The Confusion of Karen Carpenter

by Jonathan Harvey

  As you know, Mungo and I are both committed vegetarians, so we won’t be serving anything with a face, but if you have any further dietary requirements, please do let me know. I was thinking of doing my spinach pie, as it’s gluten-free and contains no nuts or dairy, so that usually covers all bases!

  Now, do you want me to do some matchmaking for you, or is that too soon? Only, I recently met this really interesting guy on a Japanese rope bondage and tantra course in Tring who is currently single and has a really amazing energy. His name is Lee, though because of his diminutive stature, a lot of people call him Little Lee. He doesn’t mind, honestly! I’m not being cruel. Anyway, he’s really looking forward to meeting you. He too was raised in a naturist household, so Mungo and I are sure you’ll have lots in common.

  We usually begin our soirées between seven and half past. If you’re driving, we have the double garage and ample space on the drive. If you fancy staying over, bring an overnight bag and prepare to slum it on one of our many futons. (Don’t worry, they’re pretty comfy, actually, and really good for a bad back.)

  Looking forward to it, Karen. Feels ages since I’ve seen you properly.

  Love and light,

  Fionnula x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x

  What?!

  From: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  To: Fionnula Brookes FionnulaB69@freeserve.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Can’t wait!

  Hi Fionnula,

  I think there may have been a few crossed wires here because I don’t really remember saying I could definitely come. Never mind! I’ve checked my diary and I am free so would love to join you.

  I don’t have any food allergies or requirements, and if I’m honest, I think it might just be a bit too soon to dip my toe back into the dating game just yet. Though Little Lee sounds lovely.

  Don’t worry – I won’t need to stay over. I won’t drink, as I need to be up early the next morning for an appointment. Thanks for the offer, though. Maybe another time.

  Looking forward to it. Yes, it’s been ages.

  Karen x

  PS I can’t drive.

  From: Fionnula Brookes FionnulaB69@freeserve.co.uk

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Sorry!

  Hi Lovely Lee,

  Darling, I’m so sorry but that Karen I told you about is being a complete bore and not playing ball. Still, she’s a real looker, so at least you can ogle her all night. I know I will be!

  I’ve been trying a few of the techniques from the course out on Mungo this week and edging him. I’ve also tried it on Joyce next door, and by God, she loves it. Mungo’s less keen, but then he’s always been pants at relinquishing control. Still, he is keen to work on this, and he loves the edging.

  Tring seems but a distant memory now. I really haven’t experienced orgasms like it before or since. I miss you.

  Love and light,

  F x0x0x0x0x0x0x

  What?

  From: Fionnula Brookes FionnulaB69@freeserve.co.uk

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Sorry

  Karen,

  I mistakenly just sent you an email meant for someone else. Can you do me a huge favour and delete it without reading it? It contains some rather sensitive information.

  Really looking forward to next Saturday.

  Love and light,

  Fionnula x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x

  From: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  To: Fionnula Brookes FionnulaB69@freeserve.co.uk

  Subject: Re: SORRY

  Sure, deleted. All best x

  Oh God.

  From: Mungo Brookes MBrookes@fountainwoods.org.uk

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Hoorah

  Hi K,

  Fionnula’s had a go at me, saying I must have got my wires crossed about inviting you for the supper/soirée. If I did, then apologies. See you in school tomorrow, and so glad you’re coming next week. Please don’t think anything untoward is going to happen. I will make sure it doesn’t. So don’t be scared.

  Over and out,

  Mungo

  Well. That makes me feel slightly better.

  Oh God. Another ping. Not another mistake from Fionnula?

  From: Kevin O’Keefe Kevok75@hotmail.co.uk

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Next Saturday

  Ah, you poor lamb. Hope you’re feeling better soon. God, what a nightmare. I had no idea – you should’ve said! Well, that makes me feel a lot better, and glad it wasn’t my baggage-handling that drove you away.

  One thing I never got round to saying is that I didn’t tell you the whole truth about where Connor was this weekend. He is at his nan’s, but it’s Jamie’s mum’s. Don’t ask me why, but Jamie’s having him for the next few weekends. I should’ve put my foot down, but Connor was so keen, and although it hurt like hell, I had to think about what he wanted and he made it clear that’s what it was. Jamie looks like the cat that got the fecking cream when he picks him up and it messes with my head, but hey ho. If he’s a waste of space (as Toni always claimed he was), I’m sure Connor’ll find out in time.

  Sorry. Offloading again.

  Anyway, what I was writing about was I wondered if you were free next Saturday for a repeat performance. I’m playing footy in the day but can do evening.

  Anyway, let me know. Hope all’s well with the patient.

  Kx

  From: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  To: Kevin O’Keefe Kevok75@hotmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Next Saturday

  Oh God, Kevin, much as I’d like to, I’ve already said yes to going to my head of department’s for dinner that night. I’m dreading it, truth be told, but if I back out, he’ll start being all crotchety at work and make my life hell, etc. I can do Sunday? Any good?

  Kx

  From: Kevin O’Keefe Kevok75@hotmail.co.uk

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Re: Re: Next Saturday

  Cool. It’s a date. Well, it isn’t, but you know what I mean.

  Till Sunday. I’ll email in week with arrangements, etc.

  Kxx

  Oh well. Looks like my dance card is full next weekend.

  From: Wendy Wolverhampton WWolverhampton@wendy.com

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Help

  Are you avoiding me?

  W x

  From: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  To: Wendy Wolverhampton WWolverhampton@wendy.com

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Help

  No, don’t be daft. I’m just mad busy.

  Speak soon. Miss you.

  Love to Jake.

  K xx

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘You can’t seriously be thinking of going!’ Meredith says, hands on hips in the hall as I try to make my escape.

  ‘He’s my head of department,’ I insist, as if I have no choice.

  ‘He’s a dirty great perv!’ she says with an incredulous choke.

  It’s official. Meredith has turned into my mum. This is exactly what Mum was like that day I was heading to the lezzy-fest in Chiswick. Meredith’s lezzy-fest. Oh, the irony!

  ‘He has an alternate sexuality,’ I argue.

  ‘Alternative,’ she corrects.

  ‘I’m not your student,’ I curve-ball, sounding just like a student. She rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, you of all people should have some sympathy for alternative thingamabobs,’ I add, my coup de théâtre. I almost take a bow.

  Her eyes widen with indignation. ‘Karen, do not bracket my sexuality with being a dirty great perv. I’m monogamous.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I placate, my voice softening. ‘What does a lesbian take on a first date? The removal van, I know.’

  I love that
joke. She told me it, but even that reignites the embers of indignation.

  ‘The old ones are the worst,’ she practically spits, but then she shape-shifts to appear more like a concerned friend. It feels fake, like she’s donning a plastic mask of a worried face. ‘Do you even know who else is going?’

  Well, I can hardly say some guy called Little Lee who’s into Japanese rope bondage and tantra.

  ‘Of course. Just some other teachers. It’s all going to be fine.’

  ‘Until someone slips a Rohypnol in your Lambrini and you’re getting spit-roasted on the lazy Susan.’

  And that does actually make me laugh, so I tell her I won’t be drinking and will be cabbing it home by eleven.

  I know what this is all about. She’s jealous. She’s so into me she doesn’t want anyone else to get a sniff of my Kate Winsletesque beauty. (Yeah, right!) This is why I’ve not told her about Kevin, or the mysterious reappearance of Michael. This is why I don’t tell her anything these days.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Meredith. Not that I really want to, but Mungo chucked a load of emotional blackmail at me at work and . . .’

  And I knew you were having a night in watching telly on your own, so I thought it best to make myself scarce, I don’t add.

  She nods and rubs my shoulder. I wish she wouldn’t do that.

  ‘Well, call me if you feel weird or anything.’

  ‘Thanks, Meredith.’

  ‘Karen, is everything OK?’

  ‘Sure. Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘No, I just . . . I wasn’t sure if . . . Well, you’ve been a bit distant with me.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve just been a bit full on with . . . stuff.’

  She nods, like she appreciates the tawdry and time-consuming nature of stuff.

  And I know that you’re trying to get in my knickers, so . . .

  ‘OK, well, girly night in soon, yeah?’

  Over my dead body.

  ‘Yeah. That’d be great, actually.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t tomorrow. Meant to be seeing . . . a . . . friend.’

  I’d be suspicious if someone spoke so hesitantly to me, but she doesn’t seem to pick up on it, though she is interested.

  ‘Oh, who?’

  ‘Just some mate from school. Anyway, better dash. Sooner I get there, sooner I can get back.’

  She smiles in such a patronizing way, it’s almost like she pats me on the head. I throw myself at the front door, practically tear back the latch and run down the street.

  As I walk up Mungo’s path, I suddenly wish I’d listened to Meredith. I should’ve stayed at home and watched rubbish telly with her. So what if she’d pounced on me? All I’d have to do is blurt out, ‘I think this will get in the way of our friendship!’ or, ‘On your bike – I’m not a dyke!’ and she’d be embarrassed and then we could return to watching the box. (As long as she wasn’t watching my box, if you please.) Instead I’m here, with a bottle of Barolo in my hand when potentially it should be a can of Mace, and my courage is slowly melting into my shoulder bag. What on earth am I doing? The house is a bohemian-looking affair, double-fronted with pregnant bay windows, the bottom right of which is lit up and inside I can see a couple of people standing with champagne glasses and chatting. The woman is wearing a kaftan, the man is wearing a smock of some description, and I suddenly feel very out of place in my skinny jeans and baggy jumper. OK, it’s a fair cop – I wanted a look that screamed, ‘Out of bounds, swingers. Back the hell off!’

  Oh, come on, Karen. Fionnula and Mungo are teachers, just like you. How bad can it be?

  I walk up to the front door and ring the crusty doorbell. The door is painted in a very tasteful bandage colour, straight out of a National Trust property brochure, and some of its panes are stained with rich oranges and blues. After a few seconds I see Fionnula in the vestibule, all frizzy hair and smiles. Before I know it, she is clasping me to her bosom and telling me she feels my pain but I’m to leave it at the door. This is an evening of happiness. I am among friends. We are all free spirits here and the house has been cleansed of negative energy and we’re in for an evening of camaraderie and love.

  O . . . K . . .

  Her paw in the small of my back, she guides me through to the living room, where she snatches a glass of champagne from a tray and thrusts it into my hand.

  Right, well, I said I wasn’t going to drink, but one won’t hurt, surely.

  It’s nice. The cold, dancing bubbles hit the back of my throat, and though I’m still nervous, I decide this evening will not be a chore and that I’ll actually have some fun getting to know people who have different interests from me – group sex, for example, possibly even macramé.

  Fionnula is an attractive woman, there’s no denying it. To say her hair is a little Seventies makes her sound a bit antwacky, but she carries it off with aplomb. Densely gathered fringe over heavily made-up eyes also sounds a little bit Cleopatra as a look, but the frizz of the rest of her do sings Chrissie Hynde, and I tell her so. She’s thrilled. She quickly introduces me to Kaftan Woman, who has the eyes of someone with an overactive thyroid, all poppy and starey, like they’re made of glass and someone is operating them from the back of her head. Her hair is shortly cropped, though maintaining a light curl. Bizarrely it is dyed orange. She has to be in her sixties, and when she outstretches her hand, I don’t know whether to shake it or kiss it. I kiss it – no reason why not – and she seems amused when I bang my teeth on the massive turquoise ring I’ve thus far not clocked. Her name is Joyce.

  Ah! Joyce from next door who likes being tied up.

  ‘We call her Joyce the Voice,’ says Smock Man, next to her. ‘She’s an amazing jazz contralto. You haven’t lived till you’ve heard Joyce scat.’

  I know what ‘scat’ is. Cleo Laine does it. At least I hope she does. I see a microphone on a stand in the corner of the room and hope to God I’m right.

  ‘And this is Sponge,’ says Fionnula, by way of introduction to Smock Man.

  I thought he was too tall to be Little Lee.

  ‘Gosh, what an unusual name,’ I observe. Well, I think I have a point.

  He chuckles. ‘My real name’s Gordon, but I love learning. I’m like a sponge? I soak it all up?’

  Joyce gives a very saucy giggle. I notice she has no shoes on. San die Shaw, eat your heart out.

  She sees me looking and intones, ‘I haven’t worn footwear since 1997.’

  I give her a pitying look, like her feet are too massive for shoes. This disconcerts her. Ah, it is some sort of political statement/choice. So I change my demeanour, give her a mini thumbs-up and say, ‘Good for you!’ in a weird squeaky voice that makes me sound like one of the dwarves in Snow White. I have never spoken like this before, but it lends me an air of confidence. Like I’m saying, ‘Look at me. I am at one with myself. So much so that sometimes I do funny voices.’ Even though I don’t.

  Sponge diverts my attention by informing me that he is a psychic artist. He draws pictures of your dead relatives, basically, based on a feeling he has about you. Joyce tells me she works for a charity with deprived children, snatching my attention back to her. Are they fighting over me?

  ‘Joyce is being very modest. She runs the charity,’ says Fionnula, and Joyce gives an embarrassed grimace.

  Just then Mungo sashays into the room, stinking to high heaven of cheap aftershave. Fionnula takes a step back.

  ‘Bloody hell, Mungs. Overdone it on the Lynx.’

  Mungo blushes and brushes my cheek with his beard by way of a hello.

  I say he ‘sashays’ into the room because he is wearing really hideous hippy trousers, the sort you see on a beach in Goa – dayglo colours, ten sizes too big. I see flip-flops on his feet, and the whole look is set off with a cheesecloth granddad shirt. I see a Brillo pad of orange hair poking out from his chest as he’s racily left the top four buttons undone.

  Fionnula’s now passing round some nibbles. She has a plate in one hand h
ousing a bowl of something pink – vegetarian taramasalata – and huge chunks of baguette on a plate in the other. I politely take some bread and dunk it in the rosy gunk, but I misjudge the distance or something because I drip gunk on the carpet and Mungo is sent to get the 2001 Stain Remover.

  ‘Sorry!’ I say, and wedge the bread quickly in my mouth. I really have bitten off more than I can chew here.

  ‘It’s only a carpet, darling,’ says Fionnula.

  ‘And I bet it’s seen a few stains in its time!’ laughs Joyce.

  I almost choke on my baguette chunk. The remaining (vile) gunk is dribbling down my chin. It tastes like wallpaper paste with pink food dye in it.

  I feel a hand grip my shoulder, and a deep voice coos in my ear, ‘Need a hand with that?’

  I turn to my left to see whose voice it is. There’s no one there. I look down a bit and see a diminutive chap in a polo shirt and jeans with a twinkle in his eye. He’s holding a paper napkin towards me. I can’t speak, as my mouth is still working its way through the biggest piece of bread in the world, so I nod and he reaches up and wipes my chin quite forcefully. So much so that I stumble back a bit.

  ‘Whoops-a-diddly-dandy-dido!’ I hear Mungo snort, and feel him pushing me upright. Jesus, they’re coming at me from all sides. Even Joyce and Sponge jump forward to grab me by the wrists.

  My composure recovered, Get Shorty apologizes with a hearty guffaw.

  ‘Lee?’ I say to him, through a hunk of carbohydrate, and he nods.

  ‘And you must be Karen.’

  He crumples up the dirty napkin and tosses it into the fire.

  ‘Oh, Lee, no, it’s artificial!’ screeches Fionnula, lurching to the floor and retrieving the napkin when it bounces off the illuminated plastic coals.

  Lee grimaces at me, and I hear Joyce jovially echo Fionnula’s earlier words: ‘Oh, come on, Fionnula. It’s only a fire.’

  We all laugh. Me possibly more nervously than most.