The Pretence

by Linus Peters

  what it meant, but perhaps it’s ‘now’ that’s more

  important, our new relationship? I do realise there

  have been changes. Many, many changes. Some

  that might really surprise me. But I want you to know that,

  if there ever came a time when you felt we could meet,

  there wouldn’t be a change, no matter how great, that

  would put me off you. Do you understand what I’m

  saying? What I mean? I hope so.

  Good luck with your new show. And your two lines.

  I’m sure you’ll be great.

  Lots of love,

  Simon

  What can I say? That amongst some of my more fanciful moments it had gone through my head that perhaps there was still chance it was Frances. That like that old film, ‘An Affair to Remember,’ with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, maybe, just maybe, something serious had happened to her - she’d been involved in an accident or contracted some awful disease - and it was that that had brought about all these changes, and the reason why she didn’t want to see me again. Because, don’t get me wrong, whatever or whoever was at the other end of this form of contact, it was still Frances I loved and wanted. And maybe that was why I was so grateful for this distraction? So as not to become engulfed again in how hopeless my situation with her had become?

  To tell the truth, I don’t know why I did it. Perhaps it was just natural human curiosity? I mean, who was I corresponding with, for chrissake? Whose mind came up with these words, whose hands folded this paper, licked these envelopes? Who was it walking through the streets of Amsterdam with letters bearing my name?

  Dear Simon,

  Thank your for your best wishes, but

  I’m afraid it didn’t stop the opening night from

  being a bit of a disaster. Don’t ask me what

  happened. Something to do with the computer being

  fed the wrong lighting cues. Anyway, sometimes we

  were in darkness when we should have been in light,

  and sometimes the opposite. Never mind. The

  audience whistled a bit, but luckily they didn’t ask

  for their money back.

  Actually, I’m not sure I’m really enjoying this life

  very much anymore. I’m also getting a little tired

  of Amsterdam. Sometimes the thing that attracts

  you to a place is the thing that eventually drives

  you away. There’s too much water here, too

  many barriers and bridges, like everything’s

  segmented, cut into pieces, and nothing can

  relate to anything else.

  I read your last letter over and over. I’m really not

  sure what you’re saying. I have to admit, many times

  I’ve wondered what it would be like to meet you face

  to face again. But I don’t think it’s such a good

  idea. I mean, we have got a kind of relationship

  now, and it means a lot to me, too. We’d be foolish

  to risk that. Wouldn’t we?

  Love,

  Frances

  ‘Wouldn’t we? ... Wouldn’t we?’ With just those two words, that one question, whoever it was, knew, as well as I did, that we were considering moving on, venturing into unknown territory. Immediately I started to panic, wondering if I knew what I was doing, imagining all sorts of repercussions, waiting for the next day and a chance to catch Luca in a quiet moment in his office.

  When I told him he just stared at me, open-mouthed, as if he’d just realised that all faith he’d put in me had been badly misplaced.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Then you’re in good company! ... I thought you’d told them to fuck off?” I shook my head. “Che cazzo fai? Don’t you know how dangerous this could be?”

  “They don’t seem very dangerous to me.”

  “How can you tell?”

  I shrugged, knowing full well I couldn’t.

  Luca gave a very long and bewildered sigh. “How do you address the letters now?” he asked, trying to make some sense of it all.

  “The same. ‘Frances’. Everything’s the same.”

  He promptly threw his hands in the air. “Forget my question about ‘if you’re crazy’.”

  “It’s just a kind of game. I mean, it’s not hurting anyone. In a way, it’s helping. I think it’d be interesting to meet.”

  “Why?””

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m intrigued.”

  “It’s probably some big fat Dutch sailor who likes dressing up in women’s clothing.”

  “It’s not a man.”

  “How do you know?” he challenged.

  I paused for a moment. “It just isn’t. “

  “It’s either a man or some dried up old hag who hasn’t done it since VE Day. She’ll eat you alive! If she has any teeth, that is. Anyway, you suggested meeting before.”

  “I know, but this time I think they might.”

  Luca shook his head. “When the English go mad, there is no one worse. Believe me.”

  He was right, of course. It didn’t make any sense. I’d only just recaptured a degree of my old self, and it had been the letters that had helped me do it. Warped though it might be to keep writing after I’d become convinced it wasn’t Frances, the way things were, perhaps that made more sense than to do something that risked losing everything. Yet once I got the idea into my head, I just couldn’t get it out.

  A series of letters passed between us. Me trying to say that I didn’t mind even if, whoever it was, they weren’t the real Frances, yet without ever daring to put it into words. And them wanting to reply, oh, but you would mind, if only you knew what you were talking about, but again, not actually knowing how to phrase it. I guess the thing was, that deception was the very foundation of our game, our relationship, and if you took it away, what would be left?

  For a while things went back the way they were, though ‘Frances’ became progressively more blatant about ‘what was it I’d always loved about her?’ Her taste in books, music, for example? It was wicked, but I started to make up a lot of stuff. The real Frances read mostly non-fiction - biographies, art - and her love of music embraced everything from Puff Daddy to Puccini, but I was tempted to write back that I’d always found it so refreshingly unpretentious how much she adored Jackie Collins and Eurovision.

  However, I then got the idea that, actually, I wanted to share my favourite things with her, that I’d tell her that she’d always liked what I liked. Everything from Crowded House to Shostakovich, from David Lodge to Paul Theroux. I don’t know why, maybe it was a bit sick, but it just fascinated me. The thought of this person in Amsterdam, sitting there, listening to my music, reading my favourite authors. Entering my mind through a correspondence course.

  Then suddenly it all went wrong. I guess I was getting a little frustrated with the situation, that we were too scared to take it a step further, and I started to play these games. I mentioned her scar, how much I’d always loved it. That perfect flaw, that isolated imperfection; knowing that, whoever it was, wouldn’t have a clue what I was talking about. And the letters immediately stopped.

  One week wasn’t so unusual. However, as we began to approach two, I realised something was wrong. I also realised how much the thought of not receiving those letters frightened me. I wrote again. Out of turn. I mean, it didn’t happen, it was a breaking of the rules. I asked her if anything was wrong, if there was any way I could help?

  Again there was no reply, and I was forced to try writing once more:

  ‘ ... I can’t bear the thought of losing you again. That

  would be too painful. If nothing else, please, write

  and tell me you’re okay ...’

  Luca told me it was a good thing. That the lunatic had obviously been recaptured and returned to the asylum. Or maybe just done away with themselves. Whatever, it was for the best. Yet I was
really hurting inside. Whoever it was had helped me stop thinking about Frances, had weaned me off her, my very own methodone. Yet now it felt almost as if they were an even bigger mystery. This anonymous person had entered my life, exchanged endless personal detail with me, then simply left, and I’d never know who they were.

  I went up to Scotland to test the new Nissan, and like one world unexpectedly sneaking up to mug the other, found myself being put up in Aviemore in exactly the same hotel where Frances and I had stayed. I even had an invitation to share a bottle of the local whisky with a fellow journalist in the actual room. But I couldn’t bring myself to go. Instead I went for a walk, up and down the main street, torturing myself by retracing Frances’s and my footsteps, as if I might somehow slide myself into a time loop and find her at my side again. The coffee shop. The pizza place. Trying to make some sense of what had happened over the last few years; to see it as something more cogent than just the random Nature of Life.

  Later, I dreamt about finding her back at the flat, in the cupboard in the kitchen, sitting there with a PC, writing the letters. It had been her all along. I should have known. ‘Dear Frances ... Dear, dear Frances ...’

  I don’t know if that was what caused me to do it - I certainly had one helluva restless night - but the next day I managed to put this GLXi in the ditch. The guy from Nissan was very good and fixed-smiled about it, but you could see he was pissed off. I mean, had I been from a Sunday, or one of the major motoring magazines, fair enough, but some syndicated hack? After that they gave me a GL that had been scratched already by somebody else.

  For the first time ever I felt like taking my personal feelings out on a car, telling everyone it was the biggest pile of shit on the road, that it would only be possibly bought by Eastern Europeans feeling nostalgic for the rattle of the Lada or the splutter of the Trabant. But, of course, I didn’t. Actually, it was a very competent car. Seems like most of them are these days.

  No matter how hard I tried not to, the whole way back, all I could think of was if there was a letter waiting for me. They’d flown us up from Luton, and the moment I parted company with the rest of my fellow journalists, that I was alone in my car, the feeling inside me began to grow from an ache to a longing, a tremble to a tidal wave. By the time I’d negotiated the lower stretches of the M1, endured the gathering madness of North London, and reached Crouch End, I was practically screaming with frustration.

  Even then it took me ten minutes of buzzing-and-braking my way round the neighbourhood to find somewhere to park. I practically ran to the flat, bounding up the stairs two at a time, throwing the door open. But there was nothing. Just an empty hall carpet stretching away into darkness. Depression fell upon me like the blade of a guillotine. The flat seemed so cold and unwelcoming, and I immediately called Luca to ask if he wanted to do something. However, he had a date with some aerobics instructor he’d just met, and though he made noises like he’d put her off if I wanted, I wouldn’t hear of it.

  Despite not having eaten anything much since breakfast, I still couldn’t be bothered to cook. I made myself a sandwich, grabbed a couple of beers, and sat down in front of the television, but just couldn’t get involved. Presently I turned it off and put on some music. The choice of ‘Tosca’ was deliberate and unlikely to do anything for my peace of mind.

  What if it was Frances? What if it had been her all along? Maybe I should go to Amsterdam? Now, while there was still a chance she might be there?

  But it wasn’t. I knew that. Frances was something else. The main game. And yet, what exactly did this one mean to me? And why was I missing those damn letters so much?

  I gulped down the last few drops of my second beer, went to the kitchen to get another, and was just about to return to the sitting room, when I heard this strange noise coming from my front door. I stared down the hallway, trying to work out what was going on, and realised someone was tentatively trying to push something under the door. A letter slowly appeared, being quietly worked from side, like an animal trying to claw its way out of a crack. Even from where I was standing I could see the familiar stamp. Immediately I bounded down the hallway, unable to believe what was happening. It was her! She was here!

  Utter madness, of course. How could it be? Didn’t make any sense at all. I grabbed the handle, threw the door open, and found, not some mysterious stranger from Amsterdam, but the man from the flat below crouched before me.

  “Oh! ... Sorry,” he said. “It was delivered to me yesterday by mistake. Meant to bring it up before ... Sorry.”

  Still keeping rather low, intermittently nodding, he retreated downstairs, leaving me with the letter in my hand.

  I never said a word, just turned and closed the door behind me; calming myself, realising how foolish I’d been, the actual letter now almost feeling like a disappointment.

  Even more so when I opened it and saw how disappointingly brief it was. I was convinced it could only be whoever it was finally putting an end to this bizarre episode, confessing all and saying goodbye. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Dear Simon,

  Sorry, not to have written for a while

  but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Things are a

  little difficult over here at the moment. I’ve

  decided to take a short break in London and

  wondered if you wanted to meet? If you do, I’ll be

  on the steps of the National Gallery at 3 on

  Saturday afternoon. If you don’t, well, I’ll

  understand.

  I leave it up to you.

  Love,

  Frances

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I cannot tell you how apprehensive I felt as I waited there at the top of the steps outside the National Gallery, frantically scrutinising every face, waiting for that one look, that gesture or expression, that would tell me everything.

  I’d desperately tried not to be too early, not to put myself through the tension of an agonising wait, however, I hadn’t been able to bear the thought of being late either. What if, whoever it was, their watch was a few minutes fast, and they arrived, waited for those few false minutes, then suddenly lost their nerve and fled? So many thoughts of that nature, ways we might miss each other, scuffled in my head, in the end I thought it was best to just get there and wait for whatever happened.

  I arrived at almost twenty to three, decided that was perhaps too early, went for a stroll round Trafalgar Square, yet couldn’t keep my eyes off the steps for more than a moment, and returned no more than five minutes later.

  There were crowds everywhere. Tourists, of course - a Saturday afternoon in April, what else would you expect? And again I started to worry that we wouldn’t know each other, that we might stand only yards apart without actually realising. The problem being, of course, that we couldn’t suggest we both wore a flower or carried a copy of The Times or something, because in theory, we knew each other already.

  Despite everything that had happened, all that I knew, I still couldn’t stop myself from praying it might be Frances. That soon she would emerge uncertainly from the passing crowds, walking slowly towards me, a quiet, almost embarrassed, smile on her face, and we would be reunited. A couple of times I even reverted to old habits and saw her. The second occasion I would’ve sworn it was her. This young woman, exactly the same build and way of walking, approached from the direction of St Martin’s-in-the-Fields. I actually felt that familiar joy beginning to surge up in me, the same bristling of the old antenna, then she got closer, and I realised there was barely any resemblance.

  Yet who was I waiting for? What form would my nemesis take? With each passing moment my fears became progressively more absurd. The little old lady standing on the bottom step, leaning against the handrail, tutting to herself and rummaging through her shopping bag. Oh my God, she‘s got some sort of weapon. Luca was right. Classic obsessive psychotic behaviour. I’m about to be gunned down on the steps of the National Gallery by a deranged pensioner. Or what a
bout the group of teenage foreign language students slowly laughing and giggling their way up towards me? Were they about to produce my letters from their rucksacks? To read them out loud for the guffawing amusement of them and all the passing crowds? Why was I putting myself through this? What good could possibly come of it, for chrissake?

  Five minutes went by in ten. Then another five in fifteen. Three o’clock scratched past in horrible metal-tearing agony. She wasn’t coming. I knew she wasn’t. Why would anyone living such an absurd fantasy confront it with reality? It didn’t make any sense. As a matter of fact, this was probably it: my kiss off. A little joke to finish off with. Yet just at that moment, I saw her. Approaching across the plaza, maybe thirty or forty yards away, and even though I could barely believe it, I knew it couldn’t be anyone else.

  I don’t know what I’d imagined. I guess if you’d really made me give you an answer, I would’ve fallen to the old cliché: a slightly sad educated type, mid-forties, maybe a bit nondescript and mouseish. Some kind of researcher perhaps, dedicated to her work, always claiming she was happy to be so, but actually, over the last few years, had become progressively aware of the fact that she’d never had a proper relationship in her life. And probably, when she was younger, it hadn’t mattered. Yet now she was starting to experience a measure of regret, and my letters had been an ideal opportunity for her to play that role, to try it on and see how it felt.

  However, I was wrong. Jesus, was I. In fact, I was about as wrong as a person can possibly be.

  The reason I was so sure it was her was because of what she was wearing: black jeans, black polo neck, black leather jacket and boots. That, coupled with this very nervous expression, with her anxiously scanning the steps, made it fairly obvious, but I still couldn’t take in what I was seeing. I don’t like to use such terms, but really, I don’t think I have any other choice. Walking towards me was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. And yet, just for a moment, I almost started to laugh. You see, where Frances was brown, she was whitpink; where Frances was black, she was blonde. She was also a good five years younger, several inches taller, and if you’d sought high and low, you would’ve been hard pushed to have found anyone more diametrically opposed to who she was supposed to be.