by Paula Byrne
‘I remember you. I really do. I think you’re exaggerating my role. It was my boss who performed the actual surgery. I was only the registrar, the number two in theatre, though I’m a consultant now. I remember telling you that bypass surgery is now routine, even for children. I know that your daughter came through just fine. How’s she doing now?’
‘Emma’s doing great.’ Lisa whipped out her phone and showed him a photo.
‘She looks so much like you, and look how tall she is.’
‘She has her father’s long legs. Not that I’m jealous,’ she laughed. ‘So what are you doing in Blagsford?’
‘I live here. Lots of doctors and surgeons live here and commute to Birmingham. It’s a nice town, with good schools, as I’m … I’m, I’m sure you appreciate.’ He had a very slight stammer. She liked that. It made him seem vulnerable.
He ordered a flat white, and she again offered to pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
‘I’m an old-fashioned boy. I’m not letting you pay. If I’d seen you first, I’d have paid for yours.’
As a feminist, Lisa should have felt offended. But she didn’t. She liked it. It made her feel special. Edward had no such scruples. He often let her pay for supper and lunch out of the money in her own bank account (the ‘Ladies’ Nice Things’ account, as they had taken to calling it, with more than a touch of irony).
‘If you insist, doctor.’
‘Mister for a surgeon, but call me Sean. Sean O’Connor.’
‘And I’m Lisa Blaize.’
‘Well, come on let’s have a quick coffee together then,’ he said. ‘You go on upstairs, find a space, and I’ll bring up your coffee. How do you like it?’
‘Strong and black, like my men.’
He chortled.
‘Seriously – double espresso, extra hot. Thank you. That’s really kind of you.’
They chatted for half an hour or so. She talked about her book, and how, now that Emma and George were both at primary school, she’d finally be able to get on with her second one. Though she admitted that she wasn’t finding it easy being the headmaster’s wife. That wasn’t the kind of role that existed in state schools.
Sean enthused about the National Health Service – he was amazingly positive, considering how overworked he and his colleagues must have been – and about his newfound passion for Twitter. ‘It’s a great way of keeping in touch with things you’re interested in, getting a quick fix of the world outside when you don’t have time to read newspapers or watch the TV. And, as a surgeon, you never have time.’
*
That is how it started. A chance meeting in a coffee shop in the town where they both lived. They exchanged email addresses, more for politeness than for anything else. Lisa was grateful to him, but she had no intention of contacting him again. She was happily married, and Sean simply wasn’t her type. She wasn’t attracted to blond men with green eyes. She loved dark men with brown eyes. Eyes that you could trust. Sean was married with children, so that was another no-go area. She would never hurt a child. She could tell that Sean fancied her. She could feel it. Best not to stay in contact. It was gratitude that had moved her to flirt a little with him. Nothing else.
Twitter, though. Funny that two people in quick succession, first Freddie and now Sean, had suggested that it might be a medium for her. But then again, everyone was talking about Twitter that autumn because it was the favoured mode of communication of @realDonaldTrump, President-elect of the United States of America (Edward’s words on this subject were unrepeatable).
Pregnancy and motherhood, Emma’s illness, then the move – Lisa had never had any time for social media. She wasn’t really sure what Twitter was. Something like Facebook, but limited to a hundred and eighty characters – was that the gimmick?
That night, when Edward was buried beneath a deluge of paperwork in his study, the children were asleep, and she was bored as there was nothing on TV, she clicked on Twitter.com.
It’s what’s happening. From breaking news and entertainment to sports and politics, get the full story with all the live commentary.
Sign up for Twitter.
No harm in giving it a go, even if she never used it.
@Lisa_Blaize
A profile was needed.
I like the idea of a profile, she thought. I need a new profile. Something other than The Headmaster’s Wife. This is good. It could really help me to focus on the bloody second book, and to promote it when it comes out.
Profile
Fashion historian & author of Lipstick and Lies: Reassessing Feminism and Fashion. Married with two fantabulous children. Special interest in textiles & lingerie.
Twitter then asked her to post her first tweet. She deleted the boring suggestion of ‘Hullo, this is my first tweet’ and typed something of her own:
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
Twitter may be my undoing!
Twitter asked her to start ‘following’ people. She clicked on a few suggestions that came up under the categories of Fashion and Entertainment. Then she noticed a ‘Search’ box. She typed in ‘Frederica Cole’ and found that she tweeted with the handle ‘FreddieSwings’. Should she follow her? Better not, it would look a bit stalkerish.
She was just about to type Sean’s name into the search box – no harm in seeing what he had to say, especially as there might be some interesting links to stories about new research on paediatric heart conditions – when, to her astonishment, a number one appeared on a menu item marked ‘Notifications’. They were apparently tweets in which your name was mentioned.
Mr Sean O’Connor @MrOCon
Hi @Lisa_Blaize! So you took my advice and signed up for Twitter? Lovely to see you today. You’re looking so well.
Then, within seconds, before she could even register her surprise:
Mr Sean O’Connor @MrOCon
@Lisa_Blaize … I just ordered your book on Amazon. Can’t wait to read it.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
Well hullo you @MrOCon. Guess I should thank you for the follow? So, thank you. And thanks for the coffee.
Mr Sean O’Connor @MrOCon
Great Twitter pic @Lisa_Blaize. Love the gorgeous backless dress. Very clever not to show your face. Very nice back, by the way.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
Stop flirting, Doctor @MrOCon. Helmut Lang. One of my favourite designers.
Mr Sean O’Connor @MrOCon
Mr not Dr for a surgeon. Stop flirting back @Lisa_Blaize. God, you’ll have me struck off. If you’re not careful, I’ll unfollow you! DM me.
What’s ‘DM’? wondered Lisa.
Twitter told her.
About Direct Messages: Direct Messages are the private side of Twitter. You can use Direct Messages to have private conversations with people about Tweets and other content.
Like an email, Lisa thought. Apparently you could only exchange DMs if you followed each other.
She liked the sound of Private.
She added @MrOCon to her list of followers.
Within a minute, a number one appeared in the menu item that said ‘Messages’ beside a little picture of a sealed envelope.
DM from @MrOCon: Let me know when you’re next in town and we can have another coffee?
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Do you always follow chance encounters in The Coffee Bean with this kind of conversation on Twitter?
DM from @MrOCon: Never. Not once in my life. Hand on heart, I haven’t looked at another woman in nearly ten years of marriage.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I don’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed.
DM from @MrOCon: You’re dangerous. I’ve been stalking you on the Internet. God, you’re rewarding to stalk. BTW, best delete those first tweets and stick to DMs.
CHAPTER 10
Meaningful Coincidences
Twitter was a chain where one thing led to another. You’d see an interesting or funny tweet, click on the name of the tweeter (was that the correct term? Lisa still had a lot to
learn) and then see the thread of their other tweets. Then you’d link through to someone else. A thread of fashion-related observations and pictures would lead, before you knew it, to a jokey exchange about ecclesiastical vestments. That was what led her to reconnect with a dear friend from her student days. She had been out of touch for ages, ever since marrying Edward. She was never quite sure whether her Father Confessor, as she jokingly called him, approved of her divorce, or, for that matter, her new husband. But it was one of those precious friendships that, the moment you picked it up again, it was as if you’d seen each other yesterday.
She had met John Misty in a London pub when she was doing her foundation course. He was training for the church. Misty was the funniest man she had ever encountered. She knew that they would be friends for life.
When she complained about the bitchiness of the fashion world, Misty smiled, wryly. ‘Darling Blaize, you have not the first idea about bitchiness until you have been on intimate terms with members of the clergy. Most of whom bat for the other side, naturally.’
‘Oh come on, I don’t think that’s true.’
‘Darling, go for a drink in Old Compton Street any evening of the week and call out “Hello Father” – hundreds of men will turn around.’
I wonder if Father John tweets, she asked herself a few days into her new life trying out her Twitter persona, something she was enjoying very much indeed. She could see how easy it was to get hooked.
Yes, there he was, @FrJohnMisty.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
Hullo stranger. Bet @FrJohnMisty didn’t expect to find *me* here.
REPLY TO @Lisa_Blaize
Vicar of Leicester @FrJohnMisty
Good God, Blaize, you couldn’t even send an email when we last spoke. Would never have had you pegged for one of the Twitterati.
It was true that she was hopeless at email. The junk piled up in her inbox day after day, so she would often miss the occasional message that really mattered. Then Edward would patiently go through the backlog for her, tutting and moving dozens of emails to Trash. She had more or less given up using her email account. If something was important, people would phone. Or write an old-fashioned letter. Now, though, she could see that she would be much more suited to Twitter dialogue. It was immediate, and the backlog was invisible.
REPLY TO @FrJohnMisty
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
I’ve always been full of surprises. That’s why you love me so much.
REPLY TO @Lisa_Blaize
Vicar of Leicester @FrJohnMisty
I do love you. Very much. What’s going down? I’m following you now. Let’s talk by DM.
She told him all about Emma’s heart operation and about Blagsford. She complained that she was stuck on the second book, but still writing articles about fashion. He told her about life in his Leicester parish. A television producer who had been to university in the city, had had the idea of a sitcom called ‘Priest’ about the vicar of a parish in an inner city populated almost entirely by Muslims. He had befriended Father John and got him talking about some of the more bizarre incidents in his daily life. Father John embroidered them all with his usual colour. Before long, he found himself in the role of consultant to the scriptwriter. It was a shame that the project was stuck in ‘development hell’. Lisa was amused to hear an Anglo-Catholic priest using the language of the entertainment industry.
She could exchange banter with Father John all night. She loved the wit and economy afforded by this new medium. She would trust him with her life. And she knew that he never judged her. And he didn’t. Lisa knew that she was Marmite. You loved her, or you hated her. Father John Misty loved her.
So she hit ‘Send’ on a Direct Message that read:
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I’ve started a Twitter flirtation with a consultant heart surgeon.
The reply came straight back:
DM from @FrJohnMisty: I’m your consultant on matters of the heart. Take care, Blaize. No sexting.
*
Over the next couple of weeks Lisa’s virtual affair with Sean progressed at a rapidly increasing pace. A few tweets here, then an exchange of phone numbers and a few texts there. Each day a few more. Then something happened that shook her. It was almost Christmas, and they met for a morning coffee in the Bean. Sean arrived with a silver cardboard box. They chatted, flirted, and laughed. God, he made her laugh. He was telling her a story about one of his son’s drunken escapades. He was wonderfully self-deprecating. She loved that he didn’t buy into the whole middle-class helicopter parenting shit.
In one of their text exchanges, Sean had mentioned that his favourite author was Laurie Lee. Lisa had read Cider with Rosie when she was a teenager, and vaguely remembered a scene with, what was it, a first kiss under an apple cart at harvest time? Sean had told her that his favourite book was not Rosie, but Laurie Lee’s memoir, As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. ‘That’s a mouthful for a title,’ she had texted back, ‘I prefer one-word titles like Othello, Lolita, and Emma.’ And then, in another message a moment later, ‘Or two words at most. Emma Bovary. Anna Karenina.’ Sean had seemed rather crestfallen. The scientist dipping his toe in arty waters and being slapped down. She clocked his disappointment and felt penitent, so followed up with a more encouraging text: ‘My role models??!! …’
Bending forward over the table in The Coffee Bean, Sean started telling her about Laurie Lee’s life. He had had a blazing – Sean raised an eyebrow as he uttered that word – affair with a woman called Lorna Garman. Apparently there were these wild Garman sisters. Beautiful and wild. They were from Irish Gypsy descent on their mother’s side. They were amoral, too. One of the sisters, Mary, had an affair with Vita Sackville-West. She slept with her whilst her little boy lay on a bed only a few feet away.
Lisa objected to this. Why was it that the upper classes got away with infidelity? ‘If that happened on a sink estate, there would be uproar, and social services would take away the child – but somehow the aristocracy and the Bloomsbury set got away with it and made it look cool and sexy and free.’
‘Well, yes, but don’t you think monogamy is very overrated? You strike me as a bit of a wild gypsy soul yourself. I’m not sure you could be tamed, Lisa. There’s more than a bit of Lorna Garman in you. You look like her too.’
‘Well, I don’t swing both ways, like her sister. I’m more prudish than you think. I’ve had very few lovers, Sean. I’m quite an old-fashioned Catholic girl.’
‘Well, I’m not going to tell you how many lovers I’ve had or you’ll drop me. Men do that sort of thing, you know. Notch up the numbers.’
When she left, he gave her the silver box and wished her Happy Christmas. Just a few tokens, he said. Nothing to feel too excited about. She told him that she had a present for him too. She handed over a small parcel packaged in brown paper. Lisa, mortified at the put-down over book titles, had planned the perfect Christmas present for Sean. It had taken hours, but she had been lucky. On principle she never used Amazon, but websites for rare books were another matter. She had gone online and found what she desired, thanks to a book dealer in Milwaukee who was willing (for a price) to dispatch by express courier. It was a signed, first edition of As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. In pristine condition.
When she got home, she opened the box. It contained a hand-written love letter, a book about chickens, two CDs, and an old battered Penguin paperback. She smiled when she saw it. She could hardly believe it. Then her phone pinged:
L, You naughty girl. That is quite simply the most wonderful present I have ever received. I can’t begin to imagine the time and trouble you took to find it. Let alone the expense. There is something in your box which is very personal to me, part of me, that I have had with me (all over the world!) for 25 years, but I really wanted to give it to you. This is perfect symmetry. I’m a man of science. I don’t believe in magic, but there is something magical in this exchange of books that makes me question my belief in empirical, evidence-base
d knowledge. I gave you my most precious book, and I got it straight back. I will honour it, treasure it, take it everywhere I go, & it will always remind me of you. It means so much to me. Thank you so much. S. x
She texted back:
I’m sure, Mr C, that you’re familiar with Jung’s theory of synchronicity: Do you know the story of the Scarab Beetle?
Nope. Though I do know about Synchronicity: title of an album by The Police …
LOL. One of Jung’s patients had a dream about a costly item of jewellery, a golden scarab. She was telling Jung about this dream when he became aware of a gentle tapping on the window. He saw that it was a large, flying insect trying to get in. He opened the window and in it flew. It was a scarab beetle, gold-green. Jung handed the beetle to his patient and said ‘Here is your scarab.’
Meaningful Coincidences?
Exactly.
CHAPTER 11
All My Pretty Chickens
The spring term – or Lent Term, as they called it at Blagsford – began, and the final decision about Bertie was pending. Lisa took her chance to put in a plea on Freddie’s behalf. Edward was furious at this act of interference. The school was his territory. This matter with Bertie was most delicate. His father was an important figure, and a generous donor. It had not been easy to tell Max that his son and heir was a drug dealer. The bust had happened just before the Christmas holidays, so talks had been suspended until the beginning of the new term. But Edward had made it clear to the parents that Bertie’s exclusion was likely to be permanent. Bertie had not returned to school at the beginning of the new term. Arrangements were still being made. Don’t speak to her again, Edward warned Lisa. It’s an ongoing issue.
It was no surprise to Lisa that Edward was not to be swayed. Though she hated the way that he had shouted at her – something he never, ever did – she quietly respected the smack of firm of leadership that he was revealing once again. The shockwaves rippled across the school as the news spread. Lisa felt bad for Freddie. Felt that she had, somehow, let her down. Max and Freddie came to the school, frostily together, to be told the news. As they left Edward’s study, Lisa was waiting.