“Do you think I’m that kind of man?”
“No.”
“I rest my case.”
She began to generate images, possibilities, in the way that a computer ages those suspected of past crimes. It was difficult imagining him without glasses. Perhaps greying hair, perhaps average build, perhaps average-looking. But what if he wasn’t like this? He could have become like a bloated and Hush Puppied politician. Would she like to have been pouring out her Brocklebank angst – her very soul – to someone like that? Or worse, what if he resembled an axe murderer – hollow eyed and bearded with a menacing expression? She had seen some very strange archaeologists on the TV. None of these things should matter, yet they did. Or at least they did during these first few months of reuniting.
Although he had mentioned meeting before going to Australia, maybe meeting would disappoint, would break the spell.
If he really did look like Pierce Brosnan, then that would be dire too. She didn’t want to be totally bowled over. She just wanted him to be B rather than C; B rather than Gruffit. A was dangerous. A’s thought they were God’s gift and wanted trophy girlfriends. But Gruffit would shatter the illusion. Gruffits were prone to dribbling baked beans down their beards or being malodorous or having stained fingers or rotten teeth. It would be hard to be friends with a Gruffit.
Marianne castigated herself for thinking this way, but she couldn’t help it. The packaging matters. It affects the way people are perceived. It creates pre-conceived ideas. A lot can be deduced from a person’s style and the way they speak. But is this right? Should these things matter at all? Marianne’s whole life had been blighted by early judgements on packaging. She shouldn’t care. She should shout loud from the rooftops that Looksism was destructive and damaging to psyches and to relationships; it was responsible for breaking spirits and shattering self-esteem.
Deep down she knew this would be a futile gesture for behind the media influence and social learning were genetic blueprints from thousands of years of evolution. What is beautiful is good was a well-known phenomenon in psychology and whatever the accuracy of the judgements, people continued to assess others using such doubtful criteria. Beauty equalled fitness for propagation of the species and no matter what the rights and wrongs of the attraction game, looks would always count for more than anything else in those whirling seconds of initial information exchange when a man and woman meet.
Perhaps meeting Edward would be a mistake.
23
Anticipation
Even before the date had been set, even before there was any certainty that a meeting would ever happen, Marianne felt anticipation that was probably greater than for any other encounter she had ever had in her life. It was a mixture of fear and curiosity, both enormous, but instead of cancelling each other out, their combined sum generated a mass of emotional energy that made her brain hurt.
There’s a huge difference between email and face-to-face. What if they had nothing to say? They’d already done Brocklebank and in any case, if all they had to say was in the past, then there would be no future. What if they just didn’t get on? What if the dance was out of time as it is with some people and you can’t say why. What if all the mailing, the weeks of thinking, of reminiscing, turned out to be a wasted investment?
Marianne played the meeting a hundred different ways in her head, but she couldn’t know. It was so long ago that they had shared a classroom, or a hockey pitch. Half a lifetime had passed since they sat together on the stage in the Hut at Brocklebank being photographed for the Times and Star, Marianne trying to have a girly chat, but Lydia being distant and monosyllabic. How often had they spoken before? Hardly at all; except exchanging lines in The Rivals, and perhaps when they were on the sweeping rota together.
Why did it matter so? Why did he matter more than any of the other men in her cyberspace? Was it because they had never properly known each other? They didn’t know if they could be friends; it had never had a chance. She wasn’t sure. She had arrived at a point where even without Lydia, the Brocklebank ghosts would no longer haunt her like they once did. She thought perhaps they could be friends. Friends who have shared a past are special. They know where you come from and what you were. There is no room for pretence, and true friends are so rare.
Then there was Johnny. If the contact with Edward were gone, would she be once again plunged into that world of negativity and jealousy? Would the new-found spark of confidence and second-youth vanish before the patterns had been set? The whole business of finding Lydia distracted her, and her preoccupation with something other than Johnny’s drinking seemed to have changed his way of being.
But beyond all the logic, it mattered for reasons she could not say and did not know. It mattered because it always had and she didn’t know why.
Johnny was still being nice and attentive like he used to be before Charmaine came on the scene. He seemed to love her again, but Marianne’s thoughts were often elsewhere. Sometimes she caught him looking at her, concerned, but he said nothing and nor did she. On the surface they were getting on better than they had done for ages. The rows had stopped and bed was fun again.
To: Marianne Hayward
From: Edward Harvey
Date: 11th February 2002, 21.12
Subject: Re: Saws, shovels and uneducated Russian peasants
I sometimes do have spare time. Will let you know… Edward.
Marianne read this and her green eyes turned misty-bright and dewy. The winter had not yet released its grasp and yesterday the snow transformed her world into an arctic white-out. She imagined meeting Edward on such a day. Being muffled up against the cold in long black coat and multicoloured scarf, with melting snowflakes in her hair and eyes sparkling with emotion for a long-lost time where together in the world of the Hut, they had embarked upon their academic life journey.
Should they meet on a railway station like in Brief Encounter but without the bubbling passion? It seemed like a good idea. Outside Boots’ the Chemist, or W H Smith’s; or by the information point, or at the entrance to Platform 5; or top of the escalator from the Tube. There are lots of very specific possibilities on stations.
She might tell him she would keep her hair loose, as that would make her more noticeable and that it was shoulder length and darkish brown – perhaps with flecks of grey depending upon whether she had dyed it lately. Should she carry a newspaper? Maybe a book to read in case she was early. Maybe a copy of The Rivals!
She’d never done anything like this before. Like a blind date, but not.
What would he tell her? Carrying a sign in big letters saying ‘Lydia’ would be appropriate. Nicely ambiguous to passers-by!
He’d be wearing a suit like hundreds of others, so that would be no good. He wouldn’t look like the Edward in her head and he wouldn’t be wearing glasses.
Or maybe she would meet him at one of the London colleges; slotted in between academic meetings with Professor this and Doctor that.
Would they greet each other like long lost friends with a hug and a continental two cheek kiss, or a formal handshake with British reserve? Marianne pondered this one morning as she was putting on her make-up to face her working day.
Perhaps she should offer both hands? Warmer than one, but allowing for distance, in their not-quite-there friendship. A formal peck on the cheek might follow if he looked approachable.
‘Hi Edward,’ she might say. Or was that too cyber?
She played with ‘hello’ and the Cumbrian ‘hiya marrah’ as she dragged mascara through her eyelashes, laughing to herself at the ridiculousness of it all. A lot could be gleaned from a mere hello.
‘Hello, how lovely to meet you at last!’ She blew a kiss at the mirror and brushed blusher on her cheeks. Very Roedean; very up-town girl!
‘Hello, Edward,’ was the most likely option, but what about emphasis? Should she be calm and formal, or excited and girlish? She would like to be warm yet sophisticated, but this just wasn’t her way. She was as l
ikely to trip over and land in a heap at his feet. Or worse, approach someone who wasn’t even him!
Or what about simply, ‘Edward!’
How brain tangling the confusion of alternative acceptable rituals in this twenty-first century world. It was too much. Far too much. She was overfull of sentiment and she would never keep it together. It would be a disaster and the end of everything.
In an instant there would be tone of voice, nuance, gesture and those deep dark eyes, Lydia’s eyes, that had once drawn her in ever-so-briefly to catch a glimpse of his soul. There would be three dimensions, clothes, the touch of palms, imperceptible scents, a soup of pheromones that may govern whether their friendship chemistry was right. They might stare at each other, embarrassed to do so yet compelled as they searched for some recognisable features from the past.
He would be super cool and composed. She would be just another meeting in a line of many. He would be brisk. No time for soft sentimentality when there were important archaeological discussions before and after. And he wouldn’t be sitting now as she was, looking at his face and thinking that thirty-three years of living had etched patterns that would shock someone who last saw you when you were eleven.
She would be all over the place in her head. Any sign of coolness would be mere pretence. But she did it every day at work. Convinced most of the world that she was calm and under control and not dancing on a knife edge between composure and chaos.
Just thinking these thoughts brought tears to her eyes. “Mad, menopausal woman,” she muttered. Then, “Hey, what the hell!”
Here she was, placing all the chess pieces on her own. White then black; move then counter move; Lucy and Lydia … But what if the white queen was taken unawares and she lost control?
Check mate.
Later that evening, after a busy day chasing up last minute pieces of coursework, she composed another email to Edward but decided not to mention anything about meeting. The ball was in his court now.
24
The Manic Life
It was a rare spring day despite February being barely half way through. In south-east London there was a sense of optimism. Magpies pursued each other with flashes of black and white wings and serious intent, and squirrels played chase along the fence tops. Coats had been left at home and workers walked lightly to the office unburdened by layers and all the trappings of scarf and gloves and hat.
The psychology room at North Kent College had half a wall of south-facing windows through which the sun gleamed with such intensity that blinds and curtains were drawn.
Marianne was pacing by the whiteboard, marker pen in hand, dressed in nothing more than a skimpy red t-shirt and black cotton skirt. But on the back of her swivel chair were a cardigan and a jacket, just in case. She was on form today. The teaching was going well. Students were interested in what she had to say.
“Electronic friendship is a comparatively new area of research for psychologists,” she addressed the upper sixth group that were covering the relationships module. “What do we mean by electronic friendship?”
Several hands shot into the air. She nodded at Ruth, a normally quiet girl with a long blonde plait, sitting halfway down one side of the horseshoe arrangement of desks.
Ruth cleared her throat. “Texting, email, chatrooms.”
“Yes … And also usernets,” added Marianne.
“What are they?” asked Sean.
“Star Wars Fans!” interjected Dwayne and the class giggled.
“Absolutely,” said Marianne. “Specialist groups who chat on the net. I’m sure you use these things more than me – well I don’t chat at all, except by email …”
The class smiled indulgently.
“In this computer-driven world, we can’t study relationships without giving some consideration to the people we meet online … So what is the key difference between face to face and electronic communication? Jason?”
“There’s a big difference. You can meet a girl face to face … drop one or two compliments and you can see her reaction, know what I mean?” Jason grinned exposing two rows of perfect white teeth. His eyes crinkled and two of the girls opposite started preening their hair.
Stanley added, “There’s only a certain extent a relationship over the internet or text messaging or on the phone can go, but personal face to face relationships …” He paused and the class looked at him expectantly, hoping for something scurrilous so that they could assess Marianne’s reaction and heighten their entertainment. He shrugged, refusing to be drawn further.
“But it’s good ’cos you can think about what you’re saying before you write it,” said Cate. “Just, say, you told them the most embarrassing secret of your life. It’s good you can’t see their reaction …”
“I don’t agree,” said Sean. “If I’m going to tell them a secret, I wanna see how they respond, yeah.”
Marianne continued: “What you’re saying is the body language is missing. Sometimes it’s good and sometime it’s a disadvantage. Nonverbal signals – or paralanguage – are often more important than the words themselves. If someone says you look nice to your face, you see their eyes and have an idea whether or not it’s genuine. Without the nonverbals, people can cheat … you can never be sure …”
“I hate that,” said Cate. “People lying … I had a friend once … When we were shopping and trying things on, she always said I looked nice, even when I knew it was so hideous. Now she’s an ex-friend!”
“How do you know if someone really likes you?” said Marianne.
“They tell you?” suggested Jason.
“Well, they might, but only if they know you quite well. You don’t usually say ‘hey, I really like you,’ when you’ve only just met someone, because that scares them. People don’t want to lose face. You don’t want to take the risk that they’ll think you’re being too ‘full-on’. Usually if we like someone, we first try to engage them in conversation, and then we look for signals – nonverbal signals – to see if they feel the same way about us.
“And if they don’t look at us much; if they don’t meet our gaze … perhaps turn slightly away … like this … or talk to you while constantly checking the environment in case someone more interesting turns up …” Marianne demonstrated by addressing Dwayne close by, but turning away, flicking glances this way and that in exaggerated movements.
The class began to giggle.
“Yes, obvious, isn’t it?” continued Marianne. “So we know we shouldn’t waste our time on that relationship! Best to sneak away quietly!
“Little kids haven’t learnt these rules. At primary school they’ll say ‘do you want to be my friend?’ When we get older we realise that in-your-face-rejection is tough. So we resort to subtle ways of finding out.
“This applies to friendships of all kinds, but is even more important in formation of more intimate relationships.
“So consequently, if you remove the visible person from the equation there’s room for misunderstanding. Even with phone conversations there is the opportunity to detect a certain amount of feeling from the tone of voice. But with email there is nothing.”
Even as she was saying this, Marianne thought of Edward. Her picture of him was still so very hazy and his voice no more than an ever-changing echo. So much was missing, but perhaps not for much longer.
She continued: “The sender may write in one tone, while the receiver may read in another. This is how problems can occur – particularly if the level of communication is more complex, or if there are attempts at humour …
“With internet communication, one of the ways of solving this problem is to use emoticons and fasgrolia? Shows you are ‘one of them’, like being in an exclusive club.”
Marianne turned to the whiteboard and drew a series of four emoticons.
:-))
“Happy,” the class chorused.
Marianne wrote Very Happy beside it.
“What’s that second one, Miss?”
:-o
&nbs
p; “Surprised,” said Ellen.
:-#)
“Swear word!” said Sean.
“Looks like someone with a moustache.”
“That’s right,” said Marianne.
“That’s not an emotion!” said Stanley.
“Where did you get these from, Miss?”
“Carol Vorderman’s guide to the Internet. I’ve researched this, y’know, it’s been done properly.”
*-)
“Black eye … shiner,” said Dwayne.
Marianne wrote ‘drunk’ on the board and the class collapsed into shrieks of laughter.
“There’s more common ones than that,” said Stanley.
“I’m purposely showing you the less common ones, because I know you know the common ones.”
“What was that other word you said Miss?”
“Fasgrolia … Fast-growing language of the internet using initialisms and acronyms.”
There were some groans and murmurings of “What?” and “Will you write that on the board?”
Marianne obliged. “I’m going to show you some examples in a moment … People I know … if I used this technique, they’d think oh dear, because my generation tends not to use them – unless they’re heavily into computers.
“FYI,” she continued, “IMHO, and FWIW, fasgrolia may avoid offending people, but it’s … well … it’s …” she paused, conscious that she might upset or offend someone in the class.
Naomi came to her rescue. “Geeky!”
There was a sudden chatter of agreement and disagreement and Marianne had to calm them down before she could continue.
Cate said, “When I talk to my friends on msn messenger, they say something funny and I put LOL, but I don’t really laugh. It’s just something you put as a response.”
“To maintain good relations,” suggested Marianne.
“Yeah, like a smile.”
Marianne continued: “So what kinds of people are more likely to form relationships in this way?”
“Sad ones!” said Dwayne.
“People who haven’t got families,” said Ayisha.
Meeting Lydia Page 16
