by Gill Sims
Inside was pretty much as I had expected – all was dim and dark, with fairy lights and candles burning in dangerous places and a strong smell of cheap incense (in truth I am not sure what expensive incense would smell like). I made a mental note to check with Simon about insurance for Louisa’s house, as I’m pretty sure she would not have troubled herself with anything so patriarchally tedious.
A stern woman came through from the back of the house and looked me up and down disapprovingly. I felt I had cobbled together a remarkably effective outfit for a poetry reading, giving I had had no warning it was happening, and was rather pleased with my black polo neck, denim mini-skirt (I don’t CARE if I’m forty-two and all the articles say you shouldn’t wear a mini-skirt over the age of thirty-five, and anyway, it’s not like it’s a mini like I wore when I was fifteen. It comes to just above my knees instead of barely skimming my groin) and black boots. I thought I looked artistic and poetical, though Simon had made me remove my fetching black beret on the basis that a) it was ‘ridiculous’ and b) the locals might think I was just taking the piss. I had, however, compensated for that by simply applying extra eyeliner.
‘Can I help you?’ she sniffed.
‘Hello!’ I said brightly. ‘I’m Ellen, Louisa’s sister-in-law. I’ve brought some wine!’
‘Oh,’ said the stern woman unenthusiastically. ‘Yes. Louisa has told us about you, I should have guessed. I suppose you’d better come through.’
In the sitting room the furniture ran mainly to beanbags and floor cushions. Until recently, I would have cheerfully judged Louisa for her stereotypical hippy décor, but it was disturbingly reminiscent of the Thinking Space at work, and therefore suggested that perhaps Louisa was in fact annoyingly cutting-edge. The stern woman (who had grudgingly introduced herself as Stella) attempted to relieve me of the wine, but a sixth sense made me suggest that, actually, I would just get a glass and help myself. Stella looked unimpressed by this, but there was no bastarding way I was going to make it through the night without a drink. Another, cleaner-looking woman came in as I was pouring myself some wine, and Stella muttered to her urgently, the only words I could catch being ‘sister-in-law’ and ‘inappropriate’.
Fortunately, Louisa chose this moment to make her entrance, clad (for Louisa is nothing if not predictable in her hippyshit bollocks) in a swirly kaftan, with what appeared to be some antiquated tea towels wrapped around her head. Three other women followed her.
‘Welcome!’ gushed Louisa. ‘Welcome, friends! Ask the others to come through, please, Stella. I’m ready to begin.’
‘Err, that’s everyone that’s here,’ said Stella.
‘Oh,’ said Louisa, looking momentarily deflated. ‘You did put the flyers out around the village, Gypsy, letting all the women know about tonight and that they were all welcome?’
The cleaner woman turned out to be Gypsy, who insisted she had indeed done just that.
‘Well,’ said Louisa, ‘I think perhaps it’s better like this, actually. More intimate, because after all, these poems are very personal. I’d like first of all to read my particular favourite, “My Yoni” …’
Louisa stood in the centre of the room, arms raised, and stared round at us all. I think she was trying to look at us intently, but she looked like Peter trying (and failing) to hold in a fart. Suddenly she dropped her arms and bellowed:
MY YONI!
GAPING!
BLEEDING!
BEAUTIFUL!
MY YONI!
LIFE!
BLOOD!
DEATH!
MY YONI!
PLEASURE!
PAIN!
A BABY’S HEAD!
IT BLEEDS,
IT PULSES,
IT LIVES.
STRETCHES.
OPENS.
IT GIVES.
MY YONI.
The other women applauded rapturously.
‘That was so powerful, Louisa!’ called Stella. ‘It spoke to me! It spoke to me here!’ She pounded her heart. ‘And here!’ She smacked her hand off her temple. ‘And HERE!’ and to my alarm she grabbed her crotch. ‘I think all our yonis felt the power of Louisa’s words, didn’t they?’
Everyone nodded assent. I didn’t really know what to say, so I murmured something non-committal, which is every proper British person’s default setting in an awkward social situation. Apparently that wasn’t enough for Louisa, though, as she demanded, ‘Come on, then, Ellen. What did you think?’
‘Yes, it was very nice,’ I muttered.
‘Oh, come on, Ellen. You can do better than that,’ laughed Louisa. ‘Didn’t your teachers tell you not to say “nice”? Tell me what you really thought, how it really made you feel. Tell me where you felt the power of it moving in you.’
I wasn’t convinced that ‘Well, Louisa, it made me feel mortified and also a bit sick, to be honest’ was necessarily the most tactful answer, though, so I settled for, ‘Mmmm, it was certainly different!’ which seemed to satisfy her.
Her next poem, Louisa announced, was called ‘Blood’.
As Louisa ranted, ‘Blood, blood, blood, a flood, a flood, a flood’, I sidled out of the room in search of more wine, as Stella had managed to wrest the bottle off me while I was knocking back my first glass.
The woman called Gypsy followed me through.
‘Is this the first time you’ve heard Louisa’s poems?’ she asked sympathetically.
I said it was.
‘I thought so,’ said Gypsy. ‘They take some getting used to, I’m afraid. She’s been practising all week.’
‘Oh God!’ I said. ‘You poor thing!’
Gypsy laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t live here. I think Stella is the only one living here at the moment. Between you and me, I’m slightly scared of Stella. There were about six other women living here when Louisa first came up with the idea, but I think people thought it was going to be more of an artists’ co-operative type thing, and they moved on when it turned out to be mainly Louisa and Stella ranting about the patriarchy.’
‘Which in Louisa’s case is ironic, as she lives off her father and her ex-husband!’ I said. ‘So where do you live, then?’
‘Just outside the village. I teach art, and I have a smallholding, so I try to grow or make as much of what I need as I can. Running art classes doesn’t pay awfully well. I sometimes think that I should try to expand on the art business, start running residential courses or something, but the whole reason for moving here, trying to find a simpler life, was because I had a breakdown after being too obsessed with making as much money as possible in as short a time as possible and spending it all on consumerist crap that I didn’t need.’
‘I quite like consumerist crap,’ I admitted.
‘Oh, me too. I would be lying if I said I didn’t covet your boots, but I’m trying to remember what’s important, that it’s not all about stuff. That taking the time to drink my coffee in the morning sitting on my veranda is actually worth far more than anything I could buy with the money I’d earn gulping a takeaway coffee on the tube on the way to work. Though your boots might almost be worth it!’
‘You must think I’m an awful person, then, pursuing the capitalist dream,’ I said.
‘Not at all!’ said Gypsy in surprise. ‘Everyone just has to do what’s right for them. If you’re happy, and your life is working for you, then that’s all that matters, not what I think or anyone else.’
There was a screech from the sitting room.
‘ELLEN! GYPSY! WHERE ARE YOU? YOU ARE MISSING THE POETRY AND I AM ABOUT TO DO “MAMMARIES ARE NOT FOR MEN”!’
Somewhat reluctantly, Gypsy and I shuffled back through to hear Louisa’s poem about her tits. I don’t know what she had to say on the subject of her bosoms, as I was too busy cringing in the corner because she flung off her kaftan and recited her poem while prancing round the room naked and jiggling her boobs. I firmly believe that one’s personal grooming is one’s personal choice, and it is no business of society’s whether
a woman chooses to shave her legs or wax down there or not – however, I have to say that when one’s lady garden has reached the verdant state of Louisa’s, then leaping about nude in a room filled with candles is not advisable, not from a grooming point of view, but simply due to the fire hazards involved. Midway through the recitation, Louisa paused and throatily intoned, ‘Join me, sisters,’ and Stella jumped up and got her kit off too. Oh dear God, it was worse than the time I went to a German sauna and discovered I was expected to go in naked. Neither of them seemed to believe in underwear, which was doubly worrying given the dubious stains on all the beanbags, and I was now seriously concerned about the fire risks to be had with so much pubic hair around the naked flames. I wondered if I was unselfish enough to use my wine to douse a burning bush – probably not, I decided.
‘Come on, Ellen. Join us in our liberation!’ cried Louisa.
‘No thank you very much, I am fine,’ I muttered. I do not do nudity. I am not one of those merry souls who can prance around the house letting everything blow in the breeze. I am British and I am repressed and I am quite happy with that, if it’s all the same to you. Also, I was afraid that if I did take my kit off, someone might nick my (almost matching – it was all black anyway, which counts) underwear.
When the horror show was finally over, and the last wobbling tit was tucked away out of sight, Louisa came over and enfolded me in a rather sweaty embrace.
‘Thank you for coming, Ellen,’ she said soulfully. ‘I have a gift for you.’
I stiffened. Louisa’s gifts are always a double-edged sword, and I braced myself for whatever her offering was. She handed me a slim booklet and beamed at me in delight.
‘It’s a copy of my book. All the poems I read tonight are in there, and some more. And I’ve personally inscribed it to you, and signed it. And dated it.’
‘Oh, thank you, Louisa!’ Actually, as gifts from Louisa go, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been – for my birthday last year she had given me a list of all the ways she thought I should ‘detox technology’ from my life and make it more like hers. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you!’
Louisa looked at me expectantly. Obviously, my thanks had not been effusive enough. I tried again. ‘I’ll … err … I’ll treasure it. Pride of place on the bookshelf!’
Louisa cleared her throat and continued to stare at me. ‘I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever had a book signed by the author AND personalised. I’ll … err … I’ll really look forward to reading it!’
‘That’s €20, Ellen,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘The book. It’s €20, please.’
‘But you said it was a gift.’
Louisa sighed and smiled at me pityingly. ‘It is a gift, Ellen. My words are a gift to all women. The gift is the words, but the book costs €20. You can’t expect me to just give you it for free? I have to live, Ellen. And I have to cover my costs so that I can continue to spread my message to the world. Artists can’t just give their work away, or that cheapens its meaning.’
Many, many thoughts sprang to my mind. Not least, that being asked to pay €20 for a book that appeared to be about fifteen pages long and printed and bound at home was a fucking iniquity, followed by indignation that Louisa seriously expected me to pay her for a book of shitty poems that I didn’t even want while she was living rent-free in a house that I had paid for. But the other women were circling balefully and I was terrified that if I refused to cough up, they might make me sit in a circle with them and talk about my feelings and ask me where I thought the source of my rage came from (Louisa. The source of my rage was definitely Louisa), and frankly, given the option of forking out €20 or having to endure another second with Louisa and her acolytes, the €20 suddenly seemed cheap at the price, just to be able to escape.
Back at the bijou chateau, Simon looked at my face and handed me a brimming glass of wine. ‘That bad?’ he said anxiously.
I nodded. ‘Do you have any fags?’ I whispered feebly. Simon looked shifty – we are both supposed to have given up smoking but have a tendency to relapse in times of extremis. It is extraordinary how often these relapses coincide with spending time with his sister.
‘I might have bought a packet of Gauloises when I popped down to the village this afternoon,’ he admitted. ‘But you left me alone with all those children all night, AND I have deal with the kids on my own for the rest of the week while you swan off back to work. It’s no wonder I’m stressed enough to start smoking again!’
‘I’m not judging you for it. Gimme one! I need to cleanse my soul with more than just booze. And I’d rather reek of Gauloises than –’ I sniffed at my jumper – ‘patchouli oil or whatever it is I’ve come home smelling of. And “all those children” are your nieces and nephews, and I’m sure you’ll not be overwhelmed looking after your own children once I’ve gone. Your mother will step in, I’m sure. She has told me at least six times since we arrived how “tired” you are looking and how worried she is that me working full-time to is “too much” for you.’
Simon made a non-committal noise about this, but he dutifully handed over the cigarettes and we went onto the terrace, where I filled him in on the night’s events, as he turned paler and paler.
‘Oh, fuck my life!’ he said. ‘Can she get any worse?’
I assured him that Louisa most certainly could get worse, because as I’d fled out the door she had shouted after me that she would be holding a masturbation workshop the next afternoon that she thought might be beneficial for me, as she could tell that my yoni’s chakras were very blocked. I had, of course, declined, and Gypsy and the other women also murmured that they thought they had something on.
‘Thank fuck!’ said Simon. ‘I seriously can’t think of anything more disturbing than my wife and my sister sitting in a circle and wanking.’
And they say romance is dead …
Saturday, 18 February
Hurrah and huzzah, the au pair arrived today! She is French and her name is Juliette, which was slightly disappointing, as I had hoped that her name would be Marie-Claire and she would habite en La Rochelle, like in my French book at school. She does not habite en La Rochelle, she habites en Limoges. I don’t know anything about Limoges, apart from it is famous for china, whereas I knew quite a bit about La Rochelle.
Juliette is very quiet, and has spent most of her time in her room so far, though she has only been here a few hours. I am also starting to panic about what I am supposed to do with an au pair. The agency guidelines said she can do ‘light housework’. What constitutes ‘light’ housework? Dusting? What about hoovering? My hoover is very heavy. Should I buy a new hoover so it counts as ‘light housework’? Also, what about wine? If we’re having a glass of wine, do I offer her one? I mean, she’s French, so she probably pours wine on her cornflakes (not that she probably eats cornflakes, it’ll be croissants or pains au chocolate), but I don’t want to set a bad example. Is one even allowed to drink in front of an au pair? I DON’T KNOW! Also, is it OK to just leave her a list of the ‘light housework’ I want done, or is that rude? Should I simply let her decide what needs to be done?
She is also not being very helpful on the whole helping me to learn French front, because when I very politely asked her if she voudrais allezing à la discotheque, she sort of winced and asked if I wouldn’t mind speaking to her in English, as she was hoping to improve her English while she is here. As her English is pretty perfect already, I suspect it was my diabolique French accent that was the issue. Or maybe she was just worried I might want to allez à la discotheque with her.
We have all been playing super-happy families today, and pretending we are perfectly normal and functional and of course we always spend our Saturday afternoons playing board games and having cheery singsongs (the board games were done grudgingly, but there was mutiny over the singsong). Juliette seemed unconvinced.
I really think this is going to make a massive difference, though. With Juliette able to pick up the
kids every day, there will no longer be the fraught tag-teaming between Simon and me as we frantically race to After-School Club and Breakfast Club and snarl that it’s not our turn and argue furiously over whose job is more important and thus who gets to stay late at work. We shall be calm and neither of us will feel that the other’s job takes precedent over their own, and oh my God, Juliette might even babysit so we can go out together as a couple on a regular basis and we will fall in love all over again and it will be very romantic and wonderful!
Simon’s only comment on Juliette so far is that she seems ‘very French’.
Wednesday, 22 February
Juliette is a wonder! I love Juliette! I never want Juliette to leave! She cooks the children strange French food, complete with bits and with vegetables, and they eat it! It turns out Peter is quite capable of using a knife and fork, after a dismissive comment from Juliette about how uncivilised he is and how much she dislikes such nonsense. As Peter is quite hopelessly in love with Juliette, he immediately abandoned eating his potatoes with his fingers and began using cutlery. I have begged Peter for years to have some semblance of table manners, pleading with him that a fork is not to be used simply to scrape food directly off his plate and into his mouth, which he has lowered to plate level. He has even stopped farting and inviting you to guess what he’s been eating.
And Jane! Jane has decided Juliette is the epitome of everything cool, and since Juliette wants to be a lawyer, not an Instagram influencer, Jane has decided to be a lawyer too. Juliette told Jane that Instagram was only fun for looking at photos and wasn’t a viable career option, and Jane, Jane who a few months ago was screaming at me for ruining her life for saying exactly the same thing, nodded sagely and said she quite agreed.
Simon and I have not had a row in the last three days, which is possibly a world record, and actually watched a TV programme together tonight (admittedly with Juliette there too, so there was no romance, etc., but it was still very civilised).
The ‘light housework’ is proving slightly more problematic, as in I’m not actually sure Juliette has done any – even emptying the dishwasher seems beyond her, so I am having to clear up after her when I come in from work – but to be honest, that is a small price to pay for all her many excellent qualities. It’s just a pain in the arse that she had already said before she started that she will be going home for a fortnight over our school holidays, but it’s not an insurmountable problem because long before Juliette came into our lives and started persuading my precious moppets to eat lentils (LENTILS! They ate LENTILS! And said they enjoyed them!), I had already booked myself one of the weeks off work and asked Simon to book the other one off, so we are covered, even if the children may revert to their usual pursuit of scurvy in her absence.