by Liz Byrski
They have done this only twice before but already it feels like an established ritual. This time it is Ros who has prepared the tea and made a loaf of dark, moist banana bread.
‘This is for you, Simone,’ she says. ‘It’s paleo banana bread, so I think it fits your hippy eating regime.’
They settle once again into their usual seats.
Simone sips her tea, puts her cup and saucer down on the side table and picks up the book.
‘Okay, let’s do it,’ she says, ‘Ann Patchett’s Truth and Beauty. I’m sure you’re wondering why I chose it. You’ll either have loved it or hated it, and frankly I’ve done both! Many years ago I read a book by the American poet Lucy Grealy, called Autobiography of a Face. As you now know from reading this book Lucy had a form of cancer that severely distorted her face. And she had a seemingly endless and horrendous series of treatments and operations that never succeeded in fixing it, and on some occasions made things worse.’
Simone hesitates, then lifts up her hair to reveal her scar. ‘You’ve probably already noticed this,’ she says, ‘although none of you has asked about it because,’ she pauses, smiles and looks around, ‘well, because you’re all so well mannered! It’s a burn; it happened in my early twenties and I was lucky, it could have been a lot worse, and I’ll tell you later how I got it. It’s difficult to adjust to having any form of facial injury, and I’ve never lost my awareness of it, so I wanted to read Lucy’s book. The damage to my face is minimal compared to hers, and I loved her courage and extraordinary endurance that come through very strongly in her own book. Then, later I discovered Truth and Beauty, which is Ann Patchett’s memoir of their long friendship.
‘But before I tell you more about my other reasons for choosing it, perhaps we could talk about it? You don’t need to worry about trampling on my feelings, in fact your honest reactions will help me.’
There is a murmur of agreement.
‘Fine by me,’ Ros says. ‘Okay if I start? I actually have quite a lot to say – yeah, I know – as always! But I think this book is extraordinary. Ann Patchett writes so fluently and with such apparent ease that I began by loving it for just that, for involving me immediately in a true story that I might otherwise not have read.’
‘Me too,’ Judy says. ‘I was right into it from the start.’
‘I also like learning about writers’ lives,’ Ros continues, ‘how they manage to earn a living and so on. As a musician I understand that sort of hand to mouth existence, and how hard it is. So I was very enthusiastic about it at first, but then I started to feel that I was being drawn into something else that I didn’t much like.’
‘Yes,’ Adele says, ‘me too. There was a point at which it started to feel creepy.’
‘Creepy?’ Judy cuts in. ‘But why? How could it be creepy?’
‘Even bearing in mind the awfulness of Lucy’s condition I felt she was increasingly narcissistic and demanding,’ Adele says. ‘And I was really uncomfortable with the way Ann constantly responded to that. The relationship seemed oppressive – but also oppressive for me as a reader.’
‘Me too,’ Ros says.
Simone leans back in her chair, listening and watching. She had thought it might be contentious, she has had mixed feelings herself ever since she first read it, and those feelings seem to change from time to time.
‘I felt entangled and resentful because of that,’ Ros goes on. ‘I was in there with Ann, a fellow traveller. She became my person, I was on her side. But then there were no “sides” because she wasn’t complaining about Lucy’s devouring need to be the centre of everything and to have Ann at her emotional and practical beck and call. That began to feel very dark for me and then I got annoyed with Ann; I wanted her to stop being so noble and patient, and to give Lucy a big dose of home truths about her self-obsession, her thoughtlessness, her selfishness.’
‘Oh my god! I thought Ann was amazing,’ Judy says. ‘Lucy’s problems were huge and she’d try something and it would fail and she’d bounce back and try again. I can’t believe . . . I mean, wouldn’t you want to help a friend in that situation?’
‘Of course,’ Ros says, ‘but I don’t have the patience or the capacity to be entirely unselfish to the degree that Ann Patchett appears to have been. And frankly I started to lose faith in that. I ended up feeling it was quite manipulative. I was wavering between two positions. Either Ann wanted to be a doormat, or she was manipulating readers in the way she told her side of the story. And because she is obviously a highly intelligent woman and a very skilful writer I felt it was the latter. It was the skill of the writing, and the judicious selection of snippets from Lucy’s letters, plus her reconstruction of their conversations, that formed my understanding of Lucy, and of their friendship; a friendship in which Lucy really ended up looking like a basket case, and Ann was the perfect friend and selfless Good Samaritan. She’s a very fine writer and I find it hard to believe she could not have known what she was doing in writing it this way.’
Simone shifts her position, though her discomfort is not simply physical. Quite suddenly she feels ill at ease with what’s happening, with Ros’s vehemence, but she can’t explain why because she has felt exactly the same at times.
‘I got to a point where I disliked both of them quite a lot and thought they deserved each other,’ Ros says.
‘I did too,’ Adele says. ‘I also wondered if Ann had deliberately set up that sort of position so that she came across as the best possible, noble friend. I agree with you, Ros. She must have understood the impact of her characterisation of Lucy, who comes across as selfish, self-indulgent, needy and demanding. And perhaps she was, but Ann’s portrayal of her was pretty brutal.’
‘Exactly,’ Ros says. ‘I also realised that Ann was not just creating a reader’s response to Lucy, but that she was enabling Lucy’s narcissism. So for me that made it worse. Bearing in mind that she wrote it very soon after Lucy Grealy died, it felt as though she was getting something off her chest. It’s so well written, but I felt I couldn’t really trust the writer’s motives. Even so I still couldn’t stop reading it, which, I suppose, says something about the power of the writing, because despite all that, and despite longing to give up on it, I was compelled to hang in there to the end.’ She stops, raises her eyebrows, looks around the room. No one speaks. ‘I’ve gone over the top, haven’t I?’ she says.
‘I think you have. Way over the top,’ Judy says.
‘No,’ Adele says.
‘Go on, Ros,’ Simone urges. There is some relief now in hearing Ros’s passionate excoriation of the book, and relief too in Judy’s defence of it. She had expected this to come up in the conversation but it’s not the aspect of Truth and Beauty that had made her choose it; that is one side-step away. She had wondered briefly if she would feel hurt or diminished if there were strong negative responses from some of the others, but in fact it helps her to hear it.
‘Okay, I’m nearly done,’ Ros says. ‘I ended up feeling that this friendship became a struggle for supremacy in both their writing and their emotional lives. And I wondered which one would finally ring the bell, get off the bus and walk away. I started out feeling it was a story of friendship, and then that it was actually a love affair, and finally that it was a story of two people held together by two very destructive forces: Lucy’s overwhelming neediness, which would never be satisfied, and Ann’s own need to be, or to be seen to be, the perfect, stoic and always-loving friend.’
‘That sounds right to me,’ Adele says.
‘I feel as though we’ve been reading different books,’ Judy says. ‘Honestly, none of this even entered my head and I can’t really see what there is that makes you quite so worked up about it, Ros.’
‘Oh, Judy, don’t be so wet!’ Ros says. ‘It’s obvious, how can you not have seen it?’
‘Ros! Really . . .’ Simone interjects.
Ros flushes and shakes her hea
d. ‘Sorry, sorry, you’re right, that was thoughtless and rude, Judy, I’m way out of line. I apologise.’
‘It’s okay,’ Judy says. ‘It’s interesting to see how worked up you are, because your reaction seems out of proportion to the fact this is simply a book we’re reading for book club. I think you’re completely wrong about this, and you too, Adele, if you’re agreeing with her. You’re reading a whole lot of stuff into it. I think you should stand back, try again, read it for what it is: a love story, recounted by one party after the tragic death of the other. I think you are . . . yes, way over the top.’
Simone has been on the edge of her seat during this exchange. How amazing it is to see Judy come back at Ros with such confidence. Simone almost wants to cheer her! Adele is obviously surprised too; Simone sees her glancing down at her notes.
‘I think a significant question here is should Ann Patchett have written this?’ Adele says. ‘Is it a betrayal to have revealed the extent of Lucy’s neediness and her often manipulative and irresponsible behaviour? Because that is basically what she does and Lucy’s not able to speak for herself. I looked for reviews and I found a piece written by Lucy Grealy’s sister. She makes the point that there is no real mention of Lucy’s family, and that she and her other sister were deeply upset by this book both for themselves and for their mother. Certainly before I read that I assumed that Lucy’s family were not there for her, but it seems that wasn’t the case. I suppose writers have the right to recreate a very singular version of someone else, but Lucy is dead, she can’t respond. I think it’s a clever piece of work but also a narcissistic one.’
Ros is nodding firmly. ‘Yes. And I think this is a classic story of co-dependence,’ she says. ‘Lucy’s dependence is on love and approval that almost amounts to adulation. That’s her drug, both the sort of love she gets from Ann, and to a lesser extent from other friends, but also on sex, which she confuses with love. She could never have enough of either. But is that who she really was? Ann Patchett wrote this very soon after Lucy’s death. Maybe she should have put it away in a drawer for a year or two and then rethought it. It might have ended up being very different, and have had more integrity.’
Simone has been leaning forward, listening attentively. ‘You’ve both raised everything that I felt in my various readings of it. Particularly – did Ann Patchett really understand how it might be read? And even if it is her right to write it, should she actually have done so?’
They are all looking at Judy.
‘Well, you all know what I think. To me it was a deeply moving love story. It made me long to have a friendship like that with another woman, someone who would always be there for me, always have my back. Not a sexual relationship, just love, care and honesty. You know, sometimes I read reviews of a book I’ve already read and wonder if the reviewer and I have been reading the same book. That’s how I feel now. But – and it’s a big but – I do believe it’s true that we all bring something of ourselves to what we read, we’ve discussed that before, and so, with respect, Ros, Adele and you, Simone, I wonder what personal baggage you might be bringing to this very lovely book.’
There is a moment of absolute silence.
Ros draws breath, then lets out a short burst of laughter. ‘That’s a really good question, Judy, and you’ve absolutely floored me with it. Of course you’re right. Reading is so personal, as are our reactions to what we read. I still feel, though, that Ann Patchett warned Lucy about the drugs, threatened to withdraw her friendship, threatened to leave her, but didn’t do so until she was in really dire straits. Had she done so earlier – set some boundaries and stuck to them – that would have been true friendship. Instead she just enabled all Lucy’s dependencies, turned up to rescue her all the time, until the end when Lucy was in more trouble with the drugs than ever and Ann switched off.’
‘That’s not the book I read, Ros,’ Judy says. ‘Or are you just stirring me now?’
‘No. No I’m not stirring you. And I really do think you made an excellent point about baggage. I’m not sure where mine is coming from on this, but you’ve certainly got me thinking.’
‘She’d tolerated it as long as she could.’
‘That is a very benign interpretation.’
‘Maybe, but it’s my interpretation.’
‘Okay, you two,’ Simone says, ‘wind your necks in.’ She glances across at Adele, who appears frozen in dismay. Clearly being up close to this minor spat has been very confronting for her.
‘I’m only saying that friendship is hard work,’ Judy says.
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Ros snaps. ‘What it does have to be is authentic, and it can’t be co-dependent – if it is it won’t survive.’
‘Okay, I understand that. But I think this was authentic, and it survived a long time. I think it was love, so we just have to agree to differ. And what I wanted to say is that it made me see that I haven’t made room . . .’ She pauses, looks down at the floor. ‘Since I left Ted I haven’t made room in my life for love and friendship, and now it’s too late.’
Ros turns to her. ‘Now that is authentic, Judy,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how you got there from this book, but what you’re saying is really important. And if you don’t mind my saying so, I really don’t think it’s too late. If it was I don’t think you’d be here with us now.’
Judy looks surprised. Her eyes, Simone thinks, are a little glassy. It’s clear the conversation has taken its toll on her, and they haven’t yet got to the questions Simone wants to ask.
She gets to her feet. ‘I think that’s enough fisticuffs. Let’s have a break and then I’d like it if we could change direction a bit.’
‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ Ros says. ‘I’ll make some more tea. Shall we call a truce, Judy?’
‘Let’s do that,’ Judy says. ‘Although, Ros, I must tell you that you are not half as scary as I thought you would be.’
‘Well I suppose that’s a good thing,’ Ros says. ‘On the other hand, you are a great deal more feisty and challenging than I ever expected!’
*
Judy looks around as the others get to their feet. Simone automatically stretches her arms above her head and Ros almost drags herself up, clinging to the arm of the chair and steadying herself briefly before heading for the kitchen. Meanwhile Adele seems more anxious than ever. Judy stays put for a moment, feeling pretty good about the way she’d handled Ros.
‘Well, that was interesting,’ Simone says. ‘You were pretty impressive, Judy.’
‘I was gobsmacked,’ Adele says. ‘I don’t think I could have held my own.’
‘I’d been dreading something like that with Ros,’ Judy says, ‘but it was okay. And you would be too, Adele, in fact . . .’ she lowers her voice slightly, ‘I think Simone is right, Ros is really a pushover. She believes what she’s saying but her way of saying it is just bluster.’
Simone laughs. ‘I think that’s right – honestly, you take this stuff too seriously. I don’t think Ros has any malice in her, she’s just outspoken and not in the least diplomatic. Look how quickly she backed off.’
‘But she came back again,’ Adele says, ‘still quite fiercely.’
‘She’s a very passionate person with strong views. I’m sure there’ll be some more outbursts. You just need to see it for what it is. I suspect it’s a way of protecting herself, keeping people at a safe distance. It’s odd though, because she’s also warm and forgiving, and hugely supportive. She’s a bit of a puzzle, isn’t she? Anyway, that discussion was really good, and it makes it easier for me to talk about why I chose the book, even though in the last few days it seems to have lost some of its significance anyway.’
‘Because of Geoff?’ Adele asks.
‘Because of something Geoff told me.’ Simone shivers, folds her arms across her chest, rubbing her upper arms with the opposite hands. ‘I’m thankful I’m here with all
of you to talk to.’
‘To me it feels as though this is real life,’ Judy says, ‘my real life. The one I was living until we got here seems like another world.’
Simone nods. ‘Yes, a bit like waking up on another planet!’
‘Maybe we should go and see how our fourth inhabitant is getting on with the tea,’ says Judy.
Ros looks up as Judy and Simone enter the kitchen.
‘I’m glad you came in,’ she says to Judy. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said. You reminded me that there is more than one way to read a book. You read it as a love story and you spoke from the heart and told us how it affected you. I know I often get too analytical, try to pick holes in the writing, or make big assumptions about a writer’s intention, and I couldn’t get past that. So I think you’re right, Judy, it is a love story, and Ann Patchett may simply have wanted to convey its intensity and importance in her own life, but I still think she should have taken time to stand back and think more about how she wrote it and how it could be read.’
Simone sighs. Oh, Ros, she thinks, you are so complex, and often a bull in a china shop. But you are also so generous and wise.
‘I’d like to talk about another aspect of this book, and it’s the part of it that made me choose it,’ Simone says when they are back in their seats. ‘The question in the cover blurb is about Ann and Lucy’s relationship.’ She turns it over in her hands and reads. ‘What happens when the person you promise to love and honour for the rest of your life is not your lover but your best friend? What I want to talk about is whether this was love or friendship or both; were they in love; was it a battle for supremacy between two writers? Is it unusual, or are there lots of friendships like this?’
‘Oh good,’ Ros says, ‘that’s on my list too, and it’s so relevant to Ann’s motivation for writing it and the way she wrote it.’
Simone takes a deep breath. ‘My personal connection to the book, and what I want to talk about now, goes back to just that – the love between Ann and Lucy and why it was important to me.