight out with it. Sadly her predecessor, they told her, had fallen down in this regard. Taking her cue, she had replied unhesitatingly that she hoped to make her career with the laundry, adding that children were very far from her plans, the very last thing on her agenda. This answer more reflected Jimmy’s state of mind than her own but, recognising what was at stake, she hadn’t faltered. If a career woman was what they required, that’s what she would be. So it was doubly mortifying to find, only three months after landing this plum job, that she was pregnant. It made a complete nonsense of all her assurances, she had never felt such a fool.
She thought she would slip out for something to eat, remembering accepting the weak tea but refusing the toast that morning. Better not risk fainting, she told herself, or in any other way attracting unwelcome attention. While she was contemplating a quick dash to the corner café her secretary came in. When she heard there was only three letters for typing she asked, ‘Is that all?’ but she said it unpleasantly, almost aggressively, as if she considered it hardly worth her while collecting the dictabelt. She was muddy complexioned girl with facial hair and some intestinal disorder which necessitated her spending an inordinate amount of time in the loo. Which made two of them, thought Selena wryly, conscious of her own impaired bladder.
She watched the girl’s rounded back disappearing into the other room and heard the resentful creak of her chair as she sat before her computer. A former employee of the laundry, Susan had been one of the candidates for the Top Girl job and now, Selena was convinced, not only guessed her secret but was awaiting the chance to step into her shoes. I am becoming paranoid, she thought. A cup of weak tea and a dry biscuit, she promised herself, and headed for the lift.
Her boss was already waiting there. ‘You haven’t forgotten?’ he said, ‘We have a meeting with the directors at twelve.’
She shook her head. She rode with him to the third floor and when he got out, pressed the ground floor button. As the lift sank, her stomach hopped sickeningly into her mouth.
At the last minute she by-passed the café and entered a pub. It had only just opened and the air was fresh and smoke-free. Standing at the counter, she was surprised to hear herself say,
‘Whisky please.’
‘Ice?’ the barman asked, slopping a wet cloth over the counter.
‘No ice,’ she replied firmly.
She retreated to a corner and sat down. When her drink was brought she took a sip and felt the liquid searing her throat. She unbuttoned her skirt and leant back. She was glad she had chosen whisky. Brandy was her downfall. It did funny things to her – or had done in the past. New Year’s Eve, out with friends (all those after-dinner cognacs, following on Auld Lang Syne) – fell giggling into bed with Jimmy and forgot to take her Pill. Into work next morning before she remembered. Of course she should have gone home to get it. Why hadn’t she? A meeting with the laundry solicitor, she vaguely remembered, some claim they were disputing over a ruined dress-shirt, allegedly sporting genuine garnet and pearl buttons. Too urgent to be put off. By the time she got home and double-dosed herself with oestrogen it was too late. Three weeks on, running late, feeling sick and ill, her breasts swollen and tender, she began to panic. They had recently signed the lease on a spacious new flat in a highrise apartment block. Never had they needed her salary more. She accepted all the blame – she had an exaggerated sense of guilt – and he agreed. He made it clear his disappointment in her was only marginally less than his displeasure at this inopportune confirmation of his virility.
She’d been upset, resentful, relieved by turns. She had an irrational, sneaking fear if she left it too late she might never conceive, or else, end up, withered and grey, a menopause mum. ‘Get it over with early while you’re still young and energetic,’ was her doctor’s off-putting advice. Like a dose of salts. But that was a male opinion and coming as it did after the horse had bolted, so to speak, didn’t really count, did it?
She and Jimmy had never actually discussed children but, with the growing trend amongst working wives for later and later pregnancies, it was assumed she would want it too. Her later attitude was ambivalent. Too soon or too late; neither was ideal. But without trying it how were you to know? ‘Selena,’ her mother once said, ‘Don’t tie up your life with small children. Make your career first.’ Selena had felt obscurely cheated. It was all right for herself, one of the forward-thinking modern young women to feel like this, but it was unflattering coming from her mother, as if having Selena and her four brothers had not been enough for her. She recognised the illogic of her thinking. Perhaps what she wanted was to have her cake and eat
it too. But then didn’t everyone? Some women seemed able to manage a career and children. They were the lucky ones, she thought. But perhaps all it needed was better communication between spouses. ‘I’ll do the ironing while you prepare dinner,’ or even better, ‘Let’s eat out tonight, darling.’
She no longer felt the gnaw of hunger. One whisky had done her so much good it seemed to call for more. Perhaps even a sandwich. She lifted her hand to the barman. The trouble was, she told herself, Jimmy had taken too much for granted. He wanted her out there, working like he was, yet opening the door to him in the evening on a waft of appetising odours. Well, of course, she had wanted the same but was more realistic about it.
Working all week. Late most evenings. Too tired to do much when she got in carrying the bag of groceries; at weekends catching up with the housework, tiredly chasing the dust while he was off playing squash. Later, joining him at the pub or restaurant, more usually with a crowd of their yuppie friends, where between yawns she tried to make intelligent conversation. All so much effort and for what?
The barman whisked away her glass and placed a fresh drink and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich in front of her. She nodded her thanks. Surely there was more to marriage than what had gone before, she thought. She had looked forward to something. Perhaps a gradual winding down, some leisure to pursue a more cultural life. What she had not been prepared for was going on exactly as before, as if nothing cataclysmic had taken place. Work, and more work. The new ring on her finger, their two signatures in the marriage registry, these were the only tangible proofs once the brief honeymoon, beginning mid-week and thriftily taking in the bank holiday, was over. No wild splashing out on a trip to the Costa Del Sol. No drop in standards, even for six days, to fly off to one of the – vulgar, as he viewed it – traditional honeymoon spots. Merely a rescheduling of appointments, a brief disruption of his working week.
Two whiskies, she mused and sipped, feeling faintly decadent. One for the stomach’s sake, the other for vitality. The glow spread. Was it, this tiny thing inside her, feeling it too? Up to this she had not thought of it as other than a blurry sickness. Now she pondered over it. Not fondly exactly, but acceptingly. By twelve weeks the foetus would be fully formed, so she had read somewhere, down to its tiny shell-like nails. A small miracle. The whiskey was making her sentimental. Also late for her meeting. She saw by her watch it was after twelve. Horrors! They would have started without her. She felt strangely unworried. Must be the whiskey, she thought, and got slowly to her feet.
Coming out of the dim interior into the bright sunshine Selena felt a surge of well-being. Her uncertainty and nausea were a thing of the past as she turned in the entrance to the laundry. She hummed as she got in the lift and ascended to the third floor.
Passing the washroom she felt an urge to spend a penny. Better pay a visit, she advised herself kindly, and went inside. Afterwards, she removed her jacket and began linking safety pins across her protruding belly. There was a sound of flushing water and her secretary emerged from a cubicle. She shot Selena a glance full of malice.
‘There were ten phone calls in your absence and the boss buzzed you six times,’ she imparted the information with her usual exactness for such things. ‘He’s about to blow his top.’ With a significant downward glance at Selena’s gaping skirt, she scuttled triumphantly past.
Selena met her eyes in the mirror. She looked flushed but curiously unflustered. I have woken up at last, she told herself. Jimmy would not have recognised her.
‘It is imperative,’ he had said, ‘To conceal your condition for as long as you can. I know it will be difficult but you must do your best.’
As he had said it was difficult, nay impossible.
‘Pad yourself out,’ he went on, ‘pretend it’s fat, anything to gain a few months.’
She had nodded and gone along with him. Until today when vanity, or resentment, had made her disobey.
When she was a teenager she had obeyed her father’s dictates, fearing patriarchal wrath. Later, as a newly married wife, she had striven to do Jimmy’s bidding, believing he knew best. And now? She left her skirt undone, it was more comfortable that way, and went into the boardroom.
They were all in their seats, waiting. She met their frowning glances calmly. She went straight to the point.
‘I feel you should know...’ she began.
She heard their chairs scraping the floor, their sibilant whispers as they consulted, foreheads together.
‘In the circumstances...’ they began.
She didn’t wait till they had finished outlining their proposal, which included a modest handshake – one month’s salary for every month worked. They hoped she would understand, they said, but they couldn’t continue to employ her. It had all been covered at the interview.
‘No, of course not,’ she said readily, as if in this women’s liberated age she could not have successfully battled her case, and went on out the door without looking back. My goodness, she thought, what would Jimmy say if he heard.
In a bookshop she purchased a book promising childbirth without tears and smiled brightly at the assistant as he took her money. In a haberdashery she selected a pattern and pink wool, asked for size ten knitting needles. Seated in a bus she opened the book and studied the diagrams with interest. At sixteen weeks the foetus, as they pointed out, was really quite handsome. Or should she say pretty? She was determined on having a girl.
She let herself into the flat and went into the bedroom. She took off her suit and with a nostalgic pat, hung it at the back of the wardrobe. She rummaged in the drawer for a tracksuit and pulled it on. From now on comfort came first.
Going into the lounge she stretched out on the couch and began to cast on stitches. At her elbow, a cup of hot chocolate. The flat door slammed. He was home.
‘Nothing wrong, is there?’ His expression was concerned.
‘No.’
‘Finished work early?’
‘You could say that.’
He eyed her covertly, gauging her mood. ‘Taking it a bit easy,’ he indicated her loosened garments, the steaming beverage. ‘Unusual for you to be home before me.’
‘I was fired,’ she said quietly.
‘What!’ He began to be perturbed. ‘You mean because of...’
‘They’ve offered me compensation.’
‘Well... he conceded doubtfully, ‘That’s something.’ He paced the room, came back to brood over her. ‘I suppose we couldn’t expect to hide it indefinitely.’ She said nothing. ‘Ah well,’ he sighed. ‘Not the end of the world.’ Still she said nothing.
‘You’re a bit down,’ he hazarded. ‘It’s only natural.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Take the rest of the week,’ he said generously. ‘Then we’ll start looking around. Don’t worry,’ he patted her shoulder. ‘We’ll get you another job before long.’
She stretched her toes comfortable. No, we won’t, she thought. Out loud she said, ‘Well that’s the way the cookie crumbles.’
‘Rotten luck,’ he sympathised. ‘You must be fed-up.’
‘Yes.’ She purled the last row and regarded her handiwork with satisfaction, ‘Too bad – but could be worse.’ She held the knitting needle between her teeth as she turned the page of the pattern, and mumbled, ‘Got to look on the bright side.’
The Mask
‘I think it’s worth pursuing,’ Michael said, as he climbed after Claire into the big London taxi and pulled the door shut behind him. ‘You have absolutely nothing to lose,’ he persisted, annoyed at her continuing silence.
Claire sat away from her husband wearing a slightly haunted expression. With her hair scraped severely back from her forehead her face appeared raw and exposed, stripped of glamour. In the throes of a skin disorder only the area about her ears was unmottled, startling white and unscarred by contrast.
Michael glanced his irritation. It was as though she took perverse satisfaction in looking her plainest, he thought. As the tax
i moved up Harley Street into the mainstream of early afternoon traffic, he said stiffly, ‘I would have thought you’d jump at the opportunity. I mean, this cosmetic stuff sounds right up your alley.’
‘I would like a little more time to think about it,’ Claire said. After a half-hour spent in the specialist’s consulting room, probed and poked, subjected to endless questioning, she felt reluctant to commit herself to any further handling, even in her own best interests.
‘Time is what we don’t have.’ Again there was that note of exasperation in Michael’s voice. ‘Have you forgotten our flight leaves at five?’ He was, she realised, often exasperated with her these days.
Let him, she thought resentfully. It was just like him trying to rush her into something. In their eight years of marriage it seemed to Claire that her husband was always impressing his will and making decisions for her.
‘Covers any mark no matter how appalling,’ he reminded her now in a fairly passable imitation of the specialist’s nasal tones. ‘I just don’t get it, darling,’ he frowned, ‘We hear about this marvellous cosmetic designed especially for your sort of complaint and you want more time to think about it!’ He sighed and drummed an impatient tattoo on the armrest.
‘I suppose it’s worth a try,’ the words were dragged from her.
‘I should think so. If it can do anything at all for you, it will be a miracle. You’re not exactly an oil painting these days.’ Then with that added touch of cruelty she had noticed in him of late, ‘In fact you look bloody awful, if you want to know.’
Tears misted Claire’s eyes and she glared savagely at the taxi roof to prevent them falling. Useless to say to herself, ‘I don’t care,’ or ‘What does it matter?’ As always Michael’s criticism attacked the very structure of her femininity, mortally cracking the already thin layer of self-deception so vital to her survival. Increasingly these days her precious self-image was under siege, crumbling with each downgrading remark he made. It’s a wonder he can bear to touch me, she thought in an agony of self-abasement, and it came to her with astonishing relevance that on the infrequent occasions they made love nowadays, it was always in darkness.
