I avoided Liberty’s and I avoided my work friends. I didn’t want to hear about their working days; all the interesting customers they met or the after-work drinks they’d had without me. I wanted to abruptly move away from my memories of the store and step into my new position as Marks wife, (I did eventually venture into the store after many years had passed but by then everyone I remembered had left).
My daily routine now consisted of organising Mark’s social calendar, the daily running of the apartment and luncheon dates with friends. These friends were split into two categories: those I wanted to see and those I felt obliged to see for social politics. The former consisted of James and Carolanne and the latter with everyone else in my address book – otherwise known as my lunch friends.
I became very close to friendship group one and they too, were close to one another. Carolanne now regularly joined James and me on Sunday pub walks and if I could not accompany them (because Mark was home), then they would still meet. On those occasions my mind was distracted away from Mark to wondering how their day was treating them – perhaps a morning coffee followed by a pub lunch discussing a Sunday paper article then a leisurely walk along the river? It was difficult to bring my thoughts from their day to mine as the alternative was either being berated by Mark for not foreseeing something in his social diary that could have had, but did not have, calamitous consequences to his day or watching Mark snore on the sofa whilst watching a Sunday 1950s’ western movie.
I did not recognise the specific switch from willing days to disappear so that I could spend precious few hours with my husband, to then willing those shared hours to speed up so I could enjoy precious hours without him. Fortunately, the hours without him were increasing every week and I came to regard Mark’s apartment as my own and him as a guest in my home, interfering with my daily plans to meet friendship group two.
My lunch friends’ lives were identical to my own and I met various sub-groups of the main friend group for lunch on most days. These meetings would start with the formal ritual of expressing, ‘Oh hi, you look amazing! I love your outfit/shoes/hair/handbag!’
Followed by a cursory kiss before all were seated and the luncheon meeting began. The conversations with any lunch group friends were never a cohesive, flowing, engaging chat; more, who could monopolise the table the longest before another seized their opportunity to contribute an unrelated topic about their week. The key phrases that were thrown on to the exclusive, expensive and always exquisitely elegant restaurant table were: ‘upcoming black tie event’, ‘feeling fat so I must not eat lunch’, ‘hubby has tickets from work for an amazing event’, or if there was a direct competition from another lunch friend then, ‘We are sooo lucky to be going to the event as tickets sold out long ago but hubby has connections from work.’
After a light lunch had been picked at then the meeting would enter the wine segment; this naturally led to the final part of the meeting of ‘any other business’. This was the cue for the competition to rank up a notch to who could monopolise the group with tales that began, ‘I was sooooo drunk…’
It was tedium with crudités. But I always participated as it broke up my day between shopping and organising. However, although I could not remember the specific stories from anyone, I always dragged away with me the essence of their tales, which was to describe a life that I perceived to be far more fulfilling than my own.
I learnt to battle the onset of feeling inadequate by boasting about Mark’s achievements, promotions and all the work events I accompanied him on. I threw in the same phrases as everyone else and I accepted they did not listen to me in the same way I did not listen to them. If they had, then they heard a growing lonely life which was disguised by a glamorous, adventurous lie.
After nearly two years of marriage Mark instructed me to accompany him to New York. A wealthy Russian was potentially investing in Mark’s firm and he needed to go out to secure the legal side of the union but Mark needed to woo him first to guarantee the investment. Mark wanted to demonstrate he was trustworthy and a wife was a necessary actor for that show.
I spent over a fortnight planning my wardrobe and buying the appropriate evening gowns for the events Mark had briefed me on. I always timed these purchases just before my lunch date so that I would be a few minutes late and arrive appearing flustered declaring, ‘Sorry I’m late ladies but Mark has just told me about the gallery ball and I had to have this McQueen dress to go with the red sling backs I bought last week.’
Naturally this led to an outfit being pulled from the enormous box bag so that it could be serenaded by satisfyingly jealous ‘aahhs’.
New York was important as it was the first Atlantic crossing I had made for Mark. I had not been to this city and I tingled with anticipation for days before I left. I bought a guide book as I knew Mark would be working for most of the trip. This leant a certain freedom to where I could go, but by then I was institutionalised to my ‘working day’ of shopping, so the landmarks I filtered from the book were Bloomingdales, Tiffany’s and of course Fifth Avenue.
We stayed at the Roosevelt Hotel, close to the Grand Central Station and convenient for most shops. True to Mark’s word he disappeared in the early morning and I spent my days shopping and waiting for his return. On the third day I returned early and dressed in an emerald green cocktail dress and silver stilettos. I sat for over an hour waiting for his return and when he did he stormed into the hotel suite declaring we were, ‘late as usual!’ I waited by the door for him to shower and change which took just under twenty minutes. I didn’t say anything in that time for fear of fuelling his frustration but merely waited patiently for him. After these twenty minutes, Mark emerged and raced passed me, out the door and straight for the floor lifts.
‘Jeez, hurry up woman. Did you not hear me that, yet again, we are late?!’
He said this at me, not to me, as if he was biting the air around my head and as a reflex I retreated into the corner of the lift. The past two years had taught me that it was easier to smile a scowl rather than to protest – sarcasm led to arguments and arguments with Mark lasted until I gave in and agreed he was right.
We arrived at the Russian’s New York, Upper West Side home which was seven stories high and an immaculately restored example of 1920s’ American architecture. We were there as Mark had been invited to the unveiling of the Russian’s latest purchase. It was an Aveer Karesh painting of a view of Earth from the International Space Station. The Russian had paid $3.7 million for it and it was to be hung amongst the Russian’s other collections from the same artist. The picture was displayed in one of the thirty-two rooms in his home. It stood alone in the empty room whilst guests surrounded it, eating canapés and drinking champagne. The room was connected to another whitewashed room which was also bare except for a dozen pictures hanging on the walls staring back at the spectators.
I did not see or speak to Mark for the first hour. I wandered around with my cocktail, occasionally smiling at other guests and waiting to be summoned by Mark. I could feel the usual event boredom upon me but on this occasion I was saved by a man in his late thirties. He was a short, plump man with a monk’s hairstyle. His forehead was covered by a sheer veil of ginger hair. This fine ginger netting had been swept back in an attempt to hide the glaring white bald circle on the top of his head. This was the only obvious sign of vanity as every other part of him was understated from the baggy grey suit to the sensible brown shoes. From the way he stood and nodded at anyone around him he clearly had not paid attention to the protocol of being politely intimidated by those of a higher social ranking than his own.
‘Another red head I see!’ he said as I passed him.
‘Strawberry blonde,’ I whispered.
‘Aah my wife would be impressed by your euphemism of our hair colour. She is a lecturer at NYU on English Lit. She loves it when people curl around what I see as fact. On this occasion I concede defeat; we are strawb
erry blonds. My name is Henry Brown and my wife, Amy, is somewhere here. How do you do.’
‘How do you do!’
I shook his hand eagerly as I realised this was the first time I had spoken to anyone in two days apart from thanking a cashier for my purchases. Amy joined our conversation briefly but she kept disappearing to check her mobile as the babysitter for their nineteen month old had been trying to contact her on her phone but the signal was poor in the gallery.
Henry explained he was an NYU physicist and had pulled many strings to be able to get an invitation to view the Karesh collection. He explained the artist was exploring our position in the universe. He showed me a painting which was a series of telescope photographs, the first a black dot in the Earth’s night sky. This was then magnified to show the colossal depth of the space in that dot. It revealed millions of stars and planets belonging to many galaxies in that one innocuous, tiny piece of the night’s sky. Henry explained another painting of plumes of magenta, orange and yellow, and tunnels of smoke, which showed the birth of a star. Another painting was the back of a naked man looking up at the night sky with a flint in his right hand.
‘This painting is poignant as it shows that even though the human race has been in existence for less than a breath from the universe, we have intelligence, curiosity and ingenuity combined with resilience to failure. It means we have progressed from animals in the Sahara, discovering basic tools, to venturing out into space – mainly due to the evolution of our cerebral cortex, but that’s another story. Nevertheless, our knowledge is pitiful to what we need to know to venture further and explore deep space. For me, I sit in this juxtaposition that we’ve come so far, further than any animal living or that has lived, but we are still just insignificant clusters of atoms in a very big and encompassing universe.’
‘I feel so small,’ I said.
‘That’s the universe; look at it and the stupidity of us, greed… I don’t know… fast cars and so on, are irrelevant in comparison to life.’
‘I was always told that art is just a display of someone else’s perception on life, but great art makes you think; this has, but I still feel small!’ I said.
‘Thank the universe. Now where’s my wife? Ah, over by the window, please excuse me.’
Just before he turned away Mark was by my side staring at the two of us.
‘I’m her husband,’ Mark said.
‘Hello, I’m Henry Brown.’
Henry offered his hand to shake and dropped it after a few long seconds.
‘I do apologise, I was monopolising your wife’s time by explaining the significance of these magnificent paintings.’
Mark gave an indignant stare.
‘Have you enjoyed these paintings?’ Henry offered a smile of friendship. ‘I particularly love the symbolism of this painting; as I was explaining to your wife, how the flint represents the beginning of Man’s true ability to search for solutions to what is initially perceived as impossible.’
Henry gestured to the painting as if gesturing to Mark to join in on the discussion, but I already detected the familiar glaze in Mark’s eyes.
‘It makes me proud to be a physicist as in my very small and puny way I feel I’m contributing to the advancement of the human race.’
‘Of course you are. An amazing job you have. I have such admiration for you.’ I offered. ‘I think it’s scientists like you who have made the important advances in our lives possible. Though I think my sister will contribute – thank a teacher!’
My attempt to lighten the air was then marred by Mark.
‘I don’t know why you think you’re so important: who gets spacemen into space? Who gets rockets and spaceships to fly?’
Mark pounded these questions at a startled Henry.
‘I’m not sure I understand the question but it’s engineers and physicists and…’
‘No,’ Mark interrupted. ‘It’s governments who pay your wages but the government is paid by the money men, aka me and crew, so it’s me who gets spacemen into space.’
I slyly looked at Mark and whispered, ‘What is wrong with you? Shut up!’
I looked back at Henry with a crooked smile as my attempt to telepathically say I was sorry for the ignorance of the man I chose to marry.
But before I could apologise Mark grabbed me by my arm and yanked me away from a baffled Henry. He positioned my arm at an uncomfortable angle; it felt like my arm had defected to Mark’s body and it was now pulling me by my shoulder ligaments out of the room and out of the apartment at a fast pace. I looked like a naughty toddler who was being pulled out of the toy shop by her parent for being an obstreperous and disobedient little girl. I can still see the rush of people’s heads turning to briefly look my way as I flitted pass them.
As we approached the apartment building doors the doorman swiftly opened them and instead of saying good evening he said, ‘Madam your coat?’
Mark spat, ‘Get lost, she doesn’t need one’.
The doorman hailed a taxi cab and I was thrown in and as soon as I clambered to my seat I stared at my shoes in shame to avoid the pitiful disbelief from a doorman whom I would never meet again. Mark slammed the car door and told the driver to take us to the hotel and thus began his admonishment for my behaviour.
‘What are you, Olive? You’re pathetic.’
He pulled at my chin so I would momentarily stare at him long enough for him to remind me how pathetic I was.
‘Pathetic!’ he said again. ‘I was so embarrassed by you. How do you think it makes me look if my wife is not by my side and doesn’t even look my way or speak to me all evening? I had to constantly apologise for you, saying, ‘I’m sorry my wife is somewhere, oh, er, I don’t know where though’? How does that make me look? An idiot that’s what!
‘I needed to introduce you to various people and their wives and where were you? Nowhere, that’s where. And what’s worse you couldn’t be bothered to even check I was okay? Did I want a drink or whatever? No, you were too interested in talking to some other bloke.’
His voice had lowered to an angry punch that pushed its way down my ear. All I could offer to try and diffuse his anger was a foolish, ‘You embarrassed by me? I’ve done nothing wrong. But if you want me to say sorry to make you stop, then here it is: I’m sorry. You want to hear it again? I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’
This one sentence was repeated by me throughout each wave of angry spats from Mark which continued for at least ten minutes. Finally, Mark fell back in his seat to catch breath yet he solemnly continued in a tired whisper whilst looking outside on the New York streets, which were floodlit by a cold full moon.
‘Sometimes I feel so ashamed you’re my wife, the way you behave towards me. And look at you, that dress looks cheap, it doesn’t even fit properly. You are cheap. But what else do I expect from a woman with your background. Yet I ask why? After everything I give you, I get nothing Olive, nothing in return.’
He sighed and closed his eyes as if he was embracing the punishment from the heavens for his stupidity at marrying me. He then suddenly opened his eyes and looked at me, his voice broke away from the whisper it had been to a rising roar; starting slowly then reaching a crescendo within two blocks.
‘I saw all the other women and you’re nothing in comparison to them. You look a mess, you are a mess. Why can’t you be like the other wives? Why can’t you dress like them? I suppose you can’t; you’re too cheap. You need to start looking better to make up for your ignorance in how to behave – in fact start now. Stop the car,’ he shouted and grabbed my arm again. ‘Go on get out and don’t come back until you look like a woman should look!’
He then yanked me over his knee and pushed me out of the taxi.
‘What are you doing, Mark? Get off me.’
I put my hands out to stop my fall to the pavement but the weight of my body made my arms crumple so it was my hea
d that broke my fall. I tried to scramble up to try and reassemble some dignity but Mark was pushing my legs out of the taxi so I resorted to an army shuffle to try and escape.
‘You deserve this, bitch…’
I heard the car door slam and saw the taxi pull away. I started to shake with mixture of humiliation, confusion and fear. I was still sitting on the floor whimpering to myself and not daring to look up in those first few seconds in case I caught sight of a stranger’s pity. I scrambled to my feet and held my throbbing head and looked around me through the smudged view of tears.
There was no one around. Initially I was relieved by this, but it soon gave way to panic and a pathetic whimper of, ‘Help!’ I blindly started to walk down the street I had been thrown into. I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t recognise any part of any street – I didn’t even recognise it as New York, but how could I have done? It was a city I did not know and I had only been in for a few days.
When I was thrown out of the taxi it was just after eleven and I spent the first part shivering in bewilderment holding my throbbing head and wincing from sporadic fires of pain. However, by midnight, I was, instead, shivering from the cold and holding my bare arms in defence of the night wind and stroking the bristling hair on my skin. Any person I did see I avoided, not from shame but fear of night prowlers. I was acutely aware that I was a lone woman in the back streets of a city wearing a tight cocktail dress and stilettos. Any subsequent defence in a court of law for my attacker would surely ask why I placed my head in the lion’s jaw? So, when I heard heavy footsteps behind me I instinctively started to run.
‘Noooo! Stop love, honestly stop! I just want to make sure you’re okay?’ bellowed a Scottish male voice.
He was now beside me walking at a brisk pace to keep up with my stiletto trot.
‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve just been watching you for a little while. Please stop, I’m not going to touch you, I’m gay and my boyfriend is just over there, trust me I don’t fancy you petal. And I can see you don’t have any money on you, though I love the Louboutin’s!’
The Society Game Page 17