by Vesna Main
The question again, that question she had come to dread. He was thick, this lawyer.
Tan, come here, babe, he patted the bed next to him. She didn’t trust him, but she obeyed. Come on, sit down. He put his arm around her, kissed her on the cheek and whispered into her ear. It’s all right, if you don’t want to help. But . . . I need work . . . and it’s fucking hard to get anything. Nige has promised. I could start next week. That’s why I got the beer . . . to celebrate. He ran the back of his hand across her cheek. You get my drift? He kissed her on the cheek.
Stripping only, no more?
Yeah, of course.
Only the shirt and skirt off. I can keep the bra and knickers on, yeah?
Yeah, whatever. He stood up. She wanted to help him but she wasn’t going further. She’d do the dance and nothing else. Dave walked out. Through the closed door, she heard him talking to his friends and them laughing loudly.
Stripping for three drunk men? In your home? That’s mad. You were asking for it. This lawyer was doing her head in. Why was he so stupid? It was a little strip, nothing else. Helping out.
A few minutes later, one of them shouted: Show! When’s the show starting? She heard clapping and cheering. She thought of calling Dave to tell him she was afraid they wanted more than a strip. Then she heard him: Come on Tan babe, we’re waiting.
She opened the door and walked in. Dave had already moved the coffee table to the side and she stepped onto the rug in the middle of the room. Nige and Gavin were slumped on the sofa, beer cans in their hands. Dave sat in the armchair. The stereo was playing. She got on with it straightaway, thinking that the sooner she started, the sooner it would be over. It was important to please Dave by pleasing the men, but she was wary of getting them excited. They leered at her and she hated that. It would be all over soon. She made herself think it was somebody else stripping, not her. Her mind was on that Great Yarmouth promenade, breeze in her hair, the ice cream van playing a jingle. She unbuttoned her shirt slowly, but made sure that her eyes did not meet the men’s. With each button she unfastened, the men cheered. Then she took off her shoes, one by one, and the tights – she had no time to put on stockings – caressing her legs, as if trying to memorize their shape. She moved around, wriggling her hips, dancing barefoot in her skirt and bra. Nige tried to touch her but she managed to move away and he mumbled ‘teasing bitch’. She went on dancing, but the other man shouted ‘skirt off, skirt off’ and she began to tug at the zip, pulling it down and then a little bit up until it was done. She took off the skirt as slowly as she could and then carried on dancing. That was that. No more.
But even then you could have walked out. What was he saying?
Gavin pulled her knickers off and forced himself inside her, Nige doing the same from the back. She fought them, biting and scratching, that force inside her giving her strength, incredible strength. And then them shouting shut the bitch up, but running out, running away from her.
This story’s no good. You consented. Why didn’t you leave? The lawyer asked. Best to ignore him.
Dave was furious, strode towards her but she was quicker. She locked herself in the bathroom. And then it was quiet. She couldn’t remember how it happened but soon he was asleep. No, she is sure he wasn’t dead. She heard him breathing, his chest rising.
And then? Did he wake up and attack you with a knife and you had to defend yourself? The lawyer said.
No, she was sure that he didn’t. He wouldn’t have done that. He was a fist man, not a knife man. Besides, he was too drunk and when he fell it was like he had passed out. In a second he was fast asleep. But she was very angry with him. Mad at him. That mad like when you think I could kill that person. I could chop them up into tiny bits. But when she went to fetch the knife she wasn’t thinking that. She wasn’t thinking anything. She was doing things. No, that’s not true. Her body was moving, without her doing anything. Her hand grabbed the knife and pushed it inside his chest and out. She couldn’t stop the hand.
And then the lawyer said that what she had said didn’t make sense and that she was in trouble if she stuck to the story. He said that it didn’t happen like that. He said he knew what had happened and that she should listen to what he said. He was going to write it down and she would sign it and then say the same thing to the police. Why was he asking her then? She said it loudly but he didn’t answer. Instead, he repeated that she had killed her violent boyfriend in self-defence. He wrote that down in his notebook. But was it Dave or was it Marvin with his kind, lined face who was dead, she wondered. The lawyer stared at her before repeating that it was Dave who had fetched the knife from a kitchen drawer and who had tried to stab her but she had fought him and killed him in self-defence. It was self-defence, she had to remember that. She didn’t care either way. She had told him what it was like – she knew, she watched it happen – but if he wanted to believe something else, it was none of her business. She was fine. That force had let go of her.
–She’s really captured here.
–You think so?
–Yes, Tanya comes off. She really does. Poor woman.
–Of course, as I read it to you, I changed the name. It’s something else in the original.
–The psychology works; you can feel what goes through the mind of a poor abused woman. A woman traumatised over a long time and now in shock.
–I agree.
–So, what are you going to do? How can you use it? I mean this other writer’s story?
–I don’t know. Maybe I should try to get in touch with her.
–She is no name. She ought to be pleased if you give her exposure. Free publicity.
–Perhaps.
* * *
–How was your day?
–Okay. Yours?
–Nothing to report. Things don’t happen to me. They happen to you.
–Only because I make them up. Isn’t it strange that I find Richard much easier to write than Anna?
–Because you steal from me.
–An occasional, non-defining detail here and there.
–That’s an understatement. Your problem with Anna is that you think she’s wonderful, perfect and bears no responsibility for what happened. Whereas, in fact, she’s a control freak—
–I’m tired of you being so obviously male.
–I’m an honest reader. Your first reader; if I don’t tell you, who will?
–Tell me then.
–Anna’s story is too simple. She thinks her marriage is wonderful, faultless and when cracks appear—
–Cracks? You call that a crack? It’s a huge abyss. The ground under her feet disappears.
–A matter of perspective. With her, everything’s wonderful and then everything’s awful. Always white or black. Life’s mostly grey. But Anna can’t see that. Another thing you have in common.
–Thanks.
–You both tend to exaggerate, over-dramatize.
–Not difficult when your husband goes on visiting prostitutes for eight years.
–?
* * *
–How was your day?
–Fine. Yours?
–Fine.
* * *
–How was your day?
–Nothing much to report.
–Are you not speaking to me?
–You never tell me about your day.
–Because nothing ever happens.
–To me neither.
–But you have this interesting couple with you. I keep thinking about them.
–?
–I’m convinced Richard wasn’t after sex.
–Tell that to Anna.
–She must know.
–Even if she could believe that, it wouldn’t help her.
–Look, it’s a real tribute to the author if a reader, albeit the husband of the author, thinks that Richard wasn
’t interested in sex.
–How do you work that out?
–I’m trying to say that you manage to communicate the complexity of the situation. It’s not as simple as most people would think: a man has no sexual partner and so he goes to a prostitute. You explode that myth.
–?
–I’m paying you a compliment.
–Thanks.
–I mean it.
–Okay then.
–I just wish Anna could be a bit more rational and accept that Richard wasn’t after sex.
–Why?
–It would help her deal with the situation. She would realise that Richard’s activities had nothing to do with her.
–Oh, since when do you think so? You’ve been blaming her all along.
–Well, she has a lot to answer for: she isn’t easy to live with. That would have contributed to Richard’s feelings about himself. But she isn’t responsible. Another man would have coped differently.
–Glad to hear that.
–Another man might have murdered her.
–Don’t be ridiculous.
–The way you have presented it, we can see that with Richard there was fertile ground with his mother, the way he was brought up.
–Blame women. Blame mothers.
–Again, a tribute to you that you’ve created this background for Richard. It makes sense.
–Not sure I want that. It’s much more complex than what you call the fertile ground created by his mother and wife.
–It’s also worth remembering that it took Richard many years before he did anything. A cumulative effect of Anna’s control over him.
–Don’t be silly.
–Well, it’s good the way you have done it. People will feel sorry for him.
–I don’t want people to feel sorry for Richard.
–Why not?
–That’s not the kind of novel I had in mind.
–This may be better.
–It’s not the kind of novel I like. It’s not my novel.
–If you don’t want people to feel sorry for Richard, don’t make Anna so unpleasant.
* * *
–Good day?
–Not bad. And yours?
–Busy. Bob has some new ideas on how to increase our applications. I’m supposed to think of how to attract more Asians to history. He’s bonkers: he compares our figures to Law and Dentistry. We can’t compete with them. We aren’t too bad on women though. You know what Bob said? Proudly, without any awareness of the language he was using: Birds have always been flocking to us. Nancy and Moira rolled their eyes but no one bothered to tell him.
–What a great sentence. I need it.
–No, don’t. It’s not yours.
–What do you mean it’s not mine? It’s not yours either.
–It’s stealing, it’s plagiarism.
–Don’t be silly. Words are in the public domain.
–My colleagues would recognise it.
–Bob’s not the first person to have said it.
–Please don’t.
–I’ve got to. Imagine the situation: Bob, or Rob, as he will be in the novel, is lecturing Richard on sexism, or rather on what a female colleague has pointed out to him to be the unacceptable politics of Richard’s activities and then he says something like that. Beautiful irony. I can’t let it pass.
–Think of something else.
–Not as good as this.
–Don’t you always say that you can’t stand novels that imitate life?
–Just a little borrowing here and there.
* * *
–Good day?
–Yes. Fine, thank you. And yours?
–Fine, thank you.
–You won’t tell me?
–Nothing to tell.
–Who was it today?
–Richard.
–What’s he been up to?
–Not much. Sitting at home.
–Has he stopped working?
–Yes. They had a deal: if he resigns, nothing will be on record.
–Not sure that would be allowed. Not with that paedophile site visit -
–Well, as you know, they lose, or some sympathetic soul gets rid of, the evidence for the visit to the child porn site.
–Oh, yes. But he used computers at work to arrange prostitutes.
–Yes, but – anyway, Bob promises—
–Rob.
–Yes, sorry. Rob or not-Bob promises that there will be nothing on record. Perhaps he’s wrong and can’t give that assurance. But that’s what’s said.
–So, Richard sits at home and does what? Research?
–No. He’s too low to think about it. He sees Stuart once and sometimes twice a week and that’s all. Most of the time he’s on his own.
–Where’s Anna?
–Busy with the Gallery and with her own life.
–She hasn’t left him, has she?
–No, but she’s rarely at home.
–Can’t be good for Richard to be alone like that. Who knows what he might do.
–Stuart tries to encourage him to get involved in something to occupy his mind.
–Hope he doesn’t take up golf.
–Don’t worry. Richard’s not the type.
–You mean because I’m not.
–Nothing to do with you.
–If you say so.
–Richard dismisses all the suggestions Stuart makes. Then he comes across a site for single parents, registers under an assumed name, takes on the role of a man in his thirties, a widower, with a two-year old daughter. In no time at all, he has several single mums writing to him.
–Oh, no.
–In fact, nothing happens. He enjoys making up stories about his life, giving advice on pushchairs, playgroups and so on. It amuses him how he can find all the information on the Internet and pass it on to the women as his experience. With one of the women, he establishes regular contact. She wants them to meet, sends pictures of herself and her daughter and so on. Richard always has an excuse, either Imogen – his fictional daughter – is ill or his dead wife’s parents are coming to stay, or he’s travelling and so on. He’s aware that after a few weeks he becomes dependent on the contact, obsessively checking his messages.
–So, the therapy hasn’t worked.
–What do you mean?
–Well, isn’t this virtual relationship rather like what he was doing before?
–Less dangerous.
–He should have other resources. Stuart should have provided him with something.
–I agree. Lots of therapy’s useless.
–That was your experience. Many people would disagree.
–Perhaps.
–So, the single mum?
–They talk on Skype but he’s careful to make it known that his old machine has no camera. Sometimes it crosses his mind that the woman might get dependent on him, might be hurt. At the same time, he tells himself that one day he will stop the contact – he’s been careful and the woman would have no means of tracing him – and as for the guilt, well, he can’t be responsible for her.
–More fool her to believe what people tell you in a chat room.
–Besides, he reasons, he hasn’t been completely useless; he has given her some valuable advice.
–What a desperate man he is. Lonely.
–You could say that.
–Does he tell Stuart about this?
–No. He’s aware Stuart wouldn’t approve. He convinces himself that Stuart encouraged him to meet people and engage in something that would occupy his mind.
–Poor old Richard deluding himself as before.
–Yes.
–Are you leading us towards an unhappy ending?
–What’s an unhap
py ending?
–Will he succumb? Will he go back to the prostitutes and that will be that? Anna will leave him.
–I don’t know.
–You haven’t decided as yet?
–No. All options are still to be considered.
–That’s a relief.
* * *
–Dying to know. Who was it today?
–Anna.
–Good. Missed her.
–I thought you didn’t like her.
–The woman I love to hate. But I’ve been wondering what’s happened to her. How is she coping?
–She walked out on Rachel, the therapist, you remember that?
–Yes.
–She feels she can help herself.
–In what way?
–Well, two things: to find answers as to why Richard needed prostitutes—
–But there’s no answer. I thought that much is clear.
–Yes, and she’s beginning to accept that she’ll never understand. But there’s something else too. You remember that she feels rejected as a woman.
–That’s what she keeps saying.
–She has affairs. She thinks of it as a way of coping with being rejected
–How does she find the men?
–Ads.
–Oh yes, I remember. The builder and the bald lawyer, the one pontificating about wine. Is that all?