She should have found someone like me, Arthur mused, someone well trained in dancing attendance. He was feeling pleased with himself in spite of such wistful contemplation. He felt, as he listened and watched, that he had manoeuvred the situation satisfactorily. They were friends now and as his appearance was so unprepossessing and the demeanour he had adopted carefully non-predatory, he was confident she would continue coming. He would be her prop, her outlet for self, and as such he would in time be indispensable, just as he had been to Mother.
But two Saturdays went by and she didn’t appear. On the Friday night of the third week the club dinner and dance took place. It was supposed to be the event of the year and the Evans family had always been prominent participants.
This time there were David’s parents, Mickey’s, Laura and Lawrence, Simon and Emily and a selection of minor civic dignitaries on the top table with Mickey and David, who was club captain. It was being held in the same hotel as the wedding reception, although the function room had been transformed by the addition of a band, twirling prismatic globes suspended from the ceiling, strobe lighting and a breathtaking bulge of multi-coloured balloons held in a vast net over the dance floor.
Mickey, unused to such events and yet to become jaded with them as were most of the other guests, experienced a resurgence of the original delight in being David’s partner. When everyone was seated a posse of waitresses appeared from the kitchens, armed with prawn cocktails and tomato soup followed by overcooked steak and undercooked vegetables and Black Forest gâteau that had not fully thawed. And as soon as it was all eaten or left, a few platitudes uttered by the chairman of the local council’s recreation and amenities committee, a few more in return from David, the tables were whipped away to the sidelines and the band struck up in earnest.
Indigestion gripped her being as Mickey allowed herself to be dragged back and forth in the Hokey Cokey. Back at their table David’s parents and Molly and the Walrus sat in bored silence, trapped by appearances. Lawrence had gone to make his hourly telephone call to the babysitter while Laura sat to one side, her arms folded across her chest.
‘I’m leaking!’ she hissed at Mickey as she and David came off the dance floor, and lifting one arm a little, revealed a damp stain across the front of her dress.
The band struck up a waltz and Mickey was whisked back on to the floor by one of the Johns. Over his shoulder she glimpsed Laura, hunched into her glands.
‘You smell nice,’ John said, holding Mickey rather too close.
‘So do you,’ she answered, her eyes watering with the overpowering level of ‘Brut’.
‘God, these “dos” are a drag, aren’t they?’ he said, loudly. ‘We got stuck on the “duds” table. Melanie’s furious. It happens every year. Filthy meal, wasn’t it?’
‘Filthy.’
The dance over, Mickey was accosted by Josephine who wanted to know whether she looked fat in her low-cut dress.
‘I don’t seem to have seen you for ages,’ she went on, ‘where have you been hiding yourself? Have you got a secret lover? No, of course not. Who would, married to the gorgeous David.’
Was she being sarcastic? Probably only in style. Mickey wondered why she felt guilty.
‘That cow Emily must have done the seating plan. I got stuck on the “also-rans” table again. That bitch Melanie was giving me horse-faced looks all through dinner, looking down her nose at my cleavage as if I ought to be wearing a vest. Why do I associate with these people, I ask myself?’
‘Because you enjoy shocking them,’ Mickey heard herself say.
‘Oh, Mickey, Mickey, more to the point, why did you?’ Josephine sighed, slipping her arm through Mickey’s. ‘You deserve better than this you know.’
‘Do I?’
‘Come on. Let’s get ourselves a drinkie pink.’
Mickey realized that Josephine had already had a number of ‘drinkie pinks’ but escorted her to the bar where Simon and Emily were having a clenched teeth exchange of mutterings.
‘Ah! Josephine!’ Simon exclaimed, ‘I haven’t had a dance with you yet!’ The invitation was obviously calculated to cause Emily pique and for the same reason was accepted by Josephine.
Emily remained sulkily by the bar and Mickey felt bound to stay and talk to her. She was wearing a most peculiar outfit, a tent-shaped, sleeveless dress that was a sort of creamy colour with a broad red band across the bust. She looked a bit like a traffic cone.
‘Simon can be such a pig,’ she muttered, miserably. ‘He’s accused me of messing up the Tombola. He says there weren’t enough tickets and that’s why everything’s gone and that we won’t have made enough money.’ She took a swig of her bitter lemon then pulled out a handkerchief from the bust of her dress. ‘It’s so embarrassing,’ she went on, twisting the handkerchief round her fingers. ‘It’s the same old stuff every year. Did you see that awful ashtray – the green one in the style of a lavatory – this is the third year it’s come back. And why do they always have to have a packet of Durex.’ A little sob came from her plump throat.
Something had happened on the dance floor. People were still twirling but those who weren’t had begun to peer; a ripple of interest was gaining momentum. Mickey and Emily moved away from the bar and nearer the dancers and as Josephine spun by them they saw that one of her breasts had sprung from her dress. Simon, one step behind, caught Mickey’s eye and made a helpless shrug as he and Josephine moved on round the floor.
People were starting to titter, but at the same time attempting the pretence of not having noticed. The evening seemed in danger of degenerating into farce. The music stopped and in the same moment Josephine saw what had happened and that so had everyone else. Dismay turned to anger. ‘Fuck you!’ she wailed at Simon who had adopted an unbelievable look of innocence. She flounced off, stuffing her breast back in her dress as she headed for the cloakroom. The room remained hushed for a moment while everyone was suitably shocked and then the band started playing again, a rousing, stomping tune. Mickey made her way round the edge of the room in the same direction as Josephine but she’d already left. Laura was in the cloakroom, looking damp and uncomfortable.
‘I’ll take you and Lawrence home,’ Mickey said.
‘Oh would you,’ Laura sighed with relief.
Mickey went to fetch the car keys from David. He was by the bar, discussing short-arm bowling with members of his team. She waited at his back for a moment or two, hoping to be able to break in on the group but they were too engrossed.
‘David. The car keys. Can I have them?’ she said quietly.
At first it seemed he had not heard her.
‘David,’ she began again, but didn’t have to go any further.
She saw his hand slip into his trouser pocket and emerge with the keys. She took them from him, waiting a moment longer, expecting him to ask why she was leaving, where she was going, but the cricket conversation continued, unabated. He hadn’t even looked at her.
‘I’ll come back later,’ she murmured, but he didn’t seem to hear.
Back at her parents’ house Laura had to wake baby Lucien to feed him.
‘Who was the ginger piece with the stray tit?’ Lawrence asked Mickey.
‘Oh you’re so obvious,’ Laura remarked tetchily.
‘She ain’t got nothing on you, gel,’ he retorted, squatting down in front of her and planting a kiss on the baby’s head.
‘Getorf,’ Laura complained but without conviction.
‘D’you want me to wind ’im?’ Lawrence enquired earnestly, still crouched before them.
‘I’d better get back,’ Mickey said, observing the small scene of domestic harmony. ‘David might be wondering where I’ve got to.’
Driving back to the hotel she reflected on the evening’s events, the ghastliness of the whole, a kind of parody of her expectations; and in her confusion she found herself imagining telling Arthur, being able to describe it all, the unkind truth. Arthur would love it and she would relish the telling.<
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The evening had folded up when she re-entered the hotel. The band had gone home and only a few guests remained, gathered round the bar: the usual crowd, David in their midst, holding court, in his element. Mickey saw them from the other side of the room and felt uncomfortably detached. She saw David’s arm go up in the air and then into a cartwheel movement: he was still bowling. She looked at her watch, it was past midnight. She hesitated a few seconds then turned and, unnoticed, slipped out again to the car park.
David didn’t come home that night. Mickey lay awake, listening for his return, hoping to capture in their bed the David that belonged to her. When the morning came she went out, wanting to avoid the unavoidable recriminations she would make if David returned before she left. Frustrated anger was there, but in addition a realization of weariness, a creeping attitude that perhaps it was no longer worth the effort of getting upset or despairing.
She drove to her office and settled at her desk, intending to make the most of a quiet morning with no telephone calls or clients to be seen. But concentration eluded her. She read the paragraphs of contracts three, four times and still failed to take in more than the shapes of the words. At midday she abandoned the notion of working and as she cleared away the papers that had been spread over her desk it struck her that throughout the morning there had been no telephone call, David had not even attempted to find her and yet he might have guessed where she would be. It crossed her mind that he could have had an accident but instinct dismissed the possibility, fate didn’t work like that.
At twelve-thirty she left the office but didn’t drive home. Instead she headed out of the town and in the direction of Arthur. It wasn’t a specially conscious route, simply a lack of alternative, and if her purpose was to use Arthur she wasn’t particularly aware of this.
He was pleased to see her, as he always was, welcoming and attentive, making her feel as if she was bestowing the favour; and as before when she had come to see him in the daytime, he closed the shop and took her upstairs, spinning the threads, wine, music, a listening ear, that would make her stay.
She told him about the dinner dance, meaning it to sound funny and cruel. She felt she could say what she liked to Arthur, perhaps because it didn’t seem to matter what he thought. She could make herself sound as outrageous as her inner self would have liked to have been. At times she felt as if she was only one step behind Josephine which was perhaps why she felt so sorry for her.
She told Arthur about Josephine’s mishap and waited for him to react with laughter. He had been watching her very steadily and his gaze continued in the pause. He didn’t laugh but instead he remarked that this person, Josephine, must be feeling very wretched and miserable after such an exhibition.
‘Not her!’ Mickey retorted, defensively.
‘Why are you being so unkind? It’s not like you. It doesn’t suit you,’ he said unexpectedly.
She felt a flash of anger but with herself more than with him. For the first time since her early visits she felt uncomfortable with him, but due to her own behaviour not his.
‘You’re very unhappy, aren’t you, but you can’t bring yourself to admit it,’ he went on. ‘Being cruel about other people is an outlet but not a very satisfying one.’
Mickey was stunned by the accuracy of his perception, that he had realized what she had not herself, or maybe chosen not to see. She hated him for a moment, sitting there in his fussy little chair, his magnified eyes fixed upon her, suddenly making demands she didn’t want to fulfil, not with him. Demands of charitable thought, circumspect observation and comment; demands that it seemed had always been made of her by everyone else.
As if reading her thoughts and her anger, he said: ‘Of course you can say whatever you like, and I’m glad that you do; but you mustn’t mind if I do the same. I haven’t until now, but our relationship will become dull and sterile if the traffic is all one way. Don’t you agree?’
Mickey stared at him as if he had only just become real.
‘You and I have a meeting of minds,’ he continued, refilling her empty wine glass. ‘Fortunately I can see through all the unkind things you’ve told me this afternoon. I can see that you’re being more unkind to yourself than anyone else. My mother was like that. She allowed bitterness to get the better of her until she lost contact with the person she must once have been. It turned her mind, and since she died I’ve come to think that a large part of the blame was mine, that I let her get away with it, sat by and listened and said nothing. The blame of omission, you might say.’
‘I think I’d better go,’ Mickey said, now so uncomfortable with herself and resentful of the implications he was making, she was resolved not to see him again.
‘Where to?’ he halted her. ‘To your games-playing husband, your unfortunate friend, Josephine? Will they listen to you?’
‘Please! I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘Why did you come here, then? To get your own back?’
‘That’s not fair. I came here because . . .’ she halted, at a loss to explain her presence in the bedroom of so odious a little man.
‘Because you’d nowhere else to go,’ he completed the sentence for her.
‘Certainly not because I wanted to!’ she cried, unfairly and in confusion. She was still sitting on the chaise longue, had made no attempt to leave. A sense of unfinished business kept her there, almost against her will, as if to leave now she would be conceding defeat, missing the point, closing the door on a painfully fascinating exploration.
Her mind cleared a little. ‘I think you’re more cruel than I,’ she said, her voice calmer but the phraseology not really hers.
‘Almost certainly,’ he said. This was a quite different person she was with now. He had stood up to be counted and she could no longer dismiss him as merely the being who inhabited her bolt hole. She found him disturbing now because he saw her too clearly while she felt she hardly knew him at all. But to be known so well was irresistibly compelling, the ego flying against itself to discover more.
Daylight was fading and Arthur got up to draw the curtains. The music had stopped some while ago and he inserted another tape, an undemanding piano concerto. For a while they said little, the exchanges they did have polite and superficial, as if it was time for reassessment of each’s position in relation to the other; although for Arthur transition to the next stage of his plan had already taken place.
Chapter Eight
David expected a row on Saturday morning. Stragglers from the dinner dance had gone back to the club when the bar at the hotel had closed. They’d sobered up at about two in the morning and started planning team strategy for the forthcoming rugger season. It had gone on longer than any of them had intended and by five o’clock they’d decided to kip down where they were, waking two or three hours later to the acrid smell of beer slops and stale cigarette smoke, the distinctive early morning stench of a bar.
They groaned and stretched and coughed, and went their separate ways. David was the only married man among them and therefore the only one going home to a probable misunderstanding of last night’s intentions.
He was prepared to be contrite, even spend the day at home as the planned match had been cancelled, which was just as well in view of the state of his head and the minor muscle injury he’d sustained from a squash match two nights earlier.
He realized the house was empty as soon as he opened the front door. It just had that feel about it, or perhaps lack of feel. He experienced a mixture of relief and disappointment, relief because the longer the time left after a misdemeanour the shorter the recriminations, and disappointment because there was always that sense of desolation in returning to an empty house. It was not dissimilar to the way he’d felt as a boy on the odd occasion he’d come home from school and his mother hadn’t been there, ready to hear his tales of triumph on the games field. David had known then that sport was his obsession, but a healthy one, encouraged by both his parents, and the school. He was a trophy-getter, a sou
rce of pride, a boy to be admired.
The knowledge of this obsession was still there, but pushed now to the back of his mind because it was, perhaps, no longer the healthy outlet it had once been. But if this thought came forward at all he coupled it with Mickey’s resentment and felt justified in blaming her for his sometimes feeling a little uneasy with himself. It was not often that she accused him of spending too much time on sport but he was aware of the growing antagonism; and yet he’d done his best to include her in the life of the club, asked her to come to the matches, and as he’d once said to her, she’d known what he was like when she married him. Nevertheless, this morning he felt guilty, even though she’d failed to return to the dance the night before. He thought it likely she’d gone to her parents’ house but decided against telephoning. He found it difficult apologizing, uncomfortable, for himself but also, he chose to think, for the other person. And anyway, Mickey would just have to accept him the way he was: he couldn’t spend his life apologizing for being himself.
These sort of thoughts tipped back and forth as he removed his clothes and ran a bath. He felt better after a while but at a loose end alone in the house with no match to go to and a vague feeling that he would be admitting some sort of indefinable defeat if he went back to the club so soon.
He read the sports pages of Mickey’s Guardian, switched on the television but there was nothing worth watching so early. He sorted through some insurance papers, checked the state of his bank account, then decided to strip the wallpaper in the sitting room, all too aware that it was a placatory impulse and wishing Mickey was there so they could tackle the job together, make peace over it.
He thought about her a lot that day, chronologically, going back to the time he met her, remembering the challenge of her evident disapproval and what a turn on it had been. Then the overwhelming desire to be with her and make sure of her, making love and actually worrying about a good performance. He had been, and still was, tremendously proud of her; that she was a professional woman with a good brain as well as good looks.
Not Playing the Game Page 9