‘Brooding?’ she echoed, sarcastically. This guy really was bizarre.
‘In the best sense, yes – thinking out who I am and what my purpose in life is. It amazes me how other people accept the status quo. Most of my contemporaries have gone into jobs they hate, just because the current view is that high income and high status are desirable in themselves. In my opinion, that’s selling out. In fact, it’s outright slavery. I mean, just last week, one of my friends was seriously reprimanded for – wait for it! – wearing red socks. His boss told him, and I quote, the socks were “inappropriate, if not disrespectful to the client”. Well, as far as I’m concerned, he’s sacrificed his autonomy to a company with pretty ludicrous values.’
‘You can’t generalize like that,’ she said, feeling increasingly annoyed. ‘I mean, I’m well paid, but I love my job and the firm I work for does have proper values.’
‘How can it, Alice, for heaven’s sake? Any PR firm must be severely compromised, on the grounds it’s willing to push anything and everything in return for filthy lucre. OK, lots of people don’t see the harm in that, but only because they swallow what society keeps telling them about the importance of a so-called good career. My parents are the same – always on my back and nagging me to get a “proper job”. They think I’m wasting my life, because I’m not an adman or accountant. They just can’t grasp the fact that I need time and space to work out who I am and what my role in the world should be.’
It was obvious he was still a student in terms of his whole mindset. As a greenhorn of eighteen, she, too, had agonized about the meaning of existence, but her priorities had changed since then, as had those of all her friends. ‘Look,’ she countered, tetchily, ‘some of us want other things – things that only money can buy. Holidays, for instance. Surely you agree we need to travel, if only to make us less insular, but if you’re penniless you can’t go anywhere.’
‘’Course you can, if you’re willing to hitchhike or backpack, and doss down with friends or strangers. I’ve been to quite a few places – although I refuse to fly, because that’s immoral, too. But I’m quite prepared to be destitute in Delhi or Djibouti or wherever, so long as I can get there. A year ago, I spent two months in Gaza, supporting the Palestinian resistance movement, and I’ve even been overland to Siberia, to help the Russian environmentalists clear up the pollution in Lake Baikal.’
She shifted in her seat. She and Josh preferred to visit more congenial spots. Last July, for instance, they’d enjoyed a relaxing fortnight in a villa in the Seychelles and, the year before, booked a boutique-hotel in Barcelona.
‘It made me livid, Alice. I mean, there’s Baikal, the oldest lake in the world – three hundred million years old, at least – yet it’s polluted by this factory, standing directly on its shore, belching steam and pumping dangerous chemicals into what was once the cleanest water anywhere on earth.’ His legs were twisted round the chair-rung; one hand tightly clenched, as if even his body attested to his vehemence.
His sincerity was patent – that she had to concede – yet all this philanthropic talk made her feel discomfited. If she were brutally honest, she probably cared more about the size of her next pay-rise than saving some lake from pollution. ‘Siberia’s a hell of a way to go,’ she muttered, at last; aware it sounded distinctly lame. But, with her scanty knowledge of environmental issues, she was hardly qualified to start holding forth about saving the blue whale. In truth, she was keen to change the subject again, before he suggested she joined Friends of the Earth, so she asked him what his parents did.
‘My dad’s a management consultant and a complete organization freak. Even when we were little, he treated us like his employees, rather than his kids – gave us printed rotas for the household chores; even promised us an incentive bonus if we did them well, and on time.’
So, she mused, sanctimonious Daniel was merely reacting against his personal circumstances, in the same way as Schopenhauer; setting up a system of philosophy that was really little more than a way of getting back at Dad. ‘Your father sounds quite sensible to me. At least he gave you a useful training for later life.’
She and Josh hadn’t yet discussed the controversial issue of whether or not to have children. They’d been together three whole years now, but she had to accept that his career came first – as indeed did hers. In truth, she was in his debt. As an alpha male, par excellence, he had not only got her the job and taught her almost all she knew, he’d also invited her to share his elegantly spacious garden flat in Islington; a far cry from her former flat-share in an insalubrious part of Holloway.
‘In fact, I reckon your father would get on well with my boyfriend. Josh is a whiz at time-management. He’s produced this six-stage system that helps you take control of your life and get on top of your workload. Before I met him, I was all over the place, yet I didn’t even realize. I’d allow things to pile up, or just fritter away my time, without thinking out my personal goals, or setting up a timetable.’
‘That sounds healthier to me than Josh’s system, if you don’t mind me being frank. It’s a good thing to waste time. Otherwise it becomes a sort of tyranny that demands your total servitude. Besides,’ he asked, ‘where will it ever end, as time gets more and more precise? It used to be measured in a rough and ready way – sunrise, sunset, time to milk the cows, or get up, or go to bed – but now we have nanoseconds, for God’s sake! Forget nanoseconds – I prefer not to wear a watch at all. OK, I need one for work, but at home, I don’t keep track of time, unless I absolutely have to. I regard it as an artificial concept, imposed on us by employers and bureaucracies, or other glutting cretins who want to tell us how to live.’ He tapped his fingers sharply on the book, to express his disapproval. ‘I also feel strongly about the evil of possessions. I’ve cut mine down to just the bare essentials, but you should see some of my friends! They own so many things, they move around like spiders in their webs, clinging to the honey-trap of swanky consumer goods.’
Josh would fit that description, she thought, disloyally. Wasn’t he overly attached to his BlackBerry, his home cinema and home exercise machine, his Sony Surround-Sound system and all his other executive toys? Yet who was she to talk, with her expensive cache of shoes and bags, her state-of-the-art mobile and self-important watch?
‘Why are they even called “goods”,’ he demanded, ‘when all they do is perpetuate desire? I detest the very idea of being a “consumer”. That word for me is just a term for meaninglessness and greed.’
She tried to put up a defence; riled that this romanticizing zealot should keep laying down the law. ‘Josh believes there’s nothing wrong with being rewarded for hard work and, since we live in a technological world, why not take advantage of it and buy stuff that makes life easier?’
‘Because it doesn’t, Alice – it makes things much more complicated. And, anyway, we soon become slaves to our possessions, or start craving bigger and better ones. What your boyfriend fails to understand is that being is more important than doing. That’s obvious from his attitude to time. If every single minute of his existence is so rigidly controlled, when can he simply sit and think, or follow up some random idea that might flit into his mind? And what about those transcendental moments triggered by a song, or sunset, or by some sudden new perspective, that frees you from your normal narrow confines? They’re impossible unless you have some leisure time. Besides, if he’s tied to a job, nine till five – or eight till seven, or whatever hours he works – there’s no scope for spontaneity. Let’s say he felt the urge to take himself to Mongolia, or Bhutan, or any damned place, for that matter, just because he felt a need to see them, or could experience a different way of life there, how could he just drop everything and go?’
She tried to imagine Josh popping off to Bhutan, simply on a whim, and with a bedroll on his back, rather than leaving for the office on the dot of seven each morning, immaculately attired and armed with his laptop in its special designer case. This self-righteous beanpole really
didn’t have a clue. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, she found him disconcertingly sexy – all the more bizarre when she was never normally turned on by scruffy clothes and stubble. And, although he wasn’t sporting red socks, even his grubby white ones were somehow strangely appealing, and she found her eyes returning to the small stretch of naked flesh exposed between his boots and tattered jeans.
Fortunately, his attention was now claimed by a middle-aged couple, who had come downstairs to the foyer and were asking about a film that wasn’t actually showing at the Curzon. A good chance, she thought, to cut short their encounter before she made a fool of herself.
‘I think I’ll go and get a drink,’ she said, once he had redirected the couple to the Empire, Leicester Square. ‘I’m feeling rather dry.’
‘You can get one here,’ he told her, indicating the kiosk opposite.
‘No, I want a coffee, and they only serve that in the bar upstairs.’
‘OK.’ Instantly, he returned to his book, now refreshed, presumably, by his ‘brain-rest’.
The spacious upstairs lounge was unusually crowded and buzzing with conversation on all sides. She suspected many people used it as a home-from-home, sprawling on the comfy sofas and reading the free newspapers. It was still below ground-level and therefore windowless, so she couldn’t check on the weather, but the forecast had been dire – rain on and off all day – so best to stay inside, in the dry.
Having ordered a latte from the bar at the far end, she found a free armchair, draped her coat across her lap and settled back with a frustrated sigh. It did seem a waste of a Sunday to be sitting here on her own, when Sundays were her one day off. Saturdays seemed to disappear in a blitz of chores and shopping, or catching up with emails and work-related reading. And, since Josh’s recent promotion, even their sex seemed confined to Sunday mornings. She hadn’t dared discuss it; simply concluded that the demands of his job must have doused his sex-drive, since he was apparently too tired now for their once regular nightly sessions. But why make an issue of it? Things would return to normal, if she didn’t pressure him – or at least so she fervently hoped.
She took a sip of her coffee, looking with interest at the couple opposite; he with a tattoo and one green dangly earring; she in stripy purple leggings and shiny red Doc Martens, and both of them wearing crazy hats. She imagined the horror on her boss’s face if she breezed into Roebuck-Rayner clad in such eccentric gear. Yet she did sometimes find her ‘uniform’ of elegant dark suit and crisp white shirt constrained and over-formal; often longed to kick off her high heels and simply go barefoot. Even today, she felt overdressed. Josh liked her to look glamorous when he took her to expensive restaurants, but her low-cut, slinky dress made her distinctly conspicuous amidst all the jeans and sweatshirts.
Her eyes returned to the couple, who were talking in an animated fashion; the man gesturing extravagantly; the woman throwing back her head in a bray of hilarious laughter. She and Josh rarely laughed, these days. In truth, he seemed so tense and drained, it was as if the job had sucked him dry. Here, the atmosphere was relaxed and almost studenty and, again, brought back happy memories of her days at university and being surrounded by the sort of people who had the time and interest to engage deeply with each other and exchange ideas on life and art. A group of bohemian types in the corner were vociferously debating the relative merits of Visconti and De Sica, while the two men on her right were arguing about the new film, Crazy Heart. It was months since she and Josh had discussed anything save work and – frankly – she was tired of him obsessing about clients’ needs and problems, even in the evenings and at weekends.
A few people did appear to be actually studying. One girl, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was making notes on an A4 jotter-pad; another was surrounded by a pile of books on astrophysics. Yet, the more she thought about her time at Bristol, the more guiltily aware she was that her old student self had, in Daniel’s parlance, undoubtedly sold out. Once, she had felt aghast at the prospect of selling her soul in what Daniel’s father called ‘a proper job’. Instead, she’d indulged, as a nineteen-year-old, in airy-fairy notions of seeing the world, saving the planet, or ‘doing good’ – the latter always vague and probably quite unfeasible. Only when she had graduated and so lost the crutch and cushioning of her student-grant and student-hostel, did brute realities force her into work. And doubtless Daniel, too, would be compelled to compromise, once he was a few years older and no longer willing to live on baked beans in a squat.
Or would he? He had clearly thought out his position in surprising depth and detail and she was impressed, despite herself. When it came to the crunch, she and Josh were basically too selfish to spend their precious time in Gaza, helping beleaguered Palestinians, or clearing up pollution in Siberia. They might express polite regret about such problems, but it would be purely superficial, whereas Daniel’s idealism seemed steely and determined, as if it went through to his very bones. She found herself mentally undressing him, seeing not his bones but his lithe, strong, naked body; a springy tangle of dark-as-dark-molasses hair accenting his determined, steel-hard cock.
She rammed her cup down on its saucer, appalled to be indulging in such erotic fantasies about another man. In fact, the minute she’d finished her coffee, she would go straight back to the cinema and sit through the rest of the film, however vile the second half might be. In her haste, she all but burned her mouth, then catapulted down the stairs, where she found the steely idealist deep in his book, of course. However, this time she strode past him with just a casual wave, and made her way into the darkened auditorium.
Dark maybe, but no way hushed. Shrieks of ‘Cunt!’ and ‘Motherfucker!’ stopped her in her tracks. The mobsters were hurling insults at each other, accompanied by savage kicks and blows. Too bad. She owed it to Josh to put up with all the violence, verbal, physical or lethal.
Having crept into her seat, she reached out for his hand and gave it a loving squeeze. But irritably he shook it free, turned on her and hissed, ‘Do you have to keep disturbing the whole cinema? You’ve been up and down like a yoyo and it’s driving people mad.’
‘What people?’ she retorted, cut to the quick.
‘Me, to start with! And everybody sitting near. It’s impossible to concentrate, with you continually—’
‘Sssh!’ The man in front swung round in angry protest, as if confirming Josh’s words. ‘Some of us are here to watch the film, not listen to you arguing!’
She sat stock-still, wounded by the accusation, but still more deeply hurt by Josh’s attitude, which seemed totally unreasonable.
She had got up only twice and, both times made an effort to be as quiet as possible. In any case, he had yawned and fidgeted throughout last Sunday’s movie; made it all too obvious that he hated every minute. His bad temper had increased, of late – that was beyond dispute – despite the fact she did everything she could to make his life less pressured. How ever would he cope if they did get round to having kids, when he was already so frazzled with only himself to think about? Over the past few months, she had taken on all the housework, shopping and laundry, and even ran his errands. But why should she, for God’s sake, when her own schedule was equally stressful? Was he beginning to share Schopenhauer’s belief that women were lesser beings and should be essentially subservient?
No, that wasn’t fair. He did have many good points, so the least she could do was try her best to concentrate on what was happening in the film – except she could hardly bear to watch. The gang members had drawn knives now and were slashing at each other’s faces, which made her feel physically sick. Yet Josh appeared to relish the brutality; his eyes riveted to the screen, as if barbarity and bloodshed were mere harmless entertainment. Daniel’s disapproving voice seemed to echo in her head: ‘If your tastes are so vastly different, should you even be living together, let alone considering marriage and a family?’
On an impulse, she jumped to her feet and seized her coat and bag again. ‘See you bac
k in the flat,’ she barked at Josh, striding to the door without waiting for his reply and deliberately banging it behind her. He had accused her of disturbing the whole cinema – right, she would do just that.
She erupted into the foyer, stopping dead when she saw Daniel had gone. His seat was empty; even his book had disappeared. Ridiculous to feel so disappointed. Surely she hadn’t intended confiding in him; pouring out her intimate troubles to a stranger, and one completely unrealistic about relationships and life?
She walked slowly up the stairs, pausing in the lounge and again envying the couples eating, drinking, conversing – and all wearing casual clothes. Her skin-tight dress felt almost like a straitjacket and her new Kurt Geiger shoes were pinching at the toes. Why should Josh control her wardrobe, as well as everything else? Did he regard her as just another possession: his well-groomed girlfriend, whose designer clothes and ostentatious watch bore witness to his own wealth and status?
Angrily, she stomped up the next flight of stairs, to ground-level, and marched straight out into the street, almost surprised to see broad daylight. Not only had the rain stopped, there were even a few half-hearted rays of pale, weak, winter sunshine, as if in honour of the Chinese New Year. The celebrations were still in full swing, and Shaftesbury Avenue had been closed to traffic to allow space for the throngs of revellers.
She stood irresolute; reluctant to return to the lonely flat, yet unsure where to go or what to do. Then, with a shrug, she joined the crowd, deciding she might as well enjoy the festive scene. And festive it undoubtedly was. Jaunty music was pouring from loudspeakers and a huge video-screen had been suspended overhead, showing dancers in elaborate costumes twirling and cavorting; their heavy make-up and richly embroidered headdresses lending them an exotic air. Rows of paper lanterns were looped high above the shop-fronts, in vivid fruit-drop colours: lime-green, acid-yellow, flame-orange, vibrant red. The whole atmosphere was one of jubilation – a babble of different nationalities jostling in the street; some sporting tiger-tail-hats, in honour of this new Year of the Tiger. And the stalls set up along the pavement were also selling tiger-wares – tiger hats, tiger masks, toy tigers in every shape and form – as well as painted fans and dragon-shaped balloons.
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