The Life Situation

by Rosemary Friedman

In the bedroom the two cases were on the bed, his own battered brown with the rusty locks and Marie-Céleste’s off-white. They did all the last-minute things, making them last as long as possible. When they were ready, Oscar picked up the cases and had a last look round. Karen invariably left something behind. Hanging out of the wastepaper basket was Marie-Céleste’s white, bloodstained dress. She was already in the corridor. He put down the cases and picked it up. The label said ‘Ungaro’. It meant nothing.

  He found Marie-Céleste talking to the chambermaid. She looked puzzled.

  “She says thank you for the chocolates. Her little girl will be happy. What chocolates?”

  “I gave her…some chocolates.”

  “That was kind.”

  No, no, it wasn’t kind. It was expedient.

  “I’ll get the lift.”

  The chambermaid hoped they would come back. The patron, seeing them to the car, hoped they would come back. Of course, they said, knowing there was to be no coming back.

  From the road above the harbour they waved goodbye; the boats and the umbrellas and the sun-spangled sea and the red roof with ‘Welcome’ written on it. They settled in the car for the drive to the airport. In the main hall Oscar bought mimosa, yellow and fluffy, for Karen, and the lollipops for Rosy and Daisy, not remembering whether it was the fruit or the caramel which they had asked for, and buying both.

  In the duty-free shop he bought a Lanvin scarf for Marie-Céleste. It was large and luxurious in shades of blue. He could not afford it. The saleswoman made a big production of folding it, wrapping it in pristine tissue and fitting it precisely into a white and red box and afterwards into a carrier with a tiny string. Marie-Céleste kissed him. They sat outside, their faces tilted to catch the last of the sun until their flight was called.

  The plane was not full and Marie-Céleste sat next to him on the flight. They were served stew with carrots and potatoes like school dinners. Afterwards there was a stodgy éclair. They recalled their memorable meals, laughing over the bouillabaisse with its imagined disastrous effects. The memory sobered them again. Oscar noticed that most of the passengers had eaten their lunch, even the éclair and the hard-boiled egg smothered with bottled mayonnaise which was the hors d’oeuvre.

  When the announcement came that they were crossing the English coast and would soon be descending, Marie-Céleste said she’d better go to her first-class seat as they didn’t want to leave the plane together.

  Neither of them had words for anything. There was too much to say. They had created an abyss into which both of them were rapidly sinking.

  She put a hand on his. “Thank you.”

  “It’s only just the beginning,” he said recklessly.

  “It was the best.”

  He covered her hand with his, wanting to hold on.

  “I was going to say ‘love to Karen’. It sounds stupid but I mean it.”

  “I understand.” She was nicer than he. He wanted to say ‘kick Ernest in the balls for me’ but restrained himself.

  They kissed, not caring who watched, then she made her way back to the first class compartment where a stewardess with a fixed smile held the curtain aside for her.

  There was no more sun. As they made the descent for Heathrow a grey fog enveloped them.

  In the baggage reception he hung back, mingling with the crowd, watching her every move from the corner of his eye. She picked up her suitcase and made for the green ‘nothing to declare’ exit. The last he saw of her was the light in her auburn hair, her straight back and the Lanvin scarf he had bought her tied like a flag to her handbag.

  He hated coming back to London from anywhere. It was disappointing, nothing, grey. A young French girl asked him how to get to Palmers Green. A Londoner all his life, he directed her to a policeman. He couldn’t get to Palmers Green to save his life. From the window of the bus he noticed that the FT Index had dropped seven points in his absence. It was never a city of good news.

  When the taxi dropped him outside the house he realized he did not have the key and hoped that someone was in. Rosy and Daisy must be home from school by now even if Karen was not home. He rang the bell and looked down at the floral tribute he had brought in its beribboned, cellophaned wrapping. The mimosa had not survived the journey.

  PART TWO

  Eleven

  For a moment he thought no one was in and considered what to do. It was far too early for the pub and he was in no mood for Enid Buckley from next door. Stupid to have left the key; he rarely moved without it.

  Footsteps he did not recognize came down the stairs.

  A skinny child with wedges on her shoes six inches deep looked at him with astonishingly blue eyes ringed with sparkling blue eyeshadow.

  He took one step forward.

  She barred his way. “Yes?”

  “What do you mean, yes?”

  “What is it you want?”

  “To come in. To my own house. You don’t mind?”

  The sophisticated demeanour fell away. She put a hand to her mouth and giggled.

  “Are you Daisy’s parent?”

  “One of them.”

  “Sorry. Daisy said not to let anyone in. She’s doing her homework and I’m keeping her company. I’m Araminta.” She had recovered her composure and held out her hand.

  She wore a flowered skirt to her ankles and her black hair dropped straight to her waist.

  “Daisy said fish or the man for the cooker. There’s a horrid smell of gas. Otherwise she would have come to my house. She doesn’t like being on her own and Rosy’s at dancing. You’d better come in.” She held the door wide.

  “Thanks.”

  Araminta bent down and took his case.

  She looked at the mimosa.

  “It’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  “If you put the stems in boiling water as soon as you get it it will last for days.”

  “It wasn’t very convenient on the plane.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “South of France.”

  “Eden Roc?”

  “No.”

  “We always stayed at the Hotel du Cap. You do know what you’re getting…”

  “Of course.”

  “…that is when we weren’t on the yacht; when the skipper was on holiday or something like that. I’ll make a cup of tea unless you’d prefer a stiff whisky on the rocks.”

  “A cup of tea will be fine.”

  “Is it the gasman?” Daisy called, her voice like a foghorn.

  “No it’s your parent.”

  “Daddy!” She hurtled down the stairs like an elephant and jumping from the third from bottom stair flung her arms round his neck.

  “Christ, you pong!”

  “Charming. What of?”

  “Garlic. Did you have snails for lunch?”

  “No.”

  “Frogs’ legs?”

  “No.”

  “Ratatouille?” Araminta suggested.

  “Coffee as a matter of fact.” He thought of himself and Marie-Céleste sitting miserably over their croque monsieur.

  “I’m going to make your parent some tea,” Araminta said.

  “He can make it himself.”

  “I’d rather.”

  “Please yourself.”

  Araminta disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Have you been good?” Oscar said.

  “Not too bad.”

  “What’s been going on?”

  “Nothing. You haven’t been away long. Did you remember the lollipops? My mouth has been waiting for them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Caramel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yum.”

  “Mummy all right, and Rosy?”

  “S’pose so. Have you finished your book?”

  He looked puzzled, not remembering having taken one.

  “There wasn’t much time for reading.”

  “Writing, silly.”

  He remembered with guilt Death on the
Riviera, which hadn’t been out of his suitcase.

  “Oh yes, yes.”

  In the kitchen Araminta had the best cups out on the table and biscuits on a doily.

  She was warming the Spode teapot.

  “He only has a teabag in his mug,” Daisy said.

  Araminta took no notice. Daisy shrugged.

  “Did you miss me?”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  “Did Mummy?”

  “I didn’t ask her. We’ve got a project to do on oil. It’s boring.”

  They sat at the table drinking tea. Araminta stuck her little finger out when she held her cup. She offered him biscuits.

  “You are lucky,” she said to Daisy, “having such a good-looking parent.”

  “You should see him on Sundays,” Daisy said, “when he hasn’t shaved.”

  He heard the sound of a key in the door and voices. Karen had come in with Rosy. There was a crash.

  “Daddy’s home!” Daisy called.

  “I know. I fell over his case and hurt my knee.”

  Oscar felt nervous suddenly. He went to greet Karen, fearing his misdeamours were inscribed in luminous paint over his face.

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Phew! Garlic.”

  “I’m not very popular round here.” He bent to kiss Rosy but she ducked.

  “No fear. Did you bring the lollipops?”

  “Yes.” He picked up the mimosa. “I bought this for you,” he said to Karen. “It died.”

  She took it and kissed the other cheek. “I appreciate the thought.”

  Rosy and Daisy went with Araminta to watch Magic Roundabout.

  Alone with Karen, Oscar felt awkward. He sat at the kitchen table and watched her swift, meaningful movements. She turned on the oven, squatted to light the gas, shut the door, produced a roasting tin, some lamb from the fridge, dripping, reached for salt, pepper, herbs, felt the teapot, poured herself tea, drank a sip, took potatoes, found the peeler, stood at the sink, one hip extended; it was like a ballet…

  “How did the book go?”

  “Oh fine; fine!” He wasn’t going to be caught twice.

  “Bet you sat in the sun all day. You’re brown. Lucky.”

  Not all day.

  “I missed you.”

  “I missed you.”

  “How was Nice?”

  “Noisy. Not like it used to be. Impossible to sleep.”

  “You look tired.”

  He glanced up quickly. Her eyes were on the potatoes.

  “Anyone phoned for me?”

  “Your mother. You forgot to say goodbye.”

  “So I did.”

  “She was quite surprised; you’d gone, I mean. Your father has sciatica.”

  His father had only ever been ill once to Oscar’s knowledge. Flu in 1947.

  “I said we’d come down for the weekend. It’s time we went.”

  Oscar thought of Marie-Céleste. “Can’t really spare the time. Have to get stuck into the book.”

  “The day then. Although I wouldn’t mind a weekend. All right for you, South of France and all that…”

  “OK, a weekend. Fix it up.”

  “Not if it’s going to disturb you.”

  “No. There’s a terrible smell of gas.”

  “I know. We’re waiting for the man. We need a new cooker. This one’s on its last legs…”

  He thought of the money he had spent on his holiday, Marie-Céleste’s scarf. They could have had a new cooker.

  “…One of those split levels. We could go to Heal’s one Saturday and look. They clean themselves. Can you imagine, Mrs Hubble takes three hours, I’ll have to put her up soon anyway, everyone else round here is paying a pound.” She held the pan of potatoes in one hand and lit a gas ring with the other. She’d brought a cauliflower in with her. She held it up. “Had to pay 30p for that. We shall have to grow our own soon or I’ll have to ask Boyd for a rise. Things are becoming impossible. I had Margot over for supper. She wanted a shoulder to weep on. She discovered Justin had been having an affair, quite by chance actually,” she peered at the cauliflower she was separating into flowerets. “Ooh there’s a nasty great slug! She had the curse one afternoon and came home from the magazine to lie down. I think she’s got fibroids, probably have to have the whole lot out, anywhere there was Jason in bed with…guess who?”

  “Haven’t got a clue.”

  “Caroline Heathcote! I mean they’ve been friends for years, Margot and Jason and Hugh and Caroline, and in her own bed! So she’s absolutely gone to pieces and I couldn’t get rid of her till after one. The next day Mrs Hubble elected to have one of her ‘turns’, so I came back to unmade beds and the breakfast dishes and ashtrays full of Margot’s cigarette stubs. I took the girls to the Chinese Garden and we all ate too much, seaweed and Peking duck and there was the new James Bond at the ABC and it was a school night but I thought what the hell…” She put the meat in the oven and kicked the door shut. “…and then Boyd’s giving this lecture in Paris and wanted it typed so I had to bring it home and he was very sweet and gave me two tickets for the Marriage of Fig. Orchestra stalls. And that’s about all. I haven’t made a sweet. I should I suppose have killed the fatted calf but I daresay you’ve had some fabulous food. Did you have a soupe aux poissons for me? I kept thinking of you with all that fantastic wine and croissants in bed. We can have fresh fruit except I forgot to buy any oranges; apples, bananas or one pear.”

  “I’ll go and unpack,” Oscar said.

  “You’ve never unpacked in your life.”

  “I want to make a few notes before I forget. Sorry about the mimosa.”

  “It wouldn’t have lasted more than a day anyway.”

  “Dinner at seven?” She was smiling at him.

  “Sure.”

  In his study he toyed with the telephone. He dialled Marie-Céleste’s number. Ernest answered. He replaced the receiver. He looked at his watch; ten to six. Might just catch him. He tried Dr Adler.

  “Dr Adler speaking.”

  “This is Oscar John. Can I come and see you?”

  “Wait a minute. I look.”

  Oscar felt his heart thumping.

  “Tuesday the twenty-second. Ten o’clock. I have a cancellation.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Impossible. I’m completely full up and on Wednesday I go to a conference.”

  There was silence.

  “Look, if you want to talk to me you can ring me at 7.30 tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh stuff it!” Oscar said, and put the receiver down.

  He felt the familiar sinking sensation in his abdomen. Did not know what to do with himself. He pushed aside the unopened letters and circulars and pages of his book and unpaid bills that were on his sofa and, lying down, fell asleep.

  At dinner Daisy said: “Araminta’s taken a fancy to you.”

  “Where did you find her?”

  “At school. She came last week. She’s always in the cloakroom doing her eyes even when she’s s’posed to be in assemberly…” Both of them always said ‘assemberly’. “…she’s got blue and brown and green and she puts perfume on. One day she came with green nails but Miss Hughes made her take it off immediately…”

  “Perhaps she got that from spending her holidays at Eden Roc.”

  Rosy snorted. “She’s never been out of England. She tells terrible lies and that’s not all,” she leaned towards Oscar confidentially. “She takes money from her mother’s handbag when she’s in the bath! Her father took her to see West Side Story on Saturday and afterwards they had dinner at the Talk of the Town and a whole bottle of champagne between them and it was two in the morning when he brought her home…”

  Oscar waited while she helped herself to mint sauce.

  “They’re separated!” Rosy said momentously. “They used to have the most frightful rows and then her father left. She lives with her mother down the road, that’s why she’s come to school. It’s the top flat in one of the divided hous
es. Araminta says in their old house they had four dining-rooms and six servants. I don’t believe her. She’s going to show me how to do my eyes. She says I don’t make the best of my most valuable asset. She says I could look like Sophia Loren…”

  It could only be a coincidence; Margot and Jason, Araminta and her parents; why was his family telling him all this? He was half aware of Rosy rattling on, Daisy interrupting, Karen fussing with the dinner like a mother hen. He ate the lamb although he was not hungry. He felt remote; disengaged, a stranger in his own home. A family photo but he had walked out of the frame.

  It was late by the time they got to bed. He had flung his case on the floor in the bedroom and was already in bed when Karen came up. He watched her unpack it, anxious in case among his possessions he had left some trace of Marie-Céleste.

  “I forgot to thank you for the After Eights.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I was really touched. You’re a very nice person. I would never have thought of anything like that. Simply wouldn’t have occurred to me.”

  Karen sorted the clean shirts from the dirty. “I should have given you a dirty washing bag like I give the girls; nothing but odd socks. By the way, I’ve thought of somewhere to take them in the summer.”

  “Mm?”

  “Well, I didn’t really think of it, it was rather a coincidence. One of Boyd’s patients, a Mrs Fairbairn, carcinoma of the uterus, always stops for a chat. Anyway she asked after you and the children, she always does, and I said you were in Nice. She told me that they have a villa above Villefranche and that if we want to take the girls for a reasonable holiday there’s a marvellous little hotel there, full of atmosphere and not frightfully expensive. I almost asked you to look at it but if Mrs Fairbairn recommends it it must be all right. I didn’t want to distract you with trivialities. It’s called Welcome. We’ll have to write soon because they get very booked up. Did you wear this?”

  She held up a blue shirt.

  “Can’t remember.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I told you. I can’t remember.”

  “No; about the summer. We wanted to go to France, didn’t we?”

  “I think I’ll have had my fill after Death on the Riviera.”

  “You always say you could never have enough of France. You wanted to retire there with the other writers on the ramparts at Antibes. Besides, it helps the girls enormously with their French.”