Good Day

by Vesna Main

  –Yes.

  –And?

  –Something else happens.

  –No!

  –Well, you remember the circumstances I was talking about? The circumstances beyond their control?

  –?

  –Well, the university that offered Richard the chair has found out about his past.

  –So what? He had the contract. They can’t pull out.

  –They can. The contract was conditional on his references.

  –Didn’t he have an agreement with not-Bob that if he resigned, he would get clear references?

  –He did but, as you would know, in case of someone so high up the academic ladder, references don’t matter. I don’t think they’d have even bothered with that. Richard is too well known in the field.

  –So, what’s the problem?

  –Well, someone somewhere must have talked. Some jealous colleague might have rung Richard’s new employer or someone might have been gossiping at a conference, something like that. Word gets around.

  –No!

  –So, here we go: Richard wakes up slowly, feeling the warmth of the sun shining through the dormer window. He thinks of the night before. He and Anna made love and he wishes she were with him now and he would take her in his arms. He’s a lucky man. It’s all turned out fine. The only slight cloud is Ursula, his stubborn daughter and she will come around. Too much happiness. How wonderful it feels after everything he’s been through. And then he’s downstairs leisurely making coffee and reading the paper when the postman rings the doorbell.

  –The bringer of dreadful news. Go away the postman!

  –It wouldn’t change anything.

  –Does he ring twice?

  –Ha ha. Richard signs for the letter. He looks at the postmark. Must be some additional contract material, he thinks. He’s relaxed as he opens the envelope, takes a sip of coffee before he looks at the letter. It says that after contacting his previous employer and taking up his references, they have to withdraw his provisional offer of employment. It ends with: We regret to inform you that you were not successful in the final stage of the appointment process. We wish you well with your future applications and the development of your academic career.

  –Bastards.

  –Richard stares at the paper in his hands. It is embossed with the University’s coat of arms. The heading and the signature look genuine; it’s the words that are unreal. And then he has a flashback. Images of his three-day trip to New York flick through his mind. He sees himself saying goodbye to Rosalyn, who would have been his secretary. He remembers her as a petite, black woman, immaculately turned out; he found her attractive and was looking forward to working with her. For the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to wonder whether she was married.

  –Oh no, don’t make him think like that.

  –Why not?

  –Takes away his dignity.

  –Isn’t that how a man like Richard would think?

  –Possibly but—

  –But what?

  –I don’t like it. Are you going to tell the reader how the Yanks found out?

  –I leave that open but that’s a question Richard asks. He doesn’t doubt the references would not have mentioned it.

  –Bloody puritans on both sides of the Atlantic. He has a fantastic research record, he’s an excellent teacher, but to them all that matters are a few extramarital excursions.

  –A few extramarital excursions. Hang on. Let me take it down.

  –For God’s sake. Now I’m channelling Richard. Or is it the other way around?

  –Sorry. You don’t mind, do you?

  –I do.

  –This fits so well with his line of thinking. A few extramarital excursions – such a good phrase. Shows how he plays it down! He still hasn’t realised the enormity of his offence.

  –Don’t judge him because of me. They’re my words, not his.

  –The same thing.

  –Don’t say that.

  –You’re thinking like him. You’ve become him.

  –I’m not him.

  –I’m not responsible if you begin to behave as if you were a character in my novel. Another case of life imitating art.

  –You have stolen parts of my life—

  –What I’ve used from you could be from anyone. No one’s life is unique.

  –You’ve turned me into him.

  –As always, you exaggerate.

  –I’ve had enough of this novel.

  –?

  –You’ve been writing this story to get at me.

  –?

  –You aren’t going to deny that.

  –Don’t be silly. Do you want to know what happens next?

  –I don’t care.

  * * *

  –Hello.

  –Hello.

  * * *

  –How are you?

  –Fine. And you?

  –Fine, thanks.

  –?

  –I’m sorry about the other day.

  –Okay.

  –Look, I do care. Your writing matters to me.

  –Okay.

  –I like to know what you’re working on.

  –Good.

  –I always want to know what happens next.

  –The reader’s curiosity.

  –Nothing wrong with that.

  –No.

  –?

  –Anyway, now, Richard is sitting on the sofa, with a letter in his hand, for a split second, he’s lulled into a fantasy of travelling back to that time, that time ten years earlier when he had everything and he frittered it away so carelessly. If only, if only he could turn the clock back.

  –New York would have been a second chance.

  –Yes, but with that gone, he can see that he’ll never be able to work again.

  –Poor Richard.

  –And if he publishes, a reviewer might refer to his past out of spite.

  –That’s unlikely.

  –Maybe but that’s what he thinks.

  –Okay.

  –He stares at the letter in his hand. The words blur; a tear rolls down his cheek and falls on the paper. And then another, and another until the print is completely smudged. He lets go of the letter and buries his face in his hands. His body is shaking. He opens a bottle of whiskey and drinks from it.

  –Poor Richard.

  –And then he has another flashback. He hears Stuart at one of their early sessions: What we need to work towards is to reconnect you to your sense of self-respect, family and society. How hollow those words sound now. He falls on the floor, curls up and sobs. His body feels weightless. Slowly, the memory of the letter comes back to him. A dream. A nightmare. The realization hits him, punches a hole in his body. Bloody Yanks don’t want him. He doesn’t want them either.

  –That’s right. He should pull himself together. There must be other opportunities. He could do something else. Or write books under a different name. It’s not the end. Can you pass that on to him?

  –Not up to me to interfere. You know how they say the characters have their own lives? At a certain point they become independent.

  –Bullshit. You don’t believe that.

  –Do you want to know what he does next?

  –Tell me.

  –He sits up and rubs his face with both hands. He becomes aware of how quiet it is at this time of the day, late morning. Not a sound. As if the world had ended.

  –You mean that crosses his mind?

  –Yes.

  –That’s a good end to the novel.

  –Don’t be facetious.

  –Well, it’s a silly thought to give him.

  –And he thinks, what next? Today, tomorrow, ever? He picks himself up, shuffles to the kitchen and pushes his head under a run
ning tap.

  –Yes, yes, pick yourself up. Splash cold water on your face, Richard. You can still make it.

  –Back in the lounge, he dials a number, listens to Stuart’s recorded message and hangs up. He rings Anna, listens to her recorded message and hangs up. He rings again. Dear Anna, please, please pick it up, he thinks.

  –That’s bad. When you need them, they’re not there. What a bugger. But don’t give up. Don’t go back Richard, please.

  –He grabs a coat and walks out, through the park, towards the Thames. He moves slowly, buffeted by the wind. He stops and watches the river, looks up at the clouds racing across the sky. Virginia Woolf walked into the river, stones in her pockets. Would it have been a slow, painful death? How does one do it? Drugs? Despair? Or both.

  –Is that what he thinks?

  –Yes.

  –Come on, you’re not going to let him kill himself.

  –Not up to me.

  –Don’t be silly.

  –So, he’s in the park and something rubs against his trousers: a dog presses against him and lifts its leg.

  –That’s good. A comic moment. That should make him smile.

  –Well, it doesn’t. Being mistaken for a lamppost isn’t funny.

  –Okay.

  –And so he moves away, the dog stands still, confused. A gust of wind rushes through the reeds along the banks. Shivering, he pulls up the collar of his coat and walks away. There isn’t a soul in sight. The dog must have been a stray, like him, but it didn’t stay. He sits on a bench, surrounded by silence. The sky is covered with heavy clouds. Suddenly it’s dark.

  –Il pleure dans mon cœur. Comme il pleut sur la ville.

  –Exactly. Like you, I imagine, he can quote Verlaine.

  –Why do you say that?

  –Would Anna be married to a man who can’t?

  –I suppose not. She’s a snob like you.

  –Thank you.

  –As for Richard—

  –I doubt if Verlaine comes to his mind as he sees darkening skies.

  –No.

  –Penny for his thoughts.

  –He’s no longer a husband, a lover, a friend, not even a prominent historian. The Centre he gave birth to is old enough and strong enough to survive on its own. He should be proud of it but, like the parent of a child who’s left home for good, he’s been deprived of purpose. He’s no longer Richard Bates, let alone Professor Richard Bates.

  –Self-pity.

  –I suppose so. You can’t expect him to be strong and buoyant at this point.

  –I don’t like the direction in which those thoughts are taking him. Nor that mention of Woolf.

  –Wait and see. His teeth rattle with the cold. He stands up to go, but where? He searches his pockets for a tissue and finds an old, scrunched up travel card. It has a mobile number written on the back and the letter ‘E’. Esther: he remembers copying it from a website. He never rang her. The last time he e-mailed her was more than a year ago. Would she still remember him?

  –Is that a prostitute?

  –Yes, the one he used to write to and even sort of invited to join him in Bruges, and then cancelled. And she’s the woman Anna wrote to from Richard’s address, pretending to be Richard.

  –I see.

  –Yes, and, pretending to be Richard, Anna wrote that his wife had found out about his activities and so he had to stop. Esther advised him to work on his marriage.

  –A whore with a golden heart.

  –So you said.

  –Poor chap. His therapist is unavailable, his wife is unavailable; all he has is a prostitute.

  –He walks on, reaches the bridge and turns towards the high street. He enters a pub, orders a double brandy and goes to a table in a corner. The place is crowded, but no one sits next to him. He drinks quickly, keeping his eyes on the table. After a while, he takes out the ticket with Esther’s number. His heart is racing as he listens to the ringing tone. No one picks it up. He doesn’t mind either way. Nothing matters.

  –I like that: nothing matters.

  –Why do you like that?

  –Because it shows that he doesn’t need a prostitute, I mean, for sex: all he needs is a human soul. Someone to talk to.

  –He shoves his mobile back into his pocket, walks to the bar and orders another double brandy. Someone takes his seat and he stands at the counter, drinks up and walks to the door.

  –Someone could talk to him in the pub. Someone could make a comment about the weather, something like that and he could respond. He could still be saved.

  –Outside the pub, a middle-aged Asian man hands him a card. I’ve got it somewhere. Let me read it out to you.

  Professor Sahib

  International Renowned Spiritual Healer/Clairvoyant.

  The only man who can solve all your internal problems and help with many more problems within a shorter period of time than anyone else, like the return of your loved ones, success in marriage with someone you always loved, losing weight, exams, success in business, impotency/infertility, court cases, all sorts of black magic, bad luck, addiction, anti-social behaviour, depression, stress, job interviews and immigration cases.

  No more worries, 100% Guaranteed.

  Your pain is my responsibility.

  –Where did you get that from?

  –Emile gave it to me. He collects them. People hand them out round where he lives. North London. North East.

  –I see. So, does Richard consider giving the professor a call?

  –You can’t see him doing that.

  –Why not? He’s a desperate man. He could at least have a word with the chap giving out the cards. Professor Sahib could save Professor Bates.

  –No. Richard tears up the card and throws it onto the road.

  –That’s not kind.

  –His mobile rings. He stares at the number, not recognizing it. Hello? Who’s that? You rang me, he says. She claims that he rang her. Then it dawns on him. Rrr . . . is that Esther? Sure man, that’s me, she says and again asks who he is. It’s . . . I’m Alan, Alan Roberts.

  –Would she remember him?

  –No, not by name. So, she asks again who he is and he explains that he used to write and mentions the Belgian trip that alas didn’t come off.

  –And she remembers.

  –Yes. She says: Hang on, man. I get it now. Fucking hell. That’s you. Your wife wrote to me . . . did you know that, she asks. He apologizes and Esther says she didn’t mind but found it a bit strange.

  –Hang on. Didn’t Anna write to her pretending to be Richard, or whatever he was called?

  –Alan Roberts.

  –Okay. So how does the prostitute know that it was his wife writing?

  –Right. You’re right. I forgot that. Unless she came clean to the woman—

  –Did she?

  –I don’t know. Missed that one. Will have to go back. Thanks for pointing it out.

  –Continuity. That’s why I’m here.

  –And then Esther asks him what he wants now. He says he doesn’t know. That’s no use to her. She’s a businesswoman. She tells him to make up his mind and get in touch when he knows what he wants.

  –She’s the only person he’s had a chance to talk to after the shock.

  –Yes, and he doesn’t want her to leave him now. The thought terrifies him.

  –Poor Richard. Whores were his downfall but a whore may be his saviour.

  –He says he wants to see her. She’s surprised. When he insists, she says she charges more for emergencies. He doesn’t mind. He says he’s not after sex. She says he’ll still have to pay. She asks him where he is. He has ended up in Putney and she gives him the name of a hotel nearby. He waits for her in the lobby, drinking brandy from a small bottle he’s picked up at an off licence. She arrives by taxi little more
than an hour after their conversation. It’s two o’clock in the morning and the lobby is deserted. She’s six foot and twenty stone, much larger than he expected from the photos on her website. The man at reception nods at them as they pass.

  –He doesn’t sound to be in a fit state to be with her.

  –No, but as he said, he wasn’t after sex. He needs someone to hold him.

  –Poor Richard. But he could still be saved. Anna could ring. Wouldn’t she be worried that he wasn’t at home?

  –She’s away. Visiting a gallery outside London and attending some dinner.

  –Bugger. That’s too much. What about Stuart? Wouldn’t he ring him back?

  –Unlikely. Richard didn’t leave a message. As far as Stuart is concerned, Richard is through, what with the job and all the prospects. He would have no reason to think there was anything urgent. A missed call doesn’t mean much in the circumstances.

  –So, that’s it. He’s back where he started.

  –Wait and see.

  –You mean there’s hope?

  –Judge for yourself. Now, they’re inside the room, he gives her five hundred pounds, in crisp notes, withdrawn barely an hour ago from two different accounts; she kisses him on the cheek. He slumps into an armchair. You don’t seem very lively. What’s up? She asks. When he doesn’t answer, she says: Look, let me show you what I can do. She twirls, holding up the ends of an imaginary skirt. He stares at her, not knowing what he wants. Would you like me to do, say . . . a dance for you? She winks at him. He shakes his head. The room is warm and he’s overcome by tiredness; he feels like burying his face in her large body and sleeping. He says: Can you hold me? She stops moving, gives him a quick smile and nods. He doesn’t look at her as she undresses. They lie on the bed and she envelops him in her arms. They don’t speak and he dozes off. When he wakes, Esther is still lying next to him. He remembers the letter and starts crying. She presses her body against him; he feels her warmth. He wishes he could stay like that forever.

  –Poor Richard.

  –And then the phone rings.

  –You mean the hotel phone?

  –No, his.

  –Who would call him so early?

  –Anna?

  –Would she? At four, or five in the morning?