Wolf at the Table, page 35
From his pocket Ronan removes the printed e-mail from his Aunt Lexy and spreads it on the bar. It reads:
Ronan, Your mom is back in the hospital. There was a rupture in her colon. She’s in stable condition after surgery and your Grandmother and Uncle Barry and I are with her in Montpelier. No need to come home. Dr. Anthony assures us that the surgery was successful. Just wanted to let you know. Hope all is going well in London.
Love,
Aunt Lexy
The bartender sets his pint of Guinness before him. Ronan takes a long drink. And then another.
The thought of his mother going through yet another health scare while he’s across the Atlantic makes him feel helpless, guilty, like a useless son. Was the rupture in the middle of the night, like the last time? Was she gardening? Walking up the steps of her front porch? Refilling one of the hummingbird feeders? He considers getting on a plane, but with his play about to open, he consoles himself that Aunt Lexy, Uncle Barry, and Grandma Ava are there. Other than emotional support, he reasons, there’s probably not much more he could contribute.
The truth is, Ronan still hasn’t told anyone in London about his mother’s illness; he figures it would just be a distraction, and he’d felt confident about coming to London. His mother had been doing well since her last round of treatments a year ago, and he’d been checking in with her at least twice a week. She insisted that he go to London and take part in the rehearsal process leading up to the world premiere of his play. Nevertheless, the dread of her illness has eaten away at him. He hasn’t been sleeping much. At first he chalked it up to jet lag, but since that period has passed, he’s still only been able to manage a few hours of sleep a night and has developed dark circles under his eyes.
From the bartender he orders another pint. At barely past four p.m., it’s a little early to be drinking consecutive Guinesses, but he needs it. After a long pour the bartender slides a fresh pint in front of Ronan.
Behind him he hears, “Save some for the punters.”
He turns to find Muriel at his right shoulder. Her hair is wet from the rain. She wears a jean jacket over a white Joy Division T-shirt with faded black lettering. Her brown eyes, kind and round, belie her cutting wit.
“Knockin’ back the Guinness already,” she says.
“Apparently there’s more fortified vitamins and minerals in this stout,” Ronan says, “than in most breakfast cereals.” He takes a gulp for good measure and licks the froth from his upper lip.
Muriel continues to stand at his shoulder, strands of wet hair plastered to the sides of her face. “You okay?” she says. “You look like your favorite team just bungled the cup.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “But I think the rain has finally affected my mood.”
“It does keep pissing down, doesn’t it?”
“Are you watching the play?”
“Of course,” she says, seizing his Guinness and helping herself to a gulp. “Taking notes for Harold. He’s actually sitting in the audience tonight. Last chance to fix anything before the real bastards come.”
“The real bastards meaning the critics.”
“The realest bastards of them all,” she says, setting the glass down. “That fat fuck from the Evening Standard’s sure to be there. Plath de Jong. Sits right up front, always takes his shirt off, makes it all about him.”
“He really takes his shirt off?”
“It’s his not-so-subtle way of protesting about the temperature. Harold turns the air off as the houselights are fading so the audience can hear the actors. The chap is a decent writer but he hates everything. But don’t worry, others will gush. They’ll see your doomed characters as victims of the American class system and applaud your blistering critique of a government that forgets its veterans and lost daughters.”
“Harold told me the reviews don’t matter so much here.”
“Oh, they matter,” she says. “It isn’t like New York, where it’s the fucking Times or fuck all. Does Ronan read his notices?”
“He does.”
“And if they’re bad he can’t get out of bed, he starts thinking about shoving his head in the oven?”
“They’ve never been that bad,” he says.
“And if they’re good?”
“Pizza parties and primal screams.”
“That sounds like the title of a bad rock-and-roll memoir.”
Ronan laughs and drinks. “In New York good reviews mean more life for the play, which means more money for the playwright.”
“And more pints of Guinness for friends of the playwright,” she says, again seizing his pint and quaffing. “As far as Fat Fuck de Jong goes, you must wear his hateful notice like a badge of honor.” She sets the pint glass back on the bar.
“I’ll rip it out of the paper and shape it into a perfect bow tie,” he says.
“By the way,” she says, “I wrapped Harold’s gift. He’s going to love the hat.” And with that she heads for the staircase, promising to see him afterward and buy the first pint.
RONAN SPENDS THE FIRST act of the play in the greenroom. His dialogue transmits over the tinny, archaic PA speaker as if the play is being broadcast from a distant planet.
Anton and Reese sound like they’re in the pocket, digging into the moments without indulging in pauses, which is one of Harold’s pet peeves. He can’t stand actors who want you to see their work, who mug for the audience. He can’t tolerate actors who are unwilling to keep secrets.
One of Ronan’s favorite things about the Bush is that, whether before the play or during the intermission, you can take your drink from the bar up to your seat in the theater. He also loves their overstuffed plaid love seat in the greenroom. If he folds his long legs just so, he can get pretty comfortable. He fades while staring at the foamy dregs at the bottom of his third pint.
“IT WENT WELL, IT really did,” Harold says as Ronan brings him a glass of the house red.
Harold is wedged into the corner of his usual booth, next to Muriel, already holding court. Ronan is clutching a pair of lagers, one for himself and one for Muriel, beside whom he slides in, handing her her Grolsch. Opposite Harold sit Ian and Dawn, each with a pint of Guinness. Anton and Reese have begged off, perhaps with a desire to preserve themselves for press night.
“Cheers, everyone,” Harold declares, holding up his wine. “To tomorrow.”
“To press night,” the others say.
“Fuck ’em all in their miserable hearts!” Harold adds.
And they all say “Cheers,” clink their glasses, and drink.
“It sounded good from the greenroom,” Ronan says, and asks Harold if he was pleased with the performances.
“He wept again,” Muriel says. “Admit it, you wept like a baby.”
“Well, they moved me,” Harold says. “And our playwright’s gob-smacking play moves me.” He turns to Ronan. “And this is my last wine, by the way, so don’t you dare bring me another. Whatever they’re pouring tonight is shite anyway.”
The pub is nearly full, as it usually is after the play. Following the curtain call most of the audience comes straight down and orders a drink. Ronan likes to eavesdrop on their conversations. Unlike New York, there are no photographs of the playwright anywhere on the premises, and they have no idea he’s the author. He loves how the anonymity allows him to spy. While he was waiting for Harold’s glass of wine he overheard an older woman at the bar say that the play was “quite good for American fare.”
Ronan drinks his Grolsch, so close to Muriel that he can smell her sweat mingling with her deodorant. He’s on his fourth beer since the intermission and hasn’t eaten anything in hours. He should order food from the bar. One of their hamburgers, with its strange, Spam-like consistency. Or the blood pudding and whipped potatoes. There’s also a fish-and-chips shop on the other side of the Shepherd’s Bush Green.
Harold begins cataloging some of the VIPs who are expected tomorrow night, a list that in addition to some thirty critics (Plath de Jong among them) includes several members of his old theater company and a well-known Australian rock star. And just like that, he’s finished his glass of wine. Ian nods to Dawn and she starts to get up, no doubt to head to the bar for a replenishment.
“Don’t you dare,” Harold tells her, and she freezes. “As I said earlier, this is my only one tonight. Tomorrow I’ll be so drunk I won’t even need my cane. Ian, help me into a taxi.”
Dawn and Ian rise and Harold budges his girth across the booth and uses his cane to straighten himself. His gout flare-up is obviously getting the better of him, and as he makes his way toward the exit he appears too preoccupied with his throbbing toe to offer a proper farewell. Dawn passes a ten-pound note from her petty-cash envelope to Ian, who follows in the director’s wake.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER RONAN and Muriel are about to enter her apartment in Notting Hill. During the cab ride he found himself staring at her pale, open, pretty face when she leaned in for a kiss, which was deep, perfect. It was the first time in seven years that Ronan had tasted another woman’s lips and he felt an immediate pang of guilt that almost kept him rooted in the taxi when Muriel climbed out. He even asked the driver to keep the meter running. But Muriel paid the driver and tugged at Ronan’s wrist and he was dislodged without fanfare.
“Hot as Morocco in here,” Muriel says, leading Ronan through the dark of her warm apartment, which smells of black tea and oranges. She opens a window. The air brings the scent of ozone into the room, a trace of car exhaust.
Moments later they are standing before each other in what he assumes to be her bedroom, where she sheds her jean jacket, her Joy Division T-shirt, and then her bra. Her breasts are fuller than he expected, her nipples pale and erect. They kiss again and her hand goes to his groin. He is already hard. Shame hasn’t had the slightest effect whatsoever. Even in the dark, Ronan notices the soft well of her collarbone, two small moles along the length of her neck. As he moves to kiss her again, Muriel untucks his shirt—a white, slightly threadbare Oxford, unbuttons it, and lifts it over his head. The cool air from the window grazes the warmth of their conjoined torsos. The rest of their clothes come off as they head for her large four-poster bed. Ronan hangs his jeans from one of the bed knobs. There is no discussion about what they might do, how they might protect themselves. It happens smoothly, effortlessly. Muriel begins with her hand and then uses her mouth and then pushes Ronan back onto the mattress, mounts him, and guides him inside her. She feels so different from Henny, somehow more lush, and she’s freer with her body. As he starts to tense she tells him that it’s okay if he wants to come inside her, that she’s on the pill. When he comes it feels like lightning surging through his calves and hamstrings, as if he’s being delicately electrocuted. It feels so primal, so certain. He stays hard, continuing on, and when Muriel orgasms, her hands swim out in front of her like a blind woman who’s walked into a cloud of bees. Her voice is high and she loses control of her body and falls on top of Ronan as if she’s been knifed. They hold each other, panting, sweaty.
Muriel is fuller than Henny. Ronan loves the softness of her middle, the warmth of her face on his neck. He is most surprised by the lack of guilt he feels—how easy it was, like hopping over a puddle.
“Was that okay?” Muriel asks.
Ronan nods. He finds that he can’t speak.
Rain simmers on the window.
“If you need the loo, it’s down the hall on your left.”
He nods again and gets out of bed, slips into his underwear and jeans.
Muriel’s bathroom is clean and spare. Seafoam-green tiles. A little basket of sculpted soaps: lavender and baby blue turtles and geese. This seems odd for Muriel: Post-punk T-shirts and old-lady soaps. But the English are a strange sect; you never can quite pin any of them down. Who would’ve ever guessed Harold’s house to be so beautifully furnished with its antiques and colorful rugs? When Ronan drops his pants to piss he is suddenly so light-headed he has to lower the toilet seat and sit. He is drunk, dehydrated. Their sex is fragrant, rising up from between his legs. He hasn’t pissed sitting down since he was a child and it makes him feel enfeebled, cowardly.
After washing his hands he stands in front of the mirror with his fists on the cold porcelain basin. For the briefest moment, like some beleaguered, shaggy, sleep-deprived detective in a seventies film, he believes himself to be doomed by some wrongness deep within him. It is microscopic, almost untraceable. An invisible protein eating away at the filament of goodness that binds his heart to his groin. His pale body, less muscular than it was only a few years ago, has been softened by moral weakness. He just had sex with the assistant director of his new play when he’s supposedly in a committed relationship with a woman he loves.
There is a knock on the door.
“Everything okay in there?”
“I’ll be out in a second,” he tells her.
“I’m just making some tea,” she says.
After retrieving his shirt from the bedroom Ronan heads out to the kitchen, where Muriel is heating a kettle. She’s wearing a silk robe now, pale blue, patterned with blackbirds, open in the front, revealing her soft brown thatch. How quickly she’s shed her tomboy persona.
“You’re fully dressed,” she says, removing biscuits from a box of Walker’s shortbreads and setting them on a small wooden tray. “Was it that bad?”
“It wasn’t bad at all,” he says, buttoning his shirt. “In fact it was just the opposite.”
Ronan sits at her small white circular kitchen table, whose resin surface is smooth, unblemished. Muriel sits on the counter, the kettle warming beside her on the stovetop.
“But your shame and guilt drove you back into your jeans,” she says.
The kettle whistles and Muriel reaches over, kills the flame, and hops down from the counter. She pours the boiling water into mugs of PG Tips, sets them on the tray, and brings it over to the table. Her calves are muscular, powerful. She really is lovely. She turns and opens a cupboard, retrieves a bottle of honey; from her refrigerator, a small carton of milk.
“Is this the first time you’ve cheated?” she asks.
“Yes,” Ronan replies.
“How does it feel?”
“Part of me feels terrible.”
“And what about the other parts?”
“The other parts want to go back to bed with you as soon as we finish this tea.”
“Henny, right?” Muriel says.
“Yeah, Henny,” he says, and just saying her name makes him feel like something is wedged between his molars.
“Are you still in love with her?”
“Lately there’s been this drift,” he says. “This sense that…” But he trails off, can’t finish the thought.
“That what?” she says.
“That we might not last or make it or however you want to put it.”
“How long have you been together?” she asks.
“Five years.”
“Anton told me she’s quite the playwright.”
“She is,” he says. “And she’s directing her own work now, too.”
“I s’pose she also hangs her own lights. Does a crack sound design.”
“She probably could,” he says.
“Does it get competitive between you two?”
“Not really,” he says. “But success is more recent for me. I’ve been lagging behind her for most of our relationship.”
“All of that’s about to change,” she says.
“You think?”
“This play of yours is going to absolutely floor people.”
Ronan spoons honey into his tea, adds a splash of milk as he’s witnessed Harold do during rehearsal breaks. “She has more courage,” he says, stirring. “With her writing.”
“I happen to think Near is pretty fucking courageous,” Muriel says, biting into a shortbread biscuit. When she chews she reveals the slightest overbite. He loves her mouth: its childishness, its surprising fullness.
“In New York,” he says, “there’s this word that the critics like to use when they’re impressed with a playwright: unflinching. Henny is the epitome of unflinching.”
“Cool as a cucumber,” Muriel says.
“She doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks about her work.”
“And you do?”
“I sometimes feel that I’m desperate to succeed. That I’m too concerned with being liked.”
“Henny sounds very impressive.”
“She comes from money,” Ronan says, surprising himself.
Since he and Henny have been together he’s kept this to himself. A provocative mixed-race playwright whose work deals with social justice issues has no right to be rich, after all, at least in the eyes of the world. Very few people know about Henny’s trust fund, her famous painter father and fancy apartment, or the fact that she grew up in an insulated, affluent part of northwest Connecticut. It’s the major reason why she refuses to do interviews. Ronan is convinced that her agent tells others in the industry that Henny is from Harlem or the Bronx.
“Her father is a successful painter,” Ronan continues. “She makes money on commissions and productions but she lives off the interest from a trust fund and she lives well. We eat at nice restaurants. I get fancy Christmas presents.”
“So she can afford to care less,” Muriel says. “I have to admit I can relate.”
He tells her what Harold had shared with him—about her being the daughter of an English lord. “It’s true,” she says. “My family owns a bunch of land near Devonshire. In many ways my life is set.”
