by Mavis Cheek
Fascinated, Celia watches, as those familiar arms cease to be extended and close around the shoulders of Pastel Frock. Celia blinks, makes a little ‘Aah’ of disbelief and continues to stare. Presumably the arms will suddenly recognise that they enfold the wrong person. Celia blinks again and waits for this realisation to take place. But it does not. Her husband’s arms stay put, moving even more tightly around the floaty form. They seem to be fixed there quite comfortably. In her head she lets out a long agonised howl and the book, Which she held as a talisman, falls to the floor – plop – on to the deep pile of the carpet.
Someone says something to Celia. It is the receptionist, very close to her, just across the desk top. She says that Celia has dropped something. Celia retrieves it, blood rushing to her head as she stoops. The floor looks very black and is speckled with stars.
‘How careless of me,’ she says as the blur of the book and the fuzziness of her hand fuse before her eyes. She picks it up. The carpet is lovat green again and the stars have gone. Celia straightens, turns and says, very, very brightly, ‘I am Miss Wilde. I telephoned earlier. A double room with bath ...’ To which the receptionist says happily, ‘Ah yes.’
How strangely fortuitous it was that she used her maiden name for the booking. Then it had merely been protection from his discovering her lovely surprise. Now it is protection from discovery at all.
Celia says she will not need a porter. She can take her small amount of baggage up to her room.
Celia takes the proffered key.
Celia stands there, key in hand, suitcase (the one which matches the pigskin that Alex has with him) at her feet.
Celia thinks things like, Perhaps Alex is just being friendly.
Celia watches.
The couple she watches kiss, very, very passionately. They spring apart as the barman, finished with the titivations of his Pimms, turns around. They now comport themselves as Celia would wish them to.
But Celia can tell.
Alex looks boyish.
This was no friendly exchange.
The woman, as she turns a little, shows a profile that is (here Celia takes a small breath of cheer) not young. In fact it is a profile quite as old, Celia feels sure, as her own. If not older. No – that is too hopeful. This is merely a woman of much the same age as Celia but without the benefit of Adrian and Top Shop. She looks like a female from ‘Come Dancing’: very loud eye-shadow, firmly controlled hair, and – now that she has turned and her profile is in Celia’s full view – pretty, in a sharp retroussé sort of way. She laughs at Alex as he says something to do with the drinks he is ordering, and Celia, good wife, notices she has sharp little teeth to match the sharp little upturned nose. Celia feels sick. As the barman takes their money and turns away again they kiss in brief secrecy and Celia sees Alex’s familiar hand accommodate a pastel breast. Someone has just thrust a red-hot dagger into Celia’s. She gasps at the pain of it.
‘Miss Wilde?’ says the receptionist. ‘Are you all right?’
Celia turns and gives her another big, bright smile.
‘Just coming to,’ she says, ‘after the journey ...’
‘Of course,’ says the receptionist. ‘You just go on up to your room whenever you want to. Or perhaps –’ She has noticed how hungrily Celia is staring at the bar. ‘You’d prefer to go and have a drink first?’
‘Oh no,’ says Celia. ‘I’m fine. Third floor and the lift is to my right, did you say?’
Gratefully the receptionist nods and goes back to her accounts. Celia still stands there, mesmerised.
Suddenly, brushing past her, bringing noise to the proceedings, comes a whole welter of besuited young men. They hail Alex and the woman.
‘Alex,’ they call, their hands upraised.
And ‘Felicity,’ they say in delight.
Felicity Fuck, says Celia under her breath.
‘I’m sorry?’ says the receptionist from the depths of her accounts. ‘Did you say something?’
‘No,’ says Celia. ‘Nothing at all.’
Felicity, she thinks, Felicity. How stupendously inappropriate.
She picks up her case. Vaguely she hopes that Alex will catch sight of her and come over to her and all will be well. But in her heart, that bruised commodity, she knows this will not happen. How she curses being a forty-year-old woman as she makes her way towards the lift and her room. When she was twenty, twenty-five even, she would have been in there fighting. At forty she has learned the art of self restraint. She has also – quite suddenly and out of nowhere – learnt that, despite what the writers of yearning love songs say, you cannot retrieve love that is lost to another by simply asking for it back. And Alex did look very loving when he held out his arms like that, and the woman looked sickeningly at home in them. No, says Celia, confrontation is not the way.
But what is?
Just before the lift engulfs her she calls to the receptionist. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, ‘but would it be possible to have a bottle of champagne sent up to my room?’
The receptionist nods. ‘Of course,’ she says cheerfully.
‘Oh – and while you’re at it,’ adds Celia, ’send up a packet of cigarettes as well – any brand will do.’
The receptionist says, ‘Certainly. Will there be anything else?’
It is on the tip of Celia’s tongue to say, Only my husband, but she doesn’t. And as the lift doors close she has a last glimpse of the jolly Brandreth crowd by the bar and Alex’s grinning face.
3
From the window of her third-floor room Celia looks down upon Salisbury. She has a nice view, the sort of view any tourist would love, for she overlooks the fine cathedral with its charming surroundings. At this time of evening it is almost deserted. The neatly manicured lawns, the quaint cobblestones, the warm brickwork of the eighteenth-century buildings that surround it complete a harmonious and tranquil scene: in the June sunlight, Celia thinks, they should create a sense of hope. The bright radiant blue of the sky, the early summer flowers of the gardens, the freshness of the light, all speak of being at the beginning of something. Celia shakes her head and turns away: she smiles ruefully. She certainly is at the beginning of something but it is not a something in which she wishes to participate. This beginning belongs to Alex and Pastel Frock downstairs. What Celia has experienced is an ending. But then, she thinks, all endings are beginnings. Close the door on one thing, you automatically open it to another – even if it leads to total darkness. Not a philosophical conundrum that she wishes to dwell upon at the moment.
There is a knock at the door. She calls out ‘Enter’ and is pleased to hear her voice sounding just the same as before: if anything stronger and more imperious. At any rate it has none of the whimpering uncertainty expected of a newly wronged wife.
In comes a small, rather plain young woman bearing a tray on which are perched the champagne in an ice-bucket, a glass and the packet of cigarettes. Celia is so grateful for these things arriving that she gives their bringer a five-pound note. She will never know that her largesse meant that the chambermaid who received it was thus able to spend her next night off at the Three Brass Bells (a very fine Jacobean hostelry on the outskirts of Salisbury) where she got extremely merry, accepted the advances of the head of the local darts team, had twins nine months later and now runs a nice little hotel near Swanage with her husband. She is a very happy woman and it is all thanks to Celia’s five-pound note. This merely continues to illustrate that there are silver linings to be had in everything leaden – even if we do not know what they are. Out there, somewhere, someone or something is always benefiting from the misfortunes of others. Look upon this as a positive situation, one to be encouraged: it would be tragic to think that no good at all comes out of what we suffer, for we all seem to suffer so much.
Celia is definitely not in the mood for considering silver linings at this moment. She feels – well – how does she feel? She puts her hand around the neck of the bottle and clutches it tightly for a moment. But i
t is cold and wet and not at all like living flesh so she just gets on with removing the cork. Feelings? Ah yes. What she feels is what she imagines she would feel if a sweet-faced nun came up to her in Chiswick High Road and smacked her around the face twice. Shocked and unsure how to retaliate. Yes, she thinks, it feels exactly like that.
Idly, lost in thought, or perhaps just lost, she opens the packet of cigarettes and begins to smoke. That goes part of the way to pouring balm on her shocked condition: it is something to do with her hands which, she notices suddenly, are shaking, and also something upon which to concentrate her mind. While she is smoking she thinks only of that act – well, that and sipping the drink – and sits thus for a long while, looking down from her window, not facing up to anything except the smoke from her nostrils and the gradual reduction in the quivering of her hand. It is a sad thing to have to admit, and she puts it off for as long as possible, but the plain fact is that the cigarettes do not taste very nice: she is not getting the pleasure from them that she thought, yearned even, to do. It is possible that this is the way things will be in future – hollow dreams, hollow dreams. She shakes her head, and sighs, and begins to talk to herself.
‘Why has it happened?’ is the first thing she asks.
‘I don’t know,’ she replies, thinking hard. But she can come up with no reason.
‘Just one of those things, then?’
She agrees with herself. It must be simply that.
‘Do you still love him?’
She does not even pause to answer this one. ‘Love,’ she says, ‘has nothing to do with this.’
‘What has, then?’
‘Revenge,’ she says, quite surprised at first but realising that her subconscious has taken over and is correct.
‘And how will this manifest itself?’
‘Can’t say,’ says Celia, puff, puff, puffing. ‘Not yet.’ And she adds more darkly, ‘But manifest itself it will.’
It is only after this exchange that she suddenly feels the return of the knife in her heart. The children, she thinks. Oh my God. My poor babies ... And then a recognisable emotion, impressive in its intensity, takes hold of her entire body and shakes it from head to toe. It is the emotion called Hate. Right at that moment Celia hates Alex with a depth she would not have believed possible. Neither, it should be said, would he. How thin is the dividing line upon which our civilised emotions turn. An hour ago Celia was a woman in love. Now she is a woman racked by hate and seeking vengeance. These are not the usual feelings of a Bedford Park Wife: it takes her a little time to get used to them. No longer is she the foolish paper cutout character of an Agatha Christie thriller, nor is she the wide-eyed Pilgrim making for the Celestial City: now she is that deeper, more profound commodity, the aggrieved heroine – and quite Shakespearian in her intensity.
She smokes, she sips, she thinks dark thoughts, she assimilates until the bottle is empty: then she decides that the assimilation period is over; she must move on to that new territory called action. But nothing is growing there. She does not know what to do. She considers telephoning Hazel but realises – despite her fuzzy state – that this will do no good. Firstly (and arguably) because she is not there – and secondly, because even if she were there, Hazel has already let her down. She was not there for her party, she was not there for her lonely weekend, and she has taken Celia’s children away. If Hazel had not done that, if Hazel had not gone sucking up to rich right-wing Americans, Celia would not be in this situation. She would have been washing up the picnic things now, Rebecca and Henry would be sitting contented and rosy in the bath and she would be planning a pleasant night of television crum. She would not be sitting here, filling herself with toxins and being cuckolded. No. She will confide none of this to Hazel. Certainly not. For even discounting Hazel’s disloyal culpability in all this, if she does confide in Hazel, then her Bedford Park life will never be the same again. While she, Celia, keeps all this to herself then her outward Bedford Park life can continue unchanged. Does she want to continue unchanged? She nods at the smoke spiralling upwards. Yes, yes, she does. She would also like to see Alex at the bottom of a lake, but you can’t have everything.
What she is not going to do is be rash. Or silly. Besides, as she cannot remember her mother-in-law’s telephone number, she cannot do what is currently uppermost in her mind, to wit, call her so that when they get to the quavering, ‘And where is Alex now, dear?’ Celia can say, ‘Downstairs feeling up another woman, Joyce. Shall I get him for you?’ Delightful as this would be it would solve absolutely nothing. Celia has a battle to win, a private battle. The battle is for her self-esteem. Her attackers are regrouping, having dealt the initial blow, and they will be back. She must win the next round – but how?
An extremely painful question forces itself upon her. How long have they been at it? And another. How many times have they done it? ‘Be gone, pointless ponderings!’ she says loudly into the room. And she stands up.
It is at approximately this time, with confused ideas of battle plans, that she realises three things. The first is that she wants to talk to someone. The second is that she wants that someone to be Susannah. And the third is that Salisbury is not a million miles from where Susannah and Tom live (fourteen to be precise, funny she did not think of that before). It is as she attempts to walk (having stood up) that she realises a fourth thing: she is, in all respects save – she thinks fondly – her mental control, drunk. She knows she is physically drunk because she wobbles all over the place as she attempts a straight course towards the telephone. A passing thought occurs – that it might have been better, healthier, to go for a hearty walk while she assimilated this new dimension. Perhaps, she thinks, half of those lone female walkers striding around on country hills with dogs are really trying to come to terms with some emotional calamity in their lives. Perhaps that is why they always look so fierce. She remembers the Stockbridge woman and winces. There was all that gin, too. She must be very, very careful. She must keep control and be positive when she talks to Susie.
At least she is still mentally alert enough to remember Tom and Susannah’s telephone number perfectly. She congratulates herself on this, and she dials. As the ringing tone begins, she sits down, rather abruptly it is true, on the floor, one hand holding the phone to her ear, one arm hugging her knees to her chest. Thus did Celia sit, many years ago, whenever she prepared to have a long telephonic session with Susie. The pose comes to her without thinking about it and she waits, devoid of sentiment, remembering her watchwords of control and positivism.
The ringing is answered and Susie’s voice says crisply, ‘Susannah Mason here.’
Celia, control and positivism abounding, opens her mouth to say, with smiling composure, ‘And Celia Crossland here ...’ but this does not come out. Instead, what does come out is a long, heart-wrung cry, followed by some deep, foundation-shaking moans, with somewhere kindled from the agony the words, ‘Oh Susie, oh Susie, what am I going to do ...?’
Round two of the battle also goes, I am afraid, to the enemy forces.
There is no question that Celia cannot drive in her condition. Celia is the first to admit this, followed closely by Susie.
‘I’ll come and get you,’ she says, and adds, ‘Wait there,’ which is quite funny really. Celia finds herself laughing wildly.
‘Celia,’ says Susie sharply. ‘Stop that.’
Celia says huffily, ‘Well, honestly, Susannah – what a stupid thing to say. Where do you think I might go, for Christ’s sake? I can’t even stand up – at least ...’ She makes an effort, rather like a newborn calf, to struggle to her feet, but it is not successful. It could be successful if she really wanted to make the effort but on the whole she’d rather not bother. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I’ve thought of something you haven’t thought of ...’
‘What?’ asks Susie, impatient to be off, already calling over her shoulder to Tom that Celia is in trouble and she’s going out to her.
‘I can’t leave my car here
in the hotel carpark.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because Alex will recognise it.’
‘Well, you certainly can’t drive it in your state.’
‘Thank you,’ says Celia with some dignity.
‘Well, can you?’
‘No,’ agrees Celia. ‘Well – what am I to do?’
To Celia’s rapidly befuddling mind her friend’s voice goes very masculine all of a sudden as it says, ‘I’ll drive it back here.’
Celia says, ‘How can you if you’re already driving your own?’ And she adds, ‘Your voice has gone very low.’
‘That’s not me, fathead,’ says Susannah. ‘It’s Tom – on the extension.’