Wise Follies

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  ‘You’ll be here tonight, won’t you?’ I look at Mira anxiously.

  ‘Yes. I said I would.’

  ‘I’ve invited Matt too.’

  Mira studies me quizzically. ‘I’m surprised you want company. I thought you’d want James all to yourself.’

  ‘I – I do really. It just seemed better to do it this way.’ As Mira puts her orange juice, tea and toast on a tray and heads back towards her bedroom, I recommence my scrubbing. She’s right. I’d love to have James here, alone. I’d love to stare at him tenderly over a candlelit meal. The thing is, attraction and anxiety can make me blab a bit, especially if there’s wine involved. I’d probably tell him all sorts of things he’d be better off not knowing yet. I’d frighten him off. After all, he does think he’s coming here simply to discuss a write-up in the magazine.

  With Mira and Matt here I’ll be prevented from love lunging. This way I’ll get to know James gradually, which is something I haven’t managed to do with many men in the past. If I really like a man I tend to want him right in my life, immediately. Having probably gone without romantic intimacy for ages, once I think I’ve found it I go on a bit of a binge. I guzzle it. I luxuriate in the feeling that I somehow know all the things that we haven’t, as yet, said. I paint my passion canvas carefully. It sets me alight inside just to look at it. What a wonderful person this man must be to evoke all these blissful feelings. I feel I know him so well. And then one day he says something like ‘Wildlife TV programmes are so boring’ – and I realize I don’t. I realize I should have waited for him to paint his own picture, but I’ve been so needy I haven’t even given him time to reach for a brush.

  Nat King Cole singing ‘When I Fall In Love’ is drifting out of Mira’s bedroom as I give the final rub to the lino directly opposite the toilet seat. Sitting on that seat I have, for some time now, noticed that some dust has been gathering where the lino meets the wall. I have watched it accumulating with a vague lack of interest. Now I have to use a cloth to extricate the more persistent bits. As soon as I have done this I realize that, when James Mitchel uses the loo, he will probably be facing the opposite direction. So more cleaning is required, including under the loo seat itself. Dust there would be a dead giveaway. Evidence of the current marked absence of men in my life.

  I’m about to go into the kitchen to make myself a cuppa, when I notice the sofa. The cheap sofa that doesn’t know how to behave itself. Mira and I have been meaning to get a new one for ages. I go over to it purposefully and start to tussle with its cushions, bashing them into some kind of shape while reprimanding them sternly.

  ‘You are not to slide and sag gradually until you reach the floor this evening,’ I tell them. ‘I know it’s a little game you like, but you’ve done it once too often.’

  ‘Is someone there? Who are you talking to?’ Mira calls out.

  ‘No – no – I was just – just…’ I decide to come clean. ‘I was just telling the sofa to behave itself.’

  Mira lets out a low groan, but says nothing.

  Having dealt with the sofa I sit on it and take stock.

  Oh dear – I should have asked if there is anything James doesn’t eat. I’ve seen him eating a chicken sandwich in the college canteen, so he can’t be vegetarian. I know, I’ll buy some ‘Chicken Louisiana’ from the deli in the supermarket. It’s all prepared and you just have to cook it. It should be OK with boil-in-the-bag basmati rice and salad. And garlic bread. I mustn’t forget the garlic bread.

  And ice-cream. And my vase. I mustn’t forget some freesias for my vase. And I must remember to take my personal growth books into my bedroom – especially Chronically Single. The litany of ‘must dos’ starts to drone on in my head like the BBC Radio 4 shipping forecast.

  James Mitchel is late. As I wait for him I wander edgily around the sitting-room. I’m trying to pretend that I am a visitor and seeing it for the first time. Lots of people say this cottage has a kind of country charm, but I’m never quite sure if they mean it. There’s lots of pine and plants and colourful cushions, and Mira is very good at finding pretty hand-crafted accessories and nice lampshades. I tend to be drawn towards objects that are bright and playful – like that antique tin toy motorbike and luridly coloured collection of Disney pencil sharpeners. Mira calls them my ‘Kitsch Collection’. Sarah says they’re presents for my ‘inner child’. I have ‘a lot of the inner child about me’ she says, which is perhaps just as well, because I’m not at all sure if I’ll ever have an outer one.

  I bet any child of James Mitchel’s would have his beautiful deep brown eyes.

  The doorbell rings. I rush over to the mirror to make sure I’m not showing too much cleavage in my new coral pink silk blouse. Good, my lipstick is still there. I practise a quick, casual smile and then sniff the air fearfully. Geranium aromatherapy oil is combining with Fidgi perfume, lavender Ajax and freesias in an overpowering manner. When I’m nervous I tend to over-indulge olfactorily. ‘I must open a window fast,’ I think, as I approach the door.

  It’s Matt. ‘Hello, darling,’ he says, bending to kiss my cheek. He looks all Merchant Ivory, as usual.

  ‘Hello.’ I grab the bottle of wine Matt has proffered and race into the kitchen with it, suddenly aware that the garlic bread needs to be taken out of the oven. I put it on too early. It will be all dry and hard soon if I don’t rescue it. I take it out and put it on the sideboard, then I peer anxiously at the Chicken Louisiana, which is bubbling away in a saucepan.

  ‘Like some help?’ Matt calls out from the sitting-room.

  ‘No, you just relax. It’s a very simple meal.’

  ‘What is it?’ Matt comes into the kitchen and starts to snoop around.

  ‘It’s Chicken Louisiana. You can buy it pre-prepared at the supermarket. What are you looking for?’

  ‘I’m looking for a bottle opener. That Valpolicella I got you needs to breathe for a while to be at its best.’

  ‘There’s one in that drawer. Oh shit.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I forgot to open a window.’ I race back into the sitting-room. Matt follows me in a more leisurely manner.

  ‘What’s the smell?’ he asks.

  ‘Is it – is it very strong?’ I look at him anxiously.

  ‘It is rather. What is it?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure at this stage. A bit of everything really.’

  Matt sniffs the air again. ‘Don’t worry, Alice, it’s not unpleasant, just intriguing.’

  Mira appears from her bedroom, where she’s been meditating. She hoovered the sitting-room earlier and did offer to help with the cooking. The disparaging remarks about James Mitchel’s visit now seem to have eased somewhat. In fact, I suspect she’s rather intrigued and can’t wait to meet him herself. ‘Poor Eamon,’ she mumbles every so often. Apart from that she’s behaving herself quite well, even if she is currently wearing her leather motorcycle jacket, huge furry slippers and ancient jeans. Her hair colour is now not unlike Laren Brassière’s. I look at her.

  ‘Mira, aren’t you going to change?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Matt nudges my elbow. ‘Alice, what about putting some candles on the table?’

  ‘Do you think we should?’ I frown.

  ‘Yes,’ he says decisively. ‘They give the place a softer feel.’

  ‘But they might look too romantic.’

  ‘No, they won’t. We’ll keep the corner lamp on.’

  As Matt scurries off to find some candles Mira starts fussing about the boil-in-the-bag basmati rice. She doesn’t approve of short-cut cooking.

  ‘Stop scolding,’ I tell her. ‘There’s some parsley over there that you can chop up if you like.’

  Suddenly we’re all rushing around like actors putting the finishing touches to a set. I go into the sitting-room and stare at the table. Yes, Matt is right. The candles do look good. Lots of people burn candles at dinner parties. They are not inextricably linked with seduction. I’m glad I remembered the paper napki
ns. They don’t quite go with the tablecloth, but at least they’re there. I didn’t buy a sailing magazine, but Country Living looks fairly bracing on the coffee table. I pour myself a glass of wine and am wondering – for the umpteenth time – if I should change into something a little less eager, when the doorbell goes. I jump, somehow tremendously surprised. The evening has begun to seem more about anticipating James’s arrival rather than him actually being here. I try to move calmly towards the front door. ‘Why on earth am I doing this?’ I think. But as soon as I see James I get my answer.

  He is, as usual, looking adorable. He seems a bit windswept, but then he always does. He’s got a big bag with him, which I assume contains the pottery samples. He’s also holding a small brown parcel, which he thrusts into my hands.

  ‘Hello, Alice. Sorry I’m a bit late.’ He gives me his wonderful wide smile. I try to remember my manners.

  ‘Come in. Come in,’ I beam, trying not to sound flustered. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but it seems to me James gives the sitting-room a small but significant sniff as he enters.

  Mira, bless her, is sitting on the sofa, ready to deflect any attempt James might make to sit on it himself. She’s wearing a rather plain but very pleasant designer dress she found in an Oxfam shop. She finds lots of wonderful second-hand designer clothes. She’s that kind of person.

  ‘This is my housemate, Mira,’ I announce.

  ‘Hello.’ Mira gives James a welcoming smile. ‘Alice told me your exhibition was most impressive. We can’t wait to see your pottery.’

  James looks as though he’s about to sit beside Mira on the sofa, but I steer him firmly to the leather armchair.

  ‘Like some wine?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he says.

  I realize I haven’t opened the package he gave me. I tear off the wrapping to reveal a box of After Eights. ‘I wanted to get some Chianti but I didn’t have time to get to the off-licence,’ James explains, watching me.

  ‘Oh, we love After Eights – don’t we, Mira?’ I enthuse.

  ‘Yes. We absolutely adore them.’ She gives me a meaningful look.

  I’m glad I’ve got my back to them as I pour the wine because I might get flustered if they watched me. I scrubbed these glasses really well, but they still don’t have the dazzling sheen I’d hoped for. Oh, my God, the garlic bread.

  ‘Here you are then,’ I plonk the wineglasses down on the coffee table and scurry into the kitchen. As soon as I’ve got there I realize this sudden exit might have seemed rude so I peer back into the sitting-room and say, ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

  In the kitchen Matt is tasting something fastidiously on a spoon. He can be quite shy about meeting new people and is clearly stalling for time by preparing vinaigrette sauce. I put the garlic bread back into the oven and then check the plates are warm enough. They are. I stack them on a tray and bring them into the sitting-room, where I almost bump into James. He’s looking for the bathroom.

  ‘It’s just down there. On the left.’ I point to the corridor off the kitchen and suddenly remember I haven’t checked the Chicken Louisiana recently. It’s been on for so long now that it may have to be attributed to someplace deeper south. I put the plates on the dining table and race back into the kitchen. I peer into the saucepan and am relieved to see the chicken does not appear overcooked.

  ‘I turned it down to simmer,’ Matt says smugly. ‘Do you have any balsamic vinegar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve told you that you should buy it,’ Matt scolds, but I don’t reply. I’ve realized something. I’ve realized that I have told James that the bathroom is on the left side of the corridor when in fact it’s on the right. I streak off after him. How could I have made such an obvious Freudian slip? I’ve directed him to my bedroom! And he’s gone into it. I know this because I see him coming out.

  ‘The bathroom must be in there,’ he says with suspicious solemnity as he points to the door opposite him.

  As soon as he’s gone into the bathroom I go into the bedroom myself. A bedroom which cannot be mistaken for Mira’s because it has a big picture, painted by Josh on prominent display. ‘To Alice with Lurve’ Annie has written at the top in huge blue letters. Wouldn’t you know it – even though I removed all my most embarrassing objects from the sitting-room, James has discovered them anyway. Smart Women, Foolish Choices is actually on my bed, along with a pile of off-white underwear. Even the penis pencil sharpener Sarah bought for my Kitsch Collection is on display. I rush over to my handbag and peer in at the numerous calming herbal remedies I keep in a side pouch. I take some out and gobble them down.

  It takes me a few minutes to summon up the courage to return to the sitting-room. When I do, I find that Matt and Mira have already brought the food in from the kitchen.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Mira says gaily.

  Suddenly I feel like the director of some strange art house movie. A film with no script. We all sit down and I regard my cast cautiously.

  ‘This Chicken Louisiana of yours looks very tasty,’ says Matt as he piles a little heap of it on to his plate. As he does so, James Mitchel looks at him curiously. Dear God, I haven’t even introduced them.

  ‘James this is Matt,’ I say. ‘He’s a friend of – of ours.’

  ‘Yes, so Mira said,’ James smiles as he unfolds his napkin. His glass of wine is empty. I fill it.

  ‘Do help yourself to anything you need,’ I say. ‘Please don’t wait to be asked if you want wine. Or – or anything else.’ I don’t add ‘me’, but I’d like to.

  ‘I’ve had a look at the magazine you write for, Alice,’ James says. ‘It’s very interesting. I looked out for your name but I didn’t see it. What kind of articles do you do?’

  Oh God – he would ask that. Should I? Should I tell James why I don’t use my real name for my articles any more? After all, if I tell him I write about sex he might think I’m an expert on the subject. It might impress him. But then again it might not.

  ‘Mmmm – I write about lifestyles mainly,’ I mumble. ‘Matt made some delicious dressing for the salad. Have you tried it?’

  ‘Yes, I have. It’s excellent.’ James gives Matt another odd glance and Matt looks back at him in what I suppose could be described as a strange way. Even despite my numerous preoccupations I am aware of some sort of vibe between them. Could it be – surely not – that they are slightly jealous of each other? That in some small way they are vying for my attention? Matt can be a bit possessive about our friendship at times. And perhaps James Mitchel expected – wanted – to have this dinner alone with me. I must make it clear to him that Matt and I are just friends, because Matt is not obviously gay. And he is, as I’ve said, extremely attractive.

  ‘It’s so good to see you again, James. I needed an excuse for a dinner party. Matt and I met at college. We’ve been friends’ – I linger on that word for a moment – ‘for ages.’

  Having said this I realize it does not contain the sort of internal logic that statements – however throwaway – usually require. There is really no link between wanting to have a dinner party and the fact that Matt and I met at college. I could, of course, try to find one. Happily, James speaks before I am driven to further inanities.

  ‘And it’s good to see you too, Alice. This chicken is delicious.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Then there’s a rather uncomfortable silence in which I hope he’s not going to ask me for the recipe.

  ‘So, what do you do Mira?’ James asks.

  ‘Oh, I’ve done piles of things over the years, James. I’m currently in training to become an eccentric spinster.’

  ‘Really?’ James regards her quizzically. ‘And what does that involve?’

  ‘Mira teaches English as a foreign language,’ I interrupt quickly. ‘She can make English sound incredibly foreign – she’ll teach you to speak as though you come from Guatemala if you want.’

  James is supposed to laugh at this, but he doesn’t. I look down at my plate. I
take a deep swig from my wine glass. Silence. A silence which I feel impelled to fill. Suddenly, unaccountably, I find myself announcing that I’d like to live in Provence. Dear God, I’ve started to blabber. I wish Matt would speak. What on earth is wrong with him? His shyness with strangers doesn’t usually last this long.

  ‘So, what do you do?’ James says suddenly in a direct, almost challenging manner. He’s staring straight into Matt’s eyes. Matt looks down at his salad as if reluctant to answer.

  ‘He’s an architect,’ I answer protectively. ‘And he’s very, very good at it.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ says James with an enigmatic smile.

  ‘Yes he took it up after Trinity. He’s worked on some lovely places. Even Prince Charles wouldn’t disapprove.’ I look at Matt hopefully. When dinner guests don’t speak up for themselves I feel impelled to do it for them. Surely my eulogy will have warmed him up a bit. Surely he’s going to say something. He doesn’t.

  ‘I need a bit of architectural advice about the pottery studio, actually,’ says James. ‘I want to extend it. Maybe Matt might help me with it.’

  Matt shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I’m rather busy at the moment,’ he mumbles after what seems a very long and cumbersome pause. ‘I wouldn’t be able to get round to it for quite some time.’

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ James says slowly. ‘I just thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘And how kind of you to mention it, James,’ I think. ‘After all, you hardly know this man. It’s typical of you. Typical of your generous, trusting nature.’ I give Matt a reproachful look, but he won’t meet my gaze.

  The conversation meanders on in a not very riveting fashion. I begin to wish I’d come clean about my articles. They might have spiced things up a bit. Intimacy is not as easy to rustle up as Chicken Louisiana. Maybe I should have had this dinner with James alone. The candlelight is making him look even more delicious. I wonder if I could get Mira and Matt to go off somewhere so I could feed him the Häagen-Dazs dessert we are currently eating. Slowly. And on a silver spoon.