by Mia Farlane
‘Hm?’
‘I had a bad dream last night.’ It was nearly quarter to seven. Jansen looked as if she might be awake (May had seen some movement) – or if she wasn’t, she should be; she had to leave for work in less than an hour. And the alarm was about to go off. ‘I dreamed I was in the bedsit, and the pipes were being eaten away by all these rats. I had to sprinkle white stuff on them to make them stronger (the pipes), but that started causing a blockage in someone else’s flat –’
‘What’s the time?’
‘It’s seven o’clock.’ It was ten to seven, so more or less. ‘She was going to have to leave because of me, and –’
‘May,’ Jansen sighed with exhaustion, ‘you’ve woken me up.’
‘You have to be awake now anyway. It’s seven o’clock… I had a scary dream.’
‘Hm.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘I don’t know what it means.’
‘You don’t have any idea?’
‘I don’t understand you: sleep is really important to you, and yet you wake me up. Why do you do that?’
‘I thought you were awake,’ May said. ‘And I had a bad dream,’ she added.
‘Hm.’
‘I’m worried about the PhD; I have to come up with a fucking outline. It’s giving me nightmares.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘And I’m sending Francine some more stupid fucking comments tomorrow, on that bloody fucking Mardrus book that I can hardly the fuck understand!’ May heard the sitting-room door being opened. ‘Oh, fuck! Elizabeth’s up.’
‘May, I think you’ve used up your “fuck” quota for the morning.’
‘She can’t be going to have a bath?’ May listened. ‘She is! She’s having a bath! Fucking hell!’
‘It’s not very enjoyable being woken up, raved at, and then sweared around,’ Jansen said.
‘“Sworn”, you mean. It’s no fun being “sworn” around.’
‘I’m going to go back to sleep for a bit. Please wake me up in half an hour,’ Jansen pulled the duvet up to her chin, ‘and not before half an hour.’
19
The Invitation
It was Tuesday evening: in less than a week it was the beginning of Easter break; which meant that in just over two weeks, it was the book launch. May got herself a coffee and some peanut butter on toast, went back to the front door, and picked up the pile of letters lying on the mat. She had walked over them as she came in, leaving them there until she was ready to cope with them. An electricity bill ( Jansen would open that), she went back to the sitting room, a letter from Amnesty International ( Jansen), and – it had arrived – an A4-sized envelope addressed to Mlle. Woodlea: from Francine. Inside were two bookmark-sized invitations:
PAUSE LECTURE BOOKSHOP INVITES YOU TO MEET
FRANCINE BRION
AND TO CELEBRATE THE PUBLICATION OF HER COLLECTED ESSAYS
TROISIÈME PERSONNE SINGULIÈRE
(ÉDITIONS ÉQUIVOQUES).
READING AND BOOK SIGNING
THURSDAY, 20 APRIL AT 20.00.
RSVP
There were also a photocopy of the interview with Francine; flyers about her book and the launch; and a note (no unnecessary verbiage, as usual) on a slip of paper:
Ma chère May,
Two invitations – one for you, and one for your supervisor. (You can photocopy the flyers.)
Je t’embrasse,
Francine Brion.
PS Thank you for returning the book, and for the card. I am still waiting to hear what you think of my article on Delarue-Mardrus.
Why, May wondered, had Francine put her surname? May stared at the note as she sipped her coffee. Was Francine angry with her? Perhaps she was; she probably was. Because May hadn’t mentioned the article, she hadn’t written anything much in the card, and she’d taken over a month to do all that: none of her notes had been good enough; they were not good enough. But perhaps she should have sent them. Because now it looked as if she hadn’t even read the book.
Well anyway, her rate of progress on the PhD was unimportant – in that she wasn’t enrolled anywhere and she didn’t have a supervisor.
Sometimes – May finished her toast – she wanted to take a brick and knock herself out for a while. She would go to bed early – she really couldn’t stand herself – and redraft her notes on the Delarue-Mardrus article while she waited for Jansen to get back. May put Jansen’s mail on the stool next to the bed, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
Two redrafts later, she heard the key in the door. May clicked off the light and lay down, pretending to be asleep. She heard the front door open and close – gently. It was Jansen, definitely: she was always careful to pull the door shut quietly; she was considerate. May listened: Jansen was brushing her teeth.
‘Jansen?’ May called out. ‘Jansen?’ There was no reply. May could hear her putting their toothbrush back in the cup. ‘Jansen?’ she called out again, more loudly. May got out of bed and opened the door.
Someone with long ringlets of dark brown hair was standing in front of the basin: a man; he’d turned to dry his face on the hand towel. May let out a yell, and he jumped, pulling the towel off the rail.
Elizabeth came running. ‘May, this is Mark; Mark, May. Sorry! Sorry! Oops!’ This was so amusing, to her.
‘Hello,’ Mark said. He looked tired and pasty. ‘Shit, you gave me a fright there.’
‘I think I got a bit more of a fright than you did.’
‘I was making us coffee,’ Elizabeth said. ‘D’you want one?’
‘No, thank you,’ May said. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow, so – good-night.’ She shut the door and, still breathing fast, climbed back into bed.
There was a tap at the bedroom door. Elizabeth came in. ‘Sorry ’bout that,’ she whispered in the dark. ‘He’s feeling totally gross; he’s just been sick round the corner, in front of the twenty-four-hour shop. He was driving me back home from a party at his place and we had to stop all of a sudden, so he could throw up. The van’s parked on a yellow line. Anyway, I’m gonna give him my mattress. He’s not capable of going anywhere… And you won’t see him; he’ll still be fast asleep when you get up… You’re having an early night,’ she observed.
‘Yes: because I need to get up in the morning. That gave me such a fright.’
‘Sorry. Sorry again.’
‘Whose toothbrush was he using?’
‘The blue one, don’t worry.’ Elizabeth went back to the door. ‘I’d better go and see how he is. Hey, I can take that letter to the post office for you tomorrow if you want, if you’ve still got it. Or anything else. I’m going there after the Jobcentre.’
‘No, I haven’t got anything.’
20
The Bargain
‘When people write “RSVP”, do they really mean it, do you think?’ It was eight thirty on a Monday morning, and May was still in her pyjamas; it was the first day of her Easter break. Nearly a week had passed since she had received the invitation to the book launch, and now she had less than a week to reply (if she was going to).
‘What?’ Jansen put on her chauffeur blazer. She picked up her bag, went to the kitchen, got an apple out of the fridge and washed it.
‘When they put “RSVP” on an invitation, do you have to reply, or does it not really matter?’
‘Is this a specific question, May? Because I’m in a hurry.’ Jansen put the apple in her bag, and went to the front door.
‘If you get an invitation to something, and it says “RSVP” –’
‘Where are they?’ Jansen checked her blazer pocket. ‘Just a moment.’ She went past May and back to the bedroom, where she looked on top of the chest of drawers, then put her bag on the floor and started rummaging around in it. ‘You haven’t seen the car keys, have you? I hope I didn’t leave them in the sitting room.’
‘Behind you – on the stool.’
Jansen turned round and picked them up. She put them in her pocket. ‘Thanks,�
�� she said. ‘Thanks. Right, I’ve got to go now, or I’ll get a parking ticket.’
The phone rang.
‘Could you get that? Bye, darling.’ Jansen went to leave.
‘I don’t want to; I’m not answering it,’ May said. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘May, I’ve got to go!’
‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Jansen dropped her bag and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello. Oh, hi!’ Her face transformed into happy surprise. ‘Yeah, I am actually – no, that’s all right… um, yeah okay well let’s…’ She gestured impatiently over to her diary on the writing desk, and May handed it to her. ‘You’re in this morning, are you? All right.’
May watched her; she knew she was being clingy.
‘No, no, no.’ Laughter. ‘Yeah, great, fine. No that’s fine. Bye!’
Jansen put her diary into her bag, and went to the front door again.
May followed her. ‘I’m talking about the book launch. Obviously,’ she said, talking fast. ‘She knows I’m coming anyway, doesn’t she? So, do I need to reply, or not?’
‘I think it’s polite to reply. Yes.’ Jansen opened the door. ‘Just give her a call, May. It’s quite simple.’
‘So you think I have to?’ May said. ‘But she might ask me about my supervisor; she’ll expect me to have written that covering letter to the universities; she might want to hear it.’
‘I think it’s up to you. Bye –’ Jansen gave May a kiss on the cheek, ‘bye, darling,’ and went out of the door.
May went to the National Gallery; she hadn’t been there for a while, she needed distraction, and it was her Easter break: she had the right. Anyway, it was educational – and Francine was busy until one. May got a headset and walked – ‘Spain and Venice 1700–1800’, ‘Canaletto and Guardi’, ‘British Portraits’, ‘France 1700–1800’ – from room to room in no particular order, tapping in the number next to various paintings, listening to the recordings, and noting… how vivid… finely rendered… just visible, under… an astonishing range of… almost translucent… holding wreaths… and at the centre of the painting… gap after gap in her education.
After an hour or so, she returned the headset, went to the shop and bought a book on French painters of the eighteenth to the twentieth centuries; over coffee, she would take some small steps towards self-improvement.
She left the Gallery with her new book, pushed open the large doors into the bright daylight of Trafalgar Square, the noise of traffic and police sirens, and crossed the road to St Martin-in-the-Fields. She sat on the steps of the church.
In her journal she jotted down: Fragonard, Courbet, Vigée-Lebrun. She’d cover them first; then she’d start at the beginning of the art history book and have the pleasure, at that point, of having already read certain scattered sections. Of course, she shut her journal and put it away, to do this properly she should also revise her Greek and Roman myths and legends.
‘Sweetheart.’
It wasn’t Jansen speaking.
May focused on the blurb at the back of her new book. If she didn’t look up, maybe he’d go away.
‘Sweetheart.’
She looked up. A man wearing a striped sweater whose colour was lost under various stains leaned in towards her, as if he were about to confide. ‘I’m reading,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ the man began, ‘but I only wanted to ask if you had a couple of pounds to spare, so I could get home…’ May opened her book at a painting of two women in a small boat on a lake: by Morisot, a leading figure among Impressionists, ‘… and as long as you’re doing okay – I had it all, I had the fast car, I know what I’m talking about – people like you.’ The alcohol on his breath was strong as aftershave. ‘But if things go wrong: they don’t want to know.’ He addressed a few passers-by, who ignored him. ‘I don’t suppose you want to hear this,’ May was engrossed in her book, studying a parasol, ‘but everyone’s shit stinks, sweetheart, you can’t get away from that, darling, and you can’t hide in that book of yours either; that’s not gonna save you. People don’t give a damn about each other,’ he continued to himself. ‘It’s just me-me-me: “good to see you”, “keep coming back”,’ he smirked through his rotting teeth, ‘but they won’t give you any bloody money; they’re not gonna give you what you actually need. What are you reading? You haven’t got any change, have you? I only need a pound.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ May looked up again, then returned to her book.
‘I’d only need a fiver,’ the man told her, raising his voice, as if she were deaf. ‘Or a pound; that would get me somewhere anyway. A pound? Thank you for listening to me.’ He started walking off, then changed his mind. ‘You know why I’m talking to you?’
May put her book in her bag, and the man gave up, leaving her with a parting: ‘Bitch.’
She should have stayed at home; this was how people never did anything. She was wasting time, being undisciplined; flicking through art books and acting as if she were on holiday.
She felt ill: either she was getting another cold or it was just that she was exhausted. She went down to the café in the Crypt and bought a cappuccino and a bread-and-butter pudding drowned in custard. As she ate under the dim blue ceiling-lights she watched the lunch queue grow longer. At a nearby table a girl sat flicking through Hello! magazine. May envied and despised her for this mindless and purposeless activity. Just to do anything that was a complete waste of time, and not feel guilty about it. The hours, the minutes ticked loudly away in May’s head – ‘That’s one minute gone, that’s another’ – reminding her to use time well. If only she could return to those unconscious days, she could drift along, and die at some point, happily unaware of any ambitions unfulfilled. It was just so painful to know that in nine years (eight really) she’d be forty, and she wouldn’t have done anything with her life.
May now sat growing a headache as she breathed in other people’s colds. She put her jacket on the chair opposite hers. She’d finish her cappuccino and go home.
* * *
Elizabeth was out shopping with Mark, xx. May stood in the sitting room. She had the place to herself; it was late in the afternoon. Now was the time to call Francine. May would keep it short: I’ll be at the book launch; I’m looking forward to it; and how are you?
And perhaps she would also say she was thinking of deferring the PhD.
There was a knock at the door and the sound of a key in the lock.
‘Oh, hi there.’ It was Mark, letting himself in. He had a large carrier bag with something square inside. ‘Elizabeth’s gone to get milk. She’ll be here any minute.’
‘Oh,’ May said.
‘Shall I put this in the sitting room?’
‘Yeah.’ May stepped aside, and then followed him.
There was a tap at the door, and Mark went back to answer it.
‘May, you’re home already.’ Elizabeth came in and leaped onto the sofa. ‘Yay!’ she said, pulling a carton of cigarettes out of the carrier bag, and setting it on the rug in front of her. ‘Forty packets per carton: that’s thirty pounds we’ve saved,’ she told her.
‘Something like that, yeah,’ Mark said.
May said nothing; she tried to show lack of interest. Now that Elizabeth and Mark had taken over the flat, she would have to take the phone and shut herself in the bedroom.
‘One-fifty times forty: that’s thirty pounds,’ Elizabeth went on.
May let the maths slide over the top of her brain. Thirty? That wasn’t right? No, she had to work it out: ten times one-fifty is fifteen, times two is thirty, times two is sixty. ‘That’s not right,’ she said aloud.
‘Oh sixty! I’ve saved sixty, I mean…’ Elizabeth focused on dislodging one packet from the carton. ‘Great!’ She laughed (she was stoned perhaps; she had to be, to be finding any of this amusing), and emptied out the cigarettes into her palm. ‘Twenty in a packet.’ She splayed them on the table. ‘Each one,’ she picked one
up, ‘every time you smoke one, you’re making a saving of 15p.’
That definitely wasn’t right. May didn’t bother working it out; it was the logic itself that bothered her.
‘Would you like a cigarette?’ Elizabeth offered. ‘You look like you could do with one. Mark, perhaps you’d make us a coffee?’
‘You know I don’t smoke,’ May said. ‘And no coffee for me, thanks.’
May went to the bedroom. What she’d do, she decided, was jot down what she wanted to say to Francine, and then she’d feel prepared. May opened up the writing desk and found a scrap of paper. She smelled smoke. They were smoking in the flat. She went back to the sitting room.
‘It’s all right. Don’t panic. We were just lighting up. We’re going for a walk.’ Elizabeth stopped to point dramatically at the door. ‘For God’s sake.’ She raised her eyebrows at Mark, and they left.
May went back to the bedroom, got a pen and made a few notes; three bullet points:
Am going to defer
But am coming to the book launch of course (looking forward to it)
(only if asked) Supervisor isn’t coming
Fine. May went over what she’d written: she would mention the deferral straight away, and then (if Francine wasn’t angry with her) May would be able to go to the book launch in a relaxed sort of way, all pressure off. She picked up the phone.
‘Tiens, c’est May! How are you? You’re well?’ Francine was delighted to hear from her. ‘Your dissertation’s progressing?’
‘No. In fact, no.’ (Bullet point number one – attempted.)
‘You’re coming up against some difficulty.’ Francine understood straight away.
‘I won’t be able to bring it to show you it yet. It’s not at all ready.’
‘Fine. We can arrange another time for you to bring it. After this book launch is over I’ll be far more available in any case. So, don’t worry. Just keep going.’
‘I really don’t think I can do the PhD.’ May tried again; she told Francine about her latest rat dream.