Other People's Fun, page 8
‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s pretty dull, ticks over but I’m very low-status,’ and Sookie, who has been busying herself with wine and glasses, goes quite still, tilting her head, repeating, ‘Low-status?’ in a concerned, compassionate voice. I’m aware of the novelty of her full focus. My modest confession has given her a lift, made her feel a little better about herself.
There is the confusion of accepting a drink and I congratulate Jess on the nice mention of FlowYoga in the Sunday Times Style. ‘Oh wow, it’s incredible how many people saw that!’ she says, as if she didn’t plaster it all over her various platforms. Now she goes through a little humility dumbshow, rolling her eyes and flapping her hands as if her face is on fire, then says she made a new year’s resolution to get better about ‘boosting’ herself. This is something she has had to work at; so – why is this so hard? – she’s just going to come out and say it: yes, things are going well. Incredibly well! Not just press coverage, but membership, chatter on the socials – from the right sort of people, too. She and her business partner are in discussions about new outposts in Queen’s Park and Clapham, possibly the Cotswold golden triangle and Bruton. Plus, there are a few investors keen to introduce the brand to the Middle and Far East.
‘Don’t get me wrong; I am so thankful,’ she says, as if we’ve suggested she isn’t. ‘I accept it’s not a fluke – the business is thriving because I put so much of myself into it – but honestly, what with work and the twins, I have to keep reminding myself to practise what I preach. Remember to breathe.’ She places her palm over her breastbone, closes her eyes, draws air into her nostrils. Her mouth, as she exhales, is set in a flautist’s embouchure.
Her eyes pop open and she reaches into her bag for her water bottle. It’s this remineralised filtering system she’s installed at home, absolute gamechanger. So much more than hydration, really works on energy levels and the immune system. Jeremy is sceptical. He says it makes the tea taste awful. She keeps catching him filling the kettle at the sink!
She waves a hand in disgust: ‘Ugh, well, let him have his filthy “brews”. Not my problem,’ and I remember the anniversary post, Haven’t stopped dancing yet! and the picture she put up more recently, the two of them in the foyer at the Bridge Theatre (#datenight #happyfriday), the interval at the latest must-see.
We talk about surviving the holidays, or they do; I try to give the impression of fully participating while saying very little. No one cares that I’m quiet. No one notices. This is the way it was when we were girls, and perhaps this is the way it will always be: some people need the light, others shrink from it, preferring the comfort of the shadows.
As they talk, it becomes apparent that Sookie and Jess, the oldest of old friends, are now near-strangers. Common ground is established as they discuss their children. Ava’s having her heart broken and is breaking hearts. Finn’s on all the first teams. Jess’s twins recently went semi-viral with a silly TikTok dance. The mothers’ curated grumbles are acceptable forms of boasting.
I look at the paintings and the ornaments while Sookie and Jess find other things they have in common: Sakine’s divorce, Jonny Fairweather’s breakdown, Fran’s daughter who is, frankly, terrible in that new Apple TV series. Every so often I throw little handfuls of kindling on the conversation, politely feeding it with nods and smiles, but this is not my world and they will be aware of that.
In truth I am preoccupied, stuck on the idea – the likelihood, the ghastly probability – that Sookie and Waxham will have sat exactly here, drinking wine, kissing and pawing at each other with increasing fervour, and then somehow their clothes came off and there was no time to get upstairs (maybe he had a ticket for a particular return train, the clock always ticking) so they did it right here, here on this sofa – though because of its size and all the Kaffe Fassett cushions that’s unlikely to have been a particular success. But I can’t really picture them going at it on the kilim, even though she does so much Pilates. Either way: murmurs and gasps, the sheen of middle-aged endeavour, squelching and so forth. I can barely stand to look at her.
Perhaps it’s sublime. Perhaps it’s a dreadful mistake. Perhaps it’s just something to keep her busy, like volunteering, or an art history course at City Lit. The not-knowing will drive me mad.
‘Lovely!’ I say, standing up as they stand up, and following them into the kitchen: green and white tiles, mug trees, a family of serrated knives lurching on a magnetic strip. We gather at the pine table, beneath the rattan pendant. Big black letters spelling out ‘AL BURRO RISI & BISI’ and ‘BUBBLE & SQUEAK’ chase themselves around the rims of the serving dishes, which contain – a bit of a come-down – the usual modish leaves, grains and roots, decanted from Ottolenghi takeaway cartons.
Having persuaded Jess to put aside her special water and have a glass of wine, Sookie invites us to laugh at the decor. We can probably tell, no one has lived here properly for years – well, not even then. Occasionally her parents wonder about selling it, or finding tenants, but they always talk themselves out of it in the end: it’s so useful for the theatre, seeing friends, early flights. Obviously, it’s a lifesaver for a globetrotting daughter who needs somewhere to crash for a couple of months. So on the whole you put up with the rag-rolling and the mug trees.
We won’t have any of it. Oh, we say, but it’s just delightful, a time capsule, takes us back – where does the old crockery go, anyway? There are reminiscences, from which I am excluded, about the parties Sookie threw here when she had that funny little gap-year job, folding cashmere in Selfridge’s. Sookie’s then-boyfriend, an Old Etonian gigging as a Food Hall porter, is now a particularly poisonous backbencher.
When I ask about progress with the house-hunting, Sookie seems taken aback. Oh, I’m way behind, that plan was abandoned months ago. Murray was parachuted into the Singapore office at very short notice – I have a vision of him floating to earth in good tailoring and a silk tie – and the expectation is they’ll be based there for the next three years. He made partner on the back of it, the broker found them a fabulous condo in Orchard. Everything’s set up. But she can’t say she’s eager to get out there. The timing isn’t great.
Her lovely face becomes sober. Briefly I entertain the notion that she is about to unburden herself, confess they’re in difficulties; but that’s silly. No, the story is her father hasn’t been well and she wants to stick around while he recovers from major surgery. It’s something heart-related.
‘How’s Caroline coping?’ asks Jess, topping herself up. Considering the tremendous fuss she made over accepting just one glass, she seems to have developed quite a thirst. I’m reminded of the Commons Speaker being dragged to the chair, a display of showy reluctance.
Caroline – Sookie’s mother – is in denial; won’t acknowledge that family gatherings and their trip to Corfu might need rescheduling. No, her parents are as bad as each other. Last weekend her father did a three-hour walk and constructed one of his elaborate log stacks.
‘Typical,’ Sookie says, ripping flatbread. Her mother likes to will things into being. ‘Pretend everything’s fine, and in all likelihood it will be. Works for her, most of the time, but I’m not convinced it’s the right approach when it comes to Daddy’s health.’
Jess thinks determined optimism is preferable to catastrophising, her own mother’s default setting. Penny had a small role in Blow-Up and attended at least three Rolling Stones weddings but now gets panic attacks in the Guildford Waitrose and won’t visit them in Chiswick because of knife crime.
Jess’s mother-in-law Rosemary, on the other hand. Nothing deters Rosemary; nothing stops her. She’s obsessed with Jess’s son, Fox. Always has been. Doesn’t even pretend to be interested in his twin, Lulu, knocks her over in the rush to get at ‘my darling boy’.
Rosemary has major boundary issues. She’s nosy and controlling, and Jeremy simply won’t acknowledge this, just plays the innocent, as if Jess is making it all up.
‘No more, really – oh well, OK, teeny splash.’ Jess waits for the bottle to be put down so she gets our full attention again.
When the twins were small, Jess couldn’t bear to cut their hair. Fox looked so beautiful, like Tadzio in Death in Venice. The long hair was the only thing about Fox that Rosemary didn’t like (well, apart from his name); she was forever suggesting he was overdue a Big Boy Haircut, kept saying things like, ‘Poor darling wouldn’t want anyone to think he’s a girl – you wouldn’t want that, would you, sweetie?’ Very unhelpful, given all the stuff Jess was being mindful about (such as trying to avoid rocket ships and fairy princesses and gendered colourways, which meant importing orange starter bikes from Germany at terrific expense).
Her birthday was approaching, and she and Jeremy hatched a plan to take the day off work, have a nice lunch, go to an afternoon screening. It was all lined up, and then the nanny came down with bastard flu. Huge relief when Rosemary offered to do school pick-up. Jess and Jeremy had a lovely day playing hooky, and when they came home, Rosemary met them at the door, and her eyes, as she called for the twins, were blazing with triumph. Fox ran to greet them, ‘and she’d basically scalped him, he was actually bald’.
Jess gives us her best Rosemary: Dame Edna, with a good shake of Blanche duBois. ‘ “Oh, but you see he begged me, the poor little scrap, he said the other children were making his life a misery – Cut it off, Gwanny, cut it all off, I don’t want to be laughed at anymore – well, I couldn’t refuse!” ’ Handfuls of golden curls had been hacked off with kitchen scissors, wrapped in newspaper and thrown in the bin – like fish guts! Terrible scenes. Jeremy poured oil, which of course caught fire. The pale tragic faces of the twins, peering through the banisters.
Fox is now of an age to find his grandmother’s favouritism rather oppressive. He jibes when invited à deux to the Natural History Museum, or Fortnum’s for a knickerbocker glory. He doesn’t want to go, and Rosemary blames Jess for that.
On birthdays and at Christmas, Rosemary is able to express her antipathy to her daughter-in-law through the performative medium of gifts. The presents Jess receives are of a distinctive register, random yet exact. A pack of clothes pegs, a gadget for cutting cling film, too-small leather gloves, a garden kneeler. For the big five-oh Jess was given a waterproof mattress protector. ‘How do you thank someone for a waterproof mattress protector? I’m incontinent with gratitude?’ Every so often there’ll be a remaindered cookbook, full of the things Rosemary believes her son and grandson deserve to eat on a regular basis: ‘proper meals’, joints and pies and casseroles, with pages of steamed puddings at the back. (‘Of course Rosemary knows perfectly well we don’t eat meat, and are trying to avoid carbs and sugar.’) This Christmas, along with a cookery book entitled Braise Be!, Jess received a manicure set, one of the emery boards showing signs of use.
‘What does Jeremy say?’
‘He says I’m being overly sensitive, and his mother doesn’t mean any harm, she’s a force of nature. He’s determined not to get it. To be honest, I’ve given up looking to him for support on this front.’ She laughs a frank and bitter laugh, and then glances around for reassurance, but neither Sookie nor I have our lines ready. There’s an uncomfortable pause, and then Sookie says something cloth-eared about counting her blessings, she gets on terribly well with Murray’s mother. Jess drinks, and I can see her grappling with the realisation that she has slipped, shown too much sincerity, given herself away. She has departed from the convention of talking in the most general terms about husbands, much as people make jokey small talk about pets. This is no longer a safe topic of conversation.
When she puts down her glass, her eyes fasten on me and I know it’s coming, a little lash, to distract from her vulnerability. ‘You’re very quiet, Ruth,’ she says. ‘Help me out here. Surely you’ve got some marital horror stories of your own.’
It feels familiar, the sensation of being picked on by Jess. It has happened before, though I can’t remember the specifics. Probably she made fun of my earnestness in class, my earrings, some unguarded remark in the lunch queue. It doesn’t matter: I have strategies now. I know I can get her off my case without too much difficulty, and without compromising my privacy, because I do not want Jess – or Sookie, come to that – to know the details of my life.
Breezily I say, ‘Oh God, absolutely, I mean, people put up with all kinds of shit, don’t they.’ Now that my silence has been noted I must say something that will satisfy them, so I tell them about Pavani.
I say she has a job in policy and a husband called Nick, who is a colleague of Robin’s. I describe a lunch party Pavani and Nick gave not so long ago, the men gathering on the terrace while we assisted Pavani indoors, because we could see she needed help and that’s how we operate; we notice these things; we’ve been trained to be aware of them, just as the men – even men like Nick and Robin who consider themselves progressive and feminist – have been trained not to notice. I describe putting out the knives and forks, and seeing Nick through the French windows as he stood by the honeysuckle and the apple tree with his back to us, feet apart, nice and relaxed with his stubby green bottle of beer, talking to the men about cricket and politics. I describe Pavani pulling out a stool in order to fetch the extra glasses, and the commotion as she missed the step coming down; the sight of her struggling to sit up, dazed, wincing, trying to laugh it off, murmuring, ‘I feel so stupid,’ as the broken glass was swept into the dustpan, and someone calling Nick in from the garden, and his air of mild exasperation as he helped her to her feet; how, when one of us mentioned concussion, he was immediately dismissive, prompting Pavani to agree she was fine, completely fine, nothing to worry about. His offhandedness seemed carefully judged, as if any show of kindness or concern at that moment might encourage her to make a meal of it. We knew he was itching to get back out there, to the men and the gossip about the new head of department. And, yes, I sound angry when I tell Jess and Sookie about this, because she is a decent woman who deserved better.
He went back outside, I say. She was still pale and shaken, so we persuaded her that a rest would be a good idea. I took her upstairs and helped her onto the bed and pulled a blanket over her, telling her not to worry, we’d take care of everything, one of us would be back to check on her soon.
Darkness filled the room as the curtains were closed. Beneath the window, the men were chatting and chuckling. We heard the snap as a beer bottle was opened, and the chink as the cap fell to the paving. The person on the bed closed her eyes and turned her face away for a private reckoning. She wanted no witnesses but everyone had seen. Everyone knew. Whatever she told herself, everyone knew.
And I remember the women and their expressions, their embarrassment, their sweet solicitous pity, which was almost the worst thing. All the women will have come away with some memory of what happened; but the episode made, I am sure, little impression on the men.
‘Did you talk about it with her afterwards?’ asks Sookie.
I’d only met her briefly before the lunch, I say, and I haven’t seen her since. Not the easiest person to get to know. She’s quite reserved, which made the whole thing even worse. I say I sent a thank-you note – a card from the Alice Neel show, if memory serves. But no, I didn’t mention it.
‘And anyway,’ says Jess, ‘what would you say? I mean, apart from I’m sorry your husband’s a dick.’
It might have been different, perhaps, if she had dropped by unexpectedly, asking how I was, and then put her hand on my wrist saying, No, I mean, how are you really? She could have rung or sent a WhatsApp, a DM. There are so many ways to make contact.
It is possible it might have cut through if she’d caught me at the right moment. But she sent an Alice Neel postcard, addressed to us both, which she had signed from them both, and this allowed us all to move on as if nothing significant had happened.
Maybe she knew by that point. Maybe Nick had heard department gossip about Robin and the lecturer in medieval magic and astrology, and had passed this on when the invitation came in. Maybe she had agreed to come to the lunch thinking, this could be interesting. I remember how it felt, though, her kindness; the novelty of being looked after. The rasp of the wool against my cheek as she pulled the blanket up, the jingle of the curtain rings as darkness filled the room.
We break to clear the plates, and when the fruit and florentines come out the conversation moves to other topics, and it seems there’s nothing about my manner or voice that excites any attention. I must appear quite normal to them, even familiar, recognisably the same person – perfectly pleasant if rather shy, perhaps a little awkward – they vaguely remember from long ago. And yet, when I reach for my glass, my hand trembles. It’s shock, the shock of the truth, however furtive; the shock of making myself relive that moment and describe it, because in some ways it was one of the very worst moments – the public demonstration of how little he cared – and I never imagined I would speak about it to anyone, let alone Sookie.
It occurs to me (another shock, just as powerful): I don’t miss that. I never have to feel like that again.
There’s that, and that’s not nothing.
‘Is it OK if I – would you mind terribly?’ asks Sookie, opening the window over the sink, applying her cigarette to the tiny flame clicking in her fist. It’s a nightmare when she’s with the family – sneaking off, hiding it from everyone – but of course that’s why she does it. ‘I do like having a secret,’ she says, breathing out the word with the smoke, and Jess flinches, longing to bat the stink away with her hands. ‘I’m so tired of everyone knowing everything about me.’ Of course it’s a horrid habit, silly and dangerous, a waste of money, but it’s good to know you’re still capable of shocking yourself. Reassuring, almost. ‘This is definitely something I could explore in the pod,’ she says to Jess, and I see she’s been working up to this, hopeful and jittery. It turns out she emailed Jess a pitch for a podcast called The Authentic Self, in which she’ll interview wellness celebrities and thought-leaders.
