by Vesna Main
–Oh, yes, we’ve met her.
–No we haven’t. She’s dead when the novel opens, dead for four years.
–Okay, not in person but we’ve heard of her.
–Good of you to remember.
–You don’t credit me but I’m a careful reader. I remember that Jocelyn died of breast cancer.
–Yes. Then Sarah mentions Anna’s daughters and asks Tanya about her own daughter. Tanya wonders whether she should tell them. She could be thirty or so, Sarah says, smiling, asks Tanya if she is a grandmother. Tanya says: Lilla was adopted. It was for the best at the time. We aren’t in touch. That’s the truth, she thinks. But the whole truth is that at the time she couldn’t have cared less what happened; if anything, she was relieved that she didn’t have Lilla to worry about. Before that there were all those years of anger, anger about having to be a mother, wanting her daughter out of her life so that Dave wouldn’t complain. Tanya thinks how she sent her daughter to her mother, knowing that with granny, Lilla might be subjected to the same kind of exploitation that she herself had suffered at the hands of those old men. But she didn’t care about that. Somehow she even wished it on her, that’s how angry she was. And now the whole truth is that whenever a prostitute in her early thirties comes to Futures, Tanya hopes, she hopes to God, that it’s not her daughter. She stares at the young women, assessing their facial features, their figures, their hair, thinking whether anything reminds her of Lilla. Perhaps that’s what drives her: her delayed maternal instinct. She’s working to save those women from themselves, helping them find new lives, as if they’re all her daughters. She tells them it’s not too late; it’s never too late, it wasn’t too late for her. And they don’t often believe her but at least some of them try.
–Arthur Miller, All My Sons.
–Thank you.
–Well, Tanya’s really found herself. She now has a mission in life.
–Isn’t it all a bit too neat?
–I don’t think so. It makes me feel good when such things happen.
–Does Sarah tell her what they came for?
–No, it doesn’t seem appropriate. Anna looks too hostile, too closed in.
–Tanya gives them leaflets: Prostitutes Speak Out and What Can be Done? Anna doesn’t look at them. Instead, she turns towards Tanya and says: The women aren’t the only victims. The men’s lives and those of their families, they can be destroyed. Their marriages never recover and you can’t imagine what it’s like when—
–Does she tell her what’s happened to her?
–No. She stops herself. Her voice is trembling and she is angry. Sarah puts her hand on Anna’s arm, as if to comfort her.
–Wouldn’t Anna be sympathetic to the idea of criminalising the men?
–Yes, but it passes her by. All she’s thinking of is her own situation.
–There’s a novelty.
–Don’t be so judgmental. Try to understand why she is like that.
–Tanya must have noticed that something is bothering Anna and that she wanted to say it but then didn’t.
–Yes, Tanya did notice but she is aware of her next commitment and so she agrees that men and their families are victims too and her tone makes it clear she doesn’t want to discuss it there and then.
–Good. Confident Tanya.
–Do you think this is a plausible transformation?
–It must happen sometimes.
–I hope so. Anyway, before they leave. Sarah invites Tanya to visit their gallery. She says: Now that we know what you do, perhaps we could work on something together. A project. We could use art as therapy, helping the women, don’t you think?
–Marvellous. Love this.
* * *
–Good day?
–Not really. Yours?
–Nothing to say. What’s wrong?
–I’m stuck. I feel I haven’t done justice to Anna.
–In what way?
–She’s had this terrible shock, she’s terribly hurt, humiliated even. I was thinking how her friends, the ones who know what happened and, you see, she’s the sort of person who would have told quite a few people—
–Well, that’s her fault.
–She did it when she was in shock and needed support. And later she worries that some of them might assume that she wasn’t interested in sex and that therefore poor Richard had to go elsewhere.
–Anna strikes me as the kind of person who wouldn’t bother very much with what other people think.
–Usually not, but she doesn’t like others to think that she’s cold or prudish. Because that’s what people think when they hear that a man in a relationship is looking for sex elsewhere, particularly with a prostitute.
–But you know that’s not the case. Anna knows that’s not the case.
–But others don’t know it. I didn’t know it before I read up on the issue.
–I don’t see that’s her main problem.
–No, not the main problem but she does think about it and it bothers her.
–Typical of Anna to see everything from her own point of view.
–What do you mean?
–Well, having told all those people, she doesn’t worry what they think of Richard—
–He’s the guilty party. What she told others is true. But at the time it didn’t cross her mind what they might conclude about her.
–Come on. It’s not that simple.
–What I’m saying is that this terrible thing happened to her and she’s trying her best to sort it out—
–That’s hardly her best.
–Look, she could have just walked out on him.
–Might have been better for both of them if she had.
–Is that what you think? I can still do that.
–Is this a threat?
–What do you mean? How can I threaten you by making a character do something?
–Okay then. Let them be.
–?
–Look, I misunderstood. I’m sorry.
–Okay.
* * *
–Good day?
–I don’t know. Yours?
–Fine, thanks.
–So, what happened?
–Still trying to work out the ending. I was wondering what would happen if Richard were to turn down the job offer?
–Why would he do that?
–To stay with Anna. She doesn’t want to move to New York.
–Because she’s with Patrick.
–Not anymore.
–So, what’s he going to do?
–Richard?
–Yes, if he doesn’t go to New York? What else is there for him?
–I can work out something.
–And if he’s bored at home—
–Mmm.
–He visits a website and contacts a woman and so on. All over again. A relapse.
–Exactly. What do you think of that?
–Poor Richard. I want him saved. I want him to pull himself together. He could ring Stuart, get help.
–He doesn’t.
–Anna’s bound to find out.
–I can leave that for the reader to work out.
* * *
–Good day?
–Not really.
–?
–Got nowhere. Moving in circles.
–Sometimes you need to do that. As you know.
–I do. But it’s so dissatisfying.
–It’ll be better tomorrow.
–You’re just saying it.
–You have to believe it.
–I’m not a believer, not a natural believer.
–It’s bound to be better.
–It could be worse. It could always be worse.
–Yes, but eventually the trend changes direction.
–
Eventually.
–Don’t be so pessimistic. I told you, you made too much of Anna’s reaction. What a drama queen!
–Only a man would say that.
–Doesn’t Sarah tell her to pull herself together?
–Yes, but not that she’s making too much of it. As for me, it gets me down seeing them move in circles.
–It’s her fault.
–What do you mean?
–He wants resolution. He wants to move on. She doesn’t; she wants to dwell on the past. She wants to make him grovel.
–She doesn’t want to. She can’t help it.
–She can seek support.
–It didn’t work.
–She didn’t try hard enough. Screwing half a dozen men won’t help.
–Poor Anna.
* * *
–You seem happier today. Tell me. Who was it?
–Anna.
–What has she done?
–Remember Patrick coming to the door in his dressing gown and her realising what he has been up to? So, he runs after her, barefoot down the stairs but she tells him that he doesn’t owe her an explanation. He remonstrates with her downstairs at the entrance to the block but she doesn’t want to hear him. She goes home. She checks her messages and writes back to all the men she’s been seeing.
–You mean the other three?
–You remember the number. And a couple of others. Maybe.
–Quite something. What I don’t understand is why she’s upset about Patrick if she’s been seeing others as well?
–It’s the deception that hurts. She didn’t hide it from him. She felt she had the right to her own life and her own freedom. He said it was okay with him but that he didn’t want that kind of freedom for himself.
–Doesn’t seem to be fair. One rule for him, another for her. Typical of Anna.
–That’s his choice.
–I know but still—
–You could look at it as his way of making her feel guilty for not being monogamous like him, his way of making her abandon everyone for him. A kind of passive pressure. Very cunning and very dishonest.
–But it didn’t work.
–No. Anna enjoys seeing others too; she can’t see why she should give them up. None of the men, and the same is true for Patrick, have everything she’s looking for in a man. But together, they are great; they complement each other.
–Is that your fantasy? You used to say something similar: every man is inadequate so you have to have several and mix and match their best points.
–Not a bad idea, you have to admit.
–What is it I lack?
–How long have you got?
–Thank you.
–Look, we have to stop this.
–Stop what?
–Turning the discussion to us when we are talking about the novel.
–All right. My question: had Patrick given Anna advance notice of the change of rules, that is, of him being as free as she was, would she had been okay with him having someone else around?
–Probably.
–Probably?
–She would have to be. Of course, the announcement would make her consider what has changed in their relationship for him to take the step.
–Knowing Anna, that would make her insecure.
–Possibly.
–So Patrick can’t win.
–It’s not about winning. Why do men always talk about winning?
–He has no way out.
–Out of what?
–What he really wants is for her to give up the others.
–But she doesn’t and so he takes the same right for himself without telling her.
–He was alone and he invited this woman and without thinking he went to bed with her. He didn’t do anything wrong since she’s seeing three other men; besides, she’s married—
–What about deception?
–That’s a minor point under the circumstances.
–A minor point? If you think so, it’s obvious why you can’t understand Anna’s reaction to what Richard has done. It’s the deception that hurts more than anything else.
* * *
–How was your day?
–Fine. And yours?
–Not much to say. The same as usual. Tell me, has Anna given up all her men?
–Yes. After leaving Patrick, she wrote to each of them, saying that she could no longer carry on meeting them. Next, we see her alone at home – Richard is visiting a school friend – and she goes to the garden; it’s a mild spring night and she sits on a bench, sipping a glass of white wine. It’s been a long time since she felt so content.
–A year or two?
–Two years more likely. She sits outside, it’s eleven o’clock and she hears a blackbird sing and she thinks how unusual it is for the bird, this sole bird singing beautifully, to be around this late at night. She decides that the bird’s singing for her. She listens for a while and all she wishes is that Richard were with her, sharing her delight. She goes in and rings him. He’s in a pub with that friend and she speaks to both of them. She tells Richard that she misses him and she’s looking forward to seeing him. I’ll be back tomorrow, he says.
–He comes back and that’s the end of the story.
–Not sure.
–What do you mean? They’ve suffered more than enough. They deserve a good ending.
–Okay.
–Hooray.
* * *
–All done?
–More or less.
–You should be pleased. I am.
–I’m not sure about that ending.
–No, don’t say it. It’s great.
–It’s too neat. Too pat. All hunky-dory. Not my kind of thing at all.
–Now you’re the old cynic.
–It’s too much like wishful thinking. Candy-floss.
–Perfectly plausible. People go through difficult situations and survive, face problems and overcome them. Anna and Richard are two intelligent, articulate, experienced people; I really can’t see that they shouldn’t be able to work it out.
–But they are also emotional people, dealing with a highly emotional issue.
–Richard isn’t emotional.
–You think not?
–That’s my impression.
–Not sure.
–Anyway, they can’t throw away twenty-five years of marriage.
–If there’s no other way—
–But there always is. Remember Anna listening to that blackbird and wishing that Richard could share the joy with her. If she thinks like that, she loves him. She will want to save the marriage; she will make the effort.
–Maybe she will.
–And he will and that’s all done.
–Well, there are other factors.
–Such as?
–I don’t know.
–You mean Patrick or one of the other men.
–Oh, no. That’s finished. Maybe one or two get back to her and try to change her mind but it’s not worth mentioning.
–Then what else?
–I don’t know. Something else could happen that would prevent them from staying together.
–Nothing will happen. They’ll be all right. Richard will go to New York and Anna will join him. She could start a gallery in New York.
–All right.
–Nothing like happy ever after.
* * *
–Good day?
–Okay. Yours?
–Fine, thanks. So, working on a few finishing touches?
–More than that.
–What do you mean?
–Been thinking how many things could happen to those two.
–Such as?
–Richard’s flight back from New York
could crash.
–That’s silly. Why would you do that?
–Their story is unlikely to have a happy ending.
–More likely than the plane crashing.
–He could get a terminal illness.
–Poetic justice?
–Perhaps. A happy ending doesn’t fit.
–Why?
–He shouldn’t be rewarded for his misdemeanours.
–What about her and her misdemeanours?
–You mean her lovers?
–Among other issues.
–Her behaviour is only in response to his.
–You could say the same about his being in response to hers.
–No, you can’t.
–I disagree.
–Fine. I still don’t want a happy ending. Richard’s bound to go back to prostitutes.
–Why do you say that?
–Because he never properly addressed his problem.
–You mean the problem of Anna?
–Don’t be ridiculous. She is not a problem. I mean, he never confronted why he saw them.
–He seemed convinced he wouldn’t go back.
–People are capable of telling themselves all manner of lies in order not to face the truth.
–Perhaps, but plane crashes, or terminal illnesses are last resorts for writers who don’t know how to end a story.
–True: I don’t know how to end the story.
–But you have ended it. He has a job in New York, she realises that he’s better than the other men she’s been seeing and she decides to make an effort with him. He’s happy with that. They start a new life. They’ve both learned from the experience and the future looks positive, full of hope. Readers like that. After all that depression, the reader needs an upbeat ending.
–My writing isn’t about what the reader needs or likes.
–What’s it about then?
–I’m interested in what the story needs.
–And what’s that?
–I don’t know. That’s what I keep thinking about.
–How will you know?
–It should feel right.
* * *
–How was your day?
–Fine, thanks. Yours?
–Fine, thanks. Any more thoughts on the ending?