Good Day

by Vesna Main

  –Just don’t tell me Richard has been appointed professor of politics specialising in women and political parties.

  –Nowhere near as good as a history prof specialising in suffragettes.

  –I told you it’s too close.

  –Stop worrying. But there is something from my own life that I have to use. It seems so obvious but I thought you may feel uncomfortable about it.

  –She’s into sex games—

  –Gosh. No!

  –He likes his nipples squeezed.

  –Don’t be silly. Too intimate to reveal.

  –Thank God for that. So, what is it?

  –You know when I was in therapy, I suffered from an obsession.

  –Yes.

  –All I could think about was that he had rejected me and had chosen a life without me, a life with another woman. I compared myself to them all the time. For obvious reasons, I thought he was with a French woman, and whenever I saw a French woman, I regarded her as a rival, I hated her. But the real problem was my feminism; women were meant to be my sisters. I couldn’t admit it to anyone apart from Sarah. She understood how I felt and she was helpful but there came a point when she couldn’t do anything more for me. She said I needed a professional. I went to Ruth.

  –Ruth? Not Rachel?

  –No, Ruth. Anna goes to Rachel. Anyway, I’ve been looking at my notes from those days. I seem to have been angry and sometimes hostile to Ruth and after a year, around the time when I met you, I walked out. Ruth didn’t want me to. I said I feared getting too dependent on her. Ruth laughed. You’re not a person who gets dependent on anyone, she said. Of course, I wasn’t really afraid of that. I made it up because it sounded like the sort of thing a therapist would understand. The real reason was that I was bored with her. I could see where she was going. I could tell what she wanted me to say. I’d read Freud and Lacan, and Kristeva, I could see through her. It always puzzles me how those clever people in Woody Allen films have therapy for decades and don’t get bored.

  –Perhaps they do but they haven’t much else. No one else to talk to.

  –When I walked out on Ruth, I believed I could help myself.

  –Did you help yourself?

  –I think so. At the time it helped finding you and the knowledge that you wanted me. In the long term, it was the writing that helped.

  –I wasn’t much use long-term.

  –I didn’t say that.

  –No, I suppose not, but it sounded like it.

  –It doesn’t work like that. It was only my illusion that I needed another man to get over the Frenchman.

  –Now you know that you could never get over Gustave.

  –I didn’t say that.

  –But it’s true.

  –I’m not answering that. What I want to tell you is that I see Anna in the same situation. She needs therapy but it doesn’t work for her, it doesn’t give her what she wants. She believes she can help herself.

  –By screwing around?

  –What a crude thing to say. Typical of you to give advice to Richard and castigate Anna. What a biased reader you’re.

  * * *

  –I need your help.

  –The help of a biased, male reader?

  –Yes.

  –You must be really lost.

  –That’s not a kind thing to say to a writer.

  –Isn’t it?

  –Definitely not. What would it do for my self-confidence?

  –I didn’t mean anything.

  –Why did you say it then?

  –I don’t know. A joke.

  –Wasn’t funny. A facetious, careless sentence.

  –Sorry, I didn’t think—

  –No, you didn’t think. You never do.

  –Look, I’m sorry. You seem to be touchy today.

  –Telling me I’m lost. Of course I’m touchy.

  –You say it all the time.

  –That’s different.

  –Ah, one rule for you, another one for me.

  –Don’t be silly. How you never understand anything.

  –What was it you wanted to ask?

  –Nothing. Forget it.

  –Don’t be like that.

  * * *

  –Look, I’m sorry about before. I really am sorry. Please, let’s talk.

  –What about?

  –You wanted to ask me something. You said I could help. I would like to.

  –I’m not sure.

  –Please.

  –Okay. I don’t know what to do about Richard’s sexual background.

  –Sexual background. Meaning?

  –His early sexual awakening. I don’t mean the actual sex, that as well, but before, his first awareness of sexuality.

  –Do you need that?

  –I think so. Therapists often look into it. Some of the causes of later problems often lie in the earliest experiences.

  –I can only tell you about mine.

  –And you fear that I’ll use it.

  –I don’t mind; what I remember is fairly run of the mill.

  –Tell me.

  –Haven’t I told you before? Masturbating and the like?

  –Everyone does that. I’m more interested in the context.

  –You mean looking at lingerie catalogues? Not that I ever saw one at home; boys at school passed them around.

  –Yes, but not only that.

  –I don’t know what else.

  –I seem to remember that once you mentioned something about your mother’s aversion to the word penis—

  –Ah yes, there was a documentary on television and this doctor mentioned the word and my mother—

  –Walked out—

  –Yes, but only after she switched off the television.

  –Quite a scene. Didn’t anyone protest? Your father?

  –No one said anything. We were supposed to have felt ashamed.

  –Ashamed at hearing the word?

  –Yes.

  –You never used the word at home.

  –Lots of people still don’t—

  –I suppose you’re right. I remember the girls’ friends talking of front bottoms and the like. Unbelievable.

  –I can see Anna teaching her daughters the Latin terms. You wouldn’t fail to make her do that.

  –Of course.

  –And Richard feeling uncomfortable.

  –Did you feel uncomfortable?

  –No, not really. Just not used to it. Rather, I wasn’t used to it for a long time.

  –Richard’s mother could make a scene when someone on television says penis. You don’t mind, do you?

  –I suppose not.

  –Should Richard feel guilty each time he masturbates?

  –I think so.

  –Did you feel guilty?

  –Of course I did and I worried that my mother might discover the stuff on my pyjamas. I would sponge it off but then they would be wet and that could be suspicious. I remember more than once deliberately spilling tea on them at breakfast so that I could put them in the wash.

  –In twenty-five years of marriage, we never talked about you spilling tea on your semen stains. Isn’t that strange?

  –I don’t know. It’s not the sort of thing that crops up.

  –I think it’s strange. Richard’s also likely to have things in his past that he never mentioned to Anna.

  –But does it matter? It seems pretty insignificant to me. Only a psychologist would make a meal out of it.

  –I agree. It matters only in so far as it shows the two of you as people who don’t like talking about personal things.

  –I’m not like Richard. I don’t like when you say that.

  –Sorry.

  –It’s the other way round. He’s like me. And who
se fault is that? You keep turning him into me.

  –But you said you didn’t mind as there was nothing unique about your earliest sexual awareness. Run of the mill – your words.

  –I don’t mind that. But you’ve taken other things from me.

  –Nothing significant.

  –Maybe not to you.

  –You know what I’ve been thinking?

  –No.

  –How come you didn’t mind talking about your personal experience this time?

  –It felt as if I was talking about someone else.

  –?

  –The chap I was then feels distant, alien. As if it had been someone else.

  –I often have that feeling.

  –Of separate selves?

  –Of not much continuity between all those past selves and who I feel I am today.

  –But what happened to all those past selves would have made you what you are now—

  –The links and the continuity aren’t obvious. Bringing that about, making a story, that’s what I do to my characters.

  –Maybe. I was thinking how Richard finds it difficult to see the point of revealing personal, intimate details. I think that’s why he has an aversion to therapy.

  * * *

  –Good day?

  –Fine. And yours?

  –Nothing to report. I have a question: is Richard an addict?

  –Depends on who you believe.

  –Tell me.

  –Not now.

  * * *

  –Hello.

  –Hello.

  –I’ve had a thought—

  –Yes?

  –I was wondering whether she could be rather demanding when it comes to sex.

  –What are you getting at?

  –Just wondering if she—

  –Some men may like it—

  –The woman being demanding?

  –Yes. Don’t you think?

  –Does Richard like her being demanding?

  –I didn’t say she was.

  –You’re the author. You should be able to tell.

  –I don’t know. I’m not the kind of author who worries about such details.

  –It’s hardly a detail in this kind of novel.

  –Not the way I look at it.

  –You see, some men may like it but others might feel inadequate.

  –Once again the male reader is supporting the male character.

  –Think about it: prostitutes, particularly the type that he chooses – poor, uneducated, working-class women – they don’t make him feel inadequate. That’s why he goes to them.

  –That’s too neat. You’re looking for reasons to blame her.

  –It makes sense.

  –To blame her?

  –No, I meant him feeling inadequate with her.

  –Even if that were so, it’s only his feeling. She can’t be responsible for that.

  –She could help him feel more comfortable.

  –She does.

  –I doubt it. I bet she finds sex with him inadequate.

  –Not at all. In fact, she feels that over the years he’s become more adventurous. When they first met, he preferred lights out, the missionary position, lie back and think of England.

  –Oh, so he has improved then.

  –Definitely.

  –I’m pleased to hear that. As for Anna, wouldn’t her mother’s perfectionism, high expectations, present a problem? Make her feel inadequate?

  –Quite the contrary. It spurred her on. She was an exceptional student. Wrote her PhD in record time.

  –I see. She’s wonderful.

  –Don’t be sarcastic.

  –But she never learned to be compassionate.

  –As always, you’re too harsh on her. One thing Anna does reveal to Rachel about her upbringing is that her mother never smiled, rarely praised her.

  –A classic case of a person who has difficulties making and keeping friends.

  –Where did you get that from?

  –Common knowledge.

  –And wrong. As you know, Anna has lots of friends, lots of clever friends.

  –Aren’t most of her friends male?

  –So what?

  –Just shows.

  –Shows what?

  –They aren’t real friends; they’re after her.

  –You’re being ridiculous.

  –Colin, Maximilian, then that architect at her dinner party and even Mark.

  –They may find her attractive but it doesn’t mean they’re after her.

  –Not the impression I get.

  –Anyway, there is Sarah.

  –Well, that friendship goes through a deal of strain.

  –Of course it does but they’ve known each other for thirty years and have stayed close. They are loyal to each other, and when one of them needs support, she knows she can get it from the other. When Sarah’s partner Jocelyn died of breast cancer—

  –The cello player?

  –That’s right.

  –I still wonder why you need such detail. You keep saying you aren’t writing a social realist text and yet—

  –I don’t know. It seemed right. Maybe a reader will come up with a pattern, a link, something that makes sense.

  –That’s always possible.

  –Anna thinks of Jocelyn every now and then. At some point she remembers Jocelyn’s funeral, a bright, sunny, freezing day. All crispy. Another time she remembers the music and how Jocelyn had it all ready as soon as she got the prognosis. Anna thinks of particular pieces—

  –Did they play your Frenchman’s stuff?

  –What’s the matter with you?

  –Just wondering. Why wouldn’t they play that? You always say how wonderful it is.

  –And so it is.

  –To me, mentioning this seems superfluous detail. Jocelyn is a distraction. No function in the plot. I thought you preferred stylized writing. Not mimetic.

  –You can’t judge it unless you read the whole novel. Some of the details are symbolic.

  –I’ll take your word for it.

  –While Anna helps Sarah at the time of Jocelyn’s death, and for months afterwards, Sarah is there for her. It’s a very strong, supportive relationship. But Anna’s friendships with men are different. Those men, they like having a vivacious and intelligent female friend. She is sociable and open and that appeals to them

  –You too have quite a few male friends.

  * * *

  –Good day?

  –So so. Yours?

  –Fine.

  –I’ve been thinking of Richard’s mother.

  –Yes?

  –Starting with that scene you described when your mother—

  –I thought you were talking about Richard’s mother.

  –Let me finish. I used that idea, that situation you mentioned when your mother was offended at the word ‘penis’ on television, and it made me think of other events in his life. I have this chapter where he remembers, see, it’s him, not you, where he remembers making love to Anna for the first time.

  –In a room in an old hotel? And saving a spider afterwards?

  –No. Silly you. I can make things up. Richard has a small car. His first one. They drive to the countryside and have a picnic in a field of wild flowers. It’s a bright and warm, late spring afternoon. They’ve eaten and they lie on a blanket, side by side. Anna watches the clouds, large puffy things, like scoops of whipped cream, and suggests that they make up stories about them.

  –Wow, we’ve never done that.

  –No, because we are not them.

  –Glad to hear it.

  –So, for Anna, each cloud has an identity. She sees a Buddhist monk, Druids, particular Elizabethan actors, and a whole ser
ies of famous paintings. Richard is both amused and lost. What can he offer? All he can see are thick white clouds drifting across the blue sky. He loves her confidence and imagination and longs to be part of that world. For now, he is an alien but maybe she could be his ticket. He feels love and warmth for her. Later, he worries that those feelings were mainly envious self-interest borne out of the hope that he could be like her.

  –Poor Richard. You don’t think you’re patronizing him?

  –No. Do you want to hear the rest or not?

  –Okay.

  –He kisses her frantically and she responds. They half undress each other and he suggests that if they move to the car, he could cover the windows and they could make love. She stops and stares at him. For a moment, he worries that he was being presumptuous. She says: but why not here? It’s so beautiful. He’s taken aback by her directness. Someone might see us, he says. There’s no one around, she laughs.

  –Oh, Richard.

  –He’s surprised when she doesn’t mind undressing in bright sunshine and as he watches her, comfortable in her nakedness, he admires and fears her.

  –I am sure twenty-five years later he still feels the terror that he felt then, that terror that he may not live up to her expectations.

  –That’s beside the point. We are in a flashback. Focus on that. So, while they are making love for the first time, he can’t stop worrying that someone might turn up. He can even hear his mother: you should be ashamed of yourself, Richard. You have betrayed me.

  –Wow. That’s scary.

  –Or could he feel his mother sitting on his shoulder . . . would that be too much?

  –He’d better tell his therapist about it. Or his orthopaedic consultant.

  * * *

  –Do you mind if I use Mary Carleton?

  –Use Mary Carleton?

  –Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who she was.

  –No. Of course not.

  –So, is that okay?

  –Okay for what?

  –To use her in the novel. Do you mind?

  –You mean, describe me asking you out?

  –For a coffee.

  –Are you saying that’s how Anna and Richard meet?

  –Why not?

  –Because it’s ours. Between you and me. No one knows about it.

  –Exactly, no one knows about it. No one will be able to tell that it’s us.