Trouble

by Fay Weldon

‘It must be something in my stars,’ said Annette, ‘which makes me so impossible.’

  ‘Many a true word spoken in jest,’ said Spicer.

  ‘I don’t feel in the least like jesting,’ said Annette. ‘And why this sudden interest in Indian music and astrology? It’s hurtful. It keeps me out.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Spicer, ‘is a man to have no privacy? No space in his own head for his own interests? His own tastes? Must everything be shared? Common denominated? A very quick way to end a relationship! I hardly think it’s your ambition to do that, Annette. There’s too much at stake. Look, we’ve had a splendid evening out at the opera, your fan Ernie’s talked prattling nonsense to you non-stop, surely you don’t have to be quite so doleful? Sitting in the back of a taxi weeping when you have everything in the world a woman could want? I know you’re pregnant, but you mustn’t take it out on others.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Spicer,’ said Annette.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Spicer. ‘Shall we kiss and make up?’

  ‘How was the second act?’ asked Gilda. ‘We haven’t spoken for days. Where have you been?’

  ‘I’ve just been rather busy,’ said Annette. ‘You know how it is. I’m trying to get this thing on the Europa myth done but I keep falling asleep. I really can’t remember much about the opera, Gilda. I was too worried about what Spicer was thinking to take much notice of it.’

  ‘That seems a waste of an expensive ticket,’ said Gilda.

  ‘I hate it when Spicer’s angry with me,’ said Annette. ‘I can’t focus on anything.’

  ‘He does seem to be angry with you rather a lot,’ said Gilda.

  ‘These days.’

  ‘He wasn’t very nice in the taxi home,’ said Annette. ‘But we’ve been fine since then. Really. In fact he’s been sweet, in a really good mood. I can almost say what I like without thinking first. Almost. Except—’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘He warned me on Saturday that the moon was full so I had to be extra careful in the traffic’

  ‘What’s the matter with that? All kinds of people say that kind of thing,’ said Gilda.

  ‘But not Spicer,’ said Annette, ‘not in normal times. I looked it up in my Dictionary of Superstitions and it said there was some justification in the belief that the full moon exacerbated insanity. The moon pulls the tides about, and since the human body is ninety-seven per cent water the full moon may well make minimal changes in water pressure on the brain.’

  ‘Are you suggesting Spicer’s mad, Annette?’

  ‘Of course not. But who’s telling him these things? I can see the moon being full could affect the way people drove. Okay. But how can Spicer believe that the planet Saturn, which is 800 million miles away, in relation to a moon which is racing round the earth, be what gives him a good memory? It’s nuts—’

  ‘You’re not still worrying about that? You’re obsessive,’ said Gilda.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Annette. ‘I expect it’s being pregnant does it.’

  ‘Being pregnant makes me happy,’ said Gilda. ‘Not anxious. Did you actually look up how many miles Saturn is from the earth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God help you,’ said Gilda.

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Annette, ‘Spicer brought me strawberries from the market early on Sunday morning and came back to bed and we had them with cream for breakfast. And he put his hand on my belly and felt Gillian kicking.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Gilda. ‘It can’t be too bad.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Annette. ‘Just wonderful to have him in a good mood again.’

  ‘You won’t miss Clinic on Tuesday,’ said Gilda, ‘just because you’re happy?’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ said Annette. ‘See you there if I don’t speak to you before. I expect it’s all nothing.’

  ‘I thought whatever it was had passed,’ said Annette sadly, to Gilda.

  They were at the Tuesday night antenatal class; they lay next to each other on the floor and waited for the relaxation teacher to return from assisting a woman in the Ready-to-Pop class who had gone into premature labour.

  ‘What’s he done now?’ asked Gilda.

  ‘Don’t talk of Spicer as “he” like that, Gilda,’ said Annette. ‘I don’t want to be the kind of woman who complains to other women about her husband. I don’t want to get into the what’s-he-done-now mentality. It’s so vulgar.’

  ‘This is meant to be a relaxation class,’ said Gilda. ‘And listen to you! So uptight! Don’t talk to me about Spicer if you don’t want to. I didn’t ask, you offered. In fact, come to think of it, I’d rather not discuss it either. We can just talk about babies, I suppose, and dishwashers or, better still, not talk about anything at all to each other, ever again.’

  ‘Sorry, Gilda,’ said Annette, and her hand stretched out to hold her friend’s, as it lay gently upturned on the wooden floor. Gilda’s thick red hair lay, from the angle of Annette’s vision, like a kind of flounced skirt around her head. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I expect I snap at Spicer. I expect that’s the trouble. I’m really difficult and neurotic and I just don’t know it. I suppose we all think we’re perfect and everyone else is to blame: when really we’re the source of the trouble.’ She took her hand away from Gilda’s. ‘I shouldn’t hold your hand, I suppose. Spicer thinks we’re having a lesbian relationship.’ Gilda snatched her hand away and lifted her head from the floor the better to turn and stare at Annette.

  ‘I was joking,’ explained Annette. ‘So was he. Oh God, I keep putting my foot in it. Spicer’s right. I’m impossible.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have some kind of anti-stress treatment,’ said Gilda, ‘for your head as well as your body. I wish Dr Elsie Spanner would return. This floor is very draughty. And I wish they wouldn’t call the other class the “Ready-to-Pop”. I’m sure it’s calling it that which keeps sending women into premature labour. Pop they think and pop they go.’

  ‘You mean me see a therapist?’ asked Annette. ‘Spicer and I don’t believe in therapy. It’s one of the core beliefs of the marriage. Therapists make people self-preoccupied, selfish and destructive. Spicer’s first marriage broke up because his wife Aileen went into therapy. He said he thought they had just an ordinary happy marriage, but she started seeing this man and the next thing Spicer knew Aileen told him she was unhappy and Spicer was the cause of it, and she left him.’

  ‘Perhaps it was true,’ said Gilda.

  ‘But she left Jason too, because the therapist said she couldn’t have a child and be fulfilled as well; the child being the fruit of an unhappy marriage. It didn’t sound responsible to me.’

  ‘You should be grateful to this therapist or you wouldn’t be married to Spicer now.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Annette. ‘You don’t think he married me just because he needed someone to help with Jason?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Gilda, ‘go and see a therapist! Don’t ask me. Whatever answer I give I’ll be in trouble.’

  The class was abandoned since Dr Elsie Spanner felt her greater duty was to accompany the woman in parturition to the hospital and help her with her breathing rather than to conduct the class. In the dressing room Gilda said, ‘Well, what has Spicer done now to upset you? Notice I don’t say “he”.’

  Annette said, ‘My mother came to lunch. It was Monday. She often visits on Mondays. Spicer looked in from the office to see her and have a cup of coffee. You know how they get on. It’s a relief. She hated my first husband. It was because he was called Paddy. She didn’t like that: she said it reminded her of an Irish navvy, and then I’d have to defend Irish navvies. You know how it is. But she and Spicer get on so well I sometimes get the feeling they gang up on me. Certainly they refer to me as “she” quite a lot. My mother was talking about what it had been like giving birth to me and how quick and easy it had all been. She’d had me in the ambulance; it had to park in a lay-by and the back doors were open; it was early autumn and the
morning sun was shining right into her eyes: she often tells that story. And Spicer interrupted and said, “Did you say morning sun? I thought it was evening.” My mother said, “I should know, Spicer; I was there!” and Spicer looked at the cup of coffee I was pouring and said to me very angrily, “You know I don’t drink coffee any more” and just walked out on us both and went back to work. I made excuses for him to my mother; I told her Spicer was overworking and me being pregnant made him edgy—gave him brainstorms. Poor Spicer, I said, he has so much responsibility: myself, Susan, Jason, work, the house, a recession: and only Spicer to look after us all.’

  ‘You mean the kind of excuse you make to yourself,’ said Gilda, ‘for the way Spicer behaves.’

  ‘It’s not an excuse,’ said Annette. ‘It’s true. But my mother stayed upset and went home with her jaw set and her teeth grinding, which gives her headaches, and I felt dreadful. I always feel responsible for my mother’s peace of mind. So I made Wendy put me through to Spicer at work and told him he had to call my mother to apologise, and he just shouted at me down the phone and said I should do the apologising; I was a liar, and psychotic. If I was born in the morning why had I told him evening. Only mad people made up lies to no purpose.’

  ‘Well, why did you tell him wrong?’ asked Gilda.

  ‘I just thought evening sounded nicer, I suppose,’ said Annette. ‘I can’t remember either way. It didn’t seem important at the time. I think Spicer might be right and I’m going mad. I really want to see a therapist, but I don’t know how to tell Spicer. I’m frightened he’d be angry; he hates people with soggy brains.’

  ‘Your brain never used to be soggy,’ said Gilda.

  ‘I think it’s pregnancy,’ said Annette.

  ‘It might be Spicer,’ said Gilda. ‘We must consider that possibility. Spicer confusing you, making you think that what’s his fault is your fault. Steve says he does that. Would you like me to ask around about therapists?’

  ‘Yes, please, Gilda,’ said Annette. ‘Secret therapy. Find me a man, please. I’m sure I could talk to a man easier than a woman.’

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ said Susan, when Annette got home from the Clinic. ‘You’re early. I didn’t expect you for another hour.’

  ‘Why are all the windows open?’ asked Annette.

  ‘I’ve been smoking,’ replied Susan.

  ‘What kind of smoking?’

  ‘Just ordinary cigarettes,’ said Susan.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Just one. I still feel sick.’

  ‘Good,’ said Annette.

  ‘Spicer says dope is healthier than tobacco,’ said Susan. ‘If I knew how to get hold of it I would, to see if it made you any happier.’

  ‘When did he say that?’

  ‘At six o’clock this evening,’ said Annette.

  ‘Where is Spicer?’ asked Annette. ‘In the study?’

  ‘No,’ said Susan. ‘Spicer went out at six-fifteen.’

  ‘Did he say where?’ asked Annette.

  ‘No,’ replied Susan. ‘He looked very smart. Not suit and tie smart; leather jacket and Armani sweater smart. He was wearing aftershave. You don’t think he has a sweetheart?’

  ‘No, I don’t, Susan,’ said Annette.

  ‘I was really shocked when he said that about dope.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Annette. ‘So am I shocked. Could you make me a cup of tea, Susan?’

  ‘Spicer says tea’s bad for you. Ordinary tea, that is.’

  ‘I’ll have some all the same,’ said Annette.

  ‘Okay. Why was the class cancelled?’

  ‘Because everything’s collapsing,’ said Annette, ‘and it’s the end of the world.’

  ‘I hate it when you say that kind of thing, Mum. I’ll go and stay with my Dad if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Off you go, then.’

  ‘No, thanks all the same,’ said Susan. ‘I like it here. We can eat in our rooms. At Paddy and Pat’s we have to sit up at table and wear clothes that fit. How’s your blood-pressure?’

  ‘They forgot to take it, in the muddle,’ said Annette. ‘I expect Spicer’s gone to see a client. To sell them some end-of-bin at a knock-down price. Did he say when he’d be back?’

  ‘No,’ said Susan.

  Spicer returned at seven forty-seven.

  ‘You’re home early,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d be back before you.’

  ‘The class was cancelled,’ said Annette. ‘That’s two in a row I’ve missed.’

  ‘Now don’t start,’ said Spicer. ‘It is these constant nagging reproaches: the drip, drip, drip into the ear. No wonder I’m in the state I am.’

  Annette apologised and went into the kitchen and made bacon sandwiches and low-calorie hot chocolate.

  ‘You know I don’t like bacon sandwiches,’ said Spicer.

  ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ said Annette. ‘When we first met we ate bacon sandwiches all the time. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Annette,’ said Spicer. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Well, we did. I had just left Paddy and Aileen had just left you. Proper cooking seemed a waste of time we could otherwise spend in bed.’

  ‘Then times have certainly changed,’ said Spicer. ‘Annette, I don’t think it does either of us much good to dwell on an unhappy and messy past. It’s the future which should concern us. And in the meantime, I don’t eat bacon sandwiches. Bacon’s seductive, but pork is probably one of the worst meats.’

  ‘In what way, Spicer?’

  ‘Pigs are intelligent enough to know what’s going on,’ said Spicer, ‘so they suffer more. On the whole, suffering is always the fate of the intelligent. But one can’t be party to it, just because it’s the way of the world. What is this drink?’

  ‘It’s a kind of cocoa without the calories,’ said Annette.

  ‘As advertised on TV?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annette. ‘As it happens.’

  ‘Pregnancy seems to have affected your critical faculties,’ said Spicer.

  ‘You mean my intelligence?’

  ‘Since you bring the matter up, yes.’

  ‘It’s quite a problem to know what to give you, Spicer, since you won’t drink coffee or tea any more, and seem to have gone off so many foods. Now even bacon.’

  ‘These days my system rejects both stimulants and animal foods. I’m sorry if it’s an inconvenience.’

  ‘Spicer, are you seeing someone else?’

  ‘How do you mean “seeing”?’

  ‘Having an affair with another woman.’

  ‘Annette, you’re more than enough for any man to cope with. I would hardly have energy for another. You exhaust me. First the sniping, then the nagging, now come the accusations, the jealousy. I think we’ll find it shows up.’

  ‘Shows up where? In my astrological chart? The one done for the morning, not the evening? Is she working on it even now? Are you having an affair with an astrologer? Is that it? Because someone somewhere’s trying to turn you against me. That’s all it can be.’

  Spicer began to laugh. He ate one square of bacon sandwich, and drank half the chocolate drink. He enjoyed the first, but not the second. Then he ate the rest of the sandwich.

  ‘I am so hungry,’ he explained, ‘I have to give in. Dearest Annette,’ he said, ‘I am not having an affair with anyone. Are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Annette. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Is that the only reason you’re not having an affair with anyone?’ asked Spicer.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Annette. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, very much, Annette,’ said Spicer. ‘And I’d do nothing to hurt you. Your suspicions are without a rational base. I’ve told you I’m changing, and in many ways. Please just try and accept it. But there are other reasons for a man changing, apart from him having a mistress! Perhaps he begins to be open to his own soul. I am not the same person you married, any more than you are the same person I married.’

&nbs
p; ‘You keep saying that,’ said Annette, ‘and it doesn’t sound like you saying it, although it comes out of your mouth. Your beautiful mouth I love so much.’

  ‘Where are the children?’ asked Spicer.

  ‘Susan’s watching a video and Jason’s playing on his computer,’ said Annette.

  ‘You’re so caught up with yourself and your fantasies,’ said Spicer. ‘You’re letting this whole family go to pieces. I know it’s not your fault. Do you think perhaps you need treatment?’

  ‘What sort of treatment?’ asked Annette. ‘Do you mean for my head?’

  ‘Yes, Annette, I do,’ said Spicer.

  ‘Therapy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Spicer.

  ‘But you’re so against therapy,’ said Annette.

  ‘When did I say that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Spicer. Way back when, I suppose.’

  ‘I can’t remember ever being against it,’ said Spicer. ‘I think you must have imagined it, or thought that because you thought something, I thought it too. Somehow we have to get you less inner-directed, more outer-directed: more separated-out from me.’

  ‘Who would I go and see?’

  ‘You have to be very careful,’ said Spicer. ‘There are all kinds of quacks and charlatans about. And we have to keep you away from the psychiatrists: we don’t want you filled up with pills when you’re expecting a baby.’

  ‘We’re expecting a baby, Spicer, not just me.’

  ‘Please don’t start, Annette,’ said Spicer.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Annette.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Spicer. ‘I know you do your best. I’ll have a word with Marion. She’s in therapy.’

  ‘Marion? Ernie’s girlfriend? But she seems so balanced.’

  ‘That’s because she’s in therapy,’ said Spicer, ‘I expect.’

  ‘How do you know she’s in therapy?’

  ‘Annette, for God’s sake—’

  ‘I only asked how you knew, Spicer. I wasn’t suggesting anything.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ said Spicer. ‘Marion of all people! Marion is more than happy with your publisher friend. He has all the money anyone could want, and provides her with the life she needs. She and I were talking about it at the opera, while you were chattering about dustjackets with Ernie. But there is an area of Marion’s life which she’s had to suppress; she goes to therapy in order to be put back in touch with her inner self; the part Ernie Gromback denies her. Her soul. Okay?’