Footnotes to Sex

by Mia Farlane

  May had been flicking through various magazines and newspapers – Floodlight, Hot Courses, TES, et cetera – at WHSmith, browsing her life away. Would the post be for a PhD student (or for someone who wanted to do a PhD)? Or was it for someone who already had a PhD and wanted to do more research? Perhaps she should ring and find out. It was a thought.

  But really that was all it was.

  She picked up the phone. And put it down again.

  If she was going to call Francine, she should think about this carefully first. She sat down on the bed and took a sip of her camomile tea, and stared at the writing desk: a thick layer of dust lay on its surface. May went to the bathroom, pulled off a piece of loo paper, and came back and wiped the dust off the desk. The chest of drawers was dusty too; she picked up books and papers, pens, and dusted around them, the various other objects, keys and a bookmark. Then she dusted the stool where her tea was, and had another sip. She had to be honest about the deferral: that was one thing. And what could happen? Nothing. It would just be a bit unpleasant.

  She picked up the phone.

  ‘Allô, c’est May.’

  Francine said nothing.

  ‘I’m calling because I’m thinking of coming to Paris this weekend – just for the day.’

  Still Francine said nothing; she clearly felt May hadn’t finished.

  ‘And I wanted to know whether I could come and visit you – on Saturday or Sunday – in the afternoon, some time that would suit you.’

  ‘Sunday,’ Francine said. ‘If you arrive at two o’clock, I could give you an hour, but only an hour; after that I shall have to get back to work. I’ve got a talk to prepare and –’

  ‘Oh?’ May had interrupted her; she hadn’t meant to; she’d meant to show interest.

  ‘Yes. Good.’ Francine was about to finish the conversation.

  ‘And apart from that?’ May asked. She hoped Francine might fill in the rest of the sentence.

  ‘That’s a good start: “and apart from that”. What is it you want to ask me “apart from that”?’

  ‘How are you?’ It was the first question May could think up.

  ‘What do you think? Well, very well.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, since your book’s been published.’

  ‘There is more to life than that!’

  ‘That’s true,’ May said. ‘Of course there is, yes,’ she agreed. She felt like crying.

  Silence.

  ‘See you on Sunday then,’ May said.

  ‘Yes, see you on Sunday. Au revoir.’ Very formal.

  ‘Au revoir!’ May said it cheerfully, as if all was well.

  She was very tired. She felt as if she had a rock in her head. She didn’t always like Francine that much. May lay down on the bed. Then she sat up, and she called Jansen again.

  ‘Hello. Are you calling to apologize?’

  May sighed loudly. ‘I’m tired, I’m so tired.’ She lay back down on the bed.

  ‘So am I,’ Jansen told her.

  ‘Are you annoyed because I said I was tired?’ May asked. ‘Or not?’ she added. ‘Are you just tired, too?’

  Jansen said nothing. Then she said, ‘I am just saying that I am also tired.’

  ‘I am sorry about hanging up on you,’ May said. ‘And thank you for the yummy chocolate.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’

  ‘When do you finish?’ May asked.

  ‘I should be back by ten.’

  ‘Ten! Oh God! I wanted to talk to you! I wanted to see you!’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to Elizabeth?’ Jansen said. ‘Perhaps you could have a talk with her, and ask her about moving out.’

  ‘I haven’t got the energy to do that; I don’t want to talk to Elizabeth. I wanted to talk to you. I’ve got all sorts of things I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  No one said anything.

  ‘Sorry, darling, but I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Drive carefully,’ May said. ‘I’m sorry about hanging up on you.’

  ‘Yes. See you tonight.’

  May got into her pyjamas. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, but she was going to get ready for bed anyway. She shut the curtains, she went to brush her teeth, took the phone from the bedroom and then knocked on the sitting-room door. Elizabeth was in bed already. She had set up the mattress on the floor, and she was reading her Sculpture: My Way book.

  ‘I’m going to bed now; I’m going to bed early,’ May told her. ‘If anyone calls, I’m asleep. Here’s the phone, if you want to use it.’ She passed it to her. ‘Please don’t wake me up. Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’ Elizabeth put the phone on the floor next to her. ‘Hey,’ she said, just as May was about to shut the door, ‘if you want to do that PhD, I think you should just get on with it. It feels good, you know, to make a decision and to take an action.’ Elizabeth shared her experience and wisdom.

  ‘Thanks. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re capable of all the boring research,’ Elizabeth added.

  ‘Thank you,’ May said.

  ‘I would find it dull sitting in the British Library all day. But if you’re into that sort of thing –’

  ‘Good night.’ May shut the door.

  If you close your eyes and try to relax your face, you are still resting; if you’ve got your eyes closed. In the dark. That is rest.

  Even if you aren’t asleep.

  You’re not sleeping, but it’s still ‘rest’: Jansen had told her that.

  One trick, May decided, might be to slow down your breathing: you’re sending a message to the body that it is feeling calm and is now about to fall asleep. May forced her breathing to slow down. It was like a plane braking, after it had just landed; it required quite a lot of energy. But that would be to begin with, because if she kept the brakes jammed on, and kept them on, eventually her breathing would slow down and start coasting along until eventually it would dip into a pulsing standstill, and she would be breathing in and out – slowly. And then, in theory, she would go to sleep.

  34

  The Declaration

  May would have to start speaking soon. She sat at Francine’s kitchen table trying to begin. Francine sat opposite her, waiting. It was just after two o’clock. May’s train was in four hours. She could walk to the station after this, she thought, if she wanted to; she’d have the time.

  ‘You come here with nothing to tell me. You sit there like a bird with its beak open, waiting to be fed.’

  There were two glasses on the table, a jug of water, and nothing else.

  ‘I came here to tell you something,’ May said.

  ‘Very good. So, tell me. What do you have to tell me?’ Francine poured herself some water.

  ‘It’s not very easy,’ May began.

  ‘Fine. It’s not very easy. That’s good: so now you are going to do something that’s not very easy.’

  ‘I’m interested in what you write,’ May said.

  Francine wasn’t going to interrupt.

  ‘I’m very interested in it, and I don’t always understand it,’ May went on. ‘I admire you. A lot.’

  Francine said nothing. She drank some water.

  ‘I’ve read all your articles,’ May told her.

  ‘I know you’ve deferred,’ Francine said. ‘You’ve told me that already.’

  ‘Yes, but in fact: I haven’t deferred,’ May said. ‘Because I never enrolled on a PhD. I never even wrote a proposal. I don’t know why.’

  Francine refilled her glass with water. ‘I see. And now you’ve told me that, what are you going to do?’

  May didn’t understand.

  ‘Yes, what are you going to do? What are you expecting from me? That I give you absolution?’

  May smiled a tight apologetic smile. Her throat was dry. She didn’t drink.

  ‘It’s not very amusing all this. Do I seem to you like a thought-dictator? This is your view of me, it appears.’

  ‘No, it’s me. I didn’t want you to be
angry with me.’

  ‘It shows to what extent you lack confidence in me.’ Francine looked at her.

  ‘No, I lack confidence in myself.’ May knew this was the ultimate in pathetic, but she had to defend herself. She cried.

  ‘Oh, the little baby’s crying!’

  May kept crying; with or without Francine’s approval, she cried.

  ‘Yes. You can always cry, but what are you going to do?’ Francine asked her again.

  May answered the question; she thought she’d be told to leave, otherwise. ‘I could do the PhD,’ she grabbed her first thought. ‘I’ve looked into various universities. I’ve been making notes.’

  Francine shook her head. ‘Your university course is of absolutely no interest to me whatsoever; it’s you who interest me, your path.’

  It was like a declaration of love; perhaps it was a declaration of love. May wiped away her tears with her fists.

  ‘You lied to me.’ Francine drank the rest of her water. What was she about to say? ‘And what’s more, you put a lot of work into this lie. I’ve got a folder full of letters from you about my writing. Now you tell me you never started this thesis. It’s not very flattering. So, what do you want from me now?’

  May looked at Francine. She really didn’t know.

  ‘What did you want so much that you put all this effort into maintaining a lie?’ Francine asked her.

  May tried to think.

  ‘You have no idea? Let us work it out by elimination: are you interested in doing the PhD? That is the first question.’

  May couldn’t answer that one.

  ‘No – is the answer.’

  ‘It does interest me,’ May protested – feebly.

  ‘No, you are not interested. So, what are you doing here? That is the next question.’

  May couldn’t answer that one either.

  ‘You’ve had a good many opportunities to ask me to help you, and all this time you have preferred to work it out on your own. You have remained silent: because that is safe.’

  ‘I have asked questions.’ What was she supposed to have asked?

  ‘You’ve asked polished “intelligent” questions about my work.’

  ‘Intelligent ones?’

  ‘You needn’t look so pleased. You have never taken a risk, not one; I have no idea what your opinions are: that is where you have failed. Ask me something you really want to know. Let’s see if you can do it. There isn’t anything you would like to ask?’

  ‘Do I annoy you?’ May asked.

  Francine looked furious.

  ‘What do you think of me?’ May tried again.

  ‘You are uptight,’ Francine answered.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ah, she doesn’t like being called that!’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  Francine laughed. ‘You are a product of England: very Protestant.’ She observed May a while, then she asked, ‘What else would you like to know? Here is your opportunity.’

  ‘If you despise me, why do you spend time with me?’ May asked: a brave question, this one.

  ‘Well done, but you totally misunderstand. I don’t “despise” you, not at all. Take a look in the dictionary.’

  (May would look later.) ‘Why have you agreed to spend time with me?’ She simplified the question.

  ‘I haven’t signed a contract, as far as I am aware.’

  ‘Will you still want to see me, if I am not doing this PhD?’ How many different ways did she have to phrase it?

  ‘I am talking to you now. I could have told you to leave much earlier, but I have not. Why do you think that is?’

  May wasn’t sure.

  ‘You are in love.’

  May said nothing.

  ‘I have shocked you,’ Francine said.

  May blushed. She was blushing on cue; it was ridiculous.

  ‘You hide it badly. But, tell me – if you dare – that you are not in love with me.’

  May stared at her empty glass. ‘I am a little “taken” – perhaps?’ she said.

  ‘“Perhaps”? You’re not sure. Well, if you don’t know, no one else can answer that for you. I can’t tell you what you are feeling.’

  ‘I don’t want you to.’ May was supposed to be in love; that was what Francine expected. Of course.

  ‘Listen, May. I am going to have to be very hard on you, otherwise I am doing you no favours. I am not interested in a sentimental relationship with you. I am only interested in an exchange between equals. I am interested only in adult women, in women who speak.’

  ‘I am speaking, I’m speaking now.’

  ‘You are part of the generation who has gone to sleep. You have to wake up now.’

  May attempted to look alert.

  ‘At your age I had already done incredible things,’ Francine continued.

  ‘I’m not good enough for you, I’m not good enough to be your friend. It’s what I always thought.’ She was only ever supposed to be the hopelessly enamoured student. Reality, she thought, was such an exhausting disappointment.

  ‘That depends on you. You will have to show me what you are capable of. You have shown me nothing for the moment.’

  That wasn’t true. Francine had ‘a folder full’ of notes and letters from her. ‘I’ve shown you things,’ May objected.

  ‘Very little. You have to continue.’ Francine stood up, took the glasses and put them on the bench. ‘I want to place you before your own destiny,’ she said. ‘You will have to live a long time to accomplish what you have to do.’

  May got up, and pushed in her chair. She was so tired of Francine; and she was tired of performing; she was tired! She was going… to start crying again. She tried not to. She tried not to. She cried. She was crying again. Francine was not in love with her; and she wasn’t in love with Francine; no one was in love with anyone. Her crying slipped into laughter: she was losing control of her face now. Actually, the situation wasn’t that funny, but she was laughing anyway; or perhaps it was funny.

  ‘Drink.’ Francine poured water into one of the glasses. ‘You should drink. You’re getting hysterical.’ She handed May a glass.

  May drank. She stopped laughing, and drank. She put the glass back on the bench. She wanted to leave now; she wanted to go and breathe some polluted outside air, and be on her own.

  ‘When is your train? This evening?’ Francine asked.

  ‘Yes.’ May took her jacket off the back of the chair.

  ‘You will have your Jansen waiting for you at the station.’

  ‘No,’ May said. ‘She’s working.’ She put on her jacket.

  ‘You’ll see her later then.’ Francine led May to the door. ‘You are going to do something extraordinary with your life,’ she clasped May’s forearms firmly as she spoke, ‘you are going to become a fulfilled woman, and then you are going to come back to see me. And then we shall see.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’ May tried to be honest.

  ‘You say “yes”, quite simply.’ Francine kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Au revoir alors?’

  ‘Yes, au revoir,’ May said, although she wasn’t sure she meant it.

  Francine opened the door.

  35

  The Convalescence

  There she was. In her uniform.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Jansen opened her arms wide, and May stepped into a hug. Weepy and limp, she let herself be held. She felt like a five-year-old being collected after a hard first day at school.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Jansen asked.

  ‘No… Yes,’ May corrected herself. ‘Yes.’ She was so glad to see her.

  They walked out of the automatic glass doors, and past the taxi stand.

  ‘The car’s parked round the corner; I couldn’t park here.’

  ‘Have you finished for the evening?’ May said.

  ‘It wasn’t that busy. I got the rest of the evening off. I thought it important that I come and meet you.’

  They walked on.

  ‘And I don’t start until
ten tomorrow,’ Jansen continued. ‘So I could give you a lift to school.’

  ‘Is Elizabeth at home?’

  ‘No. I asked her if she wouldn’t mind staying at Mark’s for the night, and she said she might not come back until Tuesday or Wednesday.’ Jansen smiled at May. ‘Anyway, we’ve definitely got the whole place to ourselves this evening.’

  They got to the car; Jansen unlocked the doors from a distance, using her remote – it was a Volvo, ‘top of the range’, with a central locking system. Then she went over, and opened the door of the passenger side for May, who got in, and leaned over to open up the other side for Jansen.

  ‘Is there anything to eat?’ May asked as Jansen got into the car.

  ‘I’m going to make you a quick stir-fry once we get home.’

  ‘Okay, great. Thank you.’ May put on her seatbelt. Jansen was so loving and thoughtful, she was such a patient and wonderful woman; May was grateful for her in her life. ‘Do you know, it’s stupid of me, but sometimes I can wish, I have wished,’ she corrected herself, ‘that you could be a little bit more like Francine.’

  ‘You want me to be like Francine? Well, I’m not.’ Jansen frowned – annoyed.

  ‘I said “I have wished”. It’s you I want to be with.’

  Jansen nodded, and clicked in her seatbelt.

  ‘What I mean is I’ve sometimes wished that you were a bit of an intellectual,’ May said. ‘But you’re kind and you’re very generous, which I appreciate. That’s what I meant. I was giving you a compliment.’

  Jansen turned on the ignition.

  ‘I appreciate your coming to get me,’ May said. ‘Thank you.’ She sighed. She shook her head, and let out another loud sigh. ‘I didn’t mean I don’t love you.’

  ‘I’m just feeling a bit hurt,’ Jansen said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  Now May had a stomach ache. ‘I do love you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired, I’m exhausted, so I can’t always express myself that well.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Jansen started manoeuvring the car out of the parking space.

  There was a message flashing on the answering machine when they got in.

  ‘Don’t play it! Don’t play it!’ May went off to the loo. ‘Just give me a chance to go to the loo,’ she yelled through the door. Jansen was listening to the message without her. May flushed the loo, and quickly washed her hands. ‘Oh, you’ve listened to it. You’ve wiped it!’