The Marriage Diaries

by Rebecca Campbell

  Sean finally joined us, only to put his apron on again and return to the kitchen. He did keep popping back to make humorous remarks, although it was always after we'd moved on to something else. He really was working like a slave, and I kept giving him little smiles to show how much I appreciated it.

  After half an hour, he came in to announce that dinner was ready, and we moved into the dining room. I'd set the table, so at least that looked nice, albeit in a suburban-Gothic way. There were flowers from the garden, and my parents’ old plates and faux heraldic silver, and a gigantic candelabra, which I thought Milo might appreciate for its towering fin de siècle campness.

  “How rushtic,” said Galatea. It was probably meant as a put-down, but there was always the chance that suburban Gothic was back in fashion. “How's Dominic working out?”

  Dominic was the architect Galatea had recommended to help us with the apartment. He was useless. His suggestions were all either impossible or horrendous. He had a conviction that a 1970s kitchen was the thing to have and wanted to re-create that assemble-it-yourself look, complete with “accidental” gaps and wonky hinges and peeling strips of plastic. Luckily Sean stepped in, demanding high-tech stainless steel everything, which, although not my ideal, was better than white melamine, and I could conveniently blame him for undermining Dominic's grand conception. Out of embarrassment, I let Dominic take charge of the second lavatory, which he was basing on the one in which Elvis died.

  “He's so good, I just can't tell you.”

  “We think he's a rising shtar.”

  Sean gave me a look. I sometimes wondered if his instincts were right about my friends.

  So we ate our soup. As predicted, it tasted like dissolved aniseed balls, but with a vicious, eye-watering chili kick. Cockles and scallops aside, nobody could work out what had happened to the fish part of the fish soup. The boys ate it, but the girls and Milo mostly chatted. I wouldn't say it was the greatest dinner party ever, but it was all pleasant enough. As I'd expected, Sean and his friends talked about their sort of thing, while the fashion people talked about fashion and people in fashion and people who knew people in fashion. Odette tried to join in with both but seemed happier discussing the obsession with St. Sebastian among European artists than which supermodels were still using heroin, years after it had gone out. Milo briefly flickered between the two worlds when Leo suggested that it (the St. Sebastians) was all to do with the repressed homosexuality of the painters and that the near-nude, always pretty, St. Sebastians were the closest they could get to expressing their desire. Milo surprisingly corrected him, by pointing out that Renaissance city-states were actually quite good places to go cruising and that most of the artists they'd mentioned were entirely “out,” in the sense of being open about screwing boys, even though they eschewed the idea of exclusive homosexuality. The idea that you were either a gay or straight person was, he said, a modern view, invented in the nineteenth century. Before that, you had homosexual acts but not homosexuals.

  I'd never heard Milo talk so seriously, and it was one in the eye for the eggheads down at the other end of the table. Leo looked stumped, but Andrew came in with an anecdote from Casanova's diaries, in which the great lover walked in on some German art historian called Winckelmann actually in the act of sodomizing a Roman street boy. Rather than looking embarrassed, Winckelmann sadly explained how he didn't want to do it but that he felt it was the only way of getting into the mind-set of the ancient Greeks, whose works he was studying, and that no matter how much (this in a terrible German accent) “I hump unt I hump, nothing comes ut all.”

  We were laughing at that (I don't know why; it wasn't particularly funny or relevant) when the bell rang. I thought it must be Mom and Dad back early from the theater, but when I went to the door, a woman was there. It was about ten o'clock, and we'd just finished the pudding. It was so unexpected that for a second I failed to place her.

  “Hello. Sorry if I'm late, but Sean said to turn up anytime.” She must have mistaken my look of shook for one of bafflement, as she continued, “I'm Uma. We met at the launch of your shop. Sorry, I've forgotten your name.”

  “Celeste.”

  “Nice to meet you again. Can I come in, or have I missed the party? I know you country types like to get to bed early, but I thought I'd be safe at ten.”

  I checked out the dress. Almost there. It was a modern Biba copy. Empire line; gathered below the bust; soft, full sleeves. Plum crêpe. I guessed it wasn't especially cheap. But nor was it right. She'd gone to a shop in the suburbs and just taken what they shoved at her. They'd probably shown her a soft-focused shoot from one of the Sunday color supplements, with a willowy model gazing out over a lily pond. A schoolgirl error. And she ought to have worn her hair up. Her red hair. I was very glad I'd kept it simple: heavy cream silk shirt, tight jeans, velvet evening pumps.

  Then Sean was at my shoulder.

  “Christ, Uma, come in. Sorry, darling, I forgot to tell you. But I never thought you'd come. You didn't seem very keen. I'm amazed she's here. Great to see you. Come in. Meet the gang.”

  While he was gabbling, I got very confused about who was who, and for a second, I thought that Uma was “darling.” I moved aside and studied her closely as she passed.

  I hadn't thought about her for a while. Too many other things had pressed in upon me. I knew it wasn't quite fair, but I blamed her for the mess I'd stumbled into. And blaming her, I expected to feel a surge of hate. But it wasn't there. I waited, but it didn't come. How strange, I thought. How strange, I still think.

  She strode into the dining room and sat down in the middle of things, a chair appearing from nowhere.

  Andrew did an introduction: “Everyone, this is Uma. Uma, this is everyone.”

  It was hardly needed. Within a second of sitting down, Uma was engaged in a six-way discussion with Katie, Odette, Andrew, Veronica, and Milo. She swigged out of someone else's wine glass, which then became hers. And then, for the next two hours, she dominated the room. Fashion and philosophy were abandoned, and what? Well, everything else took its place. Uma had a risible boredom threshold and wouldn't allow more than five minutes of the Middle East or Tony Blair or the euro or the best romantic comedies of all time. It was the greatest display of bravura egotism I'd ever seen, an excuse to talk at people, to feed off their laughter and admiration, but she turned two dinner parties into one, and before people knew what was happening, the last train had gone, and it was a matter of who'd share with whom in the taxis back into London.

  Through it all, I was aware that Ludo was studying me. He'd said hardly a word to anyone all evening. At least he wasn't swept up in the Uma mania that possessed the other boys. You'd have thought a combination of Marilyn Monroe and Camille Paglia had suddenly appeared at the table, such was the intensity of focus and the lavishness of fawning attention poured upon her. I suppose I should have expected nothing better from Andrew, Leo, and Sean. But Milo? How could he have been so taken in? What, after all, did he care for Beirut massacres or Bosnian betrayals? Couldn't he see those horrid boots she was sporting? Odette was just as bad, following Uma's lead, and helping her out on those rare occasions when she faltered or lost impetus. True, Katie and Galatea, used themselves to being the center of attention, the pretty, bright things around which men formed like blood clots, adopted looks of condescension, superior amusement, a mild, mocking boredom. But they could not shift the party back to themselves with their small talk of fashion shoots and style magazines and startling new skin-care products. Only Veronica remained steadfast, listening critically but without obvious jealousy Her passive scrutiny seemed to unnerve Uma, and she tried to avoid her gaze.

  And me, what did I do? I floated. I found that I was surveying the scene from above but able to adjust my height, to zoom in to an eye, to see through the table to assess whose feet were touching, to fly back and up to take in again the whole group. I could see Andrew, laughing infectiously, desperately trying to get his own jokes in, to show tha
t he could take the pace, flirting and flattering. I could see Leo, quieter, but causing even Uma to pause when he did say something, causing her to consider for a moment before she moved on, enclosing his comment within a wider theory, accepting but diminishing it. I could see Ludo, his elbows on the table, his thick fingers over his mouth or his eyes, his brow wrinkling with thoughts that seemed unconnected to the mood around him.

  And Sean. He was smiling. But not his usual good-natured-drunk smile, the one that would settle on his face when things were going well. It was a different smile—a smile I remembered but hadn't seen for a while, perhaps for a couple of years. It was a smile of rapture, and it dismayed me.

  Mom and Dad came in at about one. Dad went straight to bed after a quick “Ah, hello, how nice. There's port in the cellar, you know.” Mom joined us. She and Uma hit it off. Uma asked her about Hungary. She'd been to Budapest and knew how to say “hello” and “I love you” in Hungarian, which amused everybody.

  Uma went in the first taxi with Andrew, Leo, and Odette. Of course, everyone left behind bitched about Uma once she'd gone.

  “Talk about an ego,” said Katie, apparently unaware of any irony. “The thing is, she looked like she was talking about everything in the world, but she was really just talking about herself, because all that mattered was what she thought about it.”

  “It was protective,” said Veronica. “There's something wounded about her. All that dazzle is to deflect attention, not to attract it.”

  That got a derisive snort from Galatea, but she didn't follow up the snort with evidence. I wondered if Veronica might have hit on something.

  “Looked like poor old Andrew was deep in the smit,” said Sean.

  “Not just Andrew, I'd say,” said I.

  “No, you're right. Leo was fairly taken as well. But he always was one for yearning for the unobtainable.”

  Galatea and Milo exchanged looks.

  “I, at least,” said Milo, “thought she was an ornament to the evening, and I could not possibly have ulterior motives.”

  “You just got off on the fact that we all hated her,” said Galatea. And then two more taxis came, and they left, sorting themselves out in the drive.

  “What charming friends you have,” said Mum. “How did you meet this Uma?”

  “She's Sean's friend.”

  “Oh, really? I thought he obtained his friends from you.” Sean was standing next to us, but Bella hadn't addressed him directly.

  “He met her at a playgroup.”

  “Oh.”

  Now she looked at him. “How nice for you. See you in the morning.” And she went to bed.

  “The old bitch,” said Sean.

  “Don't talk about my mother like that. She's been very good letting us stay here.”

  “That's something I wanted to talk about. I've got so much work to do on this fucking book. I can't do it here. I can't get comfortable. I want to go and work at home for a couple of weeks.”

  “Work at home? But the builders … What do you mean?”

  “All the main smashing up has been done now. It's just decorating left to do, which shouldn't disturb me. I can set up an office in the end room; there's just about enough space. I only need room for a laptop. And I can clear the bed.”

  “The bed? You mean you want to sleep there?”

  “Of course. You know how I work. I like to go late into the night.”

  “What about Harry?”

  “That's partly my point. For the first time in two and a half years, he doesn't need me. There's Magnus and Mary and Bella around the whole time. I'm mainly twiddling my thumbs—look, see how good I've got at it.” He twiddled in my face. “And I thought that you could maybe, you know, take some time off. You took hardly any vacation last year. You must have loads owing.”

  That bit was true.

  “How long is this for?”

  “I said, a couple of weeks. I need to do this.”

  “Sean?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You're not leaving me, are you?”

  I said it almost as a joke. That's how he took it.

  “Darling, how can I be leaving you when I'm going to live in our apartment?”

  “I think it's madness. The mess, the clutter. How will you cook?”

  “I'll eat sandwiches. And I'll see you whenever you want. And Harry. Remember, you go away for work all the time, this is just me doing the same.”

  Of course, a month before, I wouldn't have agreed. But things had happened since then. If he wanted to do this stupid thing, then I would let him.

  We were in bed when I remembered Uma.

  “Why didn't you tell me she was coming?”

  “I forgot. No, I didn't really forget; I never thought she'd turn up. At the playgroup, I said we were having people round, and she looked lonely, and I said why not come, but she said she couldn't really, and I said go on, and she said she might, but I thought that meant no. So I was as surprised as you.”

  “I wasn't that surprised.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  I tried again to find out where Sean has hidden his journal. Nothing. I keep hitting firewalls, if that's the right word. I asked him about it. He said that he didn't want to show me what he'd written because it was all crap and in note form. Anyway, he said, most of it would end up in the book on Harry, and I could see it then.

  But I'll keep on writing my counterjournal, until the end. It means too much to me now to stop. For the first time in my life, I feel as though I understand myself and my life, because here I am, and here it is, in black and white—the truth of me, the truth of it.

  SEANJOURNALEIGHTEEN.DOC

  FEAR PROVES STRONGER THAN LOVE

  It was obviously not going to happen for me if I stayed in the house with Magnus and Bella and Harry, and Mary, the girl from the town. Even though I was no longer essential, I was still there, and Harry would come to me when others had said “no” (admittedly not that often, where Magnus was concerned). And then Bella had decided that she wanted to be my friend, which was worse than the old hostility. She'd bring up pots of tea or coffee and biscuits, and stay to chat. I sometimes got the impression that she had made a special effort with her appearance, putting on fresh lipstick, remodeling her penciled eyebrows. She was obviously proud of her bosom, which, for a skinny lady well into her fifties, was impressive. She had a dress with a sort of peephole over her cleavage, perhaps just—and I mean just—on this side of the decency barrier, and she tended to wear that for her visits. It must be some combination of paranoia and misplaced sexual egotism, but I began to think that there might be something not quite right about these afternoon liaisons.

  A typical exchange would go something like this (picture Bella gazing mournfully out the window, like the Lady of Shalott's granny, blowing smoke at me from one of those long black cigarettes like a licorice stick):

  “It is in some ways pleasant to have a young man here in my house.”

  “Oh, good. I don't like to be a—”

  “I have been for a long time a lonely woman.”

  “At least you've got good old Magnus. Must be nice having him here, now he's semiretired.”

  “Magnus—as you say, dear Magnus—is occupied with his creatures. He dotes on them, you know?”

  “Yes. Salamanders and newts. Dotes. And on Harry.”

  “It leaves him so little time for … what remains.”

  “What remains … er, the garden?”

  “May I pour you some more tea?”

  “Thanks, no, I really must be, ah, my book calls. Words to write. Lots of them. Look, here's one, a favorite of mine: pullulate.”

  Eventually she'd go. Nothing explicit was ever said—or, God forbid, done—but I definitely got the feeling that there was some … longing going on, somewhere. Celeste's relationship with Bella has always baffled me. Celeste seems completely blind to her eccentricities. Blind also to a kind of jealousy that Bella evidently feels. Jealousy g
ets it wrong; it's more that she knows she can only live through Celeste, and so needs her, but also hates her for it. Scratch that melodramatic hates; retreat to a more modest resents. Celeste is in the world in a way that Bella never was (at least since the days of her shuttlecock triumphs) and never will be. But for Celeste, Bella is just her mom—the woman who looked after her when she was a kid and who lives in the house where she grew up, and whom she loves without thinking about it. Not so very different, now I put it like that, from the way I think about my own mom.

  But you'd have to work pretty hard to invent two characters as different as Bella and my mother, Elizabeth, always called Beth by my dad. She was big and loud and happy when I was small. And then Dad died, and she became gradually smaller, until now I have to bend down to put my arm around her. Beth was from Leeds. She met Eddie, my dad, on a religious retreat in the Yorkshire moors. It was the kind of thing that Catholic schools sent their holier-looking kids on in the hope that they might catch a vocation and come back as priests or nuns. But any thoughts Eddie and Beth might have had about marrying God were dumped as soon as they saw each other. They were seventeen.

  Eddie was a fisherman from Hull. When he married Beth in 1966, they set up house in a village just outside his hometown. Eddie's boat trawled the Icelandic waters, teeming then with huge fucking fish, and the money was good. One of my few memories of my father—I must have been four years old, so it was 1972—is of him standing in the doorway holding up a whole cod almost as big as himself, its great mouth gulping open, scaring me. A memory, but not really a memory. A few years ago, I found a black-and-white photograph of Dad standing in a doorway holding up a huge cod, so my memory probably relates to the picture and not the man. In 1973, his boat sank in the North Sea. Instead of saying he'd gone to heaven, my mom said something strange. She said he was with the mermaids under the water.

  After Eddie died, Mom moved back to Leeds, back to the council estate where she grew up, where I was to grow up. She was a clever woman and earned her living as a secretary, first at a car dealership and later in the Halifax Building Society in town. I usually had tea after school at gran's house, which was where I developed my aversion to boiled ground beef and potatoes. Gran was Irish, and Mom said that when they were kids, if they were naughty, they'd be sent outside to cut their own whipping rods, and if they weren't thick enough, then God help them, but when I knew her, she was as gentle as thistledown.