The Pretence

by Linus Peters

  There was a brief moment when it went through my head to just turn and flee. There are two lots of steps leading down from the National Gallery, and I thought that as soon as she chose one, I’d make a dash for the other. I mean, amongst all the numerous possibilities I’d worried my way through over the last couple of days, this was one I hadn’t considered. It wasn’t as if she was just pretty, or attractive, she was stupendously, head-turningly, you-don’t-mind-if-I-sit-down-for-a-momently? beautiful.

  I turned and glanced all around me, still thinking it had to be a coincidence, that someone else had arranged a date at the same time. However, she caught my eye, immediately looked away, and I knew it had to be her.

  Don’t ask me what went through my head at that point, because it seemed to me as if every rational thought I possessed panicked and ran off. I had but a few seconds and no more. She’d already reached the steps and was starting to climb. Up until then I’d just had this vague idea of playing it by ear. Seeing who they were, what it was all about, and maybe, I guess, if I’m really honest about it, hopefully salvaging something worthwhile from the situation. But this was different.

  Her head bowed, she reached the step directly below me, then paused, slowly raising her face, and suddenly, eyes so brilliantly blue this idea of lasers sweeping unhindered through the night sky came to me, gazing into mine, giving me this kind of nervous and pleading look as if to say, well, what are we going to do now?

  I hesitated for several seconds, feeling reality ripping the ground open beneath our feet, the chasm gaping wider by the moment, her rapidly disappearing from me, but then, God help me, I don’t know why, I slammed it shut again.

  “Frances!” I said. “Great to see you.”

  And do you know what? She gave this little cry and threw her arms around me, and with such strength and urgency, I had no choice but to respond. The two of us standing there, hugging each other for all we were worth, her with tears sliding down her cheeks. Complete strangers so happy to see each other again. Old lovers who’d never actually met.

  Why I did it, I really have no idea. At no point was I actually aware of being confronted by a decision. It was just a reaction that, in the context of what was happening, what had gone on before, I was unable to deny.

  “Hey, don’t cry.” I kept saying. “Don’t cry.”

  “Simon,” she said, like she wanted to be sure she was familiar with the word. “Simon.”

  I don’t know how long we stayed there like that, holding each other, people patiently making their way round us. Time seemed to be rendered immobile by a bombardment of sensations. By this strange beautiful woman I suddenly found in my arms, the feel of her body, the smell of new leather and freshly-shampooed hair.

  She had flawless pale skin apart from two small moles high on her left cheek, a sculptured nose and lips, thick and fairly short blonde hair firmly brushed back and lightly gelled, and even as I was holding her, I was aware of the odd man or woman slowing and staring, that she was that exceptional.

  Finally we released our grip on each other, neither of us really knowing what to say, yet for some reason gravitating towards the gallery entrance. I think we both needed the sanctuary of a little quiet appreciation, a few moments to get over the shock, to assimilate what had just happened. Because if what we’d been doing up to this point had been odd, what we were apparently contemplating now, was damn near insane.

  We began to make our way round the various rooms, pausing now and then in front of a painting, nothing being exchanged between us other than the occasional smile. Whenever I got a chance, I would glance at her out of the corner of my eye. What the hell was going on here? This was the person I’d been exchanging love letters with? This was her? No way! What possible reason, what possible need, would someone like her have for doing such a thing?

  She had the kind of looks that made you think they went all the way through. That if you opened her up, you’d write poems to the pulchritude of her pancreas, three act operas to the elegance of her intestines. Everything about her said class. Her style, her poise, the way she moved, and it went through my head that if people were there to look at great works of art, then most, though certainly not all, were looking in the wrong direction.

  It must’ve been getting on for half-an-hour or more before I finally decided that one of us had to speak, that a slowly rising discomfort was beginning to threaten me.

  “Haven’t been here for ages,” I said, trying to make it sound as casual as possible

  She nodded, and then, as if seeing an opportunity, added. “Not since we broke up?”

  I turned and stared into those flawless blue eyes and again had this feeling that she was pleading with me not to disappoint , not to let it end here. I smiled a little uneasily. This was madness. It should be stopped ... Now! And yet, I didn’t want to. Not for the moment. Or at least not until I saw where it was going.

  “No ... No, I guess not,” I eventually replied. We walked on a few paces, stopping before a Rubens, more attracted by the name than the painting. Then I turned back to her, and added. “Strange place to meet really. Seeing how much you always preferred the Tate.”

  She stared at me for a moment, then realising what I’d said, broke into a huge smile and kissed me on the cheek.

  “I love you, Simon,” she said.

  Jesus! What the hell could I do? For the rest of the afternoon we carried on in the same manner. This, not only debilitatingly beautiful, but also disarmingly nice, young woman - the same one I’d apparently been sharing an anonymous, yet intimate, relationship with for months - acting as if her and I were the loves of each others lives meeting after years of being apart. And though barely a minute went by when I didn’t tell myself that it had to stop, that I might be getting into something I couldn’t handle, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was too damn exciting. I felt as if I’d been jerked out of life’s frame, plucked out of my picture, the same old movie where I knew every tired word of dialogue, every beat and pause of every predictable scene, and inserted into a new one. Where I didn’t know a thing, not the characters, not the plot, nor what the eventual climax might be.

  I don’t know how long we stayed there. Getting on for a couple of hours, I suppose. The odd thing was, to most of those strolling round, I’m sure nothing could’ve seemed more normal. Maybe they wondered what such a beautiful young woman was doing with such an everyday man, and what hidden assets I could possibly have to make up for such obvious defects, but apart from that, we must’ve looked like any other couple taking their yearly constitutional round the National. Yet the truth of the matter was, we weren’t even there. What they could see was the outer walls of our universe, the human crust, whilst inside we whirled and twirled and thoughts collided in our heads like endless showers of converging meteorites. We were building a new world, constructing the most massive pretence, and both of us were so intimidated by it, by the fact that just one word could bring it all tumbling down, we could barely bring ourselves to speak.

  Later, after making a point of checking she was ‘still’ fond of Italian food, we went over to Soho for an early meal. All afternoon conversation had continued to be faltering and difficult, yet up till then we’d had things to pretend to be engaged by; sitting in the restaurant, facing each other, our long silences became more noticeable. We repeatedly embarked on subjects that either led us nowhere, or to places where we felt endangered and had to retreat, and I started to think that maybe this whole thing was impossible.

  “Strange,” she eventually said.

  “What?”

  “I feel I know you so well but .. I don’t know you at all.” I nodded, confused as to whether she meant that was it, game over, that now we’d have to sort this situation out through more conventional methods, but again I was wrong. “It’s been such a long time.”

  “Oh ... Yes,” I replied, realising she’d just created us a little leeway.

  Again she paused, as if she was searching for the best way
of tackling something prickly, that might well harm her, shifting from side to side, looking for the safest way to approach.

  “You haven’t changed.”

  That did feel a little odd. Actually I’ve put on a stone and been the subject of some fairly sad northerly deforestation. It also went through my head that I could hardly reciprocate: ‘No. Nor you ... Well, apart from the few extra inches, blue contact lenses, dyed hair and the Michael Jackson paint job’.

  “How’s Luca?”

  For a moment it confused me, or until I remembered how much information we’d exchanged in our letters.

  “Oh, same as ever. Still having fairly omnipresent success with all the younger females of London. I swear that’s why he left Italy. Probably why he’s now started talking about France.”

  “You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?” she said, a touch guardedly, as if she wasn’t so sure.

  “He’s always been there. When I was .. trying to get over you.”

  “I’m sorry!” she said, grabbing my hand. “I’m here now.”

  Jesus, she was something. She really was. I mean, have you ever looked into a truly beautiful face? It’s so disturbing. As if someone has made a mistake and put all the good things normally handed out in ones or twos together. She was perfect, and I freely admit, that was part of the reason why, as I buckled before those blue eyes, as I basked in the warmth of that overwhelming symmetrical smile, I could sense this wispy notion beginning to twist and form inside me. This nucleus of something that, though I wasn’t yet ready to admit to it, if I didn’t check it’s growth soon, I wouldn’t have a choice one way or the other.

  In the end, and perhaps with the assistance of the wine, the conversation turned out to be nowhere near as difficult as you might imagine. As long as we kept things general, as long as we concentrated on the last three years, it was fine. I told her about my work, that I was still there, still doing the same thing - well, that everything was the same really. And she told me about the theatre company she worked for, how she was beginning to wonder if she’d made the right decision, that maybe the time had come to move onto something else.

  “Only one way to find out,” I said, always ready to encourage other people’s ambitions.

  “I’ve got to make some changes,” she declared, in a way that made me wonder if she was already including me in her plans.

  The waiter came and topped up our glasses of wine and I exchanged some very basic Italian, learnt from Luca, with him before he swept off to another table. I turned and found her smiling at me.

  “Luca,” I said, just to let her know it was a recent thing.

  “Very impressive.”

  And suddenly, in that moment, almost as if we’d been building up to it and finally had the nerve, we stopped worrying about what we were doing, how we could possibly maintain this charade, and for the first time allowed the other in. Staring into each others’ eyes, the shadow of some advice once given to me about women and alcohol making for bad decisions, especially ones as beautiful as this, slipping out the back door. Inside me that nucleus finally twisted and gelled, transforming itself into a solid foundation. A structure was starting to go up, and folly or not, I had a fair idea what it was dedicated to.

  “I love you, Simon,” she said.

  It took one helluvan effort, but I somehow managed to hold onto that gaze; the big blue calling to me, begging for me to dive in. For God’s sake, what was I doing? Up until a few hours ago I’d never seen this woman before in my life. The only thing that held us together was this foolish and fragile fantasy she had that she was my ex-partner. Yet here I was seriously considering giving her everything.

  “I love you, too, ” I eventually heard myself reply.

  Please. Don’t ask me. So much of my behaviour in this is a mystery to me, an unwitting invitation to what followed. I suppose I did what a lot of people do in these situations: I made it make sense. I mean, I was never going to see Frances again. I knew that. And though it would never sit well with me that I’d lost something I’d thought so special, it obviously hadn’t been the same for her. It was time to let go. To move on. Everyone had been saying so for years. So why not just plunge headlong into this ready-made relationship and see where it took me? After all, doesn’t all love contain a certain measure of self-deception? Isn’t it often a matter of just finding the right person to mutually deceive with? Well, here she is, via very special delivery, and frankly, looking at her, being with her, the fates could hardly have been more kind. Why not just carry on as if it was normal? Like those long-running soaps where illness or accident means a different actress has to play a part, and everyone just keeps going as if they haven’t noticed.

  She was so excited I’d told her I loved her for the first time, she dived across and almost tipped the table over. “ Simon! I’m so happy!”

  I looked into that wonderful face, at that almost exploding expression of euphoria, and very nearly burst into laughter. “Me, too,” I replied.

  From then on things became much easier, our conversation less guarded and selective, as if we both knew we’d advanced several steps in each others directions. Though the irony was, it was because of that very easing of tension, that she was lulled into making her first mistake.

  “What was the play?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “The one you had a couple of lines in?”

  “Oh. You wouldn’t know it. Some very obscure French playwright.”

  “Name?” I persisted.

  “I don’t remember. It was very unusual.”

  “That’s why he’s so obscure.”

  “Shakespeare is quite an unusual name, isn’t it?” she said, taking me seriously.

  “Memorable though. I mean, if Shakespeare had been called ... Blottisgou-Nimen or something, would he have been so successful?”

  She frowned at me for a moment, and then smiled. “Oh, this is the famous British sense of humour, is it?”

  It was such a dreadful mistake, such a simple error, at first we both almost missed it. Then I saw panic spread across her face and realised what she’d just said.

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “You might be first generation, but you were born in this country.”

  Just for a moment she didn’t appreciate what I’d done, that I’d saved us, yet slowly this look of relief came to her face. A decision had been made, the first rule of the game decided: she would do her best not to make any mistakes, but if she did, I would do what I could to help her out of them. She could trust me. I was working for us, too.

  Of course, I omitted to add that, though first generation, she was in fact the product of Jamaican parents, and wasn’t it extraordinary the way she’d turned out, but I thought that, along with a few other details, that might be best kept to myself.

  I guess she was Dutch, but not necessarily. She didn’t have a recognisable accent, not of Holland, nor of anywhere else. Just moments of slightly odd pronunciation. Certainly she must’ve travelled, how good, how eclectic, her English was. It took you a while to realise you weren’t talking to a native speaker, to notice the occasional lack of vocabulary.

  I don’t know if it was that, or her nervousness, that made her seem a little serious. Humour’s a difficult thing to get across without knowing the exact words, all the subtleties, of a language. Though to be honest, with all the other things I was trying to absorb about her - the perfect open oasis of her forehead, the absolute symmetry of her face, the way that sometimes, when she didn’t understand you, she’d lean forward, narrowing her eyes and pouting her lips - I didn’t really care.

  Later we left the restaurant and went for a stroll, arms round each other, stopping for a coffee in Frith Street, sitting outside even though it was now quite chilly.

  It was extraordinary how quickly the situation was becoming normal, that having accepted the fact that she was my new Frances, all I had to do now was to smooth over the transition. Help her with parts of her, and our, history that she might
not be sure about. I kept feeding her information, accentuating the more important facts, hoping she was memorising them.

  “I felt so guilty after I spoke to your mother. Thank God, you don’t have a father to deal with. Mind you, he probably would’ve killed me if you had. ”

  However, later on our conversation began to falter. As if we’d reached a point where we simply couldn’t absorb any more, where our constant watchfulness, care over what we could and couldn’t say, had finally exhausted us.

  “I think it’s time I went back to my hotel,” she said, smiling apologetically as she stifled a yawn.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Bayswater.”

  I nodded my head. Not for one second did it occur to me to ask her back to my place - old ‘lovers’ or not. And strangely enough, I got the distinct impression that my silence on the subject was exactly what she’d hoped for, that I’d just passed some kind of a test, and she would’ve been irreversibly disappointed if I hadn’t.

  I took a cab with her, pulling up outside her hotel, our silence growing a little anxious, as if we were both worrying that, like sobering drunks, the other might be changing their minds about the situation.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I told her.

  “Promise,” she said, grabbing my hand. And for the second time that evening I noticed how hard, almost callused, the palms of her hand were, that she obviously did a fair amount of shifting and carrying whilst setting up those plays.

  “Of course,” I reassured her.

  “Simon?”

  “I promise!”

  I went to kiss her on the lips, not the full thing, but merely the briefest contact. Just so that I could tell myself later that I had. Yet either by accident or design, she turned away. However, as she was getting out the door, she seemed to have second thoughts and leant back and clumsily grabbed my hand and kissed it.