by Alison May
The train moves away. The movement jolts my brain back to the point. You know, Trix might want to tell me, but she won’t because she thinks I’ll be callous, or unfeeling, or thoughtless, which I wouldn’t. I have been known to make the odd joke about love and romance. And maybe I do have a bit of a go at Trix from time to time, but she knows it’s all in fun. Unless she doesn’t know that. She may have taken those things a bit more seriously than she ought to. Probably she’s taken all those comments to heart, and coupled with her famous, and undeniable, pride, it’s stopping her from being honest about how she truly feels.
Of course, she doesn’t need to be honest now, because I already know. So, if I was interested, I could take the first step myself. I can imagine what Danny would say if I did. And Claudio. Claudio would be a total dick about the fact that I might have made some occasional somewhat negative comments about romance. But then, there’s nothing wrong with changing your mind is there? And to stick to something just out of pride or fear of what people would say, that would be even more foolish.
It’s like Eddington. Arthur Eddington – he was secretary of the Royal Astronomical Society during the First World War, and he started reading about this German, Albert Einstein, who suggested that gravity wasn’t constant. That completely rejected the received wisdom. The problem was that Eddington was British and Britain was at war with Germany.
It didn’t stop Eddington. He set out and made observations that supported the German’s theory, because he realised that Einstein’s ideas made sense. So right in the middle of World War I, Eddington planned an expedition across the world to make observations that could prove a German physicist’s theory. And he did it. He took amazing pictures, which showed the light from distant stars bending slightly due to the Sun’s gravity.
Einstein had the vision, but he needed Eddington to prove it. Once Eddington had proved that the evidence fit the theory, it would have been foolish to cling to Newton’s ideas. Plenty of people did, especially in Britain. They clung to something that they knew was erroneous through pride or fear or sheer bloody-mindedness, and Eddington spent the rest of his career trying to explain Einstein’s theory. He became a great evangelist, in fact, for something that he had previously believed to be a fantasy.
The train pulls into Newcastle, and I watch the people getting on again, squeezing through the doors like irritable marbles. Watching them gives me a moment to breathe, to send my brain somewhere safe for a few seconds. The train moves off again. Eddington’s example is definitely to be admired, and if I were to embrace love, I could simply be following good scientific principles. It is good to be able to change your mind when new evidence presents itself. Not to do so would be ridiculous.
Of course, all of that only makes sense if I’m in love with Trix, and so, as a man of science, I have to ask myself that question. Am I in love with Trix? I did dream about her last night, but that doesn’t prove anything. Most neuro-scientists now agree that dreams have a fairly direct correlation to real-life. If something is on your mind while you’re awake, your brain continues to try to work it out while you’re asleep. It turns out all that Freudian stuff about dreams being abstract and requiring interpretation is crap. So after we got stopped for being drunk and disorderly, I dreamt about Trix as well, but that doesn’t mean I’m thinking about Trix. Well it does mean I’m thinking about Trix, but it doesn’t mean I love her.
Last night, I didn’t even dream about her in the here and now. I dreamt about her at uni. In the dream she was walking around the university campus, and I was trying to catch up with her, but she was never quite in reach. I kept spotting her just too far away for me to call out. Just before I woke up, the dream moved into a graduation ceremony. I knew I was supposed to make a speech, but I couldn’t remember what I was meant to say. Then I was on the stage and when I looked out at the audience they were all Trix. That still doesn’t mean I love her. It just means she’s on my mind, which is understandable, after what I heard over the phone on Sunday.
At our real graduation, I closed my eyes when she walked across the stage, so I wouldn’t see her. I was scared that if I saw her I’d change my mind. I thought that if I saw something in her face, wanting me to stay, then I’d end up staying. I would have changed my whole life because of something in her face. And that was it. I didn’t look. I carried on like I’d decided I would. I’d made my choice. I didn’t even think that it might be possible to go back. I certainly never thought about whether I’d want to. Everyone knows you can’t go back.
And I’m not good at love. It is irrational. You can’t measure it properly. I don’t even think you can discern its inherent properties. There’s no set of laws about how it behaves. But then, I’m not a scientist. I’m a mathematician. Irrationality is part of maths. Pythagoras was a great mathematician, but he didn’t embrace irrationality, and he ended up dying because he refused to cross a field of beans. Really, if it’s a choice between dying alone on the edge of a bean field and embracing the irrational, it shouldn’t be a tricky decision. Choose life and all that.
Chapter Nineteen
Trix
Things have quietened down a bit since Henri and Claudio’s big announcement, which is definitely a good thing. A whole week with no life changing announcements, no run-ins with the police, and no big dramas. That is mainly because I’ve not seen Ben this week, but that happy state comes to an end today.
Today is Wedding Dress Shopping Day. As Henri stayed with Claudio last night I said I would pick her up from Ben’s flat, and Henri says I have to come in and say ‘Hello’ and be civil. She says that we have to show that we can be polite to each other reliably before the wedding. She was quite funny about it. She actually said that she wasn’t having her big day spoiled by us going on at each other. The way she was talking, you would think that it was my fault.
Anyway, I will be civil to him, for Henri’s sake, but he needn’t think I’ve forgiven him. I still think he ought to have offered to pay my fine. I pull up and park outside Ben’s flat, and brace myself to go in. I’m only halfway up the path when the man himself throws the front door open. ‘Trix!’
Must be civil. I nod at him, perhaps a little curtly, but it’s definitely not actively rude. ‘Benedict.’
‘You look …’ Ben peers at me, and I wait for the insult. Unusually, for him, he seems to be struggling for words. ‘Lovely. You look lovely today.’
I run the comment back in my head looking for the double meaning. I can’t see it. Either it’s too well hidden for me to work out at this time in the morning, or Claudio’s version of the ‘be nice to each other’ lecture was a whole lot scarier than Henrietta’s. I nod again at Ben. Silence seems like the safest option. We’re still standing on the front step. I don’t want to push past him. I’ve already established that trying to speak to him takes us into a whole world of weirdness.
It turns out that the silence is no better. Ben is staring at me. I look at him, and he smiles a funny sort of half smile, half smirk thing. This is far more unnerving than the normal shouting. I take a step towards the door, aiming to be decisive enough to make it obvious that he should be inviting me in, but not so decisive that I end up sandwiched between the doorframe and Ben’s torso. Ben, who has never been skilled at reading body language doesn’t move at all, and so now I’m just standing even closer to him, and he’s still staring at me. If this is him trying to be nice, he’s really not good at it.
I gesture towards the stairway. ‘Shall we ...?’
He physically jumps when I speak. ‘Yes. Right. Of course. After you.’
He finally moves out of the doorway to let me go inside. Once I’m in the flat it doesn’t get any less odd. He’s all over me like an anxious hostess offering me drinks and biscuits, and even the chance to use the toilet. I’m not joking. After I’ve turned down the offer of tea and biscuits he actually said, ‘You can use the bathroom? If you need to, or not, if you don’t. Right.’
And then he just froze, as if
freezing would somehow erase the moment and make him seem less odd. Unfortunately, this is Ben we’re talking about, so there is really very little he can do now to make himself seem less odd. I actually take pity on him at this point and ask if he’s feeling OK. He sits down right next to me on the sofa, and says, very seriously. ‘I’m absolutely fine, Trix. How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘That’s good. Did I say that you look lovely today?’
‘You did.’ Clearly I have to get out of here as soon as possible. ‘Is Henri nearly ready?’
‘She was in the bathroom earlier. I’ll go and see. I mean, not go into the bathroom. Obviously. I don’t go to the bathroom with Henrietta. I’ll just go and see if she’s ready.’
He dashes out of the room. Maybe he’s not well or something. Henrietta appears a few minutes later. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Ben only just told me you were here.’
I stand up to hug her. ‘Is he OK?’
She bites her bottom lip before she looks at me. ‘He’s fine. Why?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll tell you on the way into town. Let’s get out of here.’
She jumps up and claps her hands. ‘Wedding dresses!’
It feels like today might be a long day. Henri is loving it though. In the car she says that today is going to be the best day of her life. I point out that traditionally the wedding is supposed to be the best day of her life. Apparently, it will be, but that doesn’t mean that today isn’t the best day so far. It’s nice to see her so happy; whatever Claudio’s doing for her, it’s certainly put a smile on her face.
‘So why were you asking about Ben?’
The question is delivered with the careful tone of someone trying to seem off-the-cuff, but there’s more behind it. Clearly she knows something I don’t. I hate being out of the loop. Lucky for me that Henri is completely incapable of keeping a secret then, isn’t it?
‘He just seemed a bit weird.’
‘I’m sure he’s fine.’ She’s turned away from me in the passenger seat so that she’s looking out of the window.
Whatever it is she’s not going to tell me straight away, but we have a whole day of girly enjoyment ahead of us. I will wheedle it out of her somehow.
I’ve booked us slots at two different wedding dress shops. That freaked me out to start with. Seriously, what sort of dress shopping do you have to book an appointment for? At least we’ve got time before the wedding though. The woman in the first shop very quickly puts us straight on that idea. When we tell her that the wedding is five weeks hence, she looks at us as though we’ve just announced that the wedding was on Mars, and the dress will need to be meteor-proof.
‘Well, madam will have to have something we have in stock. There’ll be no time to order anything. I don’t know how on earth you expect us to have the alterations done.’
She’s a tall, thin woman who, whilst wearing glasses, has disappointingly, opted against a half-moon style over which she could peer schoolmistress-like at overly exuberant brides. It is a mystery; why do truly miserable, unhelpful people choose to make their living in jobs that are completely reliant on their ability to be friendly and provide a service? In this case, I can only guess that some past trauma has left her with some Miss Havisham-esque compulsion towards bridalwear. When the shop’s closed she probably pops on a veil and sits weeping gently to herself behind the till point.
Right now though, the only person looking likely to weep is Henrietta. Clearly this is the moment to leap into bridesmaid action.
‘Right then.’ The shop lady might not have the schoolmistress thing quite down, but I definitely do. ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty we can try off the rail.’
Fortunately Henri is a positively tiny size ten, so this turns out to be true. It’s a good job she’s not over a fourteen. From the range of dresses on sale here, I can only assume that curvy girls get married in their underwear and are just expected to count themselves lucky they’ve managed to attract any man at all. We end up taking four dresses – sorry – gowns, apparently – into the changing room. Henri, I think, would have tried on every dress in the shop if she’d been allowed to, but the Demon Shopkeeper started rolling her eyes when we picked up the third one which sort of spoiled the mood.
The first dress she tries on is big and white and wedding-y. Looking at the four still on the hangers I sense that this is going to get quite samey after a while. I’m trying to think of something beyond ‘It looks nice’ to offer, when Miss Havisham comes in and glares at Henrietta appraisingly. ‘Well, how can you expect to look exquisite in a gown in those things.’
She’s staring at Henri’s pink pumps which are peeping out from under the dress.
‘Off with them!’ She produces a pair of four-inch heels in white satin, with two interlocked diamante hearts on the toes. They may be the most hideous shoes I’ve ever seen. ‘What size are you?’
‘Five,’ Henri whispers.
‘Well, these are a three and a half, so you’ll have to squeeze into them.’ Henrietta obediently squishes her feet into the too small shoes, and turns back towards me. ‘What do you think?’
To be honest, the slightly teary eyes aren’t helping the look. The dress itself is perfectly fine. People could shake Henrietta’s dad warmly by the hand and say, ‘Doesn’t she look lovely,’ without having to rehearse saying it with a straight face for ten minutes in advance. But I can see that she’s not loving it. ‘I like it, but I don’t think you should get the first one you try on.’
Henri nods. Miss Havisham has already started unzipping her, and the dress falls to the floor. ‘Step out.’
Henri steps over the heap of dress at her feet, and stands, shivering, in the middle of the room in her underwear whilst Miss H rehangs the dress, and moves on to dress number two, pausing only to cast a critical eye over Henri’s bra and knickers. ‘Step in.’
Henri steps into the next dress and Miss H zips her up. She stands behind Henri facing into the mirror, and reaches a hand around Henri and across her, non-existent, belly. ‘Of course, on the day with the proper girdle, you won’t have this bulging.’
I knew she didn’t think much of Henri’s undies. I’m momentarily offended on behalf of my friend’s knickers. They’re decent knickers. They match the bra and everything. I try to focus myself on being offended on Hen’s behalf instead.
‘Not that she has any fat to bulge,’ I interject pointedly. I prod my own, somewhat more generous mid-section. ‘I wish I had her figure!’
Miss H peers at my tummy. I suspect she comes firmly from the ‘one can never be too rich or too thin’ school of thought. As a philosophy it does not seem to have brought a lot of joy into her life. Henri’s bottom lip is quivering though, so I decide the best thing is to power through as fast as possible and get out of the bridalwear store from hell.
‘Shall we try the next one?’
Henri looks at me. I can see that she wants to say no and run away. I can’t see Miss H permitting that though. ‘Come on. This one might be the one.’
Henri is already being unzipped. Being a bride seems to involve quite a lot of people tugging and fiddling with you. It definitely looks like something I can live without. To be fair, the third dress is quite lovely. It’s cream rather than white and somehow it makes Henri’s cheeks look all pink and rosy. For the first time, she is starting to look like a blushing bride. Even Miss H is looking pleased; she kneels at Henri’s feet and billows the skirt out around her. I grin at Henri. ‘You look like a picture of a bride in a magazine.’
Miss H stands up. ‘It is better isn’t it? It doesn’t cling so much.’ She rubs a hand down Henri’s hip to smooth out the fabric and reinforce her point. I think, ‘It doesn’t cling so much’ might be the nearest she’s ever come to a compliment. She pats Henri’s hip again. ‘But still …’
But still? I’m getting the distinct impression that this woman doesn’t actually want to sell things. Maybe she doesn’t. The gowns are probably the nearest thing she has
to actual friends. Henri is now turning her hips and bottom towards the mirror and staring at her reflection. The blushing bride look has been replaced by the forlorn face she was wearing earlier.
‘Shall we try the last one?’
This time Henri actually shakes her head. Miss H rolls her eyes, as if she can’t understand why all these women keep coming in, trying on her clothes and leaving in tears. Maybe it is us. Maybe it’s not actually a shop, and she’s just trying to be civil to all these random people who keep wanting to play with her stuff. That would explain why she insisted on us making an appointment, if nothing else.
I decide that Henri does need rescuing this time, and stand up briskly. ‘Ok. If you don’t like it there’s no point trying it on.’
I turn to Miss H. ‘Well, we’ll think about it, then, and let you know.’
Miss Havisham is undoing the actually quite nice dress. ‘Step out.’
Henri does so and stands on one leg to pull off the tiny shoes. She gets dressed with the sort of haste normally only employed when trying to leave a one-night stand without waking them up.
We practically run out of the shop. As soon as we’re out of sight I stop. ‘What a cow!’
‘I’m never going to find a dress.’
‘Of course you will. I’m sure the one this afternoon will be much nicer.’
‘But I’ll still be all bulgy.’ Henri prods her belly.
‘You’re not bulgy!’ I must be looking at her in disbelief. ‘You don’t actually think you’re bulgy? You’re about two sizes smaller than me. What does that make me?’
Henri looks up. ‘You look lovely.’
‘And so do you. Come on. We need lunch.’
We walk to one of our regular bars, The Graduate, and I buy us two glasses of wine. I order a burger, and let the barman pressure me into chips. I love the culture of up-selling. It’s a brilliant system for getting chips whilst telling yourself you never intended to order them. Henri orders a chicken salad wrap, and eats it mournfully eyeballing my chips.