by Vesna Main
–I don’t know.
–What else happens in that chapter with Stuart?
–Richard talks about how painful he finds it to see Anna so ill with her obsession. And it’s not just him; Sarah’s noticed the same thing, he says. He finds it painful when she compares herself to the women he met, poring over their bodies, assessing them, wondering why they were more appealing to him than she was.
–But they weren’t. It should be clear to everyone that it was more complex than that.
–True, but that’s a rational explanation. You can’t expect a woman in Anna’s position to think like that.
–Maybe not immediately, but after a while, she should make the effort.
–How long is a while?
–A week, a month. I don’t know.
–Richard says that Sarah tried to talk to Anna about female solidarity but Anna blew up. What bloody female solidarity did they have in mind when they slept with my husband? That’s what she asked. Richard says he loves Anna and it hurts him to see her destroying herself. She isn’t herself. She’s hardly done any work in the Gallery; she doesn’t even seem to care about art anymore.
* * *
–How was your day?
–A sentence came to me. I heard Anna say: I didn’t know he knew how to lie.
–By he you mean Richard?
–Yes.
–Who does she say it to?
–I’m not sure. That’s the problem. But I would like her to say it. It’s a simple sentence. A sad sentence. A poignant sentence. I think it expresses much better her pain, her distress, her sadness, her sense of betrayal than all that about her being rejected as a woman.
* * *
–Good day?
–No. Not at all.
–?
–Done nothing. And you?
–Fine, it was fine. What’s the problem?
–I don’t know where I’m going.
–You always say that.
–That’s different. That’s when I have lots of ideas and they all fight for attention but now, now I feel I have nothing more to say.
–Perhaps you’ve reached the end of the road.
–?
–Richard has a job in New York and you have to decide what Anna does. I hope she joins him—
–And they will live happily ever after.
–It’s up to the reader to think that or not. I wouldn’t expect you to spell it out.
–Good to have a happy ending.
–You know I don’t like such stories.
–What, happiness?
–I don’t like narrative closure: boy gets his girl, the character grows up, the mystery’s uncovered, the murderer discovered. How tedious.
–Not at all. Perfectly satisfying.
–Absolutely not.
* * *
–Good day?
–So so. Not much writing done. Mostly thinking.
–What about?
–What to do with Tanya.
–Oh, the young prostitute. Well, she comes out and she finds a nice bloke.
–Don’t be silly.
–Why not?
–She’s had enough of men.
–She finds a nice woman.
–No.
–Then what?
–She finds herself.
–She finds herself? How?
–That’s what I’m thinking about. I know: Tanya gets cancer.
–A completely arbitrary decision. Why would you have that? What would that mean? Poor Tanya.
–There’s no meaning to getting cancer.
–I didn’t say that. I meant in the narrative.
–Okay. Something else happens: a pimp, a pimp whose women no longer want to work for him is angry at losing his source of income and kills her.
–She might just as well die from a meteorite falling on her on a London street.
–That would convey the absurdity, the meaninglessness of death. But that doesn’t fit in this kind of novel.
–Absolutely not.
–Okay, then. I’ll leave Tanya be.
–Thank God for that.
* * *
–Good day?
–Yes. Yours?
–The same as always. I’m all ears.
–Anna has had a successful day negotiating collaboration between galleries all across the country. She feels on top of the world. It’s a Thursday, a day when she normally sees Patrick, one of her men.
–How many has she got on the go?
–Four.
–Four?!
–Well, Patrick is the serious one; she meets him at least once a week. The other three, once a month or so; with them it’s all fairly casual.
–But not with Patrick?
–Yes and no. They’ve both made it clear from the very beginning that they were having an affair and nothing more but recently he suggested she should move in with him. He has a Docklands flat, one of those minimalist, loft affairs.
–Exactly the kind of thing Anna likes.
–Yes, she does, but so do many people—
–Nothing wrong if she has this in common with you.
–True.
–There’re few surprises with Anna.
–There will be for other readers.
–So, what happens?
–Well, Anna tells Patrick weeks in advance that she won’t be able to see him or stay the night on that particular Thursday. At first he doesn’t mind; they are planning to meet on Friday instead. But when she speaks to him on the phone in the morning, he sounds unhappy. She rings him at midday again and he says he’s looking forward to an early night as he’s getting a cold.
–And will need someone to nurse him—
–What do you mean?
–Only joking.
–He adds she shouldn’t worry about not meeting. When her event, at which she pulls off an excellent deal for the Gallery, finishes earlier than expected, and she’s feeling on top of the world, she wonders whether she should ring him and they could still have their usual Thursday evening. She deliberates for a while, wondering whether to go to his place – she remembers that he wanted an early night – or to join her friends at the event for a dinner. The latter is attractive as she’s on a high and feels she needs to be with people.
–People who admire and adore her.
–Yes. What’s wrong with that?
–Synchronised sycophancy. She’s so insecure.
–We all are.
–And then?
–She vacillates, eventually deciding against the dinner with friends as one of the people there has been after her.
–I thought she would have liked that. Good for her self-confidence, part of her affirmation. Isn’t that what she’s been seeking after what happened?
–Yes, but not from anyone.
–What’s wrong with this guy?
–Not sure. He’s boring and he loves the Pre-Raphaelites. She can’t be interested in a man who likes Rossetti, that fool Rossetti, she says.
–Nothing to do with you and your taste in art.
–Of course not. It’s Anna, Anna, the gallery owner. No one who loves art can take seriously those Victorian illustrators.
–Okay. So, she goes to see Patrick and as she comes unannounced, there’s a surprise for her. He’s just been screwing—
–Is it so predictable?
–It doesn’t matter if it’s predictable. Remember you aren’t writing a novel where you surprise the reader with plot devices. Other things carry off your writing.
–Are you being ironic?
–Not at all.
–Well, what you say isn’t true of this novel.
–Maybe not. But it works. And so it’s all over with Patrick and s
he realises how wonderful Richard is.
–Something like that.
–A happy ending. Hooray!
* * *
–Good day?
–Possibly. Have another idea for Tanya.
–I hope she’s saved.
–Yes, she saves herself by saving others. She runs a charity, something called Futures—
–Futures?
–What would you call it?
–Green Light.
–Green Light?
–Yes.
–Why?
–It’s a joke. Red light. Green Light. Going forward.
–Don’t be silly. It’s a serious matter. Whatever they’re called, they help prostitutes. They help them change their lives, save themselves.
–Another happy ending.
–I don’t know. I think she has no private life. She lives for work.
–Some people are okay with that.
–In Tanya’s case, it’s a choice, perhaps an unconscious choice. She’s committed to what she does and works long hours so that she has no time for any private life.
–So? Tell me?
–One day Sarah comes across an article on the Internet about Tanya’s charity; she recognizes the name and gets in touch. We learn that while in prison, Tanya studied for A-levels in sociology and psychology and started a degree but never completed it.
–Why not give her that? Would be a nice accomplishment for her.
–A degree isn’t important. Everyone has one these days.
–Why not her?
–She has other accomplishments. She’s the director of Futures—
–Green Light you mean.
–I’ll think about that. So, she has regular contacts with government ministers, funding bodies, and so on. She’s been on courses and she knows how to speak to people in a formal way. But Sarah’s suggestion that they should meet perturbs her.
–I think anyone would be perturbed by those two.
–They’ve always been kind to her.
–Kind in their own way. Not really understanding what she was about.
–It’s not their fault. Now Tanya’s afraid of her past creeping up on her. She remembers how the two women used to make her lost for words and how they always had so much to say for themselves. She fears a repeat of the same situation. Sarah wants to know how Tanya is – she is well, doing a job, there is nothing else to say; she isn’t married or anything like that – and then talks about herself even though Tanya doesn’t ask any questions. Sarah says it would be good for Anna to see Tanya. You could help Anna; she needs someone like you, are her exact words. Tanya remembers that because it sounds like an echo of how they used to speak to her, needing her for that group. She might have been ‘confused’ in those days but no one messes her up now; she isn’t falling for their sweet talk.
–Does Sarah tell her what it’s about?
–No.
–The three women coming together. After all those years. Great.
–Gosh, you’re sentimental.
–Isn’t it nice?
–Nice for whom?
–For everyone. For the reader. People coming together.
–I’m not sure it’s nice for Tanya. Or for Anna either.
–It’ll be all right once they get together. It’s only pre-meeting anxiety.
–Yes, on Tanya’s part. Anna, however, doesn’t know where Sarah’s taking her.
–Why not? Why doesn’t she tell her?
–Well, Sarah’s fed up with Anna’s hatred of prostitutes and she thinks that meeting Tanya, recalling the memories of their student days and campaigning to help sex workers might shift Anna. She thinks if she were to tell her, Anna wouldn’t go.
–Deception. Anna won’t be happy about that.
–As for Tanya, she can’t do any work all morning. She remembers how her brain used to freeze. Now she tells herself that she will have to guard against that, stand up for herself.
–How old is she now?
–Forty-nine, a few years younger than the other two.
–How big is the charity?
–Oh, I don’t know. I suppose, let’s say, it’s a small organisation, eight women and Tanya.
–But she’s used to dealing with people in public life?
–Oh yes. Let’s say she’s twice been to 10 Downing Street; she’s been invited to talk to ministers; she’s organised fund-raising galas; she’s met celebrities. She has her professional role and people respect her. But before they arrive, she keeps thinking how those two could turn her back into a twenty year-old street-walker, lost for words, doing what they want her to do.
–And do they?
–Wait a minute.
–Unable to work, Tanya has been drawing. We see her contemplating two new pastels, one of the daffodils in a vase on the table and another of the blue hyacinths growing in a pot on the window ledge.
–She draws? Is that new?
–Don’t be so impatient. She’s looking at the drawings and it crosses her mind that they could be presents for her visitors. She smiles at the thought. No, she wouldn’t give the drawings to them. They might say how lovely they were and she couldn’t bear to be patronised. They’ll see all the stuff hanging around – they could hardly miss the dozens of frames covering the office walls – but she won’t admit that they are hers. She knows she’s improved after more than twenty years. Lots of people liked them, which was useful in prison where she could exchange them for favours, a haircut or a manicure. Even the guards would grant her privileges in exchange for a drawing or two. And outsiders too, people who come to discuss the charity, journalists have praised them too.
–Tanya the artist. Lovely.
–She isn’t an artist. The pictures were her midwife, helping her give birth to a different Tanya. They are small, drawn on sheets from an A4 sketchbook and they don’t take long to complete, even though she works slowly, her mind on each detail. She understands the process: drawing takes her out of herself, or of the self she doesn’t want to be. When she traces the outline of a petal, she is there, on the leaves, her mind seeing nothing but the flower. And when she comes back, she is clear-headed and she can do whatever she needs to do. Tanya remembers how throughout the trial she sat in constant numbness. The prosecution claimed she had shown no remorse. But the fact was she felt completely dissociated from the person who had killed Dave and even from the person on trial. It was only after she was sentenced to life imprisonment, and when she was left alone in a cell, that she woke up. Then the real anger kicked in. She was ferocious, livid, attacking her solicitor and her welfare officer. They put her on medication for two years. Chemical imprisonment.
–This is all from her point of view?
–Oh yes, Tanya’s the focaliser here.
–And Anna and Richard are the other two focalisers elsewhere?
–Yes. As for Tanya, in the second year, she made friends with two women, one of them a prostitute, and it was while talking with them that she realised how her whole life had been one of abuse, first by her mother and her mother’s lovers and then by Dave and the punters.
–That’s good. A real step forward.
–Yes. But a long time passed before she agreed to counselling. Then she was angry with the therapist, losing her rag in every session. One day the therapist came in with a sketchpad, pencils and a flower pot. As soon as Tanya started screaming, she stopped the session and they both drew the flowers. That helped beyond belief. Soon she was drawing whenever she felt anger raising its head, which was pretty much most days.
–Is that a technique a therapist would use?
–I came across it somewhere. Anyway, on the day the women are coming, Tanya remembers how in the morning she dressed more formally than she would for an ordinary day at the office, because this isn’t an ordinary day.
Her past is coming back into her life and she mustn’t let it take over her present. Besides, she has to show those ex-students that she’s no longer the pathetic whore who needs their help, a young woman, bruised by her boyfriend, turning up at their consciousness-raising group. She’s the Director of Futures and that’s why they are coming to see her. She considered putting on her new M&S grey flannel dress, or the red Wallis skirt that makes her feel elegant, but in the end she opted for a dark trouser suit and high heels – her confidence outfit.
–So, the reader gets inside her head here, as she is waiting for the other two to turn up.
–Yes.
–The idea being that you communicate her anxiety and feed in some background, that is, what’s happened since the prison.
–Exactly. You speak like a writer, the kind of writer that sells.
–Don’t tease me. Have you got more thoughts from her head?
–Yes. Tanya contemplates her looks: her short hair is completely grey these days, but that’s fine. She’s noticed that most people show more respect to older women. In front of her visitors she will keep her glasses on all the time – even though she’s short-sighted and anything near will be out of focus. She has been on courses; she knows how important it is to project the right image.
–They are meeting on her territory: a clear advantage.
–Something like that.
–So how does the meeting go?
–Sarah keeps asking questions, while Anna listens quietly. Tanya catches the two women exchanging glances. Why are they here? She remembers that Sarah said something about Anna needing to meet her. Sarah asks about prison and how Futures started and she doesn’t mind telling them, but why, Tanya wonders. Why does she want to hear it? She must know it from the article. She must know the facts, what the journalists called facts. But not all the facts.
–That’s what’s going on through Tanya’s head?
–Yes and she thinks how no one knows that it was the first time in her life that she had felt safe. Safe in prison. Like never before. But she doesn’t tell them that. Nor does she ask any questions. But Sarah talks about their lives anyway, a woman she used to live with, my partner Jocelyn—