Footnotes to Sex

by Mia Farlane

  Why was it that May was standing there feeling as if she was bad for looking tight-lipped, a spoilt sulky child who hadn’t got an ice-cream, and that Elizabeth had the role of the adult, totally unaffected, but tolerant.

  Elizabeth laughed in May’s face. ‘Oh, come on. It’s funny! “Dear Ms Woodlea,”’ she faked a concerned voice, ‘“I was sorry to hear you were recently a victim of burglary –”’

  ‘YOU!’ May screamed, ‘are wasting people’s time!’ She pointed her finger at her. ‘Is that funny? It’s funny that Victim Support’s wasting its time because YOU behave outrageously.’

  ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa.’ Elizabeth stood up, putting her hands in the air as she edged past May and out of the bathroom. ‘Don’t shoot,’ she said, backing into the sitting room.

  ‘No. You’re the one judging me.’ May followed her. ‘Making comments all the time about how I am with Jansen; deciding I’ve got something in common with the most pathetic character in L’Ange et les pervers. Well, I know what that’s about: projection.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Elizabeth fished a tea-light candle out of the pocket of her army jacket. She performed a cross-eyed smile-frown of comic confusion.

  ‘You find this so so funny, don’t you? Well I don’t. I don’t like you projecting your problems onto me. I don’t like you suggesting horrible things about me, attacking me via a book. I could say horrible things about you if I wanted to: like – do you contribute? Do you pay rent? Do you put money in for food?’ May looked over at the newly made sculpture taking up space on the table, and scowled at it. ‘I hate that vulva-thing sitting over there. I didn’t tell you that before, but I will tell you now. I think it’s risible (which is not a compliment, by the way). That’s not art.’ May walked over to it. ‘This isn’t – art. Don’t tell me this is “art”. (I hope not.)’

  Elizabeth was sending love across the room to her sculpture, as if silently defending and comforting it.

  ‘And where are you going to put it?’ May continued. ‘Not in the flat. I don’t want it in the flat. You will have to take it somewhere else to dry. Because I don’t want it around. I don’t want to have to look at it. And I really don’t want it on the table, staring at me while I eat!’

  Elizabeth put her hand to her mouth, trying to keep her laughter inside. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for your… feedback? So you don’t like it then?’

  ‘This is what I think of your sculpture –’ May picked up the vulva and, deciding that yes she would, she said, ‘It’s junk,’ and dropped it – th-thud! – onto the floor.

  The wings collapsed skew-whiff and the body spread out. Elizabeth jolted back, as if whiplashed.

  Outside, a few cars went by.

  May was standing in front of the disaster area. She stepped away from it.

  Elizabeth walked over to the small clay mess on the carpet, and crouched down beside it. She touched the tips of the flattened wings, before gently and gradually lifting them off the floor, carefully disengaging the damaged bird from the carpet. ‘I’m going to tidy this up,’ she said quietly.

  May left the room. She turned off the taps in the bathroom and went to ring Jansen. Whose phone was switched off. She waited five minutes. She tried again. Eventually she got through.

  ‘Darling.’ Jansen was concerned. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Hello? Hello?’

  Eventually, May could try to speak.

  ‘Oh.’ Jansen clicked her tongue. ‘May,’ she sighed, ‘you didn’t!’ Jansen left some silence after that, in order to emphasize the gravity of the situation.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ May twisted the telephone cord round her index finger. ‘I just wanted her to stop laughing all the time. She makes me so furious!’ May wiped away her tears angrily. ‘She thinks she’s so “quietly” funny, but what she is, is rude.’

  Jansen said nothing.

  May freed her finger from the telephone cord. ‘If she moves out – all the better.’

  Nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry I did it.’

  ‘Hm.’

  May felt like a child at the headmistress’s office. ‘She is the one who broke into our flat,’ she enunciated each consonant, ‘and did not let us know about it.’

  ‘She was probably too scared.’ Jansen was on Elizabeth’s side.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Right. Ri-ght!’ May laughed out her disbelief. There was no point in talking to Jansen about this. ‘Thanks for your support.’ She heard the front door slam. ‘Just a second.’ She dropped the receiver onto the bed, and ran out to the external landing. ‘What are you doing?’ she shouted to Elizabeth.

  ‘I’m going to buy some cigarettes – I’m out. Is that permitted? Or do I sign a form first?’ Elizabeth disappeared down the stairwell.

  May went back inside. She picked up the phone again. Jansen had hung up.

  29

  The Disappearance

  Then the week began. May went to work and Jansen slept in and went shopping; and May came home to find no Elizabeth; and Jansen – when May rang her from school in her breaks – said, ‘No, she’s not back yet’ and ‘No messages.’ May called Elizabeth’s mobile: no answer. Monday. Tuesday.

  Wednesday.

  ‘I don’t think Elizabeth will have disappeared for ever,’ Jansen said. ‘After all, she’s left all her stuff here; she’ll have to come back and get it, won’t she?’

  Thursday.

  Friday. May was alone in the flat: Jansen wasn’t there; she was out driving, and Elizabeth wasn’t there – she was either at Mark’s (according to Jansen) or she was somewhere else ( Jansen’s other idea). May was alone. She was alone with her head, and because of that she picked up the phone. It was without thought. She just picked up the receiver.

  ‘Allô, c’est May.’ She was sending herself out on stage unprepared. She’d improvise. ‘I’m calling you…’ She didn’t know why; she didn’t have a reason. She wanted to hear Francine’s voice.

  ‘Ah, c’est toi.’ It was impossible to know whether Francine was in a good or a bad mood.

  ‘I wanted to explain why I decided to defer.’ Yes, that was the reason – that’s right – and this call was probably a mistake.

  ‘I don’t see the interest in that, quite frankly. You have already made the decision. All alone, like a big girl.’ She was in a bad mood. ‘You might have talked to me about it before you took your decision, and there perhaps, speaking about it would have served a purpose.’ She was in a very bad mood. ‘Now you want me to understand something perhaps. You want me to understand you.’

  May tried to think of something to say.

  ‘What does your supervisor say about this?’

  May said nothing. She didn’t like to lie, not actively.

  ‘You’ve discussed it with her, at least?’

  ‘No.’ No, because there was no supervisor.

  ‘She doesn’t know about it?’ Francine processed this. ‘In her place, I wouldn’t be exactly delighted to learn that I’d been kept in the dark.’

  More silence.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Francine said. ‘Come and see me when you can be more open.’

  May tried again to think up something to say.

  ‘Right. You have nothing else to add?’

  May was still thinking. Her lips were dry.

  ‘Very well. Goodbye.’

  ‘Okay. Goodbye.’

  May looked in the cupboards: tinned tuna, rice, tinned pineapple, honey, salt, flageolet beans, couscous, pepper. She looked in the fridge: milk, cheese, leeks and a jar of black olives. She took the jar to the sitting room, sat on the sofa, had a couple of olives, and then rang Jansen.

  ‘Is she back?’ Jansen asked.

  ‘No,’ May said. She put a third olive stone next to her on the arm of the sofa.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Jansen.

  ‘There’s nothing to eat.’ May put another olive into her mouth. ‘I’m really hungry and there’s nothing to eat.’

  ‘What are you eating then?’ Jansen asked. />
  ‘Olives,’ May said. She added another stone to the pile. ‘I wish there was something to eat. I feel like something real. We’ve only got tins of things.’

  ‘We’ve got leeks in the fridge, haven’t we? And I’m pretty sure we’ve got some potatoes left. Why don’t you have a look?’

  ‘I don’t feel like cooking,’ May said. She put the lid back on the jar.

  ‘Well, I’d really appreciate it if you would. I’m going to be home by half past eight tonight, and we could have dinner together. Why don’t you do wedges?’

  ‘Boring.’ May stared at the jar. ‘I feel like something spicy and light,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve got spices,’ Jansen told her. ‘Cumin, paprika, I think we’ve got some Cajun spice – have a look in the bottom drawer.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You could do some couscous, if you feel like something light.’

  ‘When is it you’re getting home?’ May asked. ‘Eight thirty?’

  ‘I should be there by about eight thirty, maybe a bit later.’

  ‘Eight thirty, or a bit later? I’ll be starving by then.’

  ‘Well, eat something. Have some muesli. Are you going to cook?’

  ‘Probably. I suppose. Maybe. I’m not promising that I will,’ May said.

  ‘Are you going to cook something, or not?’ Jansen asked.

  ‘I have to promise that I’m going to cook? I really don’t feel like cooking.’

  ‘Fine, don’t cook.’ Jansen said. ‘If you don’t want to, please don’t. Don’t bother.’

  ‘Are you annoyed now? You want me to, don’t you?’

  Jansen sighed. ‘I’ll pick something up on the way home.’

  ‘Singapore Fried Rice?’ May suggested.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Yay!’

  ‘Actually, May, this really annoys me. We’ve got food at home. It’s a waste of money getting a takeaway.’

  ‘I don’t feel like cooking,’ May said. ‘I’m feeling flat.’

  ‘You never feel like cooking.’

  ‘I’m worried about Elizabeth.’ May didn’t have the energy to mention her call to Francine.

  ‘I know you are. Why don’t you try her mobile again?’ Jansen suggested.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t have to. It’s a suggestion… May, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in a few hours. Eat something, and I’ll see you around eight thirty.’

  30

  Some Space

  Saturday morning. Elizabeth had left her bags – the rubbish bag and her cardboard box of art history and modern art theory books; she’d left the mattress folded in half with all its bedding still on it, and her towel hanging over a chair; she had also left a couple of bras and knickers in the airing cupboard in the hall, and the remaining clay in the cupboard next to the sink: she would have to come back, as Jansen said, ‘to get all her stuff’. Nearly a week had passed.

  ‘How can I relax my jaw when I’m asleep! If I’m awake, I can try to remember, but not while I’m asleep.’

  ‘Welcome to the day,’ Jansen said.

  May dropped her jaw open, practising a relaxed, slouched mouth.

  ‘You look like someone pretending to be dead,’ Jansen said.

  ‘It hurts to relax my jaw. It doesn’t come naturally to me. And it doesn’t help that Elizabeth’s disappeared. She had to go off straight away, didn’t she? So as not to give me the chance to apologize. She wants me to feel terrible. When I get my dentist’s bill, I’ll send it to her.’ Already there was Francine, who was angry with her; it was too much. May put her tongue on her top right molar at the very back of her mouth. She was being punished. ‘A root canal doesn’t hurt, does it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jansen said.

  ‘Yes, it does hurt?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ That was a question really. How did Jansen know, anyway?

  May pictured someone in a white coat pulling out nerves with something like tweezers. It was logical that they couldn’t anaesthetize you, because perhaps they’d need to know they’d got a nerve, and not something else. ‘Who do you know,’ she said, ‘who’s had a root canal?’

  ‘You don’t need one, May. You don’t need a root canal.’

  ‘What d’you mean, I don’t need one? How do you know? Are you a dentist?’

  ‘She didn’t say you needed a root canal. Did she?’

  ‘When I asked her, she said she didn’t think I’d need one “yet” – she used the word “yet”. She said if my teeth were hurting all the time, that might indicate I needed one.’

  ‘So you don’t need one,’ Jansen concluded.

  ‘They’re really sensitive. I can’t drink cold water any more. I’m going to need one.’ She was going to need all her molars done, eventually. She imagined strings of nerves shrieking out of her gums. ‘It’s just a matter of time. The dentist said there was some sort of plastic thing she could give me to fit over my teeth at night. I’ll probably choke on it.’

  ‘It’s amazing how much more talking you do than me. You’ve only just woken up.’

  ‘Why aren’t you worried about Elizabeth? You don’t seem that worried. You don’t seem the slightest bit worried.’

  ‘She’ll be at Mark’s.’

  ‘Yes probably, but she isn’t answering my calls. It’s so clever: she manages to disappear, leaving me guilty of something. I could be enjoying her absence, but I can’t, because I’m a criminal. It’s amazing how I end up being the criminal.’

  ‘She obviously needs space. That’s all. You’ll work it out.’

  May couldn’t begin to explain how wrong Jansen was; there were too many points to cover at once, her system jammed up thinking about it. She pulled the duvet over her head, and curled up. It was good Jansen had the day off. May needed her to witness how bad things were.

  ‘You could always apologize over the phone,’ Jansen said. ‘You could leave her a message. That’s what I would do – in your position.’

  ‘I’m not the only one in the wrong.’ And Francine could be more understanding, as well; she could be less harsh. Francine was in love with May, that’s what it was: and she was disappointed in her because of the deferral, she was embarrassed to be seen to have expended so much energy on someone so stupid.

  ‘May, you dropped her sculpture on the floor: you owe her an apology.’

  ‘Elizabeth’ – May stuck her head out of the duvet again – ‘is the one who’s been breaking into people’s homes, and not telling them about it.’ She couldn’t feel bad about two things at once. ‘It was really stressful: thinking we’d been burgled and having to worry about whether or not they were perhaps going to come back, and take something.’

  Jansen laughed.

  ‘Could I have some “space”?’

  Jansen ruffled May’s hair. ‘You just look so funny with your little head poking out!’

  ‘Could I have some space, please?’ May jerked her head away from Jansen.

  ‘Booboo, it’s not that serious. You’ve got to learn to laugh at yourself.’

  ‘Could you go away, please?’

  Jansen got out of bed, pulled on some socks, and left the bedroom. She was making a statement. May would have to get up now, if she wanted to talk to Jansen. She would not get up. She’d lie there, wasting her life.

  May picked up the phone and dialled:

  ‘Allô, oui.’ She was French, but she wasn’t Francine.

  ‘Oh bonjour… is Francine there, s’il vous plaît?’

  ‘No, she’s just gone out. Can I help you perhaps?’ It was Anne. May recognized the voice.

  ‘No. Thank you. Could you –’

  ‘Ah! I know who you are: it’s May. You don’t recognize me. It’s Anne Béranger. How are you?’

  ‘Oh yes. How are you?’ May replied.

  Anne laughed. ‘That’s so English: “How are you? How are you?”’ She repeated the question in deliberate French-student English. ‘And nobody answers
the question. I adore it!’

  May waited for Anne to move on, to say something else, and then she’d get off the telephone.

  ‘Oh, it’s difficult, isn’t it?’ There was sympathy in the tone. ‘Excuse me. I am not polite: I am not English; I cannot talk about the weather. When I meet someone I want to know: are you happy? Are you in love with your husband? Or do you just pretend?’

  ‘Mm,’ May said, to indicate she’d been listening.

  ‘So, how are you, in any case?’ Anne continued. ‘And I would like to know the answer. Because I am French.’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Very well.’

  ‘And I am also extremely well,’ Anne said. ‘That’s excellent. Shall I ask her to call you?’

  ‘No, I’ll try again later. Thank you.’ It was only ten thirty in the morning in France; had Anne stayed the night at Francine’s?

  ‘You know Francine finds you enormously frustrating, are you aware of that? You really made her come off her hinges.’

  ‘I haven’t yet made a decision about the PhD,’ May said. ‘Anyway, thank you very much, I’ll call her back.’

  ‘Shall I tell you a secret? Before you escape? Ha-ha! Yes! You are curious. All right, I’ll tell you: I am of the opinion, I intuit rather – which is far better – that you have not had “no effect” on Francine. Don’t forget that you are English. You speak French very well: just a hint of English. It’s quite charming. So, there you are… I’ll tell her you called.’

  It was true then. May took out her diary. What was Anne saying? Was she being ironic? Was she being subtle? She was French, after all; she’d have read Le Cid: ‘Vas, je ne te hais point.’ (‘Go, I hate you not’ – that is to say, ‘I love you.’) And why would Anne have used a double negative unless she had wanted to express something stronger than what she was literally saying? No one goes to all that effort to express nothing, do they? May sat up in bed, and wrote:

  Chère Francine,

  I am going to write you a short letter.

  Chère Francine, (she started again)

  I am writing to you…

  Chère Francine,

  A postcard from London, for perhaps…