by Jonathan Coe
‘No, that’s true. If that’s all it had been about, things would probably have been easier.’
‘So what was it about?’
I took a sip of wine – actually, more of a gulp – while I wondered how to put this.
‘There was one thing she said to me, before she left. She told me that the problem was me. My own attitude, towards myself. She said that I didn’t like myself enough. And that if I didn’t like myself, other people found it difficult to like me as well. She said it created a negative energy.’
Before Alison had a chance to reply, our main courses arrived. Her fillet of John Dory looked pale and delicate next to my slab of blood-red venison. We ordered another bottle of wine.
‘I won’t be able to drive after this,’ I said.
‘Take a taxi,’ said Alison. ‘You could probably do with a break from driving, after the last couple of days.’
‘True.’
‘Why exactly are you driving to Shetland, anyway?’ she asked.
And so I began telling her about Trevor, and Guest Toothbrushes, and Lindsay Ashworth. I told her about Lindsay’s ‘We Reach Furthest’ campaign, about the four salesmen all setting off in different directions for the extreme points of the United Kingdom, and the two prizes we were supposed to be competing for. And then I got sidetracked and told her about my detour to Lichfield to see my father’s flat, how eerie and desolate it had felt; about Miss Erith, and her facinating stories, and her sadness at the passing of the old ways of life; her weird, solemn, almost inexpressible gratitude when I had made her a gift of one of my toothbrushes. I told Alison, too, about the bin liner full of postcards from my father’s mysterious friend Roger, which was now in the boot of my car, and the blue ring binder full of my father’s poems and other bits of writing. Then I told her about driving on from Lichfield and stopping in Kendal to see Lucy and Caroline, and how I’d planned to get the ferry from Aberdeen the next day, but Mr and Mrs Byrne had persuaded me to come to Edinburgh instead.
‘Well, Max,’ she said, holding my gaze for a few moments. ‘I’m glad you came, whatever the reason. It’s been too long since we saw each other – even if it’s only happened because my parents steamrollered us into it.’
I smiled back, uncertain where this was leading. Rather than responding to everything I had just told her about my journey, it felt as though Alison was getting ready to move the conversation into a different gear altogether; but then she seemed to think better of it. She arranged her knife and fork neatly on her plate and said:
‘We’re a strange generation, aren’t we?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean that we’ve never really grown up. We’re still tied to our parents in a way that would have seemed inconceivable to people born in the 1930s or 1940s. I’m fifty, now, for God’s sake, and I still feel that I have to ask my mother’s … permission, half the time, just to live my life the way that I want to. Somehow I still haven’t managed to get out from under my parents’ shadow. Do you feel the same?’
I nodded, and Alison went on:
‘Just the other day I was listening to a programme on the radio. It was about the Young British Artists. They’d got three or four of them together and they were all reminiscing about the first shows they’d done together – those first shows at the Saatchi Gallery, back in the late nineties. And not only did none of them have anything interesting to say about their own work, but the main thing they talked about – apart from the fact that they’d all been shagging each other – was how “shocking” it had been, and how worried they were about what their parents were going to say when they saw it. “What did your mum say when she saw that painting?” one of them kept being asked. And I thought, you know, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m sure that when Picasso painted Guernica, with its graphic depictions of the horrors of modern warfare, the main thing going through his mind wasn’t what his mum was going to say when she saw it. I kind of suspect that he’d gone beyond that some time ago.’
‘Yes – I’ve been thinking the same thing,’ I said, eagerly. ‘Take Donald Crowhurst: he already had four kids when he set out to sail around the world, even though he was only thirty-six. You’re right, people were so … so grown-up in those days.’
‘What days?’ Alison asked; and I realized, of course, that she had no idea who Donald Crowhurst was.
Perhaps it was a bad idea to start telling her the story. Or rather, it would have been a good idea to tell her the story of Donald Crowhurst, if I could have stuck to it. But before long, I was no longer telling her about his doomed round-the-world voyage, but explaining all the parallels I had started to see between his situation and mine, and how strongly I was coming to identify with him. And although she didn’t seem to understand more than about half of what I was saying, I did notice that she was starting to look even more worried than before.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘This man Crowhurst,’ said Alison. ‘He set out to sail around the world even though he was totally unequipped for it; he realized he couldn’t manage it so he decided to fake the whole thing; and then he realized he couldn’t go through with that either, so he went mad and committed suicide – is that right?’
‘More or less.’
‘And now you’re starting to identify with this person, are you?’
‘A bit, yes.’ All at once I had the distinct feeling that I was stretched out on a psychiatrist’s couch. ‘Look, I’m not going mad, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s just that you’re clearly tired, you’ve been spending a lot of time alone, you’ve even started talking to your SatNav and tomorrow you’re heading off to one of the remotest areas in the country. Can you blame me for hearing a few alarm bells?’
‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘It may have been a long time ago, Max, but I did once qualify as a psychotherapist.’
‘Yes, I’m well aware of that.’
‘So I know something about what you’re going through. I know about depression.’
‘Well – thank you for your concern.’
‘Where are you staying tonight?’
‘I don’t know. I was going to find the nearest Travelodge.’
‘No way. Absolutely not. Come back home with me. You can sleep in one of the spare rooms.’
‘So what are you doing, exactly – putting me on suicide watch?’
Alison sighed. ‘I just think you need a good night’s sleep, and a late start in the morning, and maybe a few home comforts along the way.’
I tried vainly to think of objections, but all I could come up with was: ‘My suitcase is in the car.’
‘Fine. We’ll go to the car, get your suitcase, and take a cab back to my place. Nothing could be simpler.’
And put like that, it did sound the most sensible thing to do.
In the cab, an unexpected thing happened. We were sitting side by side in the back, a decent number of inches between us, when Alison edged up closer to me, leaned against me, and rested her head on my shoulder.
‘Hold me, Max,’ she whispered.
I put my arm around her. The cab rattled its way over North Bridge, past the railway station.
‘I can still see what you’re doing here,’ I said.
‘Mmm?’
‘This is some technique you were taught, isn’t it, as part of your training? You’ve wounded my ego, by making me feel as though I need help. Now you’re trying to build it up again, by making me feel strong and protective.’
She looked up at me. Her eyes glinted teasingly in the dark. Her slightly dishevelled auburn hair would have been close enough to stroke, had I wanted to.
‘Nothing of the sort,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’m really pleased to see you, and I don’t see anything wrong with two old friends, who’ve known each other since they were kids, giving each other a friendly hug.’
It felt like more than a friendly hu
g to me, but I didn’t say so.
‘I wonder if Philip will be back,’ she murmured.
‘Are you expecting him tonight?’
‘If he sticks to his schedule, yes.’
‘Will he mind that I’m here?’
‘No. Why should he?’
‘Do you miss him when he’s away?’
‘I get very lonely. I’m not sure that’s the same as missing him.’
Suddenly, and rather to my own surprise, it occurred to me that it would be nice if Alison’s husband didn’t come home tonight. I held her a little closer than before, and she nestled comfortably against me. I let my lips brush against her hair and breathed in its warm, inviting scent.
Was it actually going to happen, more than thirty years after it should have happened? Was I going to sleep with Alison at last? Was I being offered one, final, redeeming chance? Part of me yearned for this resolution; another part of me started to panic, to look around for excuses. And it wasn’t necessary to look very far.
Of course – Alison was married. Married with children. If I wasn’t careful, I was about to play the most contemptible role of all: the role of homebreaker. For all I knew, this bloke Philip might be the nicest, gentlest, most decent man on earth. Utterly devoted to his wife. He would be crushed, devastated, if anyone were to come between them. So what if he spent too much time at work? That didn’t make him a bad husband, or a bad father. In fact it made him a good husband, and a good father, because his motivation, obviously, was to provide the best possible standard of living for his beloved family, now and in the future. And here I was, planning to turn this paragon of fatherly pride and marital loyalty into a cuckold!
I withdrew my arm from Alison’s shoulder, and sat up straight. She looked across at me curiously, then sat up as well, tidying her hair and re-establishing those decent inches of space between us. We were almost home, in any case.
Once inside, she took off her coat and led me into the kitchen.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ she said. ‘Or something stronger?’ When I hesitated, she informed me: ‘I’m having a Scotch.’
‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘I’ll have one too.’
As she fetched the bottle of Laphroaig and poured the golden liquid into two glasses, I kept glancing across at her and noticing that she really was in good shape, for a woman of fifty. She and Caroline made me feel ashamed of myself. When I got home, I would have to start going to the gym. And improving my diet. At the moment I seemed to live off nothing but crisps, biscuits, chocolate and, of course, panini. No wonder I had no muscle tone and a spare tyre. I was a disgrace.
‘Cheers,’ she said, coming towards me with the drinks. We clinked glasses, and drank, and then there was a long moment of expectancy, both of us standing there, in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for something to happen. It was my first opportunity to make a decisive move. I missed it.
Sensing this, Alison turned away, with an air of mild disappointment, and noticed that the wall-mounted telephone was blinking at her.
‘One message,’ she said. ‘I wonder if that’s Philip.’
Of course it would be Philip! It would be Philip calling from the airport, to say that his flight had landed fifteen minutes ago, he was just waiting for his luggage to come round on the carousel, and he would be home within the half hour. Phoning to say that he had missed her like crazy and was counting the minutes.
She pressed the button and we both listened to the message.
‘Hello, darling,’ said her husband’s voice. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about this, but the chaps in Thailand are playing silly buggers and now I’m going to have to hop across to Bangkok to see them. With any luck I can get a direct flight from there and it should only set me back a couple of days so I should be back with you on Friday. Does that sound OK? Really sorry, sweetheart. I’ll bring you back something nice and try to make it up to you. All right? Take care, darling. See you Friday.’
After that, the message ran on for a few seconds. Philip wasn’t speaking any more, though. In fact, it was hard to know why he hadn’t hung up more promptly, unless he was particularly anxious that there should be no chance of his wife failing to notice the ambient noise of the airport in the background, and the sing-song voice of the announcer over the PA system, saying: ‘Welcome to Singapore. Passengers in transit are respectfully reminded that it is forbidden to smoke anywhere inside the terminal building. We thank you for your cooperation and wish you a pleasant onward journey.’
18
And so the only remaining obstacle had been removed at last.
There was a beautiful logic, I suppose, to what happened next, as if we had both always known that it would happen one day; as if it were predetermined. Even so, I’m surprised to find that I can’t remember it in any detail. You always expect the defining, most precious experiences in your life to be stamped indelibly on the memory; and yet for some reason, these often seem to be the first ones to fade and blur. So I’m afraid that I couldn’t tell you much about the next few hours, even if I wanted to. I forget, for instance, the look that Alison gave me just before putting down her glass and kissing me on the mouth for the first time. (Yes, it was left to her to make that move, in the end.) I forget precisely how it felt when she took me by the hand and led me towards the staircase. I forget the sway of her back and the curve of her body as I followed her up the stairs. I forget how the initial coldness of the unused bedroom turned to warmth as she took me in her arms and clasped me against her. I forget how it felt, after so many long, long years, to have another human body in blissful, loving contact with mine: clothes intervening at first, but soon discarded. I forget, now, the texture of her skin, the faint, familiar smell – the smell of homecoming – when my lips touched the back of her neck, the softness of her breasts as I cupped and then kissed them tenderly. I forget the hours that followed, the slow, inevitable rhythms of our lovemaking, how we ebbed and flowed between love and sleep, love and sleep. How we finally woke up in each other’s arms, incredulous to find ourselves together, finally – together and inseparable – in the blue light of a wintry Edinburgh dawn. I forget it all. I forget it all.
As for what followed …
But listen – you know the end of this story, now. Or at least, now that it’s finished, now that Alison and I are together, and happy, now that the whole nightmare of what came before is over and done with, then the story has served its purpose. No need to carry on spilling words on to paper. If we all lived in a state of perfect happiness – no conflicts, no tensions, no neuroses, anxieties, unresolved issues, monstrous personal or political injustices, none of that rubbish – then all the people who run to stories for consolation all the time – they wouldn’t need to do that any more, would they? They wouldn’t need art at all. Which is why I don’t need it, and neither do you, from this point on: you don’t need to read about the plans Alison and I made that morning, you don’t need to hear any of the boring practical details about her separation and divorce, or how we moved into a house in Morningside together a few months later, or how long it took me to get used to having two teenage stepsons, how wary and mistrustful they were of me at first until we took them on our first holiday as a family, to Corsica, and somehow there it all got resolved, the resentment and bad feeling seemed to evaporate under the Mediterranean sun, and …
Well. As I say, you don’t need to know any of that. None of it is true, in any case.
19
No, none of it is true, but do you know what, I think I’m finally beginning to get the hang of this writing business. In fact I might even follow in Caroline’s footsteps, and make another attempt to get that Watford writers’ group started up. I reckon some bits of that last chapter were every bit as good as her effort about our holiday in Ireland. Did you like the way that when I was describing the sexy bits, I started every sentence with ‘I forget’? That’s good writing, that is. It took me quite a while to come up with that idea.
And I did enjoy it, I must sa
y. I never knew that making things up could be so satisfying. I did enjoy my little fantasy about Alison, and our night of passion, and our subsequent life together. For a while there it almost felt that I was back in her house, back in her bedroom, that it was really happening, instead of the awful, miserable, fucking predictable truth, which was this:
That I stood there like a block of marble while she did her best to come on to me.
That she eventually gave up, and went upstairs, with the words, ‘I’ve got a feeling I’m wasting my time here, but just in case, Max, I’m going to leave my bedroom door open.’
That I finished my glass of whisky and about ten minutes later went into the hallway where I’d left my suitcase.
That I realized I didn’t know which bedroom I was supposed to be sleeping in, so I went into the sitting room and sat down on the L-shaped sofa and stayed there for a long while with my head in my hands.
That I finally decided I might as well crash out on the sofa and flipped open my suitcase to look for my sponge bag but found myself taking out my father’s blue ring binder instead.
That I glanced through the poems but as usual couldn’t understand a word of them.
That I stared for some time at the title page of the second section. The Rising Sun: A Memoir. Knowing that I wasn’t going to like what I found in there.
That I heard the sounds of Alison padding about upstairs, getting ready for bed.
That I waited for the sounds to stop, and then drank some more whisky, and then waited another ten or fifteen minutes, and then went upstairs to use the bathroom, and then listened outside her open bedroom door, listened to her soft, regular, sleepy breathing which I could hear quite clearly in the almost-silence of the house, and then tiptoed back downstairs and picked up the ring binder again and stared at the title page again.