Wise Follies

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  As soon as I get on the bus I put on my Discman earphones. It’s a good way of not getting into conversation. When passing acquaintances on the street one can observe the rituals of friendliness and distance. When they plonk themselves beside you on a bus you have to summon up a plausible personality, and I haven’t been feeling plausible for ages now – especially not this early in the morning.

  Sometimes I find myself staring at men on buses. Men who, perhaps, have a toddler on their knees who they are being nice to. I watch them burying their faces sweetly into their child’s hair and wonder if I could have spotted their potential, say, ten years ago. Back when they were probably as footloose as I still am. Could I have spotted this tenderness under, say, four pints of Guinness and a World Cup T-shirt? Someone obviously did. Someone who knew that tenderness was what she needed.

  I take out my Discman and turn on my meditation CD. According to it I am on a beach and feeling enormously calm. An American voice is telling me that I am someplace between Naples and Fort Myers. I like that he presumes my acquaintance with these Florida locations. That he thinks that maybe I jump into a jeep and speed off to them at weekends with a stash of Budweiser cans in my trailer. The thing is, I don’t seem to have studied the map too carefully this morning because I don’t end up on a beach. I visit my imaginary villa in Provence instead.

  It’s a wonderful villa. It has green wooden shutters and the front door is framed by bougainvillea. I wear silver rings with big interesting stones when I’m there. I go for long sunny walks in loose cheesecloth dresses and picnic in lavender-covered fields. I collect baguettes from boulangeries and watch lizards sunbathing. There’s a small town nearby and it’s full of friendly people. I sit with them at sidewalk cafés. Whole afternoons slip by without my noticing. I also paint wonderful landscapes which sometimes end up in Paris. I keep hens and don’t care when I find hairs on my chin. I am extremely happy. And though I am nearing my stop – I can tell this without even looking out the window – I linger at my villa for a small stolen moment longer. I need these patches of reverie and meditation – I need them badly. For not only am I in transition between locations, I am in transition between myself. Commuting from the leafy centre of my deepest longings to the stern suburb of necessity.

  As soon as I sit down at my desk Gerry pops his head over the open plan partition that separates us. ‘Is it the fourth or the fifth?’ he asks.

  ‘The fifth,’ I reply. I have only become so sure of dates since Gerry has started asking me them. In some way he has shifted the responsibility.

  ‘Do anything exciting this weekend?’ asks Cindi, stopping by my desk. She always asks me about my weekends with great eagerness. It’s as if, after years of fairly prosaic replies, she believes I’m suddenly going to announce that Colin Farrell popped by for supper on Saturday. Or that I briefly joined the Folies Bergère and only just made the dawn flight back.

  ‘I had quite a dirty weekend actually.’

  ‘Wow! Really!’ Cindi leans forward excitedly.

  ‘Sorry, Cindi – I was just referring to the state of my cottage.’

  Cindi has a bubbly, pretty face. She is, as usual, perfectly groomed. Every morning she gets up early so she can wash her shiny blonde hair and twirl it into shape. My hair, on the other hand, is as unruly and untamed as ever. I get it cut at a posh place every so often and then forget about it, until even I can’t avoid noticing that I’m beginning to resemble a Pyrenean sheepdog.

  I want a Pyrenean sheepdog. I want…

  ‘Can I borrow your stapler for a moment?’ Humphrey has grabbed it before I even have time to answer. Humphrey is tall and solemn and has a pony tail. He works in Design and lopes along the corridors in a preoccupied manner. He has numerous staplers of his own, but he does something to them. When he presses them they click like they’re supposed to, only the staple seems to fold in on itself instead of going through the paper. ‘Have a nice weekend?’ he asks, as he’s about to sprint away.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, because any other answer would flummox him.

  ‘Do anything exciting yourself?’ I ask Cindi, who is clearly waiting to be asked. As I say this I plug in the new kettle I got to ensure a regular supply of Earl Grey tea without having to face the mysteries of the office kitchen. People who use it have to bring in milk on a rota and Lesley, the receptionist, gets very shirty if there’s any spilt sugar on the sideboard.

  ‘I met Jason on Friday,’ she replies. ‘I’ve decided that he’s far too intellectual for me. He confiscated my Jilly Cooper and gave me a book by Gabreel G-Garnia Marq- Marq… Oh, you know who I mean. He’s Colombian. Has a moustache. Jason’s turning out to be just like Leonard – you know that guy who went ballistic when I said that Bizet was a type of bathroom appliance favoured by the French.’

  I smile sympathetically and start to brew my badly needed cuppa. Cindi watches. ‘Like one yourself?’ I ask, as I have been asking her every Monday for some years. She’s quite young – in her mid-twenties – and seems to need someone to spill the beans to. The beans vary enormously and frequently include long descriptions of the vagaries of the No. 20 bus route.

  ‘Oh, thanks, I’d love a cuppa,’ Cindi smiles. ‘I’ll just go and get my mug.’ Then she races off down the corridor in navy Capri pants that show off her slim toned legs. Cindi has a pretty floral mug, and she keeps it very well. She washes it each time she uses it, whereas I just give mine a quick run under the tap in the Ladies at the end of the working day. I don’t even have a nice mug. I use one I found in the office ages ago. It’s a kind of muddy brown.

  I take a deep, desperate swig of my first fix of tea.

  Bergamot – that’s what they put in Earl Grey tea. I sometimes burn Bergamot oil in my aromatherapy burner. It’s good for lots of things including depression, agitation, despondency and mood swings. I’d drink it neat if that were allowed.

  As soon as Cindi has had her tea and headed back to her office, or ‘orifice’ as she prefers to call it, Natalie walks by. Natalie has developed a nice little niche for herself in ‘celebrity interviews’. She likes to think of herself as being very ‘down to earth’ and frequently speaks of famous people in a manner which implies that she is in no way impressed by them. Something I sense she believes is impressive in itself. There are so many famous people she isn’t impressed by that I dare not surmise what she makes of me. I’m rather frightened of Natalie actually. We used to have lunch together sometimes. I managed to retreat from them by saying that I was ‘very busy’ and was going to have lunch at my desk. My desk has become a kind of unofficial shelter. Little by little I’ve been stealthily appropriating office partitions and I now have four of them surrounding me. There’s only a small entry gap, but sadly this doesn’t seem to deter people. I’ve got prints of pictures by Matisse, Rembrandt, David Hockney and Chagall on the ‘walls’. I also have plants, a needlepoint cushion on my seat and an art deco lamp I found at an auction.

  I do need a place to hide in. I used to be very open with people when I first joined the magazine. When they asked me how I was I went into too much personal detail. It was in no way soothing. Though they gobbled it up and passed it on and discussed it, they really didn’t tell me that much about themselves.

  I don’t blab nearly so much now. For example, I’ve discovered that when colleagues ask me about ‘my holiday’ I can give them small, neutral details without feeling under any obligation to mention my torrid affair with a tennis coach. Or that his ‘forearm’ instruction was frequently extracurricular. The place where I should speak more is probably at the editorial meetings. We have them fairly regularly. The production schedule dictates that we deal with seasonal features in advance. Our discussions of spring and summer, autumn and winter, have little to do with the conventional calendar. For example, people are frequently in their winter woollies when we are busy discussing safe tanning. No wonder Gerry keeps asking me what date it is.

  The younger contributors tend to be very perky at these mee
tings. Suggesting all sorts of topics, and angles and interviews and ‘hot’ issues for ‘today’s woman’ while I listen rather warily and doodle. They sound so enthusiastic – as if they don’t realize nearly all of these things have been written about before. Many times. I said this to Sarah once.

  ‘Of course most of the best stories have been covered already,’ she smiled. ‘It’s making them seem fresh, new, finding interesting angles, updating them, that’s the challenge.’

  I bet if I spoke up more at those meetings I wouldn’t be asked to write so much about sex.

  I pick up the phone and start to dial. ‘The number you have dialled has been changed – please place the digit two before the number and start again,’ a resigned voice tells me. Every single number in my phone book seems to have been altered. And the new phones themselves have so many features that they require a small manual. This building is awash with ‘time-saving’ new technology. Just trying to keep up with it takes ages.

  My phone starts ringing. It’s Sarah. I know this before she speaks because I hear the clang of her earring. ‘When will you have that “Sex Alone” article ready, Alice? I’d like to see it before I finalize the artwork,’ she asks brightly.

  ‘I – mmmm – I’m just tidying it up a bit,’ I mumble. ‘I – I should have it for you this evening.’

  ‘Well, keep it nice and light. We don’t want any references to Monet or anything like that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sarah knows that art is my real passion.

  As I put the phone down I realize it must be coffee-break time in ad sales. I know this because they’ve turned on the radio. Anita Baker’s ‘Sweet Love’ from her album ‘Rapture’ is wafting out at me. That song is obviously about some very Wonderful Man. Old, familiar longings are swirling round me in great gusts. Suddenly I am miles away from this office. I am no longer the person who has just circled ‘Frazier’ carefully on The Irish Times television page with a blue biro. I am the girl who put donkeys on roofs and sheep in boats in felt pictures.

  I want to break out. I want to get honky and funky. I want to feel like a jazz tune floating out of a New York brownstone. I – I want to go out and buy a Snickers bar.

  And I do.

  Chapter 5

  I can’t believe it…I’ve met a Wonderful Man! And just when I’d given up on them too. It happened last week. And in the most unlikely circumstances. I feel as though I’m David Attenborough. I feel I should be crouching in some jungle with a camera crew, talking in hushed tones. ‘We’d better be quiet, this species can wander off rather easily,’ I’d tell them. ‘Notice the distinctive markings. He may be the only one who is not in captivity. His name is James Mitchel.’

  The hour before I met James Mitchel, I was typing frantically at my kitchen table. ‘Rub some fruit yogurt on his chest,’ I wrote, ‘and then, very gently lick it off, letting your tongue linger sensuously round his nipples while…’

  I paused. I pause a lot while writing articles for the magazine. Sarah wanted me to enumerate all the sensuous things women can do with items that benefit from cold storage. ‘Sex Comes in from the Cold’ – that’s what she’s called the article. I was in a bit of a quandary about whether to include mayonnaise.

  ‘Mira, would you lick mayonnaise off a man’s inner thigh area?’ I called out.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Have you fed the cat?’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t seem to like that bargain brand we bought. He’s getting very fussy.’ Then I looked at my watch and exclaimed, ‘Gosh, I’d better hurry or I’ll miss my evening class.’

  I’d wanted to do ‘painting’ but when I rang up the college the class was booked up so I’d decided to opt for ‘pottery’ instead. I’d heard the teacher was called James Mitchel and I was sure he’d turn out to be past middle-age and ordinary. I was sure he’d be wearing those sort of broad clumpy sandals and one of those synthetic shirts. I suspected he might even smell a bit, but as long as he was kind and encouraging I wouldn’t mind. Sometimes you have to delve a bit to find a person’s beauty. But, when I entered room 5B of St Benedict’s High School I realized James Mitchel’s beauty was entirely obvious.

  He was standing before a group of gobsmacked ladies and four vaguely interested men. He was saying, ‘Hello. It’s good to see you all. Before we start let’s get to know each other a little. As you may know, my name is James. James Mitchel. Now, you tell me yours.’ And then he looked at me because I was standing nearest to him.

  ‘My name is Alice – Alice Evans,’ I told him in an abrupt, almost curt manner. I was already, somehow, on the defence.

  ‘Thank you, Alice,’ he said, and as he did so his eyes looked straight into mine in a very piercing way. He gave me a little smile and then turned to the others. I studied him carefully as he talked to them. I studied his lovely high cheekbones, his mischievous, but kind, smile. His skin was tanned and smooth, with just enough lines to give his face character. He looked around my age. He was wearing an American football jacket in a jaunty, trans-Atlantic way. He was the kind of man who’d stand out at an airport. If he was a plant he’d be some kind of orchid.

  Once James knew our names he told us about basic pottery techniques and then we went to our wheels. I stared at mine warily, as though it was something I’d suddenly been called upon to reinvent.

  ‘We’ll just play around a bit tonight so you can get used to using clay,’ he told us. ‘Don’t take it too seriously. Just have fun.’

  I went to the large slab of clay and grimly cut some off with the wire cord put there for that purpose. Then I went to a table and belted the clay around a bit like you’re supposed to. In fact I made it thud against the table with considerable force. James saw me doing this and gave me a little, knowing smile. ‘It’s just friendliness,’ I told myself. ‘Teachers are supposed to be friendly. I must remember that. I’m here to learn about pottery. This class is supposed to be serenely sociable. A place where my longings do not lunge at me and men don’t matter. A little clearing. A cosy spot in which to learn how to be incremental – how to take small steps towards less volatile satisfactions. Oh, why does he have to keep looking at me like that!’

  I became determined not to be tantalized by James Mitchel’s outer beauty. I decided he probably wasn’t even a nice person. ‘He’s probably awfully vain,’ I told myself. ‘Those sunstreaks in his hair were probably done by some fancy salon. And that small tear on the right knee of his jeans is most likely intentional. Goodness – he’s wearing those broad clumpy sandals I don’t like. Well, that does it!’ I felt the antagonism mounting. I convinced myself that he almost certainly had a girlfriend or wife stashed away somewhere. He was too handsome not to have been grabbed.

  The next time I felt him watching me I turned around, determined to give him a hostile glare, but there was something about his strange, almost compassionate expression, that made me quickly turn back to my wheel.

  Clay is not easy to centre on a wheel – not if you’re trying too hard. You have to sort of feel it into place. Guide it. Otherwise it bumps disconcertingly against your hands as it turns and won’t shape properly. James saw me struggling. He came over.

  ‘Don’t force it, Alice.’ That’s what he’d said. ‘Be firm and gentle. Relax.’

  I’d wished he wasn’t standing so close. He smelt so nice, and it wasn’t just shower gel. It was him. What he’d just said was so right. Not just about pottery, but about life too. Who was I kidding? I didn’t dislike James Mitchel. James Mitchel was gorgeous.

  ‘And just let your elbow rest there and that will steady your hand so you can guide the clay while the other hand draws it upwards,’ James Mitchel said, his blond fringe flopping boyishly over his lovely face. Upwards and upwards the clay was moving.

  James Mitchel stood beside me, watching the clay growing erect between my hands. His proximity was like a heat haze. The priapic connotations of what I was doing were beginning to make me terribly flustered.

  ‘Go on, Alice,’ James urge
d. ‘You’re almost there.’ Small beads of perspiration were gathering on my forehead. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to summon up some sort of calm. As I did so I felt the clay acquiesce. I stuck a finger, slurp, into its centre…and something like a vase began to form.

  ‘Well done.’ James touched my shoulder briefly but, it seemed to me, with considerable feeling. Then he moved on to someone else. I paused for a moment, an almost post-coital glow surrounding me. ‘Get a grip of yourself, Alice,’ I told myself sternly, but I still felt tingly. I hadn’t felt like that in ages. I looked around, wondering if anyone else had Noticed. They hadn’t. They were as intent on forming misshapen mugs and ashtrays and bowls as ever.

  Though James Mitchel had moved away, my radar was now on the alert. I was aware of every glance he made towards me, ostensibly watching my progress. But surely those glances had more to them? ‘Oh, come on, Alice. Don’t be so silly,’ I told myself. ‘He’s a man for goodness sake, and you know what they’re like.’

  But did I? Did I really? They couldn’t all be the same. That’s what the Delaney sisters who had Never Married said about, say, peaches. ‘Don’t press them, dearie – they’re all the same.’ But it wasn’t true. It was just convenient. James Mitchel was on some journey too. I could sense it. But his mists, unlike mine, had cleared. It was obvious. I saw it the instant I looked into his eyes. A sweet, unsought-for recognition…the most seductive thing of all. I turned back to my vase with an almost religious intensity. I already knew that I’d lick mayonnaise off James Mitchel’s inner thigh area if he wanted. Even coleslaw, if that’s what he’d prefer.

  By the time the class finished I did have some sort of vase made. I had to discard a number of others, but the one before me was the best. It was not the kind you’d buy in a shop. It was not the kind you’d boast about. It was rather squat and heavy actually. It didn’t have conviction. James saw me staring at it. He came over. ‘Don’t worry, Alice,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘By the end of term you’ll have made all sorts of nice things. It just takes practice. It just takes time.’