by Vesna Main
–And then you started researching the topic?
–Yes, I began to wonder what would have happened.
–Hang on. But you never use that image of the two of them in the novel.
–No. Once I got the story going it didn’t work. The image spurred me to come up with the story but it isn’t part of it. I wanted the reader to be aware of what Richard is up to for a while, that is, before Anna knows. You remember that he keeps meaning to tell but is too scared.
–I don’t blame him.
–He deserves to get hell.
–A matter of opinion.
–What do you mean?
–She should have been more reasonable.
–Reasonable? You have no idea how a woman feels in that situation. No man should preach to me about that.
–All right.
–Is that all you can say?
–I’m sorry. No need to get so angry. Back to Richard, please.
–Okay. Something always happens and he doesn’t tell her. He’s looking for an opportune moment, hoping to mitigate her reaction. At some point he plans to make a nice dinner, or take her out, make her feel good but then he thinks it inappropriate: a parody of proposing in a restaurant.
–Poor Richard.
–It didn’t just happen to him. Nor was it a one off. He actively sought the women for eight years.
–Okay, but I can imagine his fear of her temper. She’s a strong and impulsive woman.
–You mean he needs a placid wife who would take his news calmly.
–No, he was foolish but I feel for him.
–You identify with him?
–No. I sympathise with him. Not the same.
–Because you have experienced my anger.
–As you say, this isn’t about us.
–I don’t know any more.
–It’s not about us!
–If you say so.
–What do you mean? You’re the author.
–In a way.
–In a way?
–Well, things happen and I use them. We are both authors of things that happen.
–So it is about us.
–?
–Is it about us?
–What do you think?
–I hope not.
–So do I.
–Look, let’s leave it. I’d rather know about Richard.
–?
–I’m sorry if I upset you. Please, tell me.
–Eventually, he decides to prepare her favourite food at home. When he gets in, he finds a note: Anna has gone to collect their younger daughter from the station. The daughter is arriving with a friend who is interested in doing research in Richard’s field of interest. He’s furious. Their younger daughter always turns up unannounced. He spends the weekend with them in a terrible state of anxiety. He and Anna try to make love but he can’t. That is the first time it’s ever happened to him with her. Anna tries to help by playing it down, attributing it to his tiredness.
–It’s so false when women do that.
–What else are they supposed to do?
–Depends. I don’t know. But tell me, what next?
–They are lying on the bed, after failing to have sex, their heads are next to each other. He thinks how strange it is to be so close, their brains separated only by skin and a bit of bone and yet she can’t tell what’s on his mind. He finds that comforting: at least some privacy for his dreadful secret.
–Anna strikes me as a character who never seems to know, let alone care, what Richard’s feeling.
–Are you trying to say that I don’t care what you are feeling?
–Not at all.
–Are you sure?
–This is not about us; I thought we’d established that.
–?
–What about Richard?
–He only tells her when he has no choice, once he’s been sacked from his job and fears the case might be in papers.
* * *
–Good day?
–Not bad. Making progress. Slowly. And you?
–Nothing to report.
–You always say that.
–It’s true.
–Are you afraid I might use what you tell me? Something about your colleagues?
–No.
–Good.
–Well, yes. I am.
–Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t create problems for you.
–Of course not. Who was around today?
–Tanya.
–Tell me.
–I was wondering how she got to where she is.
–You mean why she’s a prostitute.
–Yes.
–And?
–She was brought up by her mother. Poor, working class background.
–Which part of the country?
–I haven’t decided yet. She lives in Birmingham when she goes to the consciousness-raising group. I would say she was raised somewhere in the West Midlands. Wolverhampton perhaps, or Coventry. Something like that. Is it important?
–I was just wondering.
–I’m not the type of novelist who likes to work out the characters’ entire CVs.
–As a reader, sometimes one wants to know.
–As for Tanya, while she’s growing up, her mother takes casual jobs from time to time. Tanya only remembers one holiday ever. A week in Blackpool. Lots of rain and wind but they went to the beach every day and every day she had an ice-cream.
–I can smell abuse.
–A couple of times her mother had a headache and stayed in their room in a bed and breakfast. Tanya, eight at the time, was taken out by a friend of her mother’s, an elderly man. She remembered him as kind. He bought her presents, allowed her to choose them herself. She remembers having a bracelet and a ring. A candy stick as well.
–Has he got a name?
–Actually, he has. He’s Marvin.
–How did you come up with that? We don’t know anyone of that name. Sounds American.
–It seemed right for the image I have of him. And he isn’t American.
–What does he look like?
–A retired working class man. Early sixties, slim, with a lined face and dark brown hair, possibly dyed. He’s gentle and seems kind and doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong putting his hand inside Tanya’s blouse.
–Is that what he does? Nothing more?
–Oh, no. He asks her whether she’s warm enough and puts his hand on her chest to check. His fingers are cold and bony and she doesn’t like him touching her but she’s too shy to say anything to an adult. When they pass by the guest house where he is staying, they go in because he needs to get something he’s forgotten. In the room he asks her whether she would like to have a rest. She doesn’t—
–Wouldn’t he insist?
–No. Absolutely not.
–Okay, it’s your decision.
–They leave and return to the promenade.
–I hope you’re not describing the promenade.
–I am.
–How can you without seeing it?
–Done my research. Looked at pictures. Read about it.
–Clichés.
–Isn’t the whole point of Blackpool that it’s a cliché: the working class holiday?
–What do you know about the working class? Done your research?
–Look. This isn’t a documentary. I’m writing a fictional story. I have imagination.
–I know you do.
–What’s that supposed to mean?
–That you’re a writer. A novelist. Have imagination.
–Sometimes I wonder whether I should be telling you all this.
–Why not? I thought I’d been helpful.
–Some of the time. But it�
�s not only that.
–Then what?
–This need that I have to show you what I’m doing, to get your feedback; it makes me feel insecure, unsure of what I’ve written.
–Why do you say that?
–In the past, whenever I felt unhappy with something, I carried on regardless. Now, it’s as if I need constant feedback, perhaps even approval.
–Are you finding this one harder than the others?
–I think so.
–Why?
–I don’t know. This story makes me question our own life, our marriage. Makes me insecure in more ways than one.
–Isn’t that a normal part of the creative process?
–You could say that, but the problem is that it makes the novel different from the one I’d like to write. I don’t know how to write about this subject.
–Write about something else. See what happens, where it takes you. I’ve heard you tell others that.
–Yes, but I’m too hooked on the subject; I really want to address it. I can’t let go. The most frustrating feeling is that whatever I write about Anna’s suffering, I’m faced with the impossibility of conveying the horror she experiences.
* * *
–You didn’t finish telling me about Tanya.
–You mean after Blackpool.
–Yes.
–Well, that man—
–Marvin?
–Yes, and a few others, kept taking her out and buying her trinkets. At the time she was thinking it was wonderful but as she hit her early teens they started touching her more intimately, putting their cold hands into her knickers, saying they were making sure if she was warm enough. At fifteen, she slept with several of them. Each called himself her boyfriend and at the time that’s what she thought they were. She left school—
–No qualifications.
–Yes—
–What do you mean, yes, she had some or yes, she didn’t?
–She had none so she took a job in a bar. For a while it was okay, then the publican tried to have sex with her and she left. She worked in a fair ground and then in another pub where she met Dave. He was only a couple of years older than her and when he bought her a drink and asked her out, she felt he was a real boyfriend. Not like those old men who, she found out later, had been giving money to her mother.
–Her mother was pimping her?
–Yes, and Dave soon got in on the act too. He would bring a friend and spin a story about how the friend was lonely, his girlfriend had left him and so on and would ask Tanya to give him a cuddle. She didn’t want to but he pleaded with her and so she did. And then she was left alone with yet another friend and he raped her. Dave claimed it was all a misunderstanding and that it wouldn’t happen again. But it did. She left him. He came back, promised that it would be just the two of them. Soon she was pregnant. She has a child—
–Whose child is it?
–Dave’s, I suppose. I don’t intend to make much of it. He doesn’t really care except when the child cries and he blames Tanya.
–I see.
–Soon after she has a child, he forces her to go on the street. That’s when she comes into the story.
–Rather cliché, I’m afraid.
–I know. True stories of prostitutes are often cliché.
–True? Tanya’s?
–Yes, a compilation based on accounts I’ve read.
* * *
–Good day?
–Yes. Yours?
–Fine. Tell me about Anna.
–She’s about to give up Rachel.
–The therapist?
–Yes.
–Why?
–She feels it’s not working.
–In what way?
–She wants answers. She wants to know why Richard visited prostitutes.
–Not for the therapist to tell her.
–Anna wants to know what’s wrong with her. Why did he not want her?
–But he did. They still had a sex life.
–Then why others?
–Are you asking me? You’re the writer.
–You’re a man.
–But not the man.
–Are you sure?
–What are you saying?
–Oh, forget it.
–?
–So, why did Richard go to others? What do you think?
–As a novelist, you should come up with the answer.
–But I can’t think why a man in Richard’s position would pay for sex in real life.
–I thought your books weren’t about real life.
–No, not in the sense of mimesis but in this novel the causes of behaviour and the reasons behind actions of the characters aren’t different from real life.
–Does it mean that you expect your readers to learn from this novel how to behave in similar situations?
–No, well, yes but I don’t like the way you put it.
–Okay, you want them to think prostitution is iniquitous?
–Oh, yes. Definitely.
–And if a female reader found herself in the same situation as Anna, do you think your novel would be helpful to her?
–Perhaps. I’d be glad if it did but that’s not why I’m writing it.
–Why are you writing it?
–Not sure any more.
* * *
–Haven’t I heard this music before?
–You’re back early.
–Have I surprised you?
–No.
–I think I have.
–Don’t look so smug. I thought you said you’d be late.
–Well, I’m back.
–Good.
–I’m back and so is your Frenchman.
–?
–Your Frenchman is back. Why would you be listening to his music?
–I’ve always liked it.
–Because it makes you think of Gustave.
–Don’t be ridiculous.
–Where has it come from?
–Sarah got it for me a few months ago.
–You never told me about it.
–Didn’t I?
–You must have forgotten to mention it.
–I must have.
–Is that why you listen to it when I’m not here?
–I can’t believe you would think something like that, let alone say it.
–Okay. Let’s say you aren’t in touch but he gave you the CD. Posted it. For old times’ sake.
–He disappeared from my life a year before I met you. I haven’t heard from him since.
–Until now.
–Don’t. Don’t smile.
–Well, the love of my wife’s life is back and I should not rejoice?
–He isn’t back.
–He is back in your thoughts.
–Look, you don’t deserve an explanation but I’ll give it to you anyway.
–Go ahead.
–I’ve been working on Anna’s therapy sessions. I’ve been thinking of my own experience. As you know, I had therapy to deal with that loss. So I remembered him. I remembered Casals’ cello recording we used to listen to and I remembered that a few months ago Sarah bought me the CD, the new one, the digitally remastered version.
–Why would she do that?
–Recently released.
–But why this music?
–She’s a friend. My best friend. She can buy me presents.
–But why this one except to remind you of your Frenchman?
–Because I’ve always liked the music.
–And the memories it brings.
–And the memories it brings if you like.
* * *
–Have you got the ending?
–What do you mean?
–What happens to Richard and Anna? Do they part or stay together?
–Not sure. What do you think?
–I think they should part.
–Why?
–Because they are not good for each other.
* * *
–I’ve given them two daughters.
–What a surprise.
–Don’t worry, they’re not called Emma and Ursula.
–The girls will be disappointed to have missed a chance to be famous.
–Don’t be sarcastic.
–What about Bob?
–What about him?
–Is he still Bob?
–He still has his bobbishness but he is called Rob.
–You can’t be serious.
–Why not?
–It’s the same. They’ll know.
–It’s not the same. Sounds different.
–Comes from the same name.
–A very different image.
–Who says?
–I do. The sound or Rob or Robert conjures very different images from that of Bob.
–To you.
–Yes, to me. Doesn’t it to you?
–No. Nor to my colleagues in the department.
–They must be poor readers.
–I don’t care what kind of readers they are.
–Bob is so much better for what I need but as a concession to you—
–I’m grateful.
* * *
–I have to use something else from our lives—
–Oh, no.
–Don’t be paranoid. I was going to talk to you first.
–I’m not looking forward to that.
–You’re not being supportive.