by Lynne Truss
I pushed a bit of soggy pizza on to my fork, then put it down. “I’m going,” I said. “Bev, I am not a quisling. And my dad is neither a tyrant nor a sex maniac. He’s a warm and loving person.” “Your dad exploits women, Jude,” she called after me, as I got up and left. “You watch. He did it to Mag and he’s done it to you. You’re sexually retarded!” And I walked out of Pizzaland and went back to work in a turmoil. I felt hurt and angry, and I actually made an exceptionally good sale of a calfskin slimline briefcase that afternoon to an Arab gentleman for two hundred pounds, which was a bloody fortune in those days. It was that night I finally let Roger take me to the bedsit; and we drank some Newcastle Brown and I let him put my hand down his trousers. I remember he wanted me to open my eyes while the business was done but I gritted my teeth and tried to think about rick-rack. It was the day after that I decided to give up work to look after Daddy and never see Roger again, or ever go to Pizzaland for that matter.
Now Bev’s on Question Time and Newsnight all the time. Writes a column in a newspaper giving equal weight to feminist outrage about equal pay and the three-figure haircuts a modern female columnist simply has to have if she spends half the year in Manhattan. She goes on factfinding missions; turns up on Woman’s Hour talking about her novels – so-called “postmodern” historical romances in which Charles the First says things like “As if”, while Henrietta Maria goes salsa dancing. I don’t know, I’ve never read them. I don’t read anything published after 1960. But her mum stops me occasionally at her bus stop to boast about an American book tour or the latest invitation to Downing Street. I asked her how she tracked Bev’s movements and she said, “Oh, I log on to her website.” “That must be a great comfort for you,” I said.
Scene Four
I couldn’t avoid it indefinitely. We’d ignored all the knocking and the notes; we’d left the phone unplugged. But finally she caught me getting out of the lift. “Oh, Jude,” she gasped. “That’s never crimplene?” I have to say it was an odd and rather inadequate greeting after twenty years, but I let it pass, although I couldn’t help thinking a hundred-pound haircut ought to improve one’s appearance rather more than hers was doing.
“Bev,” I said, “what a surprise. I’m afraid I lost your numbers. But I thought you’d probably call again if it was urgent.”
A pause. I assumed an expression of innocence, and challenged her to defy it. She took that challenge.
“I did call again, Jude.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yes.”
“We must have been out.”
“I called twenty-seven times over a four-day period.”
“Good heavens. We must have been out a lot.”
“I also put a note through the door.”
“That was you?”
“Look, Jude, I feel you’ve spent the last four days deliberately avoiding me.”
“That’s rather an arrogant way of looking at things, don’t you think? Daddy and I have been busy, that’s all. None of us leads our lives for other people, you know.”
If she had been anticipating a pleasant expedition down Memory Lane, she wasn’t getting one. In the end, we went to Starbucks for a cappuccino but I kept my guard up. I watched her at the counter, in her sharp leather jacket, moleskin trousers and knitted silk scarf in shades of dove and lilac. Italian shoes, high heels. Unnaturally flat stomach. I thought, who’s colluding with the enemy now, then, eh? “You never cut your hair!” she said, brightly, as she plonked the cappuccinos down. “Well observed,” I said, flicking it over my shoulders. “I have to say, I hope you don’t mind, but whoever cut yours seems to have done it out of spite.”
She didn’t say anything. Stirred her coffee. She struggled with some kind of emotion. I scooped off the chocolate and ate it. I tried not to imagine how I looked to her, in the poncho I crocheted during free periods in the sixth form. She stirred her coffee again. This was getting rather tiring.
“I haven’t seen your mum recently,” I said, at last. “She all right?”
Bev’s face crumpled. Evidently this was not the safe conversational area I had expected it to be.
“Oh no,” I said.
She put her hand on mine, and her lip started quivering. “That’s why I—. She died, Jude.”
Suddenly there was a flurry of handbag activity as she found a tissue and pressed it to her face.
“Oh Bev, I’m sorry,” I said. And I meant it. Despite all the boasting about Bev, I really admired Bev’s mum. You’d never get Daddy surfing the net to find out what I was doing.
“They called me back from a book tour. Can you imagine? I was in … I was in CHICAGO!”
Evidently the location was significant, although I couldn’t see why. If she hadn’t been in Chicago, she’d have been in Tel Aviv, or Edinburgh, or Paris, or somewhere else.
“I wasn’t here! I just can’t stand it that I wasn’t here!”
“Bev,” I said. “That’s such a silly thing to reproach yourself with.”
“Is it?” she sniffed.
“Of course,” I said. “Let’s face it, you were NEVER here.”
“Jude, I’ve wasted my life, sacrificed it to fame and success! I’ve got to change everything!”
She clutched my hand and made gagging, snuffling noises into her tissue. “I’m going to change my life, Jude.” I saw now why she had sought me out. Not to gloat. She wanted me to endorse a new, caring non-working Bev, to make her feel better. Well, as Charles the First’s best mate the Duke of Buckingham apparently used to say, “No way, José.”
“I want to be like you,” she said. “Give myself to the people I love. It’s the most important thing to do with your life.”
Just then, a woman came up and said, “Are you Beverley Brayfield?”
Bev wiped her nose and admitted she was.
“I just wanted to say I loved your book, what was it, Bodice Rip?”
“ Bodice RIP,” Bev corrected.
“Yes, of course, Bodice RIP! I just wanted to say it changed my life. I left my husband, took up taekwondo and got a siamese, and now I’m doing PR for a pharmaceutical giant. So thank you. Thank you. Thank you. She’s very good, you should be proud,” the woman said to me, touching my arm, assuming I was Bev’s granny, I suppose; in any case, assuming I wanted to be impressed by the adoration Bev could elicit from a gullible, unethical cat-loving bolter with obscure martial arts interests.
“I suppose that happens all the time,” I said.
“All the time and all over the world,” said Bev, starting to sniff again. “And it’s all worth nothing, you see, because I was in, I was in—”
“I know, I know,” I said. “You were in Chicago when your mother died. Look. Do you mind me asking, Bev? How was Chicago apart from that?”
Scene Five
I wouldn’t say it was a major issue, but this business of sitting and waiting for my hair to dry every day has caused the odd irritation in the twenty years I’ve been “giving myself” to Daddy. He’s bought me eleven hairdriers of different designs, and he never misses a chance to say, “Now THAT would suit you, Judykins,” when a short-haired woman appears on the screen. His favourite film performance of recent years, to judge by his enthusiasm, is Demi Moore in GI Jane, closely followed by Sigourney Weaver in Alien. Which is why, I suppose, when he said, “Your old friend Beverley has a nice sharp little haircut,” at lunchtime today, I was so used to ignoring the trichological jibe that it took me a while to grasp what he was really telling me.
Bev had been round. Of course. Bev feels guilty about her own mother; she decides to muscle in on Daddy. I kept thinking of this terrible expression Mag used to throw at Daddy – “In like Flynn”; “I suppose you were in like Flynn?” she would yell. Bev had been in like Flynn. Looking round, I saw the extravagant box of chocolates on the sideboard and a bunch of lisianthus in the sink. Bev’s mother had once said Bev never came without flowers. It was her code for daughterliness. And now she had transferred th
e code to Daddy.
I couldn’t ask. But I didn’t have to.
“She’s a lively one,” said Daddy, as I served the lunch.
I helped him to some rice. I tried to sound casual. “How long did she stay?”
“Not long.”
I looked around the flat, imagining how Bev must have seen it. According to the style sections of the Sunday papers, Bev had a loft in Clerkenwell and a cottage in the South Downs. And here we were with our sixties G Plan with the split cushions; the net curtains; the old tinny record player; the gas fridge; the Trimphone. Years’ worth of newspapers stacked in the hall. I could imagine her making notes. I could imagine her whirling through the mess like Tinkerbell crossed with a miracle household cleanser, brightening the flat and beguiling Daddy with stories of being successful in the big wide world.
“I wish you hadn’t let her in, Daddy.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that, dear, but we don’t lead our lives for other people.”
“No,” I said.
“Did she say anything about me?”
“Yes. She said she was worried about you. She thought you needed to get out more. She said she was shocked by what a frigid little martyr you’ve become.”
He ate the rest of his lunch in silence, carrying on with the crossword. And perhaps it was just the shock but I thought, oh my God, I’ve lost him. I’ve lost my Daddy. Beverley Brayfield has just tiptoed in here in her classy Italian shoes, passed judgement on me, and stolen my Daddy’s heart.
“Dissident,” he said.
[Upset] “What?” I said.
“Are you crying?” he said. He wasn’t looking.
“No.”
“You know I hate people who cry?”
“Yes.”
“Non-conformist Norfolk town I make an impression on. ‘Diss’ ‘I dent’. Non-conformist – dissident. It means your ‘Paddled’ is right.”
I pulled myself together. Big breath.
“I’m thinking of having the phone disconnected.”
“We’ve been through this, Judith. Dr Salmon says we need the phone.”
I took his plate to the sink.
“Who do you call when I’m not here, Daddy? Is it a woman?”
I had my back to him. I was shaking. I sounded like Mag.
“That’s right. It’s a woman. And it’s private. You have your admirers, I have my admirers.”
“Except I don’t have admirers,” I said.
“Then more fool you,” said Daddy. “That’s what comes of spending half your life drying your hair.”
Later, after Daddy’s nap, I made us a cup of tea and switched on Watercolour Challenge. They were painting a really beautiful scene at an old abbey somewhere, with water and birds. You could feel the freshness of it. The sun came out; there was even a rainbow. And Hannah Gordon looked lovely in a pink jacket which Daddy loyally said was a colour that would suit me, too. That was his way of apologising, and I accepted it. He didn’t even speculate about the Winnebago activity that gave her such rosy cheeks. He didn’t mention her chestal splendours. I waited for the adverts before I raised the subject again. I knew it would be for the last time.
“Did Beverley leave very quickly?” I said.
“Yes, she did. In considerable haste, I think you could say.”
I opened the biscuit tin and handed it to him. I’d put in some bourbon creams and some fig rolls, just like the ones we used to have from Victor Value when Daddy came home from the stall. The ones that Mag never liked.
“Ah, fig rolls,” he said.
“Why did she leave so quickly, Daddy?”
“No sense of humour.”
“Really?”
“Prude.”
“Yes?”
We watched an advert about how easy it was to sue people for accidental injury.
“Judy, all I did was compliment her on her figure and she walked out.”
I smiled. “Daddy!”
“What do you mean?”
“What words did you use? Did you say, ‘I compliment you on your figure, Beverley’?”
“Not exactly.”
I laughed. I was cheering up. We wouldn’t be seeing Bev again, that was for sure.
“You didn’t touch her?”
“No!” His outrage wasn’t genuine. He winked at me. “She moved too fast.”
Happy, I dunked a fig roll in my tea, and waited just long enough for it to soften without falling in. I watched Daddy as he did the same. Then we each took a bourbon cream and did it together. Synchronised dunking, the result of years of practice. Sweet and chocolatey synchronised dunking with the curtains drawn and really good telly just about to restart in the middle of the afternoon.
“Beverley Brayfield feels all guilty because she was in Chicago when her mother died,” I said, offering him the biscuit tin.
“Silly tart,” said Daddy.
The Married Man
JIM is an attractive, charming and slightly dandy-ish American who has been living in London for twelve years with his New Yorker wife Elaine. He is a successful and famous mystery writer, and they live well in Notting Hill. They have a child of eleven, known as Teddy. As a writer, Jim is not at all interested in crime, only in revealing the solutions to mysteries he has himself invented. As a compulsive philanderer, he is routinely disloyal to his wife, in the belief that he’s too clever to be detected. He is awesomely shallow and loves to talk about himself, but he is really quite a nice guy; in the end we love him and feel sorry for him for being such a dupe.
Scene One: sound of electric whisk in bowl; Jim is humming contentedly as he whisks some egg-whites to some nice operatic aria in the background; he has to pitch slightly over the sound of the whisk
It’s a writer thing, you see. Basically a writer thing. Oh. Wait. [The whisk stops. Panic] That’s not a piece of shell in there? [Relieved] No, no, I’m fine. Do you know, I must tell Elaine: I LOVE this new apron, I love it. It’s very … chic. [The whisk starts again; he sighs happily; he’s doing such a good job] Anyway, it’s a writer thing, you see, call it “omniscience”. Sometimes when you’re with someone, the situation has all the predictability of, well, um – [looks round for an analogy, and goes for the nearest] all the predictability of beating egg-white until it forms soft peaks. “Now YOU are the photographer,” I say to this girl this morning when I open the door – and what can she say? Bingo. [As if a bit overwhelmed by him] “And you must be Jim [with British pronunciation] Dance, celebrity author of the Jack Scrolls mysteries.” Putting down a heavy camera bag on our top step, she holds out a plump young luscious hand for shaking, and I know straight away. I KNOW.
[Whisking stops; he’s immensely pleased with his soft peaks] Soft. Peaks. Just look at those, will you? OK, next fold in the mixture – but not yet. First, you got to let it rest. Watch it sweat, watch it swell. Make it think you’re through, when in fact you’ve only just got started. Oh yes. Now – [Slow, sensuous folding of mixture into egg-whites; just occasional clink of spoon on bowl] see how gentle this is? You are in such safe hands here, baby. That’s right. [Ecstatic soufflé-mix acting] Oh, oh. [Sighs] O-o-o-o-oh.
I should explain about the photographer. Now, look, forgive me if I leap ahead sometimes; the omniscience of the writer is a gift that can also be a burden. You see, when you know the whole story before it starts; when you can see how every aspect of it will play, sometimes you are tempted to skip preliminaries. And that’s a big mistake. [Businesslike] So. They do this every five years or so. The publishers want an “author pic”. So what can the poor author do? – I mean, besides getting a haircut and manicure and arranging his Ellery Queen statuettes on the Bechstein? Also, in my own case, humbly adding his Poirot Prize, his Golden Deerstalker and his Best-Dressed Man awards. Elaine always goes out when author pic time comes round. She leaves me here alone with a young female photographer! She even says, “Have fun!” Oh, Elaine, she’s been married to a leading mystery writer for the past fifteen years; she is so smart she g
uessed the twist to The Sixth Sense in the first eight minutes; but where my romantic life is concerned, she never suspects a thing. Laura, this girl was called. “Is your wife home?” she asks as she enters. “What a magnificent hallway.” “Mrs Dance is playing tennis,” I say, taking her coat. “The housekeeper is at Harrods. My daughter Teddy is away at school. So it’s just the two of us. I call that cosy.”
[He samples some of the mixture] Man. Am I good or am I fabulous?
Laura, I have to say, is gorgeous. We arrange ourselves in the first-floor lounge. She says the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows is perfect. And, what a good girl, she asks questions. [As girl] “So Jack Scrolls is—?” I explain, patiently, that he’s a sophisticated, Ivy League amateur detective in the great tradition of mystery writing. [As girl] “As opposed to—?” [It’s an innocent inquiry, but he’s always a bit touchy about other types of crime writing; his voice rises] I said, “As opposed to the lonely, morally frail, jazz-besotted policemen with collapsing marriages everyone else writes about!” [Recovers from outburst] I’ll pop this in now.
[Oven door is opened and baking tin placed on shelf] Eight minutes.
[He sets wind-up timer then sits down, very pleased with the job done; drinks coffee during next bit; there is a tick-tick-tick faintly until the “ping” at the end of the scene]
She’s seen me on TV, but she’s never read me. But that’s fine, fine – fine. I never tire of talking about Scrolls. You see, he holds the key to the mystery of the human heart, yet at the same time he’s just – well, a regular American guy with a nice, simple two-syllable name, some great dental work and an unbeatable collection of vintage brogues. I made his home town Socrates, Connecticut – but I have to admit this pleasing classical allusion just sails over the heads of the dime-store fans. And he has a popular sidekick called Buddy who says things like, [Marx Brothers-type voice] “We got the what, boss; but we don’t got the why.” I based Buddy on my own father, incidentally. He was horrified. “What makes Jack Scrolls special,” I explain to Laura, “is that first he looks at what’s there. Then he looks at what ISN’T there. That’s what makes him infallible.”