by Tessa Hadley
— That’s not the point.
Lydia was helpless to stop the confessions flooding out of her. At least she was coming clean, she thought, and Alex would know what she was really like. — Obviously I’m drifting, wasting my intelligence. I suppose I can’t work in a bar forever. It’s such an irony because my parents run a pub, and my one aim in life was to escape from it. You can’t imagine what my life at home was, how conventional and stifling. My parents by the way support Mrs Thatcher enthusiastically. I know your father was a novelist: well, the only books my dad’s ever read are books of racing form. He wins money on the horses.
— It’s honestly an advantage in life, Alex said severely, — if your father isn’t a novelist.
Lydia understood, with a leap of sympathetic imagination, how he carried this burden of his father’s achievement, which blocked his own. Of course he couldn’t see himself as she saw him, so perfect in his offhandedness, his handsome young sadness, squinting in the smoke from his cigarette, pale face stark against his dark coat with its collar turned up. — I could change, Alex, she said, — if you helped me. What do you think I ought to do? Perhaps I could become quite noble and self-sacrificing if you told me to do something. I would really try.
— You ought to read more, he said.
She was disappointed, she’d hoped for some impossible mission against the grain of her nature: charity work or travel to some rugged, miserable place. — Is that all? That’s not enough.
He lent her a book, which he took out from his briefcase: Foucault’s Madness and Civilization. — I don’t know whether this is a good thing, he said. — But you ought to know what’s going on.
Lydia took it without enthusiasm. — I won’t understand it. I’m not as clever as you think.
When Alex asked after Christine, Lydia said she was fine, she was working hard. Chris was really the clever one, Lydia explained. — She’s the real thing. Why, do you like her? Yes, I’m not surprised that you like her. She has her own ideas, she’s not like me, she doesn’t just follow what everyone else thinks.
Christine and Zachary Samuels did go out together for a while. They really got on well. They spent hours in the National Gallery and the Tate, showing each other all their favourites, discussing them absorbedly. They enjoyed the same films and books, shared the same politics, spoke uninhibitedly. When they slept together it was very purely pleasurable: Zachary was so physically at ease and generous, enjoyed their lovemaking so frankly, undid something knotted and watchful in Christine. Yet when she remembered their happy companionship afterwards, she never quite thought of calling them lovers, even to herself. The word had too much excess in it, couldn’t convey how economically and smoothly they had been conjoined. There was supposed to be some violence in sexual love, which swept you away in its adventure; when she was with Zachary she had hardly felt the jolt to her own sensibility.
One afternoon they met for tea at the Louis, to commemorate the occasions they’d missed meeting there in childhood. She had given him her drawings and a couple of small paintings to look at, things she’d done in her life classes, where she was learning to give her human subjects the same exaggerated presence she’d given to books and clothes in the old scraperboards. She contracted the human forms for density and pushed them forward to fill the picture frame. Zachary talked through the pieces one by one and said he loved them, they were so exciting. She had never spoken to anyone before about her art. He said she should take it very seriously. She should give up the PhD, put everything into it.
Christine was fearful, joyous. — But won’t I fail?
— You won’t fail.
She bowed her head, staring down at the brown tea circling in the flowery cup, and felt tears of happiness spring in her eyes. His confidence had the momentousness for her of an annunciation. He said it was a good thing she hadn’t been to art school, her kind of work wasn’t fashionable, they’d have set themselves against it and tried to change her. But she must have the conviction of her style. Afterwards, when they came out of the cafe into a thin rain, neither of them had an umbrella. — I could take you home, she suddenly suggested, although the idea hadn’t occurred to her until that moment: their relationship wasn’t at the point of needing to meet parents. — I mean, to my real home. The house where I grew up.
— I’d love that, Zachary said.
Christine still kept a key in her purse to her old front door, broad unpretentious entrance to a plain, well-proportioned eighteenth-century house. She was proud of herself, bringing home a real man – almost thirty – who would make clever conversation, and know the sort of people her family knew. The boys she’d brought home before had been too impossible. Christine’s mother Barbara was small and soft and pretty, full of subtle discriminations, exacting over her clothes, aiming for a French look with a tincture of earthy, arty colours; Christine took after her tall, thin father, an expert in health systems who worked for the UN. She and her father would decide from time to time that Barbara was frivolous, while her two sturdy brothers took their mother’s side.
It turned out that the Drinkwaters did indeed have friends in common with the Samuels, they moved on the fringes of one another’s circles. Zachary was immediately, expansively, at home in the terracotta-painted drawing room on the first floor, full of interesting objets. He threw his coat and scarf onto a chair and sprawled on the comfortable sofa, willingly drinking more tea although they’d had second helpings at the Louis. Barbara asked how they knew each other and Zachary said it was through Lydia. — Oh, we adore Lydia, Barbara said. — We’ve known her forever. So funny when she was eleven, in her frilly party dress. A solid little pudding in those days. A force of nature! Now she and I confabulate over silly subjects like make-up and hairstyles — I can’t talk about them to Christine, she’s too intelligent.
— Mum, you make intelligence sound insufferable.
— But it’s true, darling! You’re not interested in make-up.
Zachary had promised not to mention Christine’s pictures. — Your daughter’s a genius, he said. — She’s so talented.
— Isn’t she wonderful? Though rather terrifying. She’s awfully hard on her poor old mother, who can’t keep up.
— Well she’s very nice to me, he defended her stoutly. — And doesn’t terrify me in the least. Lydia’s the terrifying one.
Christine was surprised. — Really? Lydia? You’ve never said that to me before.
— Haven’t I?
He looked at her with some trouble in his pink bright face. — She rather squelches me. As far as she’s concerned, I think I’m a piece of the furniture, for tripping over. I’m turned into a jelly by a girl like that.
— She’s very attractive, Barbara said with interest. — Is that what you mean?
— Oh yes, she’s marvellous. Sumptuous. You know, like . . . He was frankly nonplussed. — Like an actress. Like a goddess in a painting.
Christine stared. — Is that what you think of her?
— One of the goddesses who punish mortal men if they get too close. She makes me think I’m going to be turned into a deer and eaten by my own hounds or something. But in a good way.
Barbara sat smiling, from her daughter to Zachary and back again.
Then she asked how Christine’s research was going and Christine reported briefly that her supervisor said she was on track – she bored herself, if she ever talked to her mother about her academic work. She didn’t mention that she was contemplating giving all that up: she hugged to herself her knowledge of what Zachary had said about her pictures. Barbara wondered if Zachary was keen on the Victorians too, and he said he was mad about them, they were the next big thing. Barbara sighed, she said she preferred the eighteenth century.
— Good taste’s all over, Zachary said. — Now we all want feelings.
— Oh dear, I’m so much better on good taste.
She and Zachary were teasing already, they were getting on. Christine was thinking judgementally that her mother didn’t actually k
now anything about the eighteenth century, just liked her idea of it. At first they were sitting in the dusk. Then while Zachary and Barbara were talking, Christine got up and went around switching on the lamps, prowling in the shadowy margins of the room, picking things up from the shelves and putting them down. From childhood, she had got into the habit of letting her mind drift while her mother spoke, not following her words, only letting their tone wrap round her, familiar and reassuring as a blanket. Zachary fitted in so perfectly, she needn’t make any efforts on his behalf. There was some latest new novelist he had read, who was the son of her mother’s friends. Barbara made a conspiratorial face of distaste. — But wasn’t his book boring? Such a shame, what a nice chap.
Zachary was delighted. It was boring of course, she was quite right. And then they discussed some marvellous French film that they’d both seen. Christine had seen it too but she didn’t say anything. Barbara eventually invited them both to stay to supper – Zachary was suffused with regret, he’d made other arrangements. Downstairs in the hall he and Christine kissed affectionately. She waved goodbye to him from the front door, then climbed the stairs again slowly, hesitating on the landing before she stepped into the drawing room, where her mother hadn’t moved yet to draw the curtains. The lamplight seemed weak, pouring into the night beyond, which was restless with rain. Barbara put down her book. — I like your new friend, darling, she said. — Such a nice chap. Very sweet.
— What’s that supposed to mean? You’re holding something back.
— I’m not holding anything back. I thought he was lovely. But he’s just a friend?
Christine knew her telltale face was hot. — Yes of course, just a friend.
— Because he’s not right for you: I mean, if there had been anything more to it. I can see how it wouldn’t have worked out.
It wasn’t unheard of for Christine to be explosive in that room. She had been known in her childhood for her tantrums – jagged marks on an Italian antique chest had never quite been polished out, where she’d scored them savagely in revenge for something, using a penknife belonging to one of her brothers. She had always been lovingly understood, lavishly forgiven — It’s because he’s Jewish, isn’t it? she cried. — I can’t believe this of you. What would Daddy say? I’m so ashamed.
— Good gracious! Don’t be so silly, her mother calmly said. — Of course it isn’t that. How idiotic. That’s not what the problem is. Have you fallen for him? I wouldn’t be surprised, he’s very nice. He likes you. I think he likes you, Chris, tremendously. But the problem is Lydia, isn’t it?
When she got home later that night – though her mother had pressed her to stay over, in her old bedroom – Lydia was still up, just as Christine had hoped she wouldn’t be, sitting reading in the kitchen. She had the three-bar electric fire plugged in and blazing away, careless of the expense. It was only when Christine came in from Hampstead that she noticed how their rented house smelled stale with damp and gas and vegetables past their best. Lydia was undressed for bed, in a vintage satin nightdress splashed with a pattern of peach-coloured roses, wrinkled against her smooth skin because she never ironed anything. In her drenched dark coat, flushing with the sudden heat, hair lank with wet, Christine felt painfully that she was not beautiful. Lydia’s hair, naturally the colour of streaked wild honey, was pinned up on her head in a floppy bow and her bare feet, tucked under her on the chair, showed rosy heels.
— This floor’s sticky, Lydia remarked in surprised distaste, as if it hadn’t occurred to her that someone ought to wash it. Alex’s Foucault was open on the table in front of her, along with a Mars bar on a plate, sliced into thin slivers – she kept this in the fridge, and allowed herself one slice per night. She lived on eked-out morsels of cakes and treats and was an awful cook, too easily bored to follow a recipe, inventing dishes out of unlikely combinations – grilled banana with tuna or cold pasta salad with tinned peaches and sweetcorn – then throwing away her disasters almost in triumph, as if she’d cheated her own appetite. She said that she was struggling with the book, whose passionate polemic was too remote to make sense to her: like an explosion far off among the stars. And eyeing the Mars bar she confessed that she’d had her slice already, but wanted another one. — I want it now, but if I eat it then in a minute I’ll wish I hadn’t. So, is it going well? Isn’t Zachary just the nicest? Didn’t I make a good plan for you?
Christine lifted eyes heavy with her doom. — Haven’t you noticed, Lydia? Zachary doesn’t really want me.
— You’re made for each other!
— Well no, actually. He wants you, it’s obvious. He just can’t help himself – talking about you, for instance, at every opportunity.
— What are you saying?
— I was just pretending not to know.
Zachary was besotted with Lydia, Christine explained, but he didn’t think he had a chance, he saw that all her attention was for Alex. And anyway he believed she was a goddess, and was so sweetly modest he’d never hope that goddesses might condescend to him. He didn’t think he was much good with women, not in that way: although he was quite wrong, he could make any woman very happy. Lydia’s face for once was quite slack and empty with surprise as she took in what her friend was telling her. Then gradually her expression filled up with new knowledge – which was not even slyly jubilant, only disturbed and heavy. — But are you quite sure? she insisted.
— Aren’t you sure too, now you think about it?
Slowly, one by one, Lydia picked up all the rest of the slices of Mars bar in her chipped, blue-painted nails, and ate them. Christine wouldn’t sit down with her at the table or even take her coat off. — You can have the whole thing now, if you want it, Lyd, she said. — I mean, the money and the beautiful houses and the life of leisure and everything you were selling so hard to me. You might as well, because I don’t think Alex is interested.
She saw how carefully Lydia was listening.
Alex came with Juliet to Lydia and Zachary’s wedding and they both drank too much champagne. Apparently they were back together but it wasn’t working out, and Alex’s best-man speech was so sardonic no one knew whether to laugh. Sandy was obnoxious, running out of control, pretending to knock into the guests’ wine glasses accidentally. Christine had asked Lydia before the wedding how she felt now about Alex. Lydia was sublimely assured, impatient as if Christine were dragging up ancient history. — Oh no, all that’s completely over. It was just a silly game. You were right at the time, you’re always right. I set my heart on what I couldn’t have, although I knew it was bad for me. Just because I knew it was bad for me.
The wedding was registry office, with a reception afterwards in the Samuels parents’ Hampstead garden – on an autumn day of showery fitful sunshine, fine rain floating in the gleams like dust motes, clouds liquid with light, thick cobwebs in the hedge glittering with raindrops. Zachary’s parents had turned out to be wonderfully worldly, with a house full of modern art. There had been some private consternation, because of the wife he had chosen; generously and for their son’s sake, on the day this was tidied out of sight. They had taken on Zachary’s passion for Lydia, along with her languid delivery and odd ironies and white wedding trouser suit and non-Jewishness, without betraying the least flicker of anything but warm welcome and interest. It was Lydia’s family who hung back, suspicious of what their daughter was getting into. Tibs and Pam would only thaw into their party mood, Lydia gloomily predicted, at just that point in the evening when all the other guests were taking leave and everybody wanted to go to bed. Zachary insisted his parents would love that, drawing up chairs for a cosy chat, getting out the cognac and cigars. — It won’t be cosy, Lydia said. — My mother will still be on her high horse for some reason she’s forgotten: for fear, really. And she takes Babycham in her cognac.
— Trust me, Zachary said. — Everything will work out.
Christine was avoiding Alex, though he seemed to be trying to talk to her; the more champagne she drank, the m
ore numb and dull and solitary she felt. He cornered her eventually at the buffet when, very late for dessert, she stood indecisively before the wrecked white damask cloth and the ravaged remains of the chocolate gateau and fruit salad, not fancying anything. She’d never seen Alex in a suit before: it looked cheap and too tight on him, the shiny grey material creased at the elbows and across the shoulders. His jacket was unbuttoned and he’d spilled something on his shirt. — You’re thin, he said, doling out syllabub into her dish, sticking it full of finger biscuits. – You need feeding up.
— I don’t even know if I like this, she protested, pushing the dish back at him.
— You need to feed yourself so you can make more drawings. I hear that Zachary’s keen on your drawings?
— I don’t want to talk about them.
— He’s going to ask that friend of his, isn’t he? If she’ll show them in her restaurant, where they put exhibitions on the walls. Quite a big deal, he says.
Anxiously Christine said she didn’t have enough to show, she couldn’t just make them to order. Anyway, Zachary and Lydia were moving to New York, so there was no point in starting anything. — I could take care of you, Alex said.
— You, take care of me? Oh dear.
— What’s so amusing?
— You’ve had too much to drink, Alex. What about that speech of yours? It’s supposed to be funny, you know. You’re not supposed to make it sound as if the wedding’s all a disastrous mistake.
— It is a mistake. He’s chosen the wrong woman. She’s pretty, but I thought that he’d want someone with more depth.
— You hardly know Lydia, Christine said indignantly. — You don’t know what her depths are.
Juliet was heading through the crowd towards them, purposeful but unsteady on her high heels. Relieved, presuming she was coming to take Alex home, Christine stepped back to be out of her way; then in an ugly transformation, Juliet was suddenly hissing into her face with pent-up vindictiveness. — Don’t think I didn’t know what you were up to, she said. — You little cow. Worming your way into my home and all the time making those soft eyes at my husband, imagining you could fool around behind my back.