by Tim Lott
Sure.
She takes a ten-pence piece out of her purse, hurls it into the air, catches it on the back of her hand. I watch her movements, fluid, even graceful. She is dressed mainly in white today, as if this is the beginning of some new virginity, or a counter-wedding. As it happens, I am in black.
Heads or tails?
Heads.
It’s tails.
Can I see?
Beth looks at me sardonically. First blood to her.
If it matters to you so much, you go first.
I just want to see the coin.
OK.
She shows me the back of her hand. Tails.
OK. Go ahead, then.
We haven’t even started and already she’s seized the moral high ground. I’m outclassed here. But I’m not going down without a fight.
I’ll have that picture.
She points to Poppy’s – ‘To mumy and daddy lov Poppy’. God, she’s good: this immediately raises the moral tone another degree – she’s not gone for the most expensive item, but for the one that means most to her. But, of course, it’s not that simple, because it also means most to me. It’s the first thing I’d marked on my list. She knew it. That’s why she went for it. So what looks like a moral act is actually an act of ruthlessness and spite.
Come on, Beth. Don’t do this.
Don’t do what?
Choose something else. You’ve got Poppy, after all. I just want something to remind me of her when she’s not with me.
The picture is the first proper one that either of us can remember Poppy painting. It’s remarkably good – of the house, with me and Beth standing at the window with big smiles on our faces and Poppy in the garden playing. There are sweets growing from the trees, and the sun has a surprised face. Bluebirds fly over clouds. Poppy did it on her fourth birthday. She’s even dated it.
There’s no point in getting into this, Danny. There’s no point in discussions any more. It’ll be best if we do this as quickly and clinically as possible. Let’s make our choices and get out of here.
Fine. I’ll take that clock.
I point to the carriage clock with the inscription from her parents on it. Beth blanches. She knows I hate it, and that I’m not very keen on her parents either. She also knows that I know it means a huge amount to her.
That was unnecessary. That was cruel.
You give me the painting, and I’ll give you the clock.
I’ll have Poppy’s milk teeth.
I want to choke. I was always the Tooth Fairy, the one who made sure that there was a pound under the pillow. I always saved the teeth. Beth wants all of Poppy. She wants the precious superfluities of her body. She wants my memories for herself. She won’t stop. She’ll take the stakes higher and higher. She’ll press the nuclear button. I feel myself sag. I shouldn’t have started this game.
OK, I say wearily. I take up my pencil theatrically and stab at the list randomly. I’ll have the… stapler.
Beth smiles incredulously, and my attempt to show I’m above it all backfires.
I’ll have the Bang & Olufsen console.
Right. I’ll have the speakers.
Obviously the console is no good without the speakers. But Beth doesn’t flinch.
Poppy’s ballet slippers.
Your wedding dress.
And so forth. Half an hour later we’re finished, and it’s a gruesome mess, as usual. We each now own separate essential parts of larger items, we’ve got things we never wanted, we’re both full of resentment and anger against each other. No winners, only losers. We should start again. But that would be to ignore the bleakest law of our lives. You can’t start again. Not now, not ever.
Alice and I are in the park with Poppy. Alice is pushing Poppy on a swing. I am watching Alice from a vantage-point to the side, perched on a plastic turtle with a winning smile. She is not looking at me, so I can inspect her at my leisure. The strength and sensitivity of her face, the narrow slope of her shoulders, the beacon of her smile. I love this woman, and this time it’s going to work. For ever and ever.
It’s going to work, because I’ve learned my lessons. I’ve talked to Terence, I’ve consulted the flip-chart, I’ve got it all mapped out in my head. No more prat-falls, no more dumb-shows. I can’t afford them.
To run through the list on the flip-chart: obviously it’s too late not to fall in love too quickly. I’ve done that, and if it’s a mistake, I don’t regret it. As for the Sharon Smith Principle, the problem of sex = power, it’s not as true as it was when I was thirteen. It’s been replaced by the Beth Principle: children = power. And as Alice and I haven’t got any, it doesn’t apply.
Alice’s impossible paradoxes aren’t clear to me yet, but I’m prepared. When they come, I fully intend to transcend them, tolerate them, suffer them and even defuse them. As for the shadows and doppelgängers – well, clearly Martin is the chief shadow that I have to deal with here. And I am dealing with it. She still talks about him, still talks to him sometimes – or, rather, talks to me in the apparent belief that I am liable to behave like he does. That I am about to bolt (so she needs to be wary), that I am vulnerable (therefore I need looking after), that I am confused and indecisive (therefore she needs to take the lead). Slowly, gently, patiently, I am setting her right. I am me, it is me she loves. It’s over between her and Martin. I think she’s getting there. I will go with her the full mile here, I will wrestle with all her shadows, I will shadow-box her doppelgängers until they beg for mercy.
I’ve worked out the secret language of women. I’ve read Men Are from Mars and Women Are from Venus by John Gray, I’ve read You Just Don’t Understand by Deborah Tannen. I’m interpreting symbols, sidelining the literal. I’ve got the whole territory covered. I’m proactive – I understand that women get angry with men for the things they don’t do. I know you have to do what they need without being asked. I understand that one cannot overestimate the importance of the last three words of that sentence. I see clues and signs everywhere.
Women flock to indifference. OK, I’m finding it very hard to be indifferent to Alice. I love her, but I’m doing my best not to show it too much. This feels phoney, but I’m determined not to gush because it makes women nervous. I need to take things slowly. I can’t apply Martin’s Law exactly, because I don’t really feel indifferent like he does. All the same, I’m rationing the loving looks, and curtailing the overwhelming desire to hold her, kiss her, be with her twenty-four hours a day.
Am I trying to crush her because she’s weak? No. Because she’s not weak. And if she was, I would try to look after her, not crush her.
What about the Gilfeather Paradox? That women torture you so you can prove you love them. It’s true she has been a bit difficult, but I put this down to the switch between me and Martin. Sometimes, in fact, she’s so cruel to me I think she wants me to leave her. But I know she wants me to prove my love. I’m going to do just that.
As for being ruthless at the end of a relationship – well, it doesn’t apply. Because this relationship isn’t going to end.
The only thing outstanding is Problem X. I’ve given up trying to remember what it is. I don’t care, anyway: I’ve got enough of the ground covered now. We’re going to be fine, fine, fine.
God, life is good.
I’ve still got my eyes on Alice. She even pushes a swing with a certain grace. She and Poppy don’t know each other very well yet, but I feel pleased with the way they’re getting on. Alice likes kids, and kids like her.
Then I think, This isn’t just about me and Alice any more.
I’ve already hurt Poppy so much by taking away from her her most fixed point of reality: her mother and father living together in the same house, protecting and supporting her as a unit, a solid immovable force for good. Now the force is splintered, and Poppy, who is sometimes full of anger and outrage, is really just full of sadness. We put that there, Beth and I.
So here’s the thing. I don’t want to see it happen again.
It mustn’t happen again. I don’t want to tell Poppy that I love someone else, that that person is going to be around for ever and then perhaps she’ll fall in love with them, even though they’re not her mother, or at least get used to having them around, and see them disappear.
I’m sure of my love for Alice, I’m sure of her love for me. But God forbid that anything goes wrong.
Alice has stopped pushing Poppy on the swing now and Poppy is on a climbing-frame. Alice comes over to me.
How are you?
Oh, so-so.
You seem a bit down.
Oh, God. You know. That splitting of the worldly possessions, it was like, Christ, you know? What a superbitch, what a bitch squared. Anyway, I told you how it was, didn’t I? Yeh, well, I don’t want to go on about it.
Right, well…
Of course, it wasn’t the end. I had another argument with Beth today, and we’ve got the court case next week. It’s all doing my head in. She’s so inflexible. I’m tired of it all. All this fighting, all this anger. She never gives it a rest. You know, I really feel she’s out to hurt me. The cunt. Sorry. Sorry. But – you know. Anyway, now she’s instructed her barrister to go for a full court hearing. What’s she playing at? As if this is going to do Poppy any good. What Poppy needs is to see an end to this as soon as possible. Don’t you think? But does she care about Poppy? No. She says she does but, when push comes to shove, all she cares about is how big her bank balance is going to look. I’m just a – just a cash cow, really, not a father. You know, there’s no reason for all this. Sometimes I think she just wants a fight – she doesn’t even care if she loses. And it’s just racking up more and more costs for both of us and that money could be going on, say, Poppy’s education. Sometimes I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, it seems so long that… Christ, I’m eaten up inside. Poppy’s tough, though. Do you know what she said to me today? It made me laugh, I tell you.
Danny. Have you any idea how much you talk about Beth? About Beth and Poppy?
What?
You’re obsessed with it. The divorce, everything.
I’m obsessed with my daughter. Of course I bloody am.
There’s no need to keep swearing.
‘Bloody’ isn’t swearing. You’re not listening. Christ, thanks for being so supportive. I’m just…
I’m getting sick of it, Danny.
What?
Alice sighs. You know. I do love you and everything but I’m… I’m not in your situation. Poppy’s a nice kid. But she’s not my kid.
What does that mean?
I just mean… it’s difficult. And it’s not just Poppy I’m taking on when I take on you, Danny. It’s Beth. She’s always on your mind – she’s on your mind more than I am.
That’s not true.
It is true. I don’t think you realize how much you go on about her. I try to be supportive, but sometimes I think, I just think…
What do you think?
That I sometimes wish I wasn’t in this situation.
Pause.
Well, you are.
Alice sighs, looks over to where Poppy has now come off the climbing-frame and is running towards us.
I guess so. Alice! Alice! Lift me up!
And Alice lifts her up and swings her in the air, and there is an expression of pure bliss on Poppy’s face, and Alice is smiling too, but the smile is tinged with sadness, and something else I cannot name, which frightens me. I brush away the feeling. It’s a difficult situation. But we’ll get over it. Love finds a way.
A couple of hours later we’ve dropped Poppy back at her mother’s. Beth and I aren’t talking at the moment, after she said something about me to Poppy that I consider unforgivable – that if I loved Poppy more, Daddy would not make Mummy go through the courts. Except that it’s Beth who’s making us go through the courts and, anyway, whoever it is, you don’t bring Poppy into it, you don’t slag off the other parent to the kid. So now I’m not talking to Beth because to see her makes me feel sick. I’m dropping Poppy off at the end of the path, watching while she walks up it until the door opens a crack. Then I blow a kiss and walk off.
Of course it occurs to me that this must be painful for Poppy, but the alternative, that we might end up trading insults on the doorstep, seems even worse. I return to the car, where Alice is sitting. I’m shaking now, and feel like bursting into tears, but I hold myself tight inside: after what Alice said to me earlier, I don’t want to unburden myself on her. Yet the pain and the tension make my body rigid. I find it hard to speak. Alice sits next to me in the car as we drive back to my bedsit. We don’t talk.
Inside, I make a cup of tea while Alice fidgets with her makeup. I bring the tea to her at the table. I’m about to join her when she says, What’s that thing you’re writing on your flip-chart?
What?
You know. The Love Secrets of Don Juan. Is it some kind of weird brainstorming for an advertising campaign? And why are there only nine?
There’s actually ten, now. There’s one I haven’t yet put up, the fruit of my last bout of introspection.
Problem: Women don’t always let you know when they want out. Cf. Kelly Cornelius. Result: Heartbreak, agony, regret. Solution: Be watchful. Don’t take your eye off the ball.
Yes. A campaign.
What kind of campaign?
I don’t really want to talk about it.
Oh.
I see immediately that I’m not going to be able to sustain this line. Especially as Alice is right: I do talk most of the time about Beth and Poppy. It’s hardly fair to cut her off from something she’s curious about.
It’s not an advertising thing. It’s… I suppose you’d call it self-help. Terence, my therapist, suggested I do it. It’s me trying to work out how to understand women and myself. It’s me trying to learn a few lessons.
Alice seems lost for words at the futility of the exercise.
Well. At least I’m trying to learn.
Good luck.
She sips her tea. I sip mine.
Alice. You never asked about my night out with Martin.
Didn’t I?
Aren’t you interested?
Of course I am.
It’s just that you haven’t asked.
It must have slipped my mind.
I told him about us, you know. About me and you.
Long pause.
I know you did.
I look up sharply. You know?
Yes. He told me.
I didn’t know you two were still in touch.
Martin will always be my friend and I will always be his.
Is that so?
I’m not sure I like the way this is going. There is something in Alice’s eyes, some weird mixture of apology and defiance, that makes me nervous.
Yes.
So… what did he say?
He said he wanted to marry me.
I burst out laughing at the improbability of it. Alice’s face doesn’t change but I carry on in much the same vein. Oh, my God. That’s rich. I can’t believe it. Last week he didn’t love you, didn’t care a hoot. All the time he’s been with you, he’s never told you he loved you. Now I’m with you, he wants to marry you. That’s not just pathetic, that’s the definition of pathetic.
Alice doesn’t move. Then she says, I feel very confused all of a sudden.
I bark an incredulous laugh. Confused? What about?
Danny, Martin and I were together a long time. Two years. You knew when we started going out that I still loved him…
Yes, but …
Well, then. And I know that Martin has a lot of trouble with his feelings. That he’s out of touch with them.
I’ll say he’s out of touch with them. He’s out of touch with them, because when it comes to women, he doesn’t have them. I know, I’m his best friend.
I’m not sure about that. When I saw him -
You saw him?
Yes. He came round yesterday night.
Yesterday night?
>
That’s right. And he was just so… I don’t know. So sad, so confused, so heartbroken.
The deadly combination – vulnerability and inaccessibility. Only now he was accessible. The man that no woman could get was on the canvas. And Alice was going to be the one who… no. She wouldn’t do that.
I presume you explained to him that he’s blown it.
It’s not that simple, Danny.
Isn’t it?
No.
My panic is making me angry. Why isn’t it? What’s so fucking complicated?
You don’t just wipe out two years of being together just like that. You don’t just throw your feelings into the bin the day you split up. I think he’s changed. I think … I think he needs me.
I think I’m going to be sick. Needs you? Martin doesn’t need anyone. It’s just too big a blow to his fucking ego that his mate of all people is going out with his ex-girlfriend. It’s all about possession, not love.
I don’t think that’s true. I just think he didn’t realize he loved me.
I cover my face with my hands, and sit down opposite her. I peer through the gaps in my fingers, hardly daring to look directly at her. When I speak, my voice is quiet and tinged with desperation. Let me tell you something, Alice. You’re a clever and perceptive woman. But if you believe that, you don’t understand men. You don’t understand what power means to them. Even I underestimated it – Imean, I never thought Martin would…
My words run out. Alice has started crying now. Bad sign.
And, you know, Danny, 1 don’t think you’re ready for a proper relationship at the moment. You’re still too tied up with your wife. You’re still climbing from the wreckage. 1 don’t like all that wreckage. 1 don’t want to be caught up in it, all the sharp metal, all the broken glass. And then there’s Poppy.
What about Poppy?
She’s fifty per cent Beth. She even looks like Beth. She’s living history. And you want me to love her. It’s a terrific responsibility.
Everyone has baggage.
But it isn’t always so tangible.
You don’t like Poppy, do you?