by Vesna Main
–I’ve been working on Richard.
–And?
–There’s something I want to check with you.
–I’m only a male reader.
–Exactly what I need: I’m trying to describe his first time.
–First time? First time having sex?
–The other.
–How am I supposed to know?
–Try.
–I can’t promise.
–Also, what’s his motivation? He has good sex at home.
–Maybe he wants something Anna isn’t prepared to do.
–You forget that she’s the more adventurous one. He’s the vanilla man.
–Okay. Let’s see: he’s after a particular type of woman. Different from Anna. Fat. Huge breasts. Big bum.
–Is that what you like?
–Me? I’m talking about Richard.
–That’s not him either.
–All right. He wants someone less assertive than Anna, someone who doesn’t oppose him. He’s running away from her controlling self.
–He hasn’t got your paranoia.
–I can’t see how Richard wouldn’t mind.
–Mind what?
–Her control.
–He’s never said anything.
–And whose responsibility is to make the character speak?
–It’s not my fault. He doesn’t say much.
–Make him. Make him complain.
–I need him like this.
–Okay: Richard loves being told what to do at home. He’s deliriously happy with Anna organising everything.
–Don’t be sarcastic.
–She’ll be buying his clothes next.
–That’s a good idea. Otherwise he might be wearing old tweed jackets and corduroys. Anna can’t stand that.
–Watch out, Richard. Stick to you your guns. Don’t let her dress you.
–There’re occasions when he feels hostile towards her, after an argument, and then he does take out his tweeds and corduroys.
–Good for him.
–It’s childish. He knows it annoys her.
–That’s her problem.
–What’s the point of being in a relationship and deliberately doing things that annoy the other?
–You do.
–I don’t.
–It annoys me when—
–This isn’t about us. It’s my novel we’re talking about.
–Oh, really?
–Seriously, what would make a man who has good sex at home, an adventurous, attractive wife, seek a prostitute?
–Who knows?
–In fact, the stuff on sexuality I’ve been reading says there is no rational explanation.
–Why are you asking me, then?
–Something needs to trigger the first time. The narrative needs something, something that makes him contact a woman. You’re a man. Think.
–I’m trying to.
–He could find a card. In a telephone box?
–Who goes to telephone boxes these days? It’s the Internet now. That’s where they advertise.
–Right.
–Perhaps he . . . comes across a site.
* * *
–Good day?
–Yes. Yours?
–Okay.
–Got it all worked out.
–Do you want me to read it?
–Not yet.
–What happens?
–The number to ring comes his way. By chance. He’s on the train to Manchester, making notes, preparing a report for a meeting. He needs to stay overnight. He sees a paper someone’s left behind, the Manchester Evening News, Echo, something like that. He notices the personal ads. One by a mature lady offering massage catches his attention. When he arrives in the hotel, his room’s not ready and he has to wait. Sees the copy of the paper where someone has already looked through: the mature lady ad has been circled.
–Fate. Nothing to do with him.
–What do you mean?
–A chance event brings about an inevitable trajectory.
–I suppose so.
–Makes the reader think that Richard has to do it.
–Yes. Seeing the ad again puts a smile on his face but he still doesn’t think about pursuing it. Later, in the room, he takes his papers out of the bag and the newspaper falls out: he accidentally brought it with him. He makes a bee line for the personals.
–He takes over from fate.
–He dials the number. On the spur of the moment, with no thought for the consequences.
–Out of curiosity. One often wonders what it’s like to ring a number like that.
–Really?
–Or he could be doing it for a dare.
–Is that how you see it?
–Yes.
–Unprepared when she asks for his name, he gives the name of his boss.
–That’s been done. There’s a comic novel, where a guy does that and they tell him that they already have five people with that name.
–Anyway, they fix the arrangements. As he rings off, he’s nervous, wants to cry off, decides to pay her at the door and say he’s changed his mind. He goes downstairs and gets cash from the hole in the wall.
–Good thinking. I’ sure it’s cash only.
–She arrives. He’s shocked: mature means she’s in her sixties.
–Mustn’t be ageist.
–Well, he’s hardly being ageist. But would you expect a sixty plus woman to come when you ring a prostitute?
–How should I know? Some might like it.
–She has grotesque make up. He feels sorry for her. Pays her. They have a whisky. She chats a lot. Fat flabby arms spilling over the sides of the easy chair. She says that other rooms in the hotel are bigger than his. He feels uncomfortable with that.
–Naïve. He couldn’t think she would be a virgin.
–I like his naiveté. Next, he decides he might just as well get something since he has paid. He asks her to suck him. She doesn’t do oral. Massage, she says sternly. He settles for that, gets an erection. She is about to put a condom on him but he ejaculates before she can open the packet.
–Oh, Richard. You could do better than that.
–What do you mean?
–A terrible let down.
–What can you expect when you pay a woman?
–Great service.
–You’re not saying that.
–Sorry.
–Ultimately, it has to be a disappointing experience.
–Why?
–Necessary in narrative terms so he’ll want another one to put this bad experience to rest. Only one, he’ll think. But that idea comes later, once he’s back. On the train, he thinks he’s a lucky man: a successful career, an attractive wife, lovely children. He’d never do anything as stupid. The train is weaving past rolling hills with sheep grazing -
–Pastoral beauty after the ugliness of the previous night.
–Perhaps.
–It’s not enough—
–?
–Enough motivation. There must be something in him. That ad has to fall on fertile ground to germinate. He has to have a predisposition, be in the mood, the right frame of mind. He needs to be sexualised.
–?
–Something needs to make him want to take action—
–He dials without thinking of anything.
–He may not be aware of it, but something’s likely to have created that fertile ground; the newspaper is only the trigger.
–But what would you suggest?
–You’re the author.
–You’re a man. Put yourself in his situation.
–I’m not Richard.
–Think of something that happens to a man in everyday
life. To sexualise him.
–Hmm. How about: a seriously crowded train, a woman pushes herself into him.
–And? People are always crushed together on trains.
–He’s convinced she’s doing it deliberately, masturbating. That turns him on.
–Your fantasy?
–We’re talking about Richard.
–And then?
–Who’s writing this novel?
–You’re the male advisor.
–Okay. Squashed, Richard can’t see her face; that’s exciting.
–Your fantasy.
–You want my input or not?
–Sorry.
–He wonders what she looks like.
–Would he get an erection? Tell me, male reader.
–Quite likely. The train stops, people get off, he looks at them, wonders who she is.
–Admires her audacity. Remember, Richard likes strong women, women who take the initiative. Like Anna.
–Had a man behaved like that woman, a female passenger would have made a fuss. Called him a rapist, pervert.
–And so she should. But he isn’t thinking of political correctness.
–He could feel offended. He should.
–Right, but he doesn’t.
–If the author says so . . . What next?
–He goes home. He’s looking forward to making love to Anna but—
–She isn’t interested.
–Not quite. She’s preoccupied with some problem at work, in her gallery, something that appears trivial to him, but she’s a perfectionist and—
–More likely she’s insensitive to his needs.
–You could say the same about him.
–Only if he insists on having sex. I can’t imagine Richard doing that. Wouldn’t the author agree?
–I suppose so.
–The way you’ve created Anna, she would be so obsessed with her problem and it wouldn’t cross her mind to ask about his day. She wouldn’t pay him any attention. He would be there only for her to unburden her worries.
–That’s okay. That’s what partners are for.
–That’s what Richard’s for.
–I disagree. This time she needs him. Next time, it may be the other way round.
–I bet she won’t be there for him. You never seem to be there for me.
–This isn’t about us.
–No?
* * *
–How are you?
–Fine.
–Look, I’m sorry. I was tense yesterday . . . I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have accused you of writing about us. I don’t know why I . . . well, I don’t really, well, just sometimes, I feel for him. I know I shouldn’t. He has nothing to do with me. I’m sorry, sorry about my tone.
–Okay. I didn’t mind.
–You walked away.
–Yes. I don’t know why. Sorry.
–I’m interested in what you write.
–You’ve never been touchy about characters before.
–I’m not touchy about him. I’ve been tired recently. That’s why I overreacted.
–Can I help?
–It’s fine. Tell me about those two.
–What do you want to know?
–What happens after that train journey? Richard’s at home, sexualised, but she’s worried about work. Presumably, they have dinner together.
–How about this: he tries to touch her hand but she’s prickly. After dinner, she disappears to her study, he ends up in the bathroom, masturbating. Over the next few days he thinks about the woman, looks for her on the train. That same sensation, that sexual frisson comes back each time he gets on. He notices women sitting with their legs apart, women leaning forward, women wearing low cut tops.
–The ground’s prepared.
–On the day of the train journey, I can see him walking home and imagining Anna waiting for him. You know Richard is old-fashioned, a bit like his parents who expected Anna to stay at home and look after the kids. He sees her in high heels and a fifties gathered skirt, all made up, standing in an immaculate kitchen, a fifties American ad. He knows the image is absurd and nothing to do with their household. Not only is she in jeans and a jumper, as she often is, but she’s not waiting for him. She’s unloading the dishwasher and her thoughts are elsewhere.
–Why the fifties image?
–It says something about his hidden desire for a compliant Anna, an Anna like his mother, and his desire for the domesticity of his childhood. I think it says something about his difficulty reconciling his hidden, or not so hidden, desire with what Anna is. So he sees a woman with her hair done up, ondulated, or whatever they used to call it, standing in a kitchen that has no trace of use.
–Sometimes it seems to me that you novelists could keep a whole conference of psychiatrists busy for weeks on end.
–Now I have to decide how he uses the internet to get his women.
–Punternet.
–As in punter and net?
–Yes.
–One or two words?
–One. The net for punters.
–Where did you get that from?
–I can’t remember.
–Mmm.
–I must’ve read about it somewhere.
* * *
–Sarah says I need another character.
–Why?
–She feels it’s a bit claustrophobic.
–Claustrophobic? It’s a novel about a relationship. Relationships are claustrophobic.
–Do you think our marriage is claustrophobic?
–No.
–Why not?
–What do you mean: why not?
–You said relationships are claustrophobic. Why not ours?
–Bad relationships are claustrophobic. Where there is tension and—
–There is tension with us.
–Sometimes. That’s normal.
–Tension and?
–Tension and what?
–You were saying tension and something else.
–I can’t remember.
* * *
–Had a long chat with Ursula this afternoon.
–Still struggling with the same poems. Bertran de Born has really taken over her life. She has no time for anyone else.
–No boyfriend?
–I don’t know. She didn’t mention anyone.
–You didn’t ask?
–Never crossed my mind.
–Wouldn’t you like her to have someone?
–She has friends.
–I mean, someone special.
–She has Bertran de Born.
–I mean someone real.
–He’s real enough for her.
–You know what I mean. A real boyfriend.
–Why do you assume it’s got to be a boyfriend?
–Oh, I forgot: everyone’s bisexual.
–Good that you agree.
–You know I don’t.
–Did I miss the sarcasm?
–You’re the only person I know who says everyone’s bisexual.
–That’s unlikely. Most of our friends think the same.
–I doubt it but I bet Anna does.
–Come to think of it, yes, she does.
–How did I guess? What a coincidence.
–I don’t like your tone.
–Sorry.
–Okay.
–Ursula, darling Ursula. So, it sounds like she’s all right.
–Yes.
–Wouldn’t you like her to have a relationship?
–It’s up to her.
–Of course it’s up to her. But I was asking what you would like.
–She’s happy as she is, doing what she loves. That’s good enough for me.
–I suppose so. I’m with Emma on that.
–You mean, what use is Provençal poetry to anyone?
–Exactly.
–I think you’re wrong to talk of ‘use’. De Born’s lyrics are beautiful.
–Too remote from our experience.
–I disagree. Anyway, how many people really care or, to use your language, how many people find useful your research on women in politics or Emma’s PhD on immigration? A minority. Probably not many more, not significantly more than those who read Bertran de Born. And as for pleasure, it’s all with Bertran de Born, none with your work.
–Not quite. At least we are about now, about changing our world. But an obscure mediaeval troubadour—
–Bertran de Born gives me pleasure. He gives pleasure to Ursula. That’s two people. For me, even if we were the only ones, that would be enough. After all, how many people get pleasure from reading my novels?
–That’s your choice. You could write more popular stuff.
–Popular stuff? Chick lit?
–It sells.
–And what kind of pleasure do readers get from reading even those so called literary novels? Voyeuristic.
–Innocuous. No harm in that.
–It’s like wanting to know what happens behind the walls of your neighbours, peering in, prying.
–Stories can be educational. They give insight into the human condition.
–I don’t want my novels to be manuals on how to behave, how to live. A novel is not a conduct book.
–Used to be. Who are you writing for?
–An intelligent, active reader, someone who is prepared to make an effort.
–No harm in being entertaining. Besides, your novel could contribute to the debate on prostitution.
–That’s a politics academic speaking.
–Pleased to hear there’s more to me than a male reader.
–I want my novel to transcend the story and the issue. I want more than that.
–That’s quite a lot already. What else would you want it to be?
–Art.
–Meaning what?
–Unpredictable. New. Stylistically challenging. Like nothing before. Make readers see the world in a new way.
–Nothing new under the sun.
–Cliché.
–But true. Like most clichés.
–No point writing if you don’t aim to produce something new.
–Of course there is: entertain your readers, help them cope with life, show them how to face adversity.