‘For God’s sake, Denise! Just a –’
‘And I’m not putting your dinner in the oven. Ever! Do you hear?’ Difficult not to. But I know what the trouble is. Her bloody dad; all those burnt remains thrown at the wall week after week.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘If that’s what you want. I was only trying to help.’
But I can’t help. Not any more. Once, I could make her laugh. I could comfort her, and she was grateful. Now, everything I say is wrong.
The baby business started it off, I suppose. I didn’t think she’d be keen, after what she’d been through. I thought that was the point of getting married – to get her away from all that family stuff; liberate her, give her new experiences. God knows I tried. But every month she was there with the calendar, doing the calculations, then crying in the lavatory when she came on. Of course it was my mistake, not taking it seriously. I used to tell her it was ‘early days’. I used to say, ‘let’s enjoy ourselves a bit first’. But she’d look at me as if I’d hit her.
I got to dreading it every month when she’d come to me red-eyed, holding a hot water bottle to her belly, saying she wasn’t going in to work: ‘It hurts too much.’ I don’t know what was worse, those awful days when I felt so useless, or the ones that came after – when she’d put on her night clothes as soon as we finished supper and turn off the telly with a meaningful look. She’d pull me off the sofa and rush me upstairs like we had a quota to meet. I didn’t always feel like it, to tell you the truth. I wanted to have a drink or two, watch the sport. Not get all hot and bothered at eight o’clock at night. And she was so bloody intense that it was difficult to get in the mood, in spite of the heavy doses of Obsession and the lacy underwear. And as time went on, she got so anxious and tight, she would hardly let me inside her. And then she’d wince and dig in her nails, and I’d shrivel up completely.
After a while she gave up work and took to lying on the bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling, not saying a word. Every evening I’d sit downstairs on my own, propped up on the settee with her brick-hard scatter cushions sticking in my back, just waiting for a movement, some kind of sound from above. I’d watch everything on the box, any kind of rubbish, and read the paper till it nearly fell apart. But she never called to me, never came down. Eventually I started to nip down to the pub for a breather, to speak to somebody who’d bother to reply. She started to say I didn’t care. I started to wonder if I did.
Now we only snipe at each other. For some reason, the whole thing’s my fault. I don’t know – perhaps it is. Perhaps I shouldn’t have married her. Feeling sorry for her wasn’t enough. But in the early days when she used to lean over my desk with that pile of unnecessary filing and that terrible need in her eyes, I thought I was the one who could make her happy.
I sit at the kitchen table contemplating an Apple Pie For One. I can hear her getting ready upstairs. I can hear the floorboards creak in the lavatory just above me. Now the flush. Now the stomp across the landing. Now the wardrobe door and the jangle of wire hangers. Now silence, while she gets into her dress, wriggling and grasping for the zip.
I open the packet and take out the pie. It smells stale. The apple filling is smooth and boiled-down, like jam. Cheap jam, too: all sugar, no fruit. But I’m hungry, so I’ll eat it all the same.
Now I hear the sound of the dressing-table drawer, the one that sticks and then comes free with a jerk, sending all her little bottles rolling around inside. She’ll be sitting in front of the mirror, now, staring at her face, thinking she’s too pale. Then on it’ll all go – basecoat, topcoat, gloss varnish, the lot. She’ll be stretching her face in all directions, opening her mouth to do her eyelashes, munching at a tissue to wipe off her lipstick, brushing and drawing and painting until she’s satisfied.
I eat my pie in silence.
Now she’s up again. More stomping, harder this time with her heels on. Bang of the wardrobe door. Twice. Now the bedroom door opening: ‘Has she come yet?’
‘No.’ I finish my tart, throw away the foil dish. Open the fridge.
She’s in the lav again. Another flush, hiss of aerosol, thunk of bolt. ‘Isn’t she here yet?’
‘No.’ I close the fridge.
I don’t know why she gets so worked up. It’s only a lot of women.
* * *
‘You don’t like me going out, do you?’ She’s come down, looking at herself in the hall mirror, combing her hair. Parting it first one side then the other.
‘Rubbish.’
‘I know you don’t.’
‘Then you know wrong.’
‘But you like to go out. Why shouldn’t I go out too?’
‘No reason.’
‘It’s only for a couple of hours.’
It’s usually much longer than that, but Denise has an elastic notion of ‘a couple’. I say: ‘I don’t mind. Enjoy yourself.’
‘I suppose you’ll be off to the Buccaneer the moment my back is turned.’
‘Maybe. Just for a couple of drinks.’ My notion of a couple can be just as elastic.
‘You know, you never ask.’
‘Never ask what?’
‘What we’re going to do. On Fridays.’
‘None of my business.’
‘Aren’t you curious?’
‘I can cope with the burden of ignorance.’
She throws down the comb. ‘There you go again!’
I suppose it’s silent sarcasm, but I don’t have to defend myself because the doorbell rings. It’s Gill. She steps just inside the door. Reluctantly, as if the house might contaminate her. She’s very tall and has a very loud voice, which she uses all the time. It always makes me feel exhausted just to listen. Not that I do. But Denise is obsessed by Gill’s ideas. She’s always into some new therapy or other. One week it was a completely raw diet – sunflower and pumpkin seeds. We couldn’t even eat bread. Luckily Denise didn’t like it any more than I did, and we were back to cold meat salads in a trice. I don’t think Gill could have stuck with it either because they all went for a carvery two weeks later. Roast beef or turkey with a choice of six veg. Traditional veg, that is.
Gill ignores me. ‘Okay?’ she says to Denise, jingling her car keys.
‘Hello, Gill. How are you keeping?’ I wave to her from the sitting-room door with a can of beer I’ve just opened.
‘Fine, thanks.’ She can be terse when she wants to. But after the door is closed I can hear them both laughing. Gill’s telling some anecdote. I can’t hear the words, but I can imagine the sort of thing she’s saying. I hear the car door slam.
I hate being alone in the house. My day crowds in on me. I don’t know why I go on doing this job; it’s the same thing over and over again. You’d think they’d come up with something original, but I could tell you what’s on the bloody forms before I look at them. The boyfriend who smashes the place up. The husband who spends all the giro. The ex-lover who breaks back in and nicks the furniture. Slashed mattresses, water pipes pulled out of the wall, injunctions, robbery, violence, money for crime. I don’t know how they get themselves in this state. It depresses the hell out of me. So I think I’m entitled to the odd drink. It’s not a lot to ask.
I generally go to the Buccaneer. There’s usually someone I know. Mostly it’s Nick. He’s an estate agent – or rather an estate agent’s lackey. Shows people around houses, that sort of thing. Nothing major league. He’s talking about his wife, as usual. He hates her, and makes the mistake of thinking the rest of us are interested. ‘She wants me to be there while she paints her flaming nails. Or chats to her bloody friends on the phone for hours. I’m not having that, Phil. Understand me? Understand what I mean?’ Nick’s a bore. And a drunk. I don’t know why I put up with him. I order a couple of whiskies and settle down for the night.
I’m a bit drunk myself when I come home. I admit it. And it’s a bit later than I intended, too. Denise is back. The light’s blazing from the bedroom.
She’s lying fully dressed on top of the duvet, shoes halfw
ay across the room. She’s staring up at the ceiling. She looks particularly small and thin.
I drape myself casually in the doorway: ‘Had a good time?’
‘Thank you. You have too, I see.’
Not-so-silent sarcasm from the little lady. But I let it pass. ‘Only so-so, as matterafact. Got stuck with Nick. Impossible to get away.’
She stares at the ceiling. ‘It’s his wife I feel sorry for.’
‘Naturally.’
She turns her head to look at me. ‘What do you mean – naturally?’
‘Because – bless her – she’s painting her fingernails to the bone to keep a decent home for him, and he’s a soak, a lush, an alky. Nuff said.’
She sits up, gives me one of her stares, the sort where she tries to work out if I’m being funny. She can’t decide. She lies back. ‘Some people feel sorry for me.’
I suppose she’s been on about the baby thing again, drumming up some sympathy from the Sisterhood. You’d think she’d let it rest. ‘Never mind, petal. Take no notice.’
She seems to be expecting something more. I smile, try: ‘Just forget about ’em. Don’t know what they’re talking about. You’re okay, Denise, you’re okay.’
‘I know I’m okay. It’s not me that’s the problem.’
‘Oh?’ I’m not really following her now. I can see she’s upset, though. I need to take it carefully. It’s easy to make a mistake in situations like these. Delicate situations. Delicate – things. My head feels blurry.
‘You know what I mean. Please don’t pretend.’ There’s a childish wobble in her voice that reminds me of how she used to be. When she used to tell me about her dad and all the quarrels and how she couldn’t bear being at home. And I would listen to her. And put my arm around her. And protect her. I want to protect her now, to love her. She’s rolled away from me, now. I can see her dress is undone. The long zip is open all the way down her back. I can see the whiteness of her bra, the top of her pants.
‘Denise. Sweetheart –’ I try to move forward, but the room has become suddenly treacherous. I have to hold on to the dressing table. The bottles and jars rattle. My fingers are sweaty on the kidney-shaped glass that covers the surface.
Her back’s still turned. Her voice comes out flat. ‘Gill’s right. Every bit of my life’s been ruined by drink.’
‘Oh, bloody brilliant. As if you needed telling. Didn’t you say she’s a bit slow off the mark with her amazing insight?’
But I don’t understand this ‘every bit of my life’ angle. After all, it’s in the past. Denise is over all that now. Well over. Last time she even saw her father was at our wedding – when he’d grabbed at every passing sleeve to say how ‘bloody, bloody beautiful’ she was, before falling under the bar stool for the duration. She hasn’t spoken to him since, thank God. And Denise, bless her, never drinks, except for silly little things like shandy. Or Babycham. So Gill’s just making trouble.
I start towards the bed. I want to make her laugh. ‘Never mind, Denise. You’ll be all right, petal. Babycham doesn’t count.’
But she doesn’t laugh. In fact, I think she might be crying. The sound’s muffled by the pillow but the bed’s shaking. Her shoulders are shaking too. She’s looking tiny and childlike.
I want to hug her, make it better. The bed looks a long way off but I think I can make it. Once I’ve got her in my arms it’ll be all right. ‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘You don’t need to worry.’
‘You don’t understand.’ Her voice is thick; she’s definitely crying. All this talk has brought it all back. I’ll have to speak to Gill, tell her to lay off. Explain that Denise is very vulnerable where drink’s concerned. And she gets things all mixed up. Like now. She’s murmuring, ‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’
‘Well, who else then, sweetheart? It’s not as if we had any –’ I hear the quick hiss of indrawn breath. Bit of a mistake to bring that up, specially this time of night. But it’s too late. I see her shoulders tense.
She turns on me. ‘Between you and my dad, it’s a good thing we haven’t got any kids.’
I stare at her. She has got it so wrong. ‘Look, I may overdo it sometimes – but I’m not an alcoholic, for God’s sake!’
‘Nobody ever is.’ Her mascara is smudged, streaked down her cheeks. Her panda eyes look ridiculous with her blond hair. ‘How many have you had tonight, for example?’
I can see where she is going wrong. Tonight wasn’t typical. Not typical at all. That’s where she’s making her mistake. She just can’t compare me with her father. There’s a world of difference; she needs to get that straight. I tell her: ‘Not all that many.’
She continues looking at me, so I give in a bit. ‘Well, perhaps a few more than usual. You know what Nick’s like. Won’t take no for an answer.’
‘Shorts, I suppose?’
‘A coupla whiskies. So what? Nick was paying. You know what he’s like.’
‘I know what you’re like.’ The same old record. She turns away again, wipes her eyes on the duvet cover, leaving black smudges on the pink candy stripes. ‘They all know.’
This is a new one, a new development. ‘All who?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘All who?’ I’m beginning to get annoyed. This is typical of Denise. She starts things, then goes all silent on me.
‘They all feel sorry for me. The way you carry on. Arguing and drinking.’
I get it. The bloody Sisterhood. They’ve got their knives out, as per usual. Nick, me, any poor bloke in their sight’ll cop it. Oh yes. I don’t know why I let her go out with them. Poisonous bitches, the lot of them.
‘What do they know about it then? Unless a certain little birdie has been flitting around saying a whole lot of things she shouldn’t?’
She laughs. Her lipstick is all smeared, like jam against the pale pastry of her face. ‘Lies! That’s a good one. The girls don’t need me to tell them anything about you. They can see it for themselves. You’re a drunk. A self-righteous, self-pitying, and depressive drunk – that’s what Gill said.’
I see Gill saying it. They’re just her kind of words. And I see the rest of them, heads together, mouths opening and shutting like some bloody chorus. I’m enraged. I’m incandescent: ‘That’s nice. That’s bloody nice. So they think they know me, do they? Think they know what makes me tick? I’d like to have them here. I’d wipe the smile off their bloody faces. Who do they think they are, bloody Gill and Co., some kind of bloody psychol-ologists?’ I have difficulty getting the word out.
Denise laughs again. ‘There you are! Can’t even talk properly!’
She lies there on my bed. In the house I pay for. In the dress I bought her. Laughing. She has no right to laugh. A skinny, panda-eyed woman who can’t cook, can’t have babies, won’t have sex. What kind of woman is that? She’s making a fool of me, I can see that now. It’s gone on too long. Far too long.
I lurch towards her, tripping over her shoes, her stupid high heels catching on the shagpile. I kick them out of the way. She sees me coming and starts to scramble off the bed on the other side, dragging the duvet with her. But I’m there already. I grab her by the wrist and pull her back on the bed. She’s light, like a doll, like a dummy. Her dress is coming off. She’s starting to scream.
Afterwards, I’m sorry. I tell her that. I put her back on the pillow, wipe her eyes, stroke her hair. I love her really. I tell her that too, and she seems to be listening. Her eyes are swollen, but she seems to be looking at me. I keep telling her I just had one too many. I keep telling her it won’t happen again.
She doesn’t move but I think she understands. I think she’s smiling.
ROOM FOR MANOEUVRE
It was a single room – a servant’s room – up on the eighth floor in an unfashionable quarter. It was a very small room and very plain. I hated it. But Paris was expensive and it was all I could afford.
When I’d moved in I’d had plans for redecorating. Nobody, I thought, could live in so hideous a
room for long. High cold light came in from a high cold window. A large ornate wardrobe gave a semblance of style, but it had doors that refused to stay shut. The rest of the furniture was cheap and ugly – a narrow bed, a trestle table, a wooden chair, a cramped miniature cooker. Opposite the wardrobe, over the mantelpiece, was a small mirror. It was badly cracked, as if a former tenant, driven to despair, had savagely attacked it. The world it now reflected was jagged and prismatic and the face that looked back at me was disjointed and crazy. That object at least I felt belonged to me.
The facilities of the room were as limited as the furnishings. There was no basin, no tap. All water had to be collected in a tall enamel jug from the communal sink on the landing. The management had, however, provided me with a portable bidet so difficult to conceal that I gave up any pretence of doing so, using it as a prop to keep the wardrobe doors closed. But it was rather too light for the purpose, and at regular intervals it would crash to the floor as the doors returned to their preferred position obstructing the middle of the room.
* * *
When I’d got on the boat train at Waterloo two months before, I’d still been in the artificial high spirits which had buoyed me up since walking out of Gerald’s life. I was exuberant. I’d freed myself of two whole years of subjugation, of moulding all my thoughts and actions around one man’s desires and preferences. London was Gerald’s city: but Paris was mine. It was where I’d been happiest and where I’d first led an independent life. It was the obvious place to go. And there had been one of those moments of serendipity when it feels that Fate is on your side. A bursary had become available from the Photographic Society, and I’d got it with hardly any effort. I’d never done such a brilliant interview; never been so assertive, so confident. I’d convinced them that, given a chance to spend six months wandering the lesser-known streets of Paris, I would bring home a portfolio of pictures to rival Cartier-Bresson.
But all that manic energy had broken down once I’d arrived. I realized too late that it was one thing to be wretched; it was quite another to be wretched in a foreign city without friends. I lost my briefly acquired nerve and drifted into isolation – or what passed for isolation, because Gerald was always in my thoughts. I kept wondering if I could have acted differently if there had been another way out. I even asked myself if I’d been fair to him; if I had behaved unreasonably – high-handedly even – in walking out the way I did and not giving him another chance. I was in the right, I told myself. But every night I lay awake until the small hours, re-enacting that final disruptive scene, trying to give it a more satisfactory ending.
Lying Together Page 15
