Parlour Games

by Mavis Cheek

  ‘That doesn’t sound right,’ says Celia.

  ‘It sounded right enough to a man like Tom – anyway – he told him that, and said I would never have children, and there we are ...’

  ‘Susie,’ says Celia. ‘You have taken my breath away with your deceit.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so pious – look at Tom and Alex. We all deserve each other in one way or another.’

  ‘I don’t,’ says Celia, bending the truth a little. After all, hers scarcely qualifies compared to all these other deceivers.

  ‘Well – it’s about time you started.’

  Fancy her thinking that she knew this friend of hers well. Fancy her thinking she knew people well. Even those people at her birthday party! If Susie is like this then what black secrets might her own sister have? And Dave – with all his plumbing and in and out of everybody’s houses? Celia feels that she has been tame by comparison. Is tame by comparison. Parlour Games indeed! Life back in Chiswick suddenly seems extremely prissy. Or does it? She remembers the package sitting in her washing machine. She smiles, a nice, slow smile, and feels much better. Good – she isn’t entirely respectable after all. A little tame, perhaps, but not entirely trustworthy. She winces. Is she seriously suggesting to herself that this is a virtue? Well – apparently it is. Certainly where Alex is concerned.

  We are, she thinks, exactly like icebergs, with the tiniest tips showing through and the rest well hidden. Why – just think – she didn’t even know her own husband. How long has he been doing this sort of thing? Why has she not noticed his behaviour? What about AIDS? Things like this flit through her head. Absently she picks up the spoon again and sucks on it, thinking.

  ‘Susie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain it doesn’t bother you that Tom has affairs?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. As long as it doesn’t affect the relationship we’ve got now why should it bother me? I’m not the keeper of his genitals.’ Susie laughs at this witticism.

  So does Celia.

  But she is also thinking hard.

  Vengeance is mine may have been the initial prerogative of the Lord but really, she thinks, might not she be allowed to borrow it for a while?

  4

  It is a sad fact for womankind in general, and for Celia in particular, that her idea of Vengeance renders itself as that rather banal commodity, tit for tat. How nice it would have been if she had chosen a different path to remove the knife from her heart. How nice if she had eschewed this matching adultery for adultery and sought her solution in some other more constructive way. Like confronting Alex with his deceit, perhaps, and saying to his stricken and humbled countenance, ‘Very well – you have done this. Now I am going to do something altogether higher and worthier ... I am going to, I am going to ...’

  Well – going to what?

  What can Celia do to heal the wound?

  Leave him?

  And what good would that do?

  It might hurt Alex to separate from his family and all his little comforts. It might bring a certain amount of shame upon his head, though not necessarily – there is still something honourable in a chap having a fling – but so far as doing Celia any good, it would not. Susannah in her somewhat devious reasoning has a point. All Celia would get if she rejected Alex would be a harder life, more responsibilities, less freedom. He would have the little flat up in town somewhere and the ease of mind following the monthly maintenance stipend. Plus being Father Christmas every other weekend and the joys of knocking off whomsoever he chose, whenever he chose it. This does not seem to Celia to be a very exacting kind of a Vengeance.

  What else?

  Can she go and get herself what her sister would call a proper job?

  Certainly Alex would not like that. But then – neither would Celia. She has been happy living her pleasant Bedford Park life – happy bringing up her children, cooking, making the house nice, living a lifestyle that looked as good from the outside as it felt from within. Certainly taking a job would change all that, and make life extremely difficult for the professionally fulfilled Alex. But it would not fulfil her, nor be sweet Vengeance, for up until Saturday night in Salisbury, Celia was already fulfilled. Also, despite the shattering Hate, she still rather loves him. Or at any rate she likes him better than anyone else. Recoil if you will, but so it is.

  And what of Rebecca and Henry? Celia is locked into their well-being like the stitches in a well-knitted jumper. Break one thread and the whole thing will unravel.

  No, no. We come back, as Celia has done, to personal revenge. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye will go some way towards releasing the anger and humiliation she is trying hard not to feel. She does not even need to tell Alex that she knows about him and Pastel Frock – nor that she has dealt with it in this way. To Celia this seems a most proper and subtle solution – the solution which hurts all parties the least and which at the same time brings her maximum balm. The unpoetic phrase ‘one in the eye for Alex’ settles in her mind quite nicely and will not budge. That is all she can think of. Celia will take a lover and in the consummation of this she will look for her healing. No one in the world need ever know except her and the chosen one, who will be? Well – there is nothing surprising in the choice. It will be Tom, of course. Quite perfect for the role of lover. Rich, handsome, available and willing. And, perhaps more to the point, since Celia wishes no woman to suffer as she has suffered, she has been given, if obliquely, carte blanche by his wife. A peculiarly appealing piece of morality on her part: very sisterly.

  So then – when she returns to Bedford Park tomorrow morning she will exhume the package in the washing machine, open it, be thrilled by its contents and telephone its giver to say, ‘Yes, you have won. I love the gift and I love the idea of becoming your lover. I have a whole week free. When shall I come to Shepherd Market? When can we begin?’ The frisson of nervous excitement she feels at the prospect of this conversation (let alone the physicalities which will follow) help a little to alleviate the hurt. Which proves she is doing the right thing. She does not know how long the Vengeance should last. Maybe one night, maybe many. At the moment she is in no mood to make decisions like that. First unleash the dogs of wrath – then decide for how long they should be allowed out of the kennel.

  This is what Celia thinks about as she slips from the covers and goes over to the curtains which Susie so thoughtfully closed for her the night before. She opens them upon another perfect June day. It is just as well that it is perfect: any depression in the weather would certainly make room for Celia’s to fatten. Hers is a fragile peace, an uncertain buoyancy. Here is the first whole day of being forty and it is not remotely as she imagined it would be. She stares out of the window and for a moment what she sees is blurred, as if by a light rainfall. She blinks and the rainfall vanishes. The rich green swelling of the Wiltshire landscape is bathed in sunlight once more. She wishes very much that she had never set eyes on it but, since she has, it might as well be looking as perfect as it is. Perhaps, she wonders, the old adage about tears on your birthday is a true one? Well then, she will un-true it. She rubs her hands beneath each eye and pats her cheeks. And that’s the last of you, she says.

  A discreet knock upon her door heralds the Philippino housekeeper bearing her breakfast tray. Celia’s very bright smile is replaced by one which is quite genuine as she beholds the single rose which stands among the grapefruit, boiled egg and golden toast. It is nice to be cared for. She could do with a lot of this sort of thing right now.

  The tray bears a note from her hostess.

  Make the most of this quiet morning. Everyone will be arriving from about noon onwards. I am riding until eleven but we can have coffee together at eleven-thirty if you like. On the patio. Don’t if you’d rather not. The lunch will be full of bores, I’m afraid, but we can giggle about it later. Tom is playing golf. You have the house to yourself. If you feel like having a good scream go into the library. No one will hear you from there. I often do.
Love S. xxx

  No wonder, thinks Celia as she digs into her grapefruit, that Susie is content. How many women can give lunch parties for forty people and go riding beforehand? Hazel may watch ‘Dynasty’ or ‘Dallas’, but Susannah actually lives it. Celia, appetite unimpaired, pours honey all over her grapefruit and decides that she is not going to let this episode in her life get the better of her. She bends her head to smell the pretty rose – which is scentless. Ah well, she thinks, that is the least of life’s little disappointments. No matter; the honey, like Vengeance, will be sweet, sweet, sweet.

  On the patio later Susie says, ‘How are you feeling?’

  Celia looks at her. She looks wonderful. Fair hair newly washed and flowing around her shoulders, face and eyes still bright from the horse-whipped air, sea-green dress that sits upon her frame as if it were glued in place.

  ‘I was feeling fine. Now that I look at you I’m not so sure ...’

  Susie is an honest person. Many women would have said, ‘You look wonderful,’ and let it go at that. She does not. She says, ‘Borrow something of mine if it will make you feel better …’

  So Celia does. Susannah takes her into her dressing room and together they look along the rails. There is not a vast amount of stuff hanging here. She may buy the best for herself but she is not feckless. It is unlikely that even one of the garments was bought on the spur of the moment, and even less likely that any of them is a mistake.

  ‘Now,’ says Susie, ‘do you feel in the mood for blue? Or a print? Tan perhaps? Or white is nice.’ She is flicking through the hangers and pulls a full-skirted jersey dress out. It is very plain and probably very expensive. Celia feels a certain rebellion in her heart for the frock is just right – why must Susannah always get things just right?

  ‘Black,’ she says. ‘I feel like black today.’

  Susie riffles her fingers along and pulls out a short silky dress which would be fine except that its one piece of decoration is a large printed poppy, its redness splashing all over the heart area and its stalk and leaves weaving down towards the hem. It looks like a wound.

  ‘Um, no,’ says Celia. And then she spies a black-and-white striped dress made out of some kind of shiny stuff.

  ‘What about this?’ she says. ‘It’s got black for me and white for you.’ And she holds it up.

  It is loosely styled, which eases the problem of the difference in the two women’s sizes, and is double-breasted, half dress, half coat. And it might have been dull were it not for the chicness of the cut and the most outrageous shoulders which, in their jutting opulence, would not disgrace an American footballer. The fabric is feminine but the style is dramatically aggressive. A Janus of a frock. You may touch me for the caress of the material, it says, but go too far and I shall shoulder you out of the way.

  ‘This one,’ says Celia positively. ‘Can I borrow this one?’

  Susie looks at her strangely for one-tenth of a second before giving an amused and acquiescent smile. ‘Of course. It’ll suit you.’

  She does not tell Celia that this was her wedding dress, feeling that it might give the proceedings too much unnecessary fatality. She uses a phrase much vaunted in her erstwhile New York circles. ‘You’ll be able to make your own space wearing that, darling.’

  Celia smiles at the giddy idea.

  And it does suit Celia. Because she feels right in it. And when you feel right in something, positively, from within, the zen takes over and you are right. It is also the perfect foil to her peacock highlight – the note of discord that makes the whole effect sing.

  So, dressed and ready and taking on with delight the persona of the frock, Celia goes out into the garden and stands on the patio looking across the sculptured lawn. Her back is to the house and the glass doors (somewhere around 1750 an architect wrinkled his nose at the Tudoresque style and created a little bit of Florence on this side of the building) and her hand is resting on an Italianate urn full of sapphire-blue lobelia. Her eyes, garden-wards, are shaded by a big straw hat, which echoes the stuff of the dress in the band around its crown. It is not a pretty hat, it is a statement hat. The New York designer who created it knew his client well. It was made for Susie as winged arms were for Isis. Celia, though in her heart still Celia, is dress and hat Susannah. And she is quite enjoying the feeling. So she stands there, alone, while her friend is checking over the last remaining items with her housekeeper so that the luncheon will be a success. The oeufs en getée are a treat. Celia gives her shoulders a defiant little wriggle which feels very good. She can imagine charging at Pastel Frock in them, which makes her feel even better. Quite aggressive is our heroine’s stance at the moment.

  Tom, coming through the french windows, sees what he takes to be his wife. The dress is familiar, though he cannot say why – but he just knows it is a Susie dress. He dislikes it, it gives him a creepy feeling of déjà vu. He has been feeling disgruntled anyway. Here he is, with the object of his desire in a vulnerable state right under his roof, sleeping in a bed scarcely half a minute’s tiptoe away, and he has been unable to do anything about it. And his hopes of making some kind of move this morning were dashed by his wife wagging a finger at him and saying that Celia must be left alone and, ‘No – certainly not, Tom!’ when he ventured to suggest he could take up her breakfast tray. ‘Out you go to golf,’ Susie had said. And out to golf he went. And played a damned bad game too. Little soft unhappy Celia, lying all warm and open in her bed, while he was bunkered. He is also much concerned about the as yet unopened package in the washing machine. What was supposed to be a bit of a joke is about to misfire on him horribly now that Celia is so vulnerable. He needed to capitalise on Celia this morning if he was going to be able to put that right. Bloody Susannah keeping him away. It has not put him in the best of humour by any means.

  ‘Well,’ he says, giving vent a little, ‘you look your usual sharp self. Where’s our poor little pansy flower then? Still lying in bed wailing over that horrible husband of hers, I suppose? I don’t imagine she’s up to all this socialising. She’s the homely type.’

  The barbs, of course, were meant for his wife.

  Now it is a curious fact that wronged women (and – who knows – wronged men too) while feeling absolutely happy about vilifying their wronging loved ones, do not take so kindly to others doing it for them. In any encounter with a cuckolded friend it is not advisable to criticise too strongly the malefactor. One’s role is merely to listen, to sympathise: it is not to extemporise on the failings of the wrongdoer.

  ‘Well?’ he says, receiving no acknowledgement. ‘Is she coming down? Where is the poor mite? What a bastard that Alex is ...’

  Celia winces beneath her hat.

  In part she is annoyed at Tom calling Alex horrible and bastard. In the main she is absolutely furious at being likened to a pansy (yet again) and a homely soul, a poor mite. She jolly well isn’t going to let this potential lover of hers think of her like that. Not for one minute. She is going to show him that she is just as upfront as anyone (Susie) else. So she flexes those shoulders, straightens her back, holds her stomach well in, and turns.

  ‘She is here, Tom,’ she says, in a voice which she, let alone Tom, never knew she was capable of. ‘And she will be able to cope perfectly well – I assure you.’

  Tom suddenly feels that he has knotted his tie too tight and that his trouser waistband has suddenly contracted. He feels strictured. He tries to take in enough air to revive himself and Celia, much pleased at what she takes to be the devastating effect of her new image, slips further into it like a hot knife into low-fat spread.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘I’m a big girl now.’ She pats the shoulders of the frock searching for the right words. ‘Finding my own space. Don’t you like the effect?’ She gives what is meant to be a skittish flex of her arm-muscles. It is a gesture reminiscent of Tom’s wife.

  He stares. What he sees is unpleasant to him.

  ‘What about your children?’ is all he can find to say on
ce air is restored to his windpipe.

  Celia, well into the part, shrugs those massive shoulders. ‘Who needs to think about them?’ she says. ‘I’m putting myself first for once ...’

  It is a courageous, if false, statement, but enjoyable. She licks lascivious lips – a gesture which is not at all Susie and much more latent Celia but the two are as one in his eyes now. He does not like heartless women, and he most certainly does not like women who do not require cajoling. Tom likes cajoling. He is good at it. It takes all the pleasure out of the chase if you are not required to cajole.

  The waistband of his trousers returns to its normal proportions and in that small atom of time Tom’s affection for Celia wanes a little. He wants the old Celia back, please, the soft, doe-eyed creature, the one who can mop up milk, find a recorder bag and kiss her children goodbye without complaint. Where is that motherly, pneumatic, domesticated woman? This Celia is none of those things. In fact, as she moves away from the urn and its trailing lobelia, and comes over to stand at his side, he can feel those shoulders digging into his upper arm like the unbending armour of a warrior woman.

  He moves away from her.

  Further considerations such as this on Tom’s part are abandoned for the time being. The first guests have arrived. The lunch party has commenced. Susannah arrives to whisk him away. She winks over her shoulder at Celia. ‘I’ll come back in a minute and start introducing you if you like,’ she says.

  ‘No need,’ says Celia brightly. ‘I’m quite up to doing it myself.’ She catches Tom’s glance and winks at him. ‘See you later,’ she calls, in a voice as un-pansylike as she can possibly make it, and she watches them go down the steps of the terrace together, arm-in-arm, a beautiful couple who look as perfectly matched as any ideal celluloid creation. And that, she thinks, only goes to show ...

  There will be no time for dalliance during the next few hours. Celia, quite unaware that she has done her cause with Tom no good at all, proceeds to enjoy this borrowed personality very much indeed. She mixes and mingles away, moving around the shrubs, in and out of groups of unknown people. Whenever she catches Tom’s eye she gives him the benefit of a seductive look, a cross between lust and cruelty, which she feels goes with the part. He, if he returns it at all, begins to look hunted. Which, Celia congratulates herself, he has every right to do.