Dee reached up to touch her blouse. “Thanks. I’ve had it for ages.” All her clothes were old; second-hand, mostly, bought from charity shops or passed on by more affluent friends. There was a woman who came into the vitamin agency who had taken to giving Dee the clothes that she no longer needed. This top came from her, she remembered.
“You’ve got good skin too,” Jo went on. “High cheekbones. My face is going to sag when I’m forty. God, I’m going to sag.”
“Not necessarily,” said Dee. “And your skin’s fine. I don’t see anything wrong with it.”
“That’s because you don’t live in it,” Jo retorted. “I know. You should see my mother. I’m going to be like her.”
“We’re all going to be like our mothers,” said Dee. “And we’re going to say the same things too.”
Jo shook her head. “Never.”
“We’ll see.”
NOW, ALMOST A YEAR LATER, Dee found herself in the kitchen making herself a pot of green tea when Jo came into the room, already dressed in the grey tracksuit that she donned for her regular morning runs.
Jo looked out of the window. “Nice day,” she said. “I’m on duty at the wine bar this evening, worse luck. But the day’s free. I’m going to do ten miles this morning. Then I think I’ll have a picnic with some friends. One of the parks.”
Dee thought that this was a good idea. She approved of exercise and took it herself, in theory at least. But exercise without a good diet was not enough. What was the use of pounding the pavements if one was deficient in selenium, or magnesium for that matter?
She poured green tea into her cup. “I’m working,” she said. “Saturday morning’s always busy for us.” They would be so busy that she would not have very much time to talk to Martin. But she hoped that she would be able to sit him down after lunch and discuss his colonic irrigation. She had planted the seed in his mind, and she wanted to get back to it because she thought that he was on the point of agreeing to it. If he did agree, then she was going to suggest that they do it the following day. Doing it on a Sunday would give him time to take the salts in advance and it could be done in a leisurely way. Their flat would be best—she did not fancy going all the way out to Martin’s house in Wimbledon or wherever it was that he lived with his parents, carrying all the necessary equipment. And what would his parents think? People were sensitive about colonic irrigation, largely because they had no idea, Dee thought, about what it involved and what the benefits were. If only they knew, if only they could see what could be flushed out of the system. She had heard recently of a man who had swallowed a marble as a child and had only now, at the age of thirty, had it flushed out of his system. Imagine having a marble in one’s digestive tract for over twenty years! She would have to tell Martin about that. Perhaps it would persuade him.
She was thinking about this when she suddenly heard an unfamiliar sound on the landing outside. “Is that a dog barking?” she said to Jo.
Jo frowned. “Sounded like it. But inside?”
There was another bark—louder this time.
“I’m going to take a look,” said Dee. “Perhaps a stray has come in. Eddie often doesn’t shut the front door. I’ve asked him. But he doesn’t care.”
She left the kitchen and went into the hall to open the front door. When she looked outside, it was to see William beginning to descend the final flight of stairs. At his side, attached to a leash, was Freddie de la Hay.
William, hearing the door open, looked over his shoulder.
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Meet your new neighbour, Freddie de la Hay.”
Dee stared at Freddie. How very strange. A dog with a surname. But it was Pimlico, after all, and one might expect anything to happen in Pimlico.
“How do you do?” she said.
Freddie looked at her. Was this woman addressing him? Perhaps he should sit, just to be on the safe side. People were always asking dogs to sit, even when there was clearly no need to. Freddie sighed, and sat. Life was complicated. And he had just picked up an interesting scent too. It came from downstairs. Very interesting.
38. At Breakfast
DOWN IN RYE, Barbara Ragg sat with Oedipus Snark awaiting breakfast in the dining room of the Mermaid Inn. They were at the same table at which they had eaten dinner the previous night. That had hardly been the romantic evening she had been looking forward to; she rather regretted, in fact, mentioning the Greatorex manuscript at all, as Oedipus had harped on about it for the entire meal, eager for every detail she could provide. It was an extraordinary story, she agreed, but not that extraordinary, particularly since she had a very strong suspicion that Greatorex had made the whole thing up. Of course there was no yeti, even if there were some puzzling unexplained sightings of creatures that could be the yeti. But there was always a rational explanation for these things: a trick of light, an error of the human brain, a misinterpreted shadow.
She found it strange that she should have argued for the existence of the yeti when faced with Oedipus’s scepticism; normally she would be the first to agree that we need evidence for our beliefs; she had no time for paranormal speculation, for wishful thinking. But in the face of his doubting—even if his doubt had rapidly turned to interest—she had defended Greatorex. Why? Because he was her author and that was what an agent should do? No, it was more than simple knee-jerk loyalty. It was something to do with the carapace of certainty that Oedipus Snark had about him. He was just so right, especially in his own eyes, and she wanted to puncture that. She had had enough.
The word “enough” can be potent. It can begin as a statement of dissatisfaction and rapidly become a call to arms. In the minds, or the mouths, of the oppressed it becomes the trigger of resistance, the rallying cry which signals the turning of the worm. Henry VI, Part 3, Barbara Ragg’s thoughts now turned to: “The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on / And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.” Well, she thought, I have had enough.
She looked over the table at Oedipus Snark, who was reading the newspaper. Then she glanced at other tables where other couples, husband and wife, lover and lover, friend and friend, were sitting over their own Saturday morning breakfasts. None of them had a newspaper, but sat facing one another, talking. In one corner, near the window, a couple actually laughed at something one of them had said, their eyes bright with mirth.
Enough.
She made the observation casually. “Something interesting in the paper?”
Oedipus shrugged. “Not really.”
Barbara felt her heart beating faster. She was fully aware of what she was doing. Her relationship with Oedipus Snark had lasted for two years. She had hoped for something out of it. She had hoped that he would give some indication that he was at least thinking of something permanent, something publicly acknowledged. She had hoped that they might get invitations headed “Oedipus and Barbara.” She had hoped that he might remember her birthday without being prodded; she had hoped for a few signs that she was important to him. But I am not, she thought. I am a casual companion, that is all; an incidental adjunct.
She drew in her breath. “Do you know that game that children play? Where they say, Would you rather be eaten by a lion or a shark? Or would you rather …”
Oedipus did not glance up from the paper. “What?”
“I said that there’s a game that children play,” she said quietly. “My nephew played it when he was ten. He kept asking me which of two options I would like.”
“Your nephew? The one who liked cricket?”
At least he remembered, she thought. Louis liked cricket, and Oedipus had talked to him about it. He had promised to take him to Lords one day because he knew somebody there and the boy’s eyes had lit up. Of course he had never taken him.
“Yes. Louis. Remember?”
“I remember him. Lewis.”
“Louis.”
“That’s what I said.”
There was a short silence. Then Barbara continued. “So,” she said, “w
ould you rather be with me or in the House of Commons? Do you prefer me or the House of Commons? Or how about this: Would you rather be on a slow boat to China with me or be elected leader of the Liberal Democrats? Or …”
Oedipus lowered his newspaper. “What’s all this?” he said.
Barbara reached for a spoon. She did not know why, but she reached for a spoon and held it firmly in her right hand, as if it were a weapon. With this spoon, I shall …
“I’ve had enough, Oedipus.”
The newspaper was now lying on the table, the corner of one of its pages dipped in the butter, which was soft. Oedipus frowned.
“Is there something biting you?” he asked, glancing over at the table nearest them. Women were impossible, he felt. They wanted attention. Attention, attention, attention—all the time. One could not even read the paper without them wanting you to talk to them instead. They were fundamentally unstable creatures, Oedipus Snark thought: demanding, critical, quick to take offence because one was doing something as innocent as reading the paper.
Barbara looked at him, trying to get him to look her in the eye. But he would not. His gaze moved away to the neighbouring table, to the ceiling, to the newspaper in the butter.
“I don’t think that there’s much point in our continuing to see one another,” she said. “I really don’t. You show no interest in me, you see? You don’t really care for me.”
She tried to keep her voice even, but it faltered as she spoke the words she had not spoken to him before. I only want to be loved, she thought. I only want what other people get, which is somebody who loves them. And I thought it might be you, and I was so wrong. I’m convenient to you, that’s all. You want somebody around you because you don’t want to be by yourself. But you don’t really mind who it is, do you? You don’t.
She stood up, nudging the table as she did so and causing Oedipus’s coffee to spill. It made a large brown stain on the tablecloth.
“Look what you’ve done,” he muttered. “What a mess.”
“You can get a train back,” she said. “You can get a train back or stay here all weekend and read the papers. I don’t care either way.”
He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “You do, you know. You do care,” he said, adding, “see?”
39. Barbara Ragg Acts
SHE PACKED through her tears. She thought that Oedipus would come up to the room, would follow her, would plead. And she might relent—might—if he at least apologised for his indifference. If he had said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Barbara, I’ve been under such pressure and you know how it is …” she would have dropped whatever it was that she was holding at the time and gone to look out of the window. And he would have come up behind her and put his arms around her and said, “Sorry. Really sorry. I think the world of you, you know that, don’t you? See?” And she would have turned and said, “All right. I know that you work very hard and that there’s a lot on your mind, but please try to think of me from time to time. Just a little.” And that would have been that; she would have stayed. But none of this happened, and Oedipus remained downstairs, indifferent, it would seem, to her leaving. Perhaps he had been in the middle of reading an article and needed to get to the end. Or perhaps he had not yet finished scouring the paper for a mention of his name; he did that, she knew—he did that a lot.
Her suitcase ready, she left the room, bumping her head on the low ceiling of the corridor outside. The Mermaid Inn had been in business for five hundred years—five centuries of providing for guests, through the rise and fall of an Empire, through poverty and plenty. Through all those years people had slept in these rooms, had bumped their heads on these very beams. The bumps had been less frequent in the past, she thought—through her sorrow—because people had been shorter then due to their nutrition, or lack of it. Although if you looked at the accounts of what they ate—when they were in a position to eat—you would have thought that at least some of them might have been taller. The groaning tables, of course, were not for everybody, and tallness in a population depended on an improvement in general nutrition.
She negotiated her way down a tiny staircase—too narrow, it occurred to her, for some of the better-nourished visitors from those countries where obesity had now become an issue. Not that we were ones to talk, she thought, with our couch-potato children fed on crisps and convenience food, children to whom a bicycle or a football were quite foreign, objects from a real world barely glimpsed, a world parallel to their virtual one. That young chef, the naked one, would be our salvation, if only people would listen to him. But the public was too narcissistic now to listen to anything but flattery, she reflected.
All these thoughts went through her mind because she did not want to think about what she had just done. She had walked out on Oedipus; she had brought their relationship to an end. And now, at the high desk in the hall, she encountered the quizzical look of the hotel receptionist. There was the bill to consider. Normally she and Oedipus shared the cost of their trips away, although he never offered to pay for petrol, instead remaining seated in her car while she went to the cashier. For a moment she was flustered, uncertain whether to ask the receptionist to split the bill in half. But the bill wasn’t yet finalised. If Oedipus stayed a further night, then there would be the cost of his dinner to add to it. And if he did not stay, would they still be expected to pay for Saturday night because they had booked it in advance?
“I have to get back to London,” she said. “My …” She faltered. What was he? Could she say, “My ex will decide whether to stay”? Or should she say, “My friend may have to leave early too”? She did not like the term “ex,” but it had its uses, and this might be one of them. She settled for Mr. Snark. “Mr. Snark might stay, or he might not.”
The receptionist looked at her sympathetically. She knows, thought Barbara. She has obviously seen this sort of thing before.
“That’s fine,” said the receptionist.
“About the bill,” Barbara continued, “I’d like to pay …” She was about to say “half,” but then she decided against it. “I’d like to pay for everything. Can I leave the number of my credit card? Put everything on that.”
The receptionist nodded. “Of course. No problem.” It was said—and done—with discretion and courtesy, as one would expect of a professional.
“I suppose you see everything in your job,” said Barbara, handing over the card.
The receptionist smiled. “Almost. And nothing surprises me, frankly.” She paused. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Barbara nodded. She felt gratitude for this kindness—a kindness between women, who understood, of course. This was the true meaning of sisterhood—something that men did not have. One man would not say to another, “Are you all right?” A man would not.
“I’m all right,” Barbara replied. “I just decided that it was not for me. I just decided to take control of my future.”
“Good for you,” said the receptionist.
“It’s a strange feeling,” Barbara went on.
“Independence always feels strange at first,” said the receptionist. “These things can be difficult, can’t they? It would be nice not to have to worry about them, but … but they’re all around us, men. And we keep going back for more, don’t we?”
Barbara smiled ruefully. “Not me,” she said.
She said goodbye to the receptionist and went out into the small alleyway that led to the hotel car park. The sun was bright and already warm. She would drive back with the top of her sports car down. She would let the rush of air blow away old memories. Men. Yes, they were all around one. But she would certainly not go back for more. This was it.
In the car park, as she turned the car, she hit the wing mirror on a small hitching post that she had not seen. The glass of the mirror tumbled out and shattered on the cobbles below. She switched off the engine, got out of the car and stooped to pick up the pieces.
“Bad luck,” said a voice. “Let me help.”
Sh
e looked up. A young man was standing at her side, amused, certainly, but concerned too.
She straightened, dusting down the knees of her jeans.
“I didn’t see it.”
He bent down to start picking up the glass. She noticed the trim shape of his back. She noticed the nape of his neck.
“You aren’t by any chance going to London?” he asked.
40. Remember Mateus Rosé?
ALTHOUGH SATURDAY was the wine shop’s busiest day, it did not become so until lunchtime. From then on until William closed the door at six, ushering out the last-minute purchasers of a bottle of wine for the evening’s dinner party, there was barely time for a cup of tea. The late-afternoon customers sometimes sought his advice not only on what wine to choose but as to whether or not to take a bottle to their hosts at all. The issue was a delicate one, and William had toyed with the idea of printing a small leaflet that would explain the etiquette of such matters—at least as he understood it.
“The most important thing,” he would say, “is to do whatever you do with good grace. If you take a bottle with you, never present it apologetically. There is nothing worse than people who hand over a bottle of wine to their hosts with a look bordering on resentment—as if they were paying the taxman his dues.
“But, of course,” he would go on, “the real issue is whether you have to take a bottle of wine with you or not. There is no strict ruling on this matter—as indeed on any issue of etiquette; what counts is attitude. The most terrible apparent breach of etiquette can be carried off by one who means well and is charming about it. But for most of us, charm will not suffice—in that we don’t have enough of it—and we therefore need rules. Here are some:
“If you are a student and you are invited to a meal or a party at another student’s flat, there is absolutely no doubt that you must take a bottle of wine with you. If you do not do so, then the host is perfectly within his or her rights not to let you in. This is an absolute rule and cannot be avoided by saying that your friend, who is coming later, will be bringing a bottle for you. Most hosts have heard that line before and will not believe you.