Wise Follies

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  As Mira goes into the kitchen to make the coffee, Matt moves in a rather dejected manner to the sofa, and James does too.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I think. ‘Please sofa, behave yourself just this once.’ I sit on the leather armchair.

  ‘Mira says these paintings are yours.’ James is pointing to some of my landscapes. ‘I was admiring them earlier. They’re very good.’

  ‘Do you really think so!’ My toes are curling with happiness.

  ‘Yes, indeed. You should have an exhibition.’

  ‘Perhaps she could have one at your studio,’ Mira comments, as she returns with the coffee. She’s been trying to encourage me to paint more for some time now, but she shouldn’t have said that to James. It’s far too pushy. I give her a reproachful glance.

  ‘Thank you, James,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m so glad you like me – I mean my – paintings. They’re just a hobby really.’ I smile, loath to tell him about the short, blunt ‘Thank you, but…’ letters I have received from numerous galleries. ‘Morale is ninety per cent of every victory’ – Tony Benn said once. When it comes to having my paintings ‘taken on’ by a gallery I frequently have to remind myself of this fact. James Mitchel has morale in EU proportions. He’s got piles of it. Almost a surplus. I lean towards him, hoping some of it will drift towards me. ‘I can’t wait to see the pottery samples you’ve brought,’ I add. ‘Shall we look at them now?’

  They’re lovely. Each carefully wrapped item that James removes from his Nike sports bag is more beautiful than the last. The colours are gorgeous, and somehow unexpected. They’re light and wonderfully crafted. He’s been showing them to various shops. He already has orders.

  ‘Do you have any photographs of these?’ I ask. ‘They’d look great in the magazine.’

  James reaches into his bag again and takes out a hard-backed envelope, which he hands to me. It contains colour transparencies of his pottery range, and a comprehensive press release.

  ‘Gosh, you are organized, James!’ I exclaim. I’m pleased, but also slightly disappointed. If I’d had to get photographs done I would have had an excuse to phone him. Arrange for the return of the samples. Ask him questions I see he has already answered in the press release. Still, he has been friendly this evening. We do know each other a little better now. It takes time to know people. I often forget that. It’s like painting a picture of something – you have to look at it. Really look. Be as aware of the shape of the spaces where it isn’t, as of the shape itself.

  I look over at James warmly and then I notice something. The space between him and Matt on the sofa seems to have diminished. The sofa cushions don’t normally sag in the middle, but they obviously have thought up a new ruse. And the funny thing is, neither James nor Matt seem uncomfortable with this proximity. They are helping themselves very liberally to more wine. Matt’s been drinking a great deal of wine this evening and it seems to have loosened him up considerably. In fact, he is almost coquettish. Maybe I should go over to him with some Aqua Libra. James is leaning towards him, talking animatedly about something. James has never talked to me like that. His face radiant. Excited. At one point he places a hand on Matt’s arm in an extremely familiar, almost intimate, manner. Their knees are touching. Mira, who has also been following the proceedings, looks over at me. Eyebrows raised.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ I moan, very softly. The cheery scatter on the dining table now seems like the detritus of some dream. For I now suspect something. In fact I know it. I know that it is Matt who is going to lick mayonnaise off James Mitchel’s inner thigh area.

  Even coleslaw – if that’s what he’d prefer.

  Chapter 26

  Maybe I should just become a hermit. Move into a shack halfway up a mountain. I could have BBC Radio 4 humming in the background. That would be company, of sorts. There’d be no people to invite to dinner parties. No mayonnaise and no James Mitchel.

  I could probably just about support this exile by writing articles for the magazine. Oscillating between features that benefit from a certain distance from the subject matter, such as ‘Why Men are Marvellous’, to more autobiographical offerings: ‘I’ve Tried Celibacy and it Works!’ Or ‘Feeling Sheepish? Then Keep One’.

  Becoming an eccentric spinster like Mira also seems quite attractive at the moment. If I am to be an eccentric spinster I’d prefer to do it somewhere warm. A gradual development of, say, strong unfashionable views might be quite bracing. Of course, one doesn’t have to be eccentric to be single. Some of the most sensible women I know are living on their own. It’s just that Mira and I like to do things with a certain dash. We have the cat already, but we’ll need at least another ten to do spinsterhood in style. I’d like to paint wonderful landscapes. I’d have a straw hat too. I’d potter around my garden a lot. My garden full of bougainvillea and frangipani and oleander and lavender – and other words you can almost smell. I’d listen to the World Service and fire off letters to its management correcting the announcers’ pronunciations. I’d have a bee in my bonnet about certain words. I might have real bees too. A virile lad from the local village would help me with them, and Mira and I would admire his firm and beautiful young body as he stooped before the hives. Afterwards we’d share tea under the loggia and his dear young face would frown as he talked about his complicated love life. We’d just smile and listen, as if hearing a half-forgotten melody. Sweet but not insistent. Something from long ago.

  Another possibility, of course, is following the religious inclinations of Gilbert – my mother’s first love. He became a monk…maybe I should become a nun. I could forget about Eamon’s proposal and become a spiritual bride of Jesus. That would simplify things enormously.

  I’m thinking about all this as I sit at my desk. Then I see Gerry. ‘What date is it, Gerry?’ I ask. He stares at me as though I’m talking Swahili. ‘What date is it?’ I repeat. He starts to rummage around his desk for his diary.

  ‘It’s – it’s the fourth,’ he announces eventually.

  ‘Thank you.’ I give him a small tight smile.

  I hear the steady pad of Humphrey’s Hush Puppies approaching. ‘Can I borrow your stapler for a minute?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, you can’t borrow my stapler, Humphrey. Here, I’ve got you one of your own. It’s the same model. I’ve tried it and it works.’ I hand it to him. He seems somewhat startled.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, Alice,’ he says. ‘There really was no need.’

  ‘Yes, there was,’ I think, as he sprints away. Humphrey has been borrowing my stapler for four years. He doesn’t even bring it back. I have to retrieve it.

  When Cindi appears she takes one look at me and decides not to comment. ‘Oh shit, I didn’t buy any milk,’ I hear myself say to her.

  ‘I’ve got some,’ she says. ‘Would you like me to make you a cuppa?’

  ‘Yes, I would actually,’ I reply, handing her the new mug I’ve bought. It’s got small pink rosebuds on it. Then I yell ‘no sugar’ after her as she scurries away.

  Sarah senses something is up almost immediately. I have the kind of face that doesn’t hide things too well. However much I smile my dolphin’s smile, it doesn’t fool people. Not that I am smiling, actually. As I sit down in Sarah’s office I clear my throat, and she asks me if I’m growling.

  ‘You’ve got your “difficult man” face on today, Alice,’ she says. ‘Would you like to talk about Ea… I mean, it?’

  I look at her sharply. She was about to say Eamon, wasn’t she? How does she know about Eamon? I’ve never told her about him. Annie must have told her about my proposal. I guessed as much.

  ‘What did you want to see me about, Sarah?’ I ask briskly. I just can’t confide in her right now about Eamon or anyone else. I just can’t tell her that any day now Matt will be in West Cork helping James to erect his extension… in more ways than one I’m sure. Matt has found his Wonderful Man. The one I thought was mine. Well, they can both bugger off now as far as I
’m concerned.

  It happened almost the moment they met, apparently. That vibe I felt between them wasn’t jealousy, it was attraction. An attraction Matt was desperate to hide because he didn’t want to upset me. Well, he has upset me. He rang to apologize, profusely. He said he was determined to be very cool with James, but not talking made him drink far too much and his resolve slipped. He wants to take me out for a meal at a marvellous restaurant. He says he’ll scour the country for a wonderful man for me if I let him. Well, I’m not going to let him. If either James or Matt ever has the cheek to visit me again I’m going to have my new ‘All Men Are Bastards’ diary on prominent display. James Mitchel isn’t even entirely gay – he’s bisexual. He chose Matt over me – despite my new silk blouse.

  Anytime I go into Sarah’s office the phone rings almost immediately. As I wait for her to finish her call the headline ‘When the Man You Love is Gay’ flashes in front of me and I realize that if Sarah ever manages to wheedle the whole James Mitchel saga out of me she’ll think it is a great angle for an article. ‘My Man Made Me a Lesbian.’ Yes, that would certainly have loads of oomph too. ‘Can Mr Mediocre be Mr Right?’ Dear God, where are all these headlines coming from? Maybe Sarah is right to use articles that are wildly contradictory. Whatever you write about romance, it will be true for someone.

  As soon as Sarah finishes her phone call she looks at me with a slight glint. Her earlier softness seems to have left her.

  ‘Look, I can’t talk for long,’ she says briskly, as though I’d suggested this meeting in the first place. ‘But I have to have a word with you about your singles dances and personal ads article.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I stare at her nervously. ‘I meant to get that back from you to revise it a bit.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that, Alice,’ she says sternly. ‘Because, frankly, the last part of it doesn’t make any sense.’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘I mean the bit about saving frogs was interesting. And the neon tetras sound nice, if you like tropical fish. But really Alice, suggesting that women pester men who have no interest in them. And why bring Colin Derling into it?’ She’s flicking through the pages of my article impatiently. Every so often she looks up at me with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Annie told you about Eamon, didn’t she?’ I sigh. ‘I know you had lunch together recently.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you together in that café down the road. Annie told you that Eamon has asked me to marry him. I know she has. I can almost hear her telling you, “She can’t marry him, Sarah. We’ve got to do something about it.’”

  Sarah stares out the window.

  ‘You two have always tried to manage me romantically – you even did it when we were in college,’ I continue indignantly. ‘That’s why you’ve been sending me off on these stupid assignments. You’ve been trying to matchmake me with some – some stranger.’

  Sarah stops shuffling the papers. She looks embarrassed for about half a second before announcing, ‘Really, Alice! What a suggestion.’

  ‘It’s true. I know it is,’ I protest. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something, Sarah. It hasn’t worked.’

  ‘Look, Alice,’ Sarah gives me a flinty glare. ‘You of all people should know that I usually have very little patience with this kind of insubordination. In fact, if you were anyone else I’d…’ She leaves the sentence unfinished and fiddles with her lavender pot-pourri. ‘But since I know all this is very unlike you,’ she continues slowly, ‘I’ll overlook it just this once. I’ll see it as the small cry for help – which I think it may well be. But if you argue with me about your next assignment, Alice, I’m going to have to take a very firm stand.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I agree gratefully.

  ‘So I won’t even tolerate one word of remonstration when I ask you to have one thousand words about…’

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ I think. ‘She’s going to ask me to date a transvestite.’

  ‘One thousand words about herbs and their culinary uses by tomorrow morning.’

  I am dumb with bliss.

  ‘Oh yes, and I need an interview for the next issue,’ she continues briskly. ‘Any suggestions?’

  Somehow the first person who comes to mind, almost instantly, is Laren Brassière.

  Back at my desk, I try to be busy, though initially I don’t seem to get much done. Of course, looking back I’ll probably see this is not the case. ‘Life is a Process’ – I wrote an article called that once. It was about how you should give yourself credit along the way and not only when things were all wrapped up – if they ever are. It was wise, but now I can hardly believe I’m the woman who wrote it. It’s not enough to know things, you seem to have to remind yourself of them over and over again.

  ‘A thought is only a thought and can be changed,’ I think, glad to have remembered something from Louise L. Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life. Dear God, I even dusted behind the lavatory bowl for him.

  Thank God for tarragon, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. By the end of the day I’ve finished the article. I even nipped home to fetch my herbal reference book at lunchtime. I worked really hard on it. I hope Sarah will be pleased.

  On the bus home from work I decide to try for a little James Mitchel sob. I want to forget about him fast, and this may help. Buses are good places for weeping. Especially on the top deck, if it isn’t too full. You can sort of stick your face right by the window and shade your crumpled features with a strategically placed hand. There’s a satisfying poignancy about it. But I don’t cry. I can’t. I haven’t cried for ages now. I don’t know why.

  Mira, however, is crying when I get home. Big blubbering sobs on the sofa. ‘What is it?’ I ask, alarmed. She just looks down at the carpet dejectedly. ‘What is it?’ I repeat, putting my arm around her. She leans against me, her face blotched and bewildered.

  ‘I, I saw Frank,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the California Café.’

  ‘Did you have lunch together?’

  ‘No. He was with someone else.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘No. Alfreda.’

  ‘Who’s Alfreda?’

  ‘The woman he’s living with,’ she announces wearily, reaching for a Kleenex. ‘Now I know why these are called man-sized.’

  Little by little it emerges that Frank has left the wife and daughter he would ‘never ever leave’. Not for Mira at any rate. She’s known this for some months. That’s why she tore up Frank’s last letter. The letter telling her about Alfreda and his new-found love.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’ I ask, aghast.

  ‘I just didn’t want to…it was so, so humiliating. He said he’d never leave his wife, Alice. Never. I almost didn’t believe he had until – until I saw…them.’ She says ‘them’ in a very sinister fashion. As though Frank and Alfreda have merged to form some sort of despicable slithery beast.

  ‘Oh, poor Mira.’ I rub her back comfortingly.

  ‘The little shit.’ She spits the words out like a snake.

  ‘Yes, absolutely, the little shit,’ I agree. ‘Punch that cushion, Mira. Get it out.’

  ‘I don’t feel like it.’ She seems tired suddenly.

  ‘Well, what do you feel like doing then?’

  ‘I dunno.’ She pulls the tassel of a cushion absent-mindedly. ‘James Mitchel turned out to be a bit of a bollocks too, didn’t he? Poor Alice. You must be so disappointed.’

  I look at Tarquin, who is as usual anxious to be fed. ‘I don’t know if I’d call James Mitchel a “bollocks” actually, though I’m sure Cyril would.’

  Mira manages a hollow laugh.

  ‘He never really led me on,’ I continue resignedly. ‘Though I desperately wanted him to. It was a bit Jane Austen really. But without the marriages. Anyway, I don’t think I ever really believed I’d get him. Not deep down.’

  ‘I found him much too solemn,’ Mira remarks with the sisterly bias we often use in such situation
s.

  ‘Yes, he didn’t seem to have much of a GSOH,’ I concur. ‘And Tarquin didn’t like him. Did you notice the way he sloped off as soon as he arrived?’

  ‘And his socks were an extraordinary shade.’ Mira wrinkles her nose with distaste.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agree. ‘And what’s more, that box of After Eights he gave me was past its sell-by date.’

  ‘Well, there you have it,’ Mira announces authoritatively. ‘He’s obviously not a Wonderful Man.’

  I smile at her gratefully, wishing I could share her conviction, but my smile fades as I see her tense, disappointed face. She’s looking so sad. I wish I could say something wise. Something uplifting. I wish I could offer some insights, but I’m just as mixed up about love as she is. ‘Mira, I really admire you,’ I decide to say.

  ‘Why?’ she looks at me disbelievingly.

  ‘The way you’ve been getting on with your life. Taking up new interests. Though you may miss Frank, he didn’t deserve you.’

  ‘Mmmm – wish I could believe that,’ she sighs.

  ‘You must Mira,’ I say earnestly. ‘If you don’t appreciate yourself how can you expect anyone else to? We both need to do more of that, Mira. Give ourselves more credit. I myself am far too self-critical. I know that because I frequently criticize myself for it. After all, Jesus did say “love thy neighbour as thy self”.’

  Mira smiles wanly. Good, I’m cheering her up. It will take time for her to get over Frank, but I think she will. She’s already looking a little less miserable. In fact, she’s just looked at her watch and announced, ‘Gosh, we’re missing Colin.’

  And indeed, dear Colin Derling is on the television again talking excitedly about brassicas. We are soothed by his calm eagerness. The steady purposefulness of his words. We rest deeper in the sofa, like travellers after a long and weary journey. And for half an hour Frank and James Mitchel seem very far away. Almost inconsequential. Almost a half-forgotten melody. Sweet but not insistent. Something from very long ago.

  Chapter 27