The Alone Alternative

by Linda MacDonald

  Edward’s half-dead emotions begin to pulse.

  Harriet continues, ‘She’s using a picture of the book cover as her avatar. It’s got purple rhododendrons on it.’

  Rhododendrons … They were the most prevalent flowers at Brocklebank Hall; a panoply of lilac and magenta blooms lining the driveway and the playground in summer. And a book called Lydia, named after him; after the character he played in their prep school production of The Rivals: Lydia Languish, niece of Mrs Malaprop and lover of Captain Absolute. His memory stirs and for a moment his thoughts skip back to that time when he was eleven and involved in one of the most exciting, if scary, things he had ever done.

  ‘I should never think of giving my heart to a man because he could swim!’

  Even now, all these years later, he can remember some of the more entertaining or dramatic lines. Three boys had taken female roles so wearing a dress hadn’t been too much of an ordeal, though the material did feel unpleasantly tickly against his skin and the back zip presented difficulties – something that later helped him to understand Felicity’s need for assistance after parties. Thankfully the experience had not enticed him into dressing up in women’s clothes after that.

  If they had been a year or two older, being wooed by another boy might have been embarrassing. As it was, he was able to ham it up, exaggeration that perfectly suited Sheridan’s melodrama.

  ‘I am so astonished! And so terrified! And so overjoyed!’

  He had been nervous about remembering the lines and acting appropriately, but had enjoyed the opportunity to escape his normally quiet demeanour and be an exhibitionist. Even now it is the performance aspect of his lecturing role that gives him the greatest satisfaction. He has an enduring memory of caked-on make-up – almost impossible to get off with the cold cream that bore a distinctive and almost pharmaceutical smell, unlike anything he had come across either before or since. Marianne had been the only true girl in the play: Lucy, Lydia’s maid.

  ‘Will you tweet her?’ says Harriet, bringing him back to the present.

  ‘I might,’ says Edward.

  When Marianne found him on Friends Reunited, she referred to him jokingly as Lydia. And it was their reuniting that had inspired her to write a novel of the same name. He is curious to read it in its entirety and hurt she hasn’t told him. He wonders if she has found a publisher, or at last decided to publish independently – something he suggested once or twice while he was lodging. She let him read the bits that were based on their childhood at prep school and his memory had been stirred by the facts – the bad times and good times, the bullying and camaraderie. And he was amused by the fiction – at least what she said was fiction. Even if she didn’t have a crush on him then, she possibly developed one later, although she never said. And so did he; more than a crush.

  All day he is unusually distracted. It takes something significant to remove his focus from his working life. It happened once before when scheming hussy Taryn seduced him. Now, in between lectures and meetings, all he can think about is Marianne. He remembers her shiny hair, her vivid green eyes, the way she teased him sometimes for taking her too seriously or literally.

  At lunchtime he walks the landscaped grounds, full of trees in early blossom, and muses on what to do. To do nothing is not an option. He will send her a tweet and see if and how she responds. Tweeting is impersonal. She can ignore it if she chooses. She might still be mad with him. And there is still the question of her husband, Johnny. If Edward couldn’t stand it then, what difference now? But age and the loss of Felicity have changed him and he yearns for her friendship again.

  As soon as he arrives home at the Deer Orchard, he lets Meg into the paddock, checks the hens and then disappears into his upstairs office to look for Lydia on Amazon. His heart races as he reads the blurb; the blurb about Adam and Maya and their re-acquaintance via Friends Reunited. In a few weeks it will be published.

  He can’t resist Twitter any longer. He sets up an account. After a few attempts, he becomes @Edward_Harvey1. He adds Archaeologist to the profile and will add a picture later, but probably not a photograph of himself. For now he is content to be an egg. He types Marianne Hayward into the search box. There are several. He looks at the avatars, the accompanying photos, and soon he spies the cover of her book that Harriet mentioned. She is @marihay1. He sighs and realises he has been holding his breath.

  Mari. It’s what Johnny calls her. And after a while she let him too.

  Her profile is as Harriet said: Teacher of psychology, married with daughter, living in Beckenham, almost author. Her tweets, as far as he can see, are about the forthcoming book with a few random ones about environmental matters, health issues, food and science.

  He decides it is time to be bold.

  @marihay1 Have seen your book on the web. Am very much looking forward to reading it.

  He clicks on the Tweet button and then takes Meg for a walk, his mind waltzing with possibilities.

  He heads towards the village. A curtain moves as he passes Jessica’s house, but he is travelling down a different road in his head and barely notices.

  Until this single word string on Twitter, he has not been in touch with Marianne for five years. He was the one who decided that when he left Stancliffe, he would break all contact. Indeed, there has been no communication between them since then. But that was the way he said it must be. No phone calls, no emails; nothing. This was for his benefit. He needed to forget her completely. He was so stressed by weekend rows with Felicity and by living in two locations, he wasn’t thinking straight. At the time, it was the only way he could see himself devoting the necessary energy to trying to save his marriage.

  Needless to say, Marianne wasn’t pleased.

  He returned to his old job at the University of Devon, outside Exeter – a job that in the intervening three years had been filled by three other members of the department on a rotational basis. It was an unsatisfactory arrangement, each trying to outdo the other, implementing initiatives which were then unimplemented the following year; each hoping to impress sufficiently to be awarded the job on a permanent basis. In the absence of a better solution, and with the certainty that in time Edward would want to return, Dick Fieldbrace, the Dean of Studies, believed this was the best thing to do. He had been proven correct.

  Now Edward still retains Honorary Visiting Professor status at Stancliffe, and returns each October to do a short series of weekly lectures with the final year students. He also supervises a PhD candidate. And when he makes these visits, he often thinks how nice it would be to have a sleepover at Beechview Close instead of making the round trip in a day, or staying over in a characterless hotel. His efforts to banish Marianne from his mind have always been unsuccessful and even more so in the past six months. She appears when he least expects it, sometimes during a television documentary when he can almost hear her making some point or other as she was wont to do.

  His efforts to repair his marriage were zealous and focused for a time. He showed interest in the livestock, even donning a bee suit and making explorations into the hive to collect honey, ending up badly stung for his efforts. He drove lambs to market, milked goats and did a few stints of selling at the farmers’ markets during the abundant weeks of autumn when they had enough produce to cover more than one location. And all the while he looked to Felicity for approval, for appreciation, desperately hoping that she would welcome him once more into a night-time embrace.

  She didn’t.

  ‘It’s about time,’ was all she said when he confronted her about his efforts to be involved with her business.

  And on the rare occasions she accepted his amorous advances in bed, their union was soulless and unsatisfactory. Neither mentioned love any more and Edward, who believed he still loved her when he resigned from Stancliffe, now found his feelings ebbing away with rapidity.

  After Felicity admitted her affair with Gianni and packed her bags, there was no reason to feel guilty about Marianne so she popped up e
ven more in his thoughts, often wearing fewer clothes and engaging him in some pleasurable distraction. His fantasies are now much more graphic than they were when he was in touch with her. It is as if she has taken on the status of a fictional character, permitting free rein for his imagination. With his rediscovery of her on Twitter, he is non-plussed, embarrassed even. It may be difficult putting these images back in the box.

  He has only been home from his walk for five minutes, and is contemplating supper options, when there is a knock at the door.

  It is Jessica, this time carrying half a meat pie. ‘Thanks for last night. It took me out of myself.’

  Edward suddenly has an image of two Jessicas, one a little more transparent, like a case shed by a marine creature.

  ‘I hope we can do it again,’ she says. ‘As friends,’ she adds. ‘My treat next time.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ says Edward, hoping to leave it at that. He smells her perfume wafting through the door on the breeze, cloying, overdone, inappropriate for the delivery of a pie; likewise the heels on which she struggled through the gravel.

  ‘Shall we say same time next week?’ she says.

  ‘I’m rather busy next week,’ says Edward, hastily.

  ‘Two weeks’ time, then? I can do Thursday.’

  He is taken aback by the speed with which she is operating. ‘I’ll have to check my diary. I may be away, lecturing. Not sure.’ He tries not to sound enthusiastic, hoping she will take the hint and preparing her for disappointment when he discovers he has an important meeting or a talk to give to the Chipping Camden History Society, or some such organisation. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Jessica frowns, hands him the pie without a word and delicately picks her way back down the gravel path.

  He expects Conrad would tell him to keep the option open. But he isn’t Conrad and there must be more suitable women than Jessica. Since Felicity left, it has crossed his mind once or twice that he may never have sex again. He counts the months. It was infrequent for several years. He blamed her hormones, she blamed her hormones. Conrad said this was normal and that women are biologically programmed only to want sex during fertile years. Edward didn’t believe this was a universal truth, though it might explain why older men seek younger women. Yet since the discovery of Felicity’s liaison with Gianni, this theory seems irrelevant. His pride is wounded.

  Harriet is out at her Italian evening class. She joined as soon as Felicity said she was leaving. Said she would go to visit them in Italy and that it would be good to know some of the language. Edward hasn’t yet heard much evidence of progress, but then Harriet has always been reluctant to display any intellectual prowess. So Edward retires to his upstairs office, alone with his thoughts and Jessica’s pie. In truth, he’s never been a fan of pastry, but in such gastronomically scarce times, he puts his aversion to one side.

  In between writing his latest paper and munching mouthfuls, he keeps checking his interactions on Twitter, but there is no sign of Marianne although she is tweeting in his timeline. As he is only following one person, he is bound to see everything she writes for general public view.

  Very dry for the time of year. Looks like we’re heading for a drought.

  A warning that we should make provisions when the rain comes.

  We are an ‘after the horse has bolted’ society. Everything in hindsight. #drought

  Those without water meters need to be reminded to turn off their taps.

  Leaks must be fixed, waste reduced, water stored.

  Is there justification for water expenditure on golf courses or for other leisure pursuits?

  Typical Marianne.

  She must know he is watching.

  *

  It is late the following evening, Friday, before she replies.

  @Edward_Harvey1 How do I know it’s you?

  @Marihay1 Archaeologist?

  @Edward_Harvey1 Not an infrequent occupation on Twitter.

  @Marihay1 Lydia Languish.

  @Edward_Harvey1 Ah ... ok, I believe you. Your support will be appreciated – as always.

  Again, the pulsing heart.

  If he was expecting her to show delight, this is a disappointment. If a tweet could look cool, this is as cold as an underground cave. No exclamation marks and no emoticons. He wonders what she is thinking and why she has taken three days to respond. She is skilled in giving nothing away.

  @marihay1 Of course I am biased but I see you have quite a following.

  @Edward_Harvey1 It would seem so.

  @marihay1 I hope all is well with you.

  @Edward_Harvey1 Pass.

  His stomach registers alarm for the first time since Felicity made her grand announcement. So much could have happened to her in the intervening years. He had lost two parents. They were of an age when this was not unexpected. He hopes Holly is okay and that Mari and Johnny are well. That is another problem with fifty-something. No sooner has one dealt with the illnesses of parents, but one’s own health starts misbehaving too. He is still relatively robust, but his wrist is stiff from when it broke during the mugging of September 2003 and he believes the stresses of the past few years have taken their toll in that he no longer feels as vital as he once was. He isn’t exactly ill, but he finds it increasingly difficult to say he is well. He wouldn’t be surprised if he is depressed, but not sufficiently so to take medication. In any case, if he is depressed, it will be reactive depression, a consequence of life events over which he has had little control. No medication will solve the problems and he isn’t attracted to being on the receiving end of therapy despite several times thinking of retraining as a counsellor. When he was lodging with Marianne and Johnny, she had been his counsellor of a sort.

  @marihay1 Please follow back so I can send DM.

  Harriet had explained to him about DMs and neither he nor Marianne is likely to divulge personal information for the world of Twitter to see. You can only send a direct message if a person is following you. All Edward can do is wait.

  Another day passes. Another day when he has difficulty focusing on his work.

  In the evening, he knows she is on her computer because she continues to tweet about the drought that is now causing serious water shortages across the country. He will wait another day or two. He will be patient. He knows she is curious by nature and that her apparently unforgiving heart is a protection mechanism against the hurts she suffered as a child when at school, and also since. She forgave him once before; a far greater hurt in that he made a dreadful mistake and let her down. Surely this time there are mitigating circumstances. Inside her protective igloo, she is all warmth and compassion.

  And he knows she cared.

  He hopes she will thaw if he gives it time.

  6

  Past Blast

  Two weeks after Johnny’s funeral, Marianne comes back from work, dumps her bag in the hall, flings off her coat and is sitting in the living room in an almost catatonic trance, numb and red eyed, when the doorbell rings.

  Standing on the threshold is a tiny woman, muffled up to her ears against the March winds in a high-neck red padded coat and with a matching woolly hat.

  The woman says, ‘I didn’t phone, but I had to come to see you. I’ve only just heard. I’m so sorry.’

  Marianne blinks, wondering who … then recognises the low dusky voice and the eyes. ‘Taryn!’

  After that it is all reflex actions. She doesn’t have the energy to engage her brain and analyse the pros and cons of possible responses. It is seven years since she has seen her, yet many times she has wanted to pick up the phone. Since Edward left, their falling out has become less relevant and time has healed. She leads the way into the living room and collapses onto the sofa.

  Taryn unwraps herself, revealing a still-toned body in jeans and an emerald green sweater. She shakes a canvas bag at Marianne. ‘I bet you aren’t eating properly. I’ve brought some pasta sauce, and a bag of fusilli. It can be rustled up in ten minutes – or if you’d rather, you can keep it
till tomorrow.’

  Marianne starts to cry again at this simple act of practical kindness.

  Taryn comes over to the sofa and puts her arm around her erstwhile friend. ‘I don’t generally do hugs, but this is an exception.’

  *

  Since then, their friendship has resumed almost as if the missing years had not existed. They play tennis, like old times, although not so frequently or energetically. And without Johnny’s disapproving presence, Taryn spends more time at Beechview Close than she ever did before.

  They talked about their rift, each recognising that they had learned much from what had happened. Taryn’s life had transformed. She had sought more therapy, ditched her old femme fatale habits and formed an enduring relationship with Neil, Head of History at the school in which she still teaches English. He has calmed her down. She is no longer a loose cannon in the company of other people’s husbands. She and Neil continue to live in separate accommodation, but are acknowledged as a couple in all but residence.

  ‘He’ll do anything for a piece of cake,’ said Taryn when telling Marianne about their commitment. ‘Indeed, it is my opinion, many times confirmed, that one of the best ways of dealing with men is to give them cake.’

  Once again it is to Taryn that Marianne turns in the face of an Edward dilemma. It is Saturday afternoon and they are in one of the many coffee shops in Beckenham’s High Street, sitting at a table at the back, away from the huge windows that deny privacy. Even though it is March, the temperatures this year are more like those expected in June. Both women wear long summer dresses with sandals, Taryn in jade, baring spray-bronzed arms and Marianne in a blue ethnic print with plain blue cardigan.