An Innocent Man
Page 20
all kinds of accusations at me. That I couldn’t trust them, that I was a typical man, tied up in his own world and so focused on his career that he puts its importance over his commitment to his family and friends. But I did tell them, and then I get the unsaid accusation that I can’t keep a secret, that I’m a typical man because I’m more focused on my own aggrandisement than the commitments I made to my work. That’s why the best strategy, the only strategy, is to never try to understand people, and do and admit to as little as possible unless you have to, or if it’s your own best interests.
I was still smarting at this, thinking of the best reply to make Sylvia and Lou see that I felt let down, and I felt hurt (of course I recognised that Lou had her own problems, but you can’t use that reason to completely abdicate responsibility for your actions) but then Lou suddenly jumped up, saying something about getting a drink to calm all our nerves - which I must admit was an absolutely excellent idea - and as soon as she left Sylvia stepped up to me and smacked me, hard, on the cheek.
What the hell was that for?
Get a grip, Sylvain, (as if I was supposed to deduce something from that).
I was about to protest but she gripped my arms, hard, and said Look. I know you, Sylvain. Lou tells me you don’t know anything, but you do, don’t you? You followed Mark, though Christ knows why you thought that was a good idea, and you saw something didn’t you? Her voice was trembling and angry. Look, you better tell me, and then we can work out what to do.
And this is another thing. I’d only talked to Lou on the phone about what had happened and had barely said a word to Sylvia about it, but somehow, she knew. I mean, don’t let them tell you women’s intuition doesn’t exist. If there was ever the need for proof of it, there it was, and if I had been quicker, I would have bottled it up and sold it to the Royal Society. But I am quick, and I glanced over towards the kitchen door to see if there was any sign of Lou coming back.
Look (talking quickly) I didn’t see much, but I did see him chat to a girl.
(Sylvia caught her breath). What girl?
The girl at the party, you remember, the other week, when we were all here. You remember that girl, short hair, dark features, that Mark was talking to all night?
(Sylvia nodded). The one that you started chatting to, right… The one you must have really pissed off because she wouldn’t look at you for the rest of the evening.
(I gave Sylvia a look). No, I don’t remember talking to her at all. I’ve no idea who she was?
(Sylvia sighed). Whatever. What about her, anyway?
Yeah, well, I followed Mark to this hotel, and he met her, and then something went wrong with the VDE and I headed home. That’s all I know. (My earlier vague worry about the VDE suddenly became a bit clearer, in that I wasn’t exactly sure where it was. Maybe somewhere in the flat. I made a mental note to check).
(Sylvia took a deep breath). Shit. So, he was having an affair.
Well, you don’t know that…
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sylvain, don’t defend him. I mean, he leaves in the middle of the night, meets a girl in a hotel, and… I mean, what the hell else could it be?
Still no Lou.
You’ve got to tell her, Sylvain. She needs to know.
(I scratched my head). Well, let’s not be hasty. Listen… do you know who she was?
No, I don’t know. Mark and Lou invited her. I thought she was a friend of yours, to be honest. I thought she worked with you? I think they thought, Mark and Louise, you know, I think they thought, you and her…
(Some noise from the kitchen, and I talked hurriedly. Oh God, why hadn’t I realised). Do you know what her name was? I didn’t know her… That doesn’t make any sense
Erm… something weird. Let me think, yes, Angel, I think, that was her name. Angel Marston or something like that. Why doesn’t it make any sense?
Why doesn’t what make any sense?
Lou was holding a tray with a bottle of clear liquid (no label) and three glasses. Sylvia gave me a long look, which said you better start telling her but just at that moment there was a loud ping from my phone and I made some excuse about checking an urgent work mail.
Dear Sylvain, thanks for letting me know you were going to be late, but it’s been over an hour now, I’ve drunk most of a bottle of wine and I really would like to know if you are planning to turn up. Anna.
Shit! I looked at the time – 19:45, and no x’s behind her name! I could not believe that I had forgotten about my date with Anna, it was completely unlike me – but then to be fair, I had had a stressful day and I was sure Anna would understand. I tapped out a quick reply saying I would be there right now and was rushing out of the door to the confused shouts of Sylvia and Louise. I got in my car and drove as quickly as possible to the centre of town, pulling up outside Bar 45 and making my way in.
Where do you run, if you don’t know what you’re running from?
It’s fair to say the evening didn’t go as well as planned. It got pretty clear that Anna had no idea who I was and had mistaken me for someone else; I, on the other hand, recognised her instantly and saw that she hadn’t changed, except for losing the almost magical glow that used to hover above her, I guessed, to the demands and trials of the realities of life. She made a valiant effort to reconcile her idea of me with the disappointing reality that sat in front of her, and I guess the one positive I can take was that she definitely didn’t place me as one of the pathetic creature who used to worship her from afar. It seems that she had taken me for one of her brightest research students, to whom I bore a passing resemblance (I remember the guy, one of those super keen jerks who hung around with her, trailing her with a bunch of other super keen jerks, in a pack of groupies. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had had t-shirts printed in her honour; fans of Anna D; Anna D on tour, you get my meaning. And you’re thinking hey, well what’s the difference with what you did - I’m not so self-unaware to miss the irony of what I am saying, but that doesn’t and shouldn’t prevent me from recognising other people for what they are.) Our conversation became very stilted very quickly, when she started asking me about all the other sad guys I used to hang round me, how’s John and how’s Fred and how’s Alan and on and on it went, and there’s only so many people you can say you’ve lost touch with before you start to seem like a complete loser… it didn’t get any better when she, out of desperation I think, started asking questions about my social life – wife? Divorced. Kids? No. Hobbies? Just listen to Queen.
The disappointment in her face became more and more obvious as I think she was trying to work out whether I was not who she thought I was or else whether I had failed miserably in her expectations and the early promise that she had seen. To be fair, those initial questions were just the warm up, as what she had really wanted to know was how my dissertation had turned out, whether my pioneering research into the impact of sleep deprivation on the quality and lucidity of dreams had achieved any results. Buying time, I expressed surprise that she wasn’t at the forefront of research on the subject and didn’t know everything there was to know about it. She sighed, and she began talk surprisingly openly about the course her life had taken. When she was at university, she said, almost at the end of her PhD, she said I may remember that she left suddenly; in fact, she said, she only finished her PhD several years later. When I asked what happened, she laughed and started talking.
Well it will sound strange now, and I still can’t quite believe it myself, but I had a breakdown. It was probably down to all sorts of reasons, but it was finally triggered by one specific incident. As part of my final thesis, I was giving a lecture on the power of dreams. It was quite core to the success of the thesis and my PhD, my tutor was there as well as some guests from the Research Institute that I was hoping to join. I really wanted to make a good impression, and so as part of it I invited members of the audience to come and share their experiences with me, and the rest of the class. I remember it clearly, it was intended to be an experime
ntal exercise in mind therapy, where I drew out some key themes and built up the audience’s perception of their understanding and ability to influence their dreams.
It sounds quite old hat now, but at the time we all felt it was quite ground breaking and I was really excited, if a little nervous. It started off well - some of the students were really quite engaging and we got a good discussion going, and I felt everything was going according to plan. We got to the last person that I invited to join me; I don’t know his name, I never knew it in fact, but he was definitely not from my department as I knew everyone there. I even struggle to remember what he looked like, I don’t really remember anything about him, actually, except that as he sloped down to the stage, I thought he looked – well, bland and ordinary. We started with the usual questions, and he gave monotonous one word answers, so I thought about wrapping it up, asking him politely to leave – I was sure my tutor would understand that not every discussion would create results. But then for some reason, he suddenly started talking, and he talked for what seemed like hours. It’s funny, because now I really don’t remember what he said, although it affected me deeply at the time. It was as if he had opened up his soul and spilled it out, and what came out was dark