A Perfect Marriage

by Alison Booth

  ‘You can’t blame yourself.’

  When he raises his eyes to meet mine they are no longer shuttered and for a brief instant, I see his pain. Then he banishes all emotion and his face becomes a blank, but I know he wouldn’t be here if he really wanted to shut me out. An insidious little thought creeps unbidden into my mind; that it’s because of Katherine’s bad luck that I am sitting in a Soho restaurant with her partner and looking with hope towards the future.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, both for his anguish and for my thought. ‘It must be a terrible thing to see someone you love in pain.’ My words seem inept but I can’t think of a better way to express sympathy. I try to imagine what it would be like to lose Charlie. Impossible; I would go mad with grief. ‘And to lose Katherine so young,’ I continue. ‘It must have seemed so unfair.’

  Anthony doesn’t seem to want to say any more and we sit in silence. I take a sip of wine and try to think of how to turn the conversation around. At the next table, three men dressed in almost identical dark suits appear to be discussing the plot of a play, but after a couple of seconds it becomes clear it’s the outline of a TV commercial. Two of the men are wearing T-shirts under their suit jackets, in a subtle differentiation of the usual male uniform. Both of the T-shirts are black.

  All the tables are occupied. If we could speed up time, we would see people coming and going, moving in, moving out, dancing through their days, through their lives. Anthony and I are together today but in the past we have overlapped with countless other people: acquaintances, friends, parents, lovers like Katherine and Jeff. We are like two arcs intersecting. Perhaps we shall travel the same trajectory for a while.

  ‘I’ve had a few affairs since Katherine died,’ Anthony says at last, interrupting my reverie. ‘But nothing serious. So to answer your question, no, I’ve never been married.’

  He appears intent to the point of single-mindedness on being honest about his past and I feel touched by his directness. Although I wonder what he means by ‘a few’ affairs, that’s not something that I wish to ask him. And I certainly don’t want to be caught up in confidences about the young men I dated. Some things are best kept concealed.

  Lunch is over. The waiter is hovering restlessly nearby and the restaurant is starting to empty. Anthony insists on paying on the grounds that it was his idea to eat at an expensive place. While we wait for the return of his credit card, I tell him about my recent visit to the Tate Modern. On an impulse, I ask if he’d like to go there with me now. He agrees at once; he hasn’t been for a while. If we take a cab we can have an hour or two there before I head off to the dinner with my departmental head and his wife, and Anthony visits his parents in Golders Green.

  How can the promise of a couple of extra hours bring so much happiness?

  Chapter 20

  NOW

  Although it is still drizzling outside, the wind has dropped. In spite of the rain, we immediately secure a taxi. I sit by the window; Anthony leaps in after me and sits in the middle of the bench seat. Blackfriars Bridge looms in sight, gaudily painted red and white, a relief from the drab grey of the London streets. I don’t need to look down to know that Anthony’s elbow is barely a centimetre away from my arm.

  The cab corners suddenly and we are thrown against each other. The shock is electric. Abruptly we move apart, the action unnatural; it’s as if we have both become negatively charged, two opposing forces pushing each other away. All it will take is a quick flick of the switch and we’ll be pulled together once more.

  The consciousness of Anthony’s body so close to mine heightens my powers of observation, as if I need to commit to memory not only every detail of Anthony but every detail of our environment too. I see, beyond his profile, a train stopped at the station that spans a part of the river. A blue and white sign says: WELCOME TO LONDON BLACKFRIARS. People are scurrying along the platform towards the exit, their shoulders hunched against the rain and the leaden grey sky pressing down like a lid over London. The River Thames, muddy as always, flows fast with the out-going tide, and undulates around the buttresses of the bridge.

  Anthony speaks my name. On its own: no embellishments. The way he says this word is so powerful that I hear it with my whole body. I tingle all over, as if I’ve just stepped out of the coldest water and onto a warm beach.

  Shocked, I remain silent. And perhaps there is no need to respond. Everything was there in the way he said my name. We sit side-by-side looking out of the cab windows. I barely notice that Tate Modern is now in sight, a squat oblong like a shoebox, redeemed from ugliness by its bold chimney and the strong flutings of its brickwork.

  The cab driver puts us down on the south side of the bridge next to the greengrocer whose stall is set up under an awning on the pavement. It’s raining very lightly still. I put up my umbrella but Anthony takes it from me. Threading my arm through his, I feel the warmth of his body. It is one thing to feel desire but this need, which hits me like a tidal wave, has struck without warning.

  We walk down the steps to the Thames and through the tunnel of yellow brickwork whose flying buttresses and vaults support the railway above us. A few gulls are wheeling low over the river, and a passing tug hoots softly. Whatever happens, I will always remember this moment, and this view that is like a tapestry. A beautiful tapestry of muted colours, through which our happiness is being woven, thread by golden thread.

  Tate Modern, when we can see it again after passing the housing on our right, no longer looks squat, but is a powerful statement. Its vast load of brickwork presses down onto two narrow horizontal slits at ground level that look as if they are waiting for some enormous letters to be posted.

  I take Anthony up to the galleries on level three, which I think he will find the most interesting. He is fascinated by a Tinguely construction, a large machine that is sitting idly on the gallery floor. While we stand there, an attendant appears and starts it up; he operates it for five minutes every hour, he explains. Our small group expands almost at once to a fascinated crowd of forty or more. We watch mesmerised as the machine pursues its useless actions, cogs and wheels operating, setting off other cogs and wheels, a great machine working purposefully at producing nothing.

  ‘Like the academic world,’ I say.

  ‘You cynic. We do make some breakthroughs. You’re one of those who do.’

  ‘I know all that stuff about building on the shoulders of giants.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a model of the funding councils.’ Anthony steps back slightly as a man pushes in front of us and obliterates our view of the sculpture. ‘A button’s pressed somewhere, in some government department. Then the funding council moves into action, cogs turn, wheels spin, new organisations are spawned. But none of them actually produces anything.’

  ‘Now who’s being cynical!’

  We move on to look at a painting close by that I missed on my previous visit. Books are glued onto its surface, with their covers backing onto the canvas so that the pages of the books fan out. Spread-eagled open to the viewer, the pages have been crudely painted in a variety of colours, and sculpted into curves. The artist made a film of the canvas, Anthony reads from the placard on the wall. The artist first photographed one arrangement of the pages, and afterwards turned over a few leaves of every book before taking another photograph. In repeating the process, he created a moving film of the pages flipping over on his canvas.

  ‘Read the book and see the film,’ says Anthony. ‘It’s a neat concept.’

  I squint at the canvas to comprehend it better. It’s like someone’s life, each page so detailed, so complex. But speed up the turning of each sheet and you’re left with just a blur, and then it’s all over. Better by far to see the canvas as it is, static. You can take your pick about which page to focus on. You can take one day at a time. Like today; take it slowly. Savour it while it’s here.

  ‘I like it static,’ I say softly, not wanting to explain why. ‘It looks so organic, like a banksia cone.’

  He l
ooks at me blankly; it can’t be often that he doesn’t know something.

  ‘You’re a biologist,’ I tell him, smiling. ‘You should know all about banksias. They’re an Australian shrub with the most wonderful gnarled cones.’

  He laughs. ‘I never did any botany.’

  The Tinguely sculpture nearby has ceased operating, and the little crowd of onlookers begins to disperse, some of them heading our way. I look at my watch. The gallery will close in half an hour. We move off; I want Anthony to see Rothko’s Seagram series of paintings, my favourites in this gallery.

  Anthony seizes my hand, and the physical shock of this takes my breath away. His hand is large and warm, and infinitely comforting. In a daze I lead him along a corridor to the gallery exhibiting Rothko’s large red canvases. This space has been made deliberately dark. Anthony and I sit on a bench. The room is practically empty; there is only one other couple that is keeping their distance.

  In silence we contemplate the painting on the wall opposite. It is of two reddish-lavender vertical rectangles; they are bounded by fuzzy-edged black scaffolding on a deep maroon background. Intensely aware of Anthony, I can feel the blood pumping through his hand. After a while the painting begins to take the form of an invitation. Do step in, it is saying. Do step right in, right into the canvas, right into this brave new world I am offering you.

  ‘Here’s to our friendship,’ Anthony says at last, as if he too is affected by what we’re seeing together.

  ‘May it last.’

  He turns to me, his expression surprised. ‘Why shouldn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t know each other at all,’ I say, while thinking that we have so far not arranged when to meet again. And he doesn’t know of my past yet either.

  ‘Well, we’re going to remedy that,’ he says quite firmly. ‘I’m coming back again at Thanksgiving and I hope we can see a lot of each other then. And I think I’ll start phoning you at regular intervals too, just to make sure you don’t forget me.’

  ‘Not much chance of that.’

  He laughs. As we come out of the darkened room into the adjacent space, we catch a glimpse of the rows of silver birches defining the edge of the Thames. Outside the sun has emerged from its grey shroud and is shining on the dome of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The gilded cross on its top blazes with light.

  Anthony hails a passing cab and I climb in. He leans forward and kisses me. It is a gentle touch but one that lingers on my lips and promises more. ‘I wish you weren’t leaving so soon,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll see you in four weeks. But I’ll phone you early next week when I’m back at Harvard.’ And with a wave he has gone.

  Raising my fingertips to my lips, I feel charged with new energy. Four weeks will fly by. The taxi drops me at Gower Street, and I bounce into the college building. I am walking on air, I am weightless.

  Only later, during the dinner party that evening with my departmental head and his wife, does a subversive little thought return to me. It is the same thought that sprang into my head the night I first told Zoë about meeting Anthony. That maybe he is just too perfect.

  Chapter 21

  THEN

  I put Charlie to bed soon after we got home from seeing Jeff’s prospective clients, the Fosters, and came downstairs again. I said, ‘They haven’t phoned yet, Jeff?’

  Mr Foster had said he’d ring that night if Jeff had the job of doing the landscape design for his new development.

  ‘No.’ Jeff put down his newspaper and looked at me. I was wearing my outdoor jacket over my green and white striped shirt and black jeans. ‘Why have you changed?’

  ‘The dress was a bit uncomfortable.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the shop.’

  ‘What do we need?’

  ‘More milk. Charlie drank the last of it before she went to bed.’

  ‘Surely it can wait till tomorrow.’

  ‘I feel like some fresh air.’ I gave him a quick kiss and was out the front door in a flash. I never could bear hanging around when Jeff was waiting for a phone call. He was always so irritable.

  I walked up our crescent and on through the dark deserted streets of Islington. Although I felt moderately confident Jeff would get that job, I knew that he’d be in a foul temper if he didn’t.

  Earlier he’d told me I’d behaved badly at the Fosters. Charlie had been tired when we arrived there and, as always when she was tired and placed in a new environment, she became hyperactive. ‘Control her, why can’t you,’ he whispered when the Fosters had left us alone in their living room for a moment.

  Charlie at once escaped from my grasp and dashed into the hallway. I could hear her pounding up and down the stairs. Mrs Foster caught me charging after her. ‘Lovely child,’ she said. ‘Kids always love the stairs.’ She had one of those faces that seemed to be perpetually smiling, as if everything you said was a joke. ‘We have three sons, all grown up. So we’re used to children.’

  ‘She’s normally not as bad as this.’

  ‘She’s fine, Sally. Don’t you worry about her.’ I liked Mrs Foster for that and liked her even more when she put her arm around Charlie and said, ‘Come and I’ll show you something. It’s a wooden train set. I know you’re going to really love playing with it. My boys certainly did. I’m keeping it for my grandchildren, if I’m lucky enough to have any.’

  On the way home afterwards, Jeff criticised me for not controlling Charlie properly. ‘You didn’t make enough conversation either. Half the battle in private practice is charming the client,’ he said.

  Now, in the dark Islington street that was lit only by a few sodium lamps, I tripped on a half-empty lager can that someone had left on the footpath and beer sloshed on my ankle. At the pedestrian crossing beyond the supermarket in Upper Street, I saw a frail stooped woman in a long black coat waiting at the lights. Her dried-up brown face wore the appearance of a small child looking with wonder at the world. Earlier that afternoon I’d seen a similar expression when I’d waved goodbye to poor old Celia, who was living out her remaining days in the residential care home. My vision blurred but I saw the lights change colour. The woman picked up her torn plastic holdall and struggled across the road. That would be me in forty years’ time. Sooner probably.

  After buying the milk, I trudged home. It began to rain, quite heavily, just as I left Upper Street. I hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella; the rain trickled down my face and into the gap between collar and neck. When I turned into our crescent, I heard a phone start to ring. Surely that must be ours. I slowed my pace, but no, it was from the house next door but one. As I reached our place I heard a new peal. I hesitated outside the front door until the ringing stopped and then I inserted my key into the lock. It was probably the Fosters. They would surely not be calling unless Jeff had got the job.

  Jeff wasn’t in the living room. The house was quiet; he must have already finished talking on the phone, or perhaps he was on the extension in our bedroom upstairs. I hoped he wasn’t going to wake Charlie. I crept up the stairs and still I could hear nothing. But the bathroom light was on: a band of light shone from under the closed door and Jeff came out as I got to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Did you get it?’ I asked.

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘The job. Wasn’t that the Fosters on the phone?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t answer it. Why the hell didn’t you pick it up?’

  ‘I’ve only just got home.’

  ‘I thought you were back already. Wasn’t there a message?’

  ‘I didn’t check. But they’ll call you back. You know they will.’ I smiled and reached out to touch his arm.

  ‘Don’t you treat me like a child!’ His voice was too quiet and I grew cold with apprehension.

  An instant later he punched me hard in the jaw.

  And the phone started ringing again.

  I ran into the bathroom, and shut the door quietly behind me. My left cheek felt numb. I knew it was the shock. I ran
my tongue carefully over my teeth. Nothing was broken. My face in the mirror was stark white, with a blazing red mark where Jeff’s fist had hit me. Still I felt nothing. No physical pain. No emotional pain. Nothing, just nothing. No anger. No hurt.

  I felt nothing at all.

  I was nothing.

  I sat down on the floor between the bath and basin, with my back against the cold wall tiles, and put my forehead on my knees.

  I waited for something to happen. For some reaction.

  But still I felt nothing.

  Soon I heard noises from downstairs. It was Jeff’s voice. He sounded lively; he was talking vivaciously on the phone. Then a few minutes later I heard his steps on the stairs bounding up towards me.

  And still I felt nothing.

  ‘Sally! Sally! Open up.’ The door handle rattled and turned, but the door didn’t budge. I must have pulled the barrel bolt across, although I couldn’t remember doing so. I stayed where I was, on the bathroom floor. ‘Sally, open up! You’ll wake Charlie if you don’t.’

  I got up and unfastened the bolt on the door.

  ‘What’s happened to your face? Oh Sally, poor you!’ He held me by the shoulders and carefully scrutinised my face. I put my hand up to my lower left cheek. It was starting to swell, but still I felt nothing.

  ‘You poor darling, you silly billy, my poor Sally. Did you walk into the doorpost?’

  It was as if he’d forgotten he’d hit me; it was as if it were entirely my fault. It was as if the swelling of my face had nothing to do with his actions.

  ‘I’ve got the job, Sally! Isn’t that wonderful? I’ve got the job.’

  I looked at his handsome face and could think of nothing to say.