by Isabel Wolff
‘OK, let’s get on with the meeting,’ said Jack. And though his tone of voice was calm, his face had gone a deep shade of red. ‘Let’s just …get on with this,’ he repeated with a sigh. ‘And your ideas had better be good.’
‘Diarrhoea?’ enquired a soothing voice, over sound effects of a flushing lavatory. I stared at my bowl of Mulligatawny.
‘Keep on running to the loo?’ I pushed the soup away, and picked at my plate of congealing macaroni.
‘Put diarrhoea on the skids with Bung!’
‘Can I join you, Minty?’ It was Jack. I nodded. He sat down with his sandwich and a cup of coffee. He looked tired and strained, as usual.
‘Sophie all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Think so.’
‘I shouldn’t have lost it like that,’ he said guiltily, ‘but she really was being incredibly annoying.’
‘Well …’
‘Coming on the Head Girl with me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I sometimes think she’s a bit too strait-laced for London FM, you know.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘I think she may have hidden depths.’
‘Was I too hard on her?’ he asked suddenly. He gave me a piercing, almost imploring look.
‘Oh, well, no, not really …’ And then I remembered what I’d learnt on the course. ‘Actually, yes,’ I said. ‘You were.’
‘I can’t help it,’ he sighed. ‘I just don’t have the same reserves of patience any more.’ This was true. Despite his sardonic exterior, Jack used to be easy-going, concealing his sharp managerial skills under a soft blanket of laissez faire. Now he was sharp, and cold. Worse, he seemed not to care. He bit into his ham and cheese sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. Then he rested his head on his hand.
‘Are you all right, Jack?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m not.’
‘Anything I can do?’ I pushed my plate away. He smiled, and held my gaze. Then he shook his head, and looked away.
‘It’s too late,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve just got to face up to it. I’ve got to face up to the fact that I’ve made a terrible mistake.’
‘Oh, I’m sure if you speak to Sophie and explain, she’ll understand,’ I said. ‘She is a bit bossy, but she’s very young and probably doesn’t realise that –’
‘Oh, it’s not Sophie,’ he cut in. ‘It’s Jane.’
Jane? His wife of eight months. He heaved another huge sigh. And I was just going to ask him whether or not he wanted to talk about it, because Jack and I have always got on so well, when he went on, quite unprompted:
‘It’s my step-daughters. Topaz and Iolanthe. They make my existence hell.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’ve just had one of the worst weekends of my life.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘They hate me,’ he whispered.
‘How could anyone hate you?’ I replied. He smiled a rueful smile, then rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers.
‘Well, they do,’ he said with a sigh. ‘In fact, they loathe me. They always have. I’m the enemy. The object of their detestation. All I get is abuse.’
‘Doesn’t Jane stick up for you?’
‘That’s the last thing she’d do,’ he replied with a bitter laugh. ‘They’re Mummy’s little darlings – but they’re thirteen and fifteen now. That’s why I lost it with Sophie,’ he went on, quietly. ‘She reminded me of them. Trying to push me around. Trying to undermine my authority. I couldn’t take it. It’s bad enough getting that at home.’
‘I see.’ Poor Jack. ‘But …you put your foot down with Sophie,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes.’
‘In fact, you really put your foot down there.’
‘Yes,’ he conceded, again.
‘So why can’t you do it with your step-daughters?’ There was a pregnant pause.
‘Because …I just …can’t,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not their father, as they constantly remind me. And they’d go bleating to Jane if I did. Things are bad enough between us as it is,’ he added ruefully. ‘That’s why I went for Sophie.’
‘It’s called “Kicking the Cat”,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘That’s what you’re doing,’ I explained. ‘You’re kicking the cat. I learnt that on a course I did recently. If you get a load of grief at work, you take it out on people at home. With you, it’s the other way round, and so you’re taking it out on Sophie. You’re kicking the cat. Do you see?’
‘I suppose so. To be honest, I just can’t think straight at the moment. In fact, Minty, I’m at the end of my tether.’
‘O SOLE MIO …’
I’m at the end of my tether too.
‘ …STA ‘NFRONTE A TE!’
I’ve been listening to this all day.
‘QUANNO FA NOTTE …’
And it’s really loud.
‘0 SOLE MIO!’
And every time I try and turn it down a touch, Amber turns it back up. I just can’t think.
‘Couldn’t we have it a little softer?’ I said. ‘Just a bit.’
‘No. It doesn’t work unless it’s at full volume.’
It’s therapy, you see. For Pedro. At this time of year he tends to get a bit down in the beak. Amber says it’s Seasonal Affected Disorder. It’s certainly SAD. He won’t leave his cage, his little head droops, and he refuses to utter a word. Worse, he plucks at the feathers on his chest – a sure sign of psittacine distress. And the only thing that can snap him out of it is Neapolitan love songs. Though he’s very picky about the artistes. Mario Lanza rather than Tito Gobbi, for example. Caruso rather than Carreras. He also appreciates the more subtle Neapolitan intonation of Toni Marchi. Just like Granny did. But he has absolutely no time for Pavarotti. Believe me, it’s been tried.
‘CHE BELLA COSA, ‘NA IURNATA ‘E SOLE, N’ARIA SERENA DOPPA ‘NA TEMPESTA!’
‘He’s a very sentimental bird,’ said Amber, as she picked up my mahogany occasional table and moved it to the other side of the sitting room. ‘He likes music that comes from the heart. I ought to knit him a stripy fisherman’s jumper,’ she added with a laugh. She placed her long, elegant hands on her slim hips, and scrutinised the sitting room. Then she said, ‘Give me a hand, Mint.’
‘What?’ She had grabbed the arm of the small sofa.
‘Let’s move it into the window.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’ll look better there. That’s why.’
‘But I don’t really …want it to go there,’ I said cautiously.
Amber looked at me incredulously. I braced myself. My heart was pounding. My palms were damp. I felt the familiar panic and tried to remember what they’d said on the Nice Factor. What was it? Oh yes: ‘Does a fear of rejection make you say “yes” when you really mean “no”?’
‘You don’t want it to go there?’
‘N-no,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Minty!’ she replied with a burst of snorty laughter.
‘But I like it as it is,’ I tried again. She was so maddening. So bossy. She must have driven Charlie round the bend. And despite everything she’d heard on the Nice Factor she was still doing it to me! I could feel my blood pressure rise. I experienced an overwhelming urge to clean. Then I remembered something else I’d learnt on the course: excessive niceness can be dangerous. Too much self-restraint builds up a munitions dump of resentment which can explode at some totally inappropriate moment, often with completely the wrong person. And I didn’t want to blow up at anyone. I just wanted to be able to state my rights and say ‘no’.
‘Look, Amber,’ I said, ‘I really don’t –’
‘Oh, come on, Minty!’ she said again. Half an hour later, the sitting room had been completely rearranged. My two sofas had swapped sides, my standard lamp was next to the fire; my rosewood desk had vacated its nook, and the Persian rug had been moved. I hated it.
‘Now,’ she said, as I involuntarily put on my apron, ‘those curtains – awful!’
‘I say!’ screeched Pedro.
‘Oh good, he’s cheering up!’ exclaimed Amber.
While she crooned over Pedro, I surreptitiously turned down the hi-fi. And as Mario Lanza subsided, other sounds filtered in – the crack of an occasional firework, and shrieks of childish laughter. The big display was taking place tonight, on Primrose Hill. I had no plans to go, though I thought I might watch it from the garden. Amber was trying to get Pedro to eat a piece of apple. He took it in his scaly, outstretched claw, then held it up to his beak and nibbled it. Oh God, I wish she’d find her own place, I found myself thinking as I reached for the Jif. It’s not even as though she pays me any rent.
‘I need more space,’ she announced. Hurrah! At last! Telepathy.
‘My bedroom’s very small,’ she went on. This was true.
‘Yes, it is,’ I replied. ‘It’s very cramped.’ Not least because it’s full of her own books. She keeps buying them in a futile attempt to get into the bestseller lists. She must have two hundred at least.
‘I just don’t have enough room,’ she went on.
‘Well, there is a solution to that.’
‘Yes, but it would be quite tough.’
‘I think I’ll get used to it,’ I said.
‘I do hope so.’
‘Don’t worry. All good things come to an end.’
‘So you don’t mind if I have your bedroom then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You see, you’re out at work all day, so you only need a bedroom to sleep in. But I have to work in mine. Think in mine. Create in mine. So I thought we might swap.’
‘What?’
‘Because I’ve got to deliver my manuscript by January …’
‘Yes, but …’
‘ …and, frankly, the lack of space here is a bar to my creativity.’
‘Now look …’
‘And, let’s face it, yours is twice the size.’
‘Amber!’ I said. ‘I …’ This was it. I’d had enough. I was about to go off like Mount Etna. But all at once Amber had rushed up to me and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Oh, Minty, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Darling Minty, I knew you’d say yes – you’re so NICE!’
By now Pedro’s recovery was complete. Moreover, he was bored, and had started shouting.
‘Wah, wah, wah!’ he went. ‘Waaaah!’
‘Oh! Look, Minty – he’s better,’ crooned Amber. ‘Isn’t that lovely? He’s yelling. Let’s see if he’ll sing.’ She turned up the hi-fi and soon Pedro began to singalongaMario.
‘O SOLE MIO …’
‘Oh God.’
‘STA ‘NFRONTE A TE!’
‘DELICIOUS ICE-CREAM …’ sang Amber.
‘ …FROM ITALEEEEEEEE,’ crooned Pedro.
From somewhere, far away, above the cacophonous combination of Mario Lanza, a woman and a parrot, I could hear the telephone ringing. I went into the hall.
‘Yes?’
‘You pile of rubbish!’
‘What?’
‘You waste of space!’
‘Who is this?!’
‘Call yourself a radio reporter?’
‘Now look here –’
‘Come on, Minty! Your turn.’
‘Joe!’
‘Precisely. Do you fancy a drink?’
Did I fancy a drink? Well, no. No, I didn’t. In any case, what was the point of having a drink with Joe? He was seeing Helen. I knew that.
‘Do you want to come out?’ he asked.
‘Um …’
‘JUST ONE CORNETTO …’
‘Go on.’
‘GIVE IT TO ME!’
‘Well …’
‘QUANNO FA NOTTE …’
‘Come on, Minty.’
‘ …O SOLE MIO.’
‘Do you want to have a drink …’
‘Oh, Minty, he’s so much BETTER!’ Amber yelled.
‘ …or don’t you?’ said Joe.
‘Yes,’ I said suddenly. ‘I do.’
Half an hour later Joe and I were sitting in the Engineer, my local. He lives close by, you see, in Camden –just one stop on the Northern line or a fifteen-minute walk.
‘How did you get my number?’ I asked him. ‘Did Helen give it to you?’
‘No, it was on the contact address list, for the Nice course.’
‘Oh.’
‘Now, I hope you haven’t been too nice recently,’ he said, avoiding, I thought, the subject of Helen. He sipped his beer, and looked at me seriously.
‘I’m afraid I have,’ I replied. ‘I’ve just been terribly nice, actually, to Amber.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said, ruefully. ‘That’s very disappointing.’
‘But I have done something radical,’ I said, touching my hair. Joe nodded.
‘Amazing!’ he exclaimed again.
‘And how about you?’ I asked. ‘Are you squaring up for your struggles with the studios?’
‘I’m working on it,’ he replied. ‘I’m determined to get my film made.’
‘Well, the book’s wonderful,’ I said truthfully. ‘I’m halfway through it. You write really well.’
He smiled. And where Amber would have launched into a long discussion about her characters, their motivation, how long it had taken her to write, what such and such a critic had written, and how big her print run was, Joe simply said, ‘Thanks,’ and changed the subject. All of a sudden we noticed that everyone was beginning to leave. I looked at my watch. It was seven thirty-five. The firework display was due to start in ten minutes.
‘Shall we watch it?’ he said.
‘Well, if you’d like to.’
‘Well, I would. But only if you want to,’ he said, with exaggerated niceness.
‘I must say, it does sound rather pleasant. But are you quite sure you want to go?’ I replied, in kind.
‘Quite sure.’
‘Because I wouldn’t want you to do anything you didn’t want to do,’ I said.
‘May I say how very considerate that is of you,’ he replied, happily.
‘Oh, thank you.’
‘But let me assure you that I would indeed very much like to watch the display, Minty. But only if you do too.’
‘Oh, I do.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’m sure. Are you sure.’
‘Sure.’
‘Please feel free to change your mind at any time.’
‘OK, that’s enough niceness, ed!’ he said. ‘We’re going to the fireworks, and that’s it. Come on!’ And I found myself laughing. He was very amusing. In fact, he was enormous fun. We walked on to Regent’s Park Road where a human stream, scarved and anoraked, was flowing towards the Hill. Children were carried aloft on shoulders, gumboots waded through leaves, sparklers hissed and flared in the darkness like electric dandelion clocks.
‘Ten, nine, eight …’ the crowd roared. ‘Seven, six, five …’ We turned in through the gates.’ …Four, three, two, one …’
BANG!!! KER-ACK!!! BOOOOOOOM!!! Vast, incandescent chrysanthemums exploded against the night sky. We craned our necks as their long silvery trails hung in the air like spray. PHUT! PHUT! PHUT! went the Roman Candles. WHEEEEE!! WHEEEEE!! squealed the rockets. Then a spangled meteor shower burst with a sound like the pinching of cosmic bubble-wrap. ‘OOOOOOOOO!!’ went the crowd, then ‘AAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!’ as a gigantic, hyacinth-shaded sea anemone flowered, trembled, then dissolved. I glanced at Joe. His upturned profile was bathed in light as a fiery fountain cascaded over our heads. Below us, flames as high as houses leapt from the huge bonfire into the dark.
‘Glow circles a pound!’ we heard a tout shout, as the show ended, and we clapped and cheered.
‘Would you like one?’ said Joe. I nodded. He put some money in the bucket for Crisis, then he selected one of the coloured phosphorescent strips. It looked like a tiny rainbow as he carried it back in his hands.
‘Here.’ He snapped the two ends together, then placed the luminous circlet on my head.
‘You
look like Titania,’ he said with a smile, as we began to walk back down the hill.
‘Didn’t she fall in love with a donkey?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Well, she was so besotted, so unlike her true self, that she just couldn’t see that the man was, in fact, an ass. When she realised her mistake, of course, she was appalled.’
‘Well, she would be.’
‘However, it all ended happily. And everyone ended up with the right partner.’
‘How nice. I wish life was like that.’
‘It could be,’ said Joe, as we drew up at my gate. ‘Gosh, what’s that din?’ From inside the flat, we could hear screeching and singing.
‘It’s Amber, her parrot, and er …yes …Placido Domingo. I’d ask you in,’ I added, ‘but I don’t think it’s quite the right moment …’ Joe gave me a hug, which astonished me, and then he kissed me on the cheek.
‘I do hope we can get together again, Minty,’ he said.
Did he? Why? I was totally confused by now. What about Helen? And why hadn’t he been with Helen this evening? Maybe he was going to see her later on. Maybe …maybe I shouldn’t be too ‘nice’ about this, I thought. Maybe I should just grasp the nettle and ask.
‘Joe, can I ask you something?’ I said hesitantly. ‘It’s been bothering me all evening.’
‘You can ask me anything you like.’
‘OK. Um, are you …?’ I laughed, then looked away. ‘I feel really silly asking you this,’ I tried again. ‘But, er, are you seeing Helen?’
‘Helen? No,’ he said. ‘We’re just friends.’
‘Ah.’ Then why was she being so secretive with me?
‘She’s great,’ said Joe.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘she is.’
‘I like her a lot.’
‘Me too. But I haven’t heard from her for ages. In fact, she’s gone a bit funny on me; and she usually only does that when she’s seeing someone, and I kind of thought that someone might be you.’
‘No! Why did you think that?’
‘Because …when we met in Paris,’ I explained, fiddling with my scarf, ‘you asked me for my number.’