Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘I’m not really sure about all this,’ I say to Susan as
we collect our coats. But she doesn’t want to talk about meditation, she wants to talk about Charlie. She wants to
know would it be all right with me if she invited him to a film. ‘Of course it would. Charlie and I are just pals,’ I answer. ‘You and he would really hit it off. Remind me
to buy a packet of wholewheat spaghetti on the way home,
will you?’
But Susan is so busy talking about when she should phone
Charlie and what film they should go to that she doesn’t
remind me. So I have to add wholewheat spaghetti onto the ‘We Need’ list in the kitchen. The list that already
contains soya sauce, wholemeal flour, toilet paper, olive oil,
and Charlie’s most recent addition: love.
The collapse of my
marriage is taking longer to adjust to
than I’d thought. I was fine when I was slopping around
indoors, but now that I have to go out more regularly I find
myself assailed by sudden panics and deep despondency. For
example, as I take the bus to my word-processing course I feel
sure that I reek of rejection, and not just ‘Eternity’ – that’s th
e name of Charlie’s aftershave. I feel sure that all eyes see the forlorn crumpled creature that I am; not the bright brave
female I am trying to be. I fear meeting people I know, and
I have a serious dread of bumping into Cait Carmody.
It turns out quite a lot of people look like her, which is most
inconvenient. The mere sight of a back bearing long brown
hair makes me scurry across the street, or dart desperately
into a newsagents. Naturally this prompts further strange looks from people who recognise a haunted woman when
they see one. Sunny days are easier because then I can wear
dark glasses.
Another pressure is feeling I have to look good all the time
so that, if I do meet Cait Carmody, she’ll see instantly that
I am a person with a solid sense of my own attractiveness
and self-worth. Actually I’m not sure she’d have time to
study me too closely, because I might take a swing at her
with my handbag. ‘That’s for the “Artichokes Supreme” you bitch!’ I’d screech – because I can’t get over how she
could screw my husband and still regularly, and brazenly,
sit down at my dinner-table. I can’t quite forgive her for
all the hours I spent poring over Nigella Lawson’s recipes trying to do imaginative things with food, while she and Bruce did
imaginative things in bed.
I’m sure they were imaginative, the things she and Bruce
did in bed, and, who knows, they may have involved food
too. Not artichokes of course – most probably bananas or
cream. She’s frequently been cast in sensuous dramas that call for much writhing and moaning, so I know she’s not
inhibited. They probably even talked about me sometimes
while smugly spooned together.
Actually, when I think about this, cutting the sleeves off all
Bruce’s shirts and pouring paint over his new Volvo do not
seem like such bad ideas. When I think about this, I forget
the occasional strong temptation to return to my comfortable
semi and resume my detached marriage.
And yet, despite all this, I’m having lunch with Bruce
today.
It’s not lunch so much – it’s more a small act of revenge.
Bruce has been ringing up imploring me to meet him
‘anywhere – anytime’, so I’ve chosen this extraordinarily
expensive French restaurant and I’m going to order their
top wine and most expensive courses. I’ve been there once
before with him and some of his colleagues and I didn’t
really like it.
It’s the sort of place where people say
‘Très bien’, ‘Oui’,
‘Formidable’
and
‘Merci’
a lot, and then look frightfully
pleased with themselves. Though the Parisian waiters appear
most solicitous, you know that on some level their patience
is wearing thin.
There is one thing I like about the place though, and that’s the ladies’ toilet. Toilets were frequently places of refuge for
me when I went out with Bruce and his colleagues, and the one in the restaurant we’re going to today is particularly spacious and restful. Even though I was there over a year ago, I can still remember that it contained a number of comfortable upholstered chairs of the simple, trim, expensive variety, and a vase full of exotic flowers. The soaps smelt of lavender, and a large box of tissues in a container covered with raw silk was thoughtfully provided for prolonged bouts of weeping.
Still, there are some hours to go until lunch, and I’m now
sitting in a room on the second floor of a Georgian building near
Grafton Street
playing with my mouse. My mouse is small and
white and attached to a computer. I’ve learned that by moving it around and clicking it I can make the computer do all sorts
of interesting things. I’m currently using the paintbox mode and
drawing large yellow circles on the screen.
‘Please leave your mice alone,’ says our instructor, Mrs Riordan. ‘There will be plenty of time to play with them later.’
‘A big egg timer has just appeared on my screen,’ wails a man in a yellow jumper.
‘Well just leave it there, Eoin and it will go away,’ says Mrs Riordan. ‘I’ll explain all about the egg timer soon.’
This two-week course is for adults who want to learn about the latest office software, but it feels a lot like kindergarten. I think it would be fair to say that we have all, in some ways, regressed.
For example the woman with the bun strays into spreadsheets at every opportunity and then insists she ‘didn’t touch a thing’. And the mischievous-looking man with the ancient cord jacket – an aspiring journalist, I believe – is obviously attention seeking. He keeps reading the manual and asking complicated questions we’re supposed to get to on Friday. A g
irl with a stud through her left nostril says her mouse isn’t
clicking properly, and everybody at one time or another has
said the room is too hot or too cold.
Mrs Riordan has a large ruler which she uses to point
to relevant information on the flip chart, but as the class progresses she waves it about in a more ominous manner.
Apart from this she is resolutely cheerful, and even joins us
during tea-breaks.
Tea-break is, of course, the height of the morning and takes
place in a small room nearby. It is while I am guzzling down
my fourth digestive biscuit that Eoin, the man
in the yellow jumper, asks me if, one evening after class, we
might go for coffee together.
I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised because I have, after
all, taken off my wedding ring and we’ve had a couple of
conversations about greyhounds, which Eoin breeds. But
after nearly twenty years of marriage the realisation that I am,
in fact, being asked out on a date, stuns me into silence.
‘I’m sorry…maybe I shouldn’t have…’ Eoin mumbles
awkwardly, and I know I have to say something.
‘We could have a cup of tea together I suppose,’ I smile
warily.
‘Ah yes, I forgot you’re a tea drinker,’ Eoin beams. ‘When
will we do it? Tomorrow?’
‘Mmmmm – all right.’
‘Fine. We might go to a film too – afterwards.’
‘Maybe.’
Then I say I’d better dash to the loo before Mrs Riordan
rings her little bell. It’s not a loo to linger in. It’s full of stern
messages about not flushing sanitary towels and tampons
down the toilet. But I don’t mind.
I’m a bit late meeting Bruce for lunch. I was on time but
when I realised this I went into a newsagents and read
Hello
magazine for five minutes, and then I went to the post office
and queued up for a stamp.
Bruce has chosen a secluded spot at the back of the restaurant. He’s chomping anxiously on a bread roll and has poured himself a glass of wine.
The waiter, who’s already called me
‘Madame’
twice and
taken my coat, is now leading me towards the table in a swift, urgent manner. I loiter behind him, and then I have to speed up because I see he’s pulled the chair back for me and is waiting for me to sit down. As he shoves me towards the table, and my husband, I attempt a wan smile.
‘Hello Bruce.’
‘I’m so glad you came, Jasmine. I really am.’ Bruce looks
tired.
I pick up the menu. ‘I think I’ll have
“Crevettes Martinique”
for starters.
Crevettes
– that’s prawns isn’t it? And…’ I scan the prices…‘and
“Lobster Provençale
”
with…’
‘Put that menu down for a minute and look at me,
please.’
‘We’ll have to order fast because I’ve got to be back at my
computer course by 2.15.’
‘Computer course. That sounds interesting. I always said
you were wasted just looking after the house.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ I’m unfolding my napkin which is made
from thick linen and is very stiff.
‘Yes, I did Jasmine, but you obviously don’t remember. Still, that doesn’t matter now. What matters now is us.’
‘Anyway, I wasn’t just looking after the house. I was l
ooking after Katie, and you, and – and your bloody dinner
guests.’ I shoot him a venomous glance.
Bruce winces slightly and picks up the bottle of wine.
‘I hope you don’t mind but I ordered this already. It’s Chilean. The Chileans are making very good wine these
days.’
‘Good for them.’
‘Remember that time we went round the vineyards of
Bordeaux
and got completely blotto at that wine tasting?’
‘Mmmmm.’ I’m staring at a painting of a picnic in a forest.
The people have gone and the food is half-eaten. I really,
really, want to get up and walk out of this restaurant. Feelings
are exploding inside me like popcorn. I want someone to
hold and comfort me and say loving, reassuring things. If
I break down that’s what Bruce will do. He’ll say all this
wonderful stuff, and I’m shit scared because I’ll want to
believe him.
‘Jasmine!’ Bruce is getting irritated. ‘There’s really no point
in us meeting if all you’re going to do is say “Mmmm” and
stare into the distance.’
‘I wasn’t staring into the distance. I was looking at that
painting.’
Bruce glances at the painting then he says, ‘How are you, Jasmine?’ He says it slowly, emphasising each word, while
also trying to establish eye contact. I look at his mouth
and wonder at how such an innocent-looking orifice could
disgorge so many lies.