Elegance and Innocence (15 page)

For a moment, I think they’re going to laugh. And then Colin reaches out and takes my hand.

‘None of us do. But you’re not alone, Ouise. We’re here and we’ve been where you are now. Two years ago when Alan left me, all I wanted to do was open a vein.’

‘And believe it or not, I was actually engaged at one time,’ Ria adds quietly.

I look at her in surprise. Tiny, capable, emotionally concise, Ria seems above the messy realm of failed relationships. ‘And what did you do when it was over?’ I ask. It’s almost impossible to imagine her wading through the same histrionic wreckage I’m having such difficulty navigating.

She smiles at Col. ‘I cried, like you. And then I came here, like you. I knew Colin through a friend of a friend and when Alan left, he needed a housemate. The rest is history.’

Colin gives my hand a little squeeze. ‘Welcome to Mother Riley’s Home for Wayward Women. It gets better, kid. Believe me. The trick is to stay in the game long enough to be around when the good stuff starts happening again. You’ll see. Suit up and show up. Even if you feel like the whole world can see that you’re made of little pieces, badly glued together.’

Ria nods. ‘And, when in doubt, bathe.’

And so, in the absence of any direction of my own, I take their advice.

Ria runs me a tub with lavender oil in it while Colin grills us up some sausages and mashes potatoes. He and Ria argue over which CD to listen to (the Goldberg Variations vs. Massive Club Hits Volume 2) and the Bach wins, but only on account of me being suicidal. Colin sets the table with the mismatched silverware and china his favourite
grandmother left him when she died. And while I bathe, Ria makes my bed with the pretty linen sheets she offered earlier and even begins to hang up some of my clothes. When I emerge, freshly scrubbed in my bathrobe, they both applaud.

That night the bed seems softer and more comfortable than before, the street outside more tranquil. Moonlight shines through the narrow slats of the Venetian blind, forming little rectangles of pale light on the carpet, and the gentle rustling of the wind through the leaves is the only sound to be heard. I fall into a heavy sleep, no doubt induced by the potent combination of a hot bath and sausages, and when I wake up, I feel oddly refreshed, despite the constant, aching heaviness in my heart. After ironing a shirt, I put on a clean trouser suit and catch the bus into work with Colin on time. I may still feel like a hollow shell but at least I don’t look like one.

A week later, I post the jumper back to my husband with a brief note.

I took this by mistake. Sorry for the inconvenience
.

As comforting as it’s been, I don’t want it any more.

After all, it never really belonged to me.

I sit, very deliberately, on the edge of the daybed in my therapist’s office. She’s upped my sessions since I left my husband and the last few times I’ve simply refused to engage in the conversation about lying down. I’ve decided there’s nothing wrong with wanting to sit up and am tired of wasting sessions talking about it. I find my decision liberating but there are consequences, ripples in the dynamic of the relationship that all have to do with status.

Mrs P closes the door and sits down. She waits for me to lie down and I don’t. I smile at her but she doesn’t smile back. Instead, she looks at my shoes.

‘Those shoes are very high,’ she says. I’m wearing the pair of black suede T-bar shoes from Bertie. They are high, but also very sexy.

‘Yes, that’s true.’

She can’t take her eyes off these shoes. I cross my legs and one foot dangles elegantly, making my ankle seem fragile and tiny. I love it, but Mrs P seems disturbed.

‘They must be very hard to walk in,’ she adds.

‘They’re fine once you get used to them, not nearly as treacherous as they seem. But no, they’re not really walking shoes,’ I laugh. Her smile is tense. Why are we talking about shoes?

Of course, I can’t help but look at her shoes now. They’re from Marks and Spencer’s, the kind you try on while you’re nipping in to buy pre-shelled peas. They’re flat and beige with a crêpe sole. She catches my eye and shifts her legs defensively.

‘Your fashion sense has changed dramatically,’ she concludes.

‘I think that’s a good thing.’

She peers at me over her glasses.

‘I’m dressing more like a confident woman,’ I explain.

‘And how does a confident woman dress?’ Her voice is challenging.

‘Like she knows she’s a woman and she likes it. Like she expects people to notice her.’ I smooth a crease out of my suit skirt. ‘Also, I have a more demanding job now,’ I remind her, ‘and I’m required to look a bit more professional.’

‘Yes.’ She nods her head, but gives the impression of being somehow unconvinced. What am I trying to convince her of?

‘So why didn’t you dress “like a confident woman” before?’

‘Because I wasn’t confident, I suppose. And there was
no one there to notice anyway.’ We’ve been down this road before and I don’t like it. Automatically my eyes scan around for the tissues. There they are on the faux mahogany coffee table; all I need to do is reach across. How handy. Do they teach that at psychiatry school – where to place the tissues? If they’re too close, is that considered enabling?

‘What about your husband?’ She’s staring at me but I can’t decipher the look. It’s neither kind nor indifferent. I feel a mass of pressure building in my chest, tearing at my throat. I swallow, breathe, and then I say it, out loud to another person for the first time.

‘My husband is gay.’

It comes out sounding like a very mundane fact, like I’ve said ‘I’ll have some chips.’ This strikes me as odd and I find myself flashing her this funny, little smile, a kind of awkward half smirk. I know it’s inappropriate, but knowing that only seems to fuel it. I try to will the corner of my mouth down with some success but it pops up again, this time accompanied by a little fart of a laugh. My hand shoots up instantly to cover my mouth but it’s too late. The smirk explodes into a fit of giggles, hysterical and oddly hyena-like.

Mrs P stares at me impassively. She reminds me of every nun who ever taught me at school. ‘Louise,’ her voice is stone cold sober, ‘why are you laughing?’

I’m six again, in church.

‘I’m not,’ I say, stupidly, pressing my hand into my mouth.

‘Yes, you are.’

‘No, not any more.’ I straighten up. Think sad thoughts, car crashes, dead parents. Dead parents, dead parents, dead parents.

‘Louise …’

Oh fuck! My face explodes again and I throw myself into a ball on the daybed. ‘Excuse me,’ I stammer.

‘Louise …’

I’m making noises I’ve never even heard before.

‘Louise!’

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you laughing?’

I manage to lift my head up. ‘Wouldn’t you?’ I whisper hoarsely.

‘Wouldn’t I what, Louise?’

The temperature seems to have plummeted ten degrees in the last second. I feel small and cold; my voice sounds like a child’s. ‘Laugh if you married a gay man.’

The silence that follows is crushing; it’s the silence of my childhood, my mother’s silence, which isn’t silence at all, but the howling vacuum of the absence of response.

She’s looking at me again with that look I can’t quite get and then she says, ‘No. I don’t think I would.’

The light has drained from the sky. My face is wet and my eyes stinging. ‘Try it,’ I mumble, dabbing my eyes with one of the recycled tissues. ‘It’s hysterical.’

‘What makes you think your husband is gay?’ she asks.

I’m tired. I want to go home.

‘He told me. He said he thought he was gay, or at best bisexual when we met.’

I’m leaving here and going straight to the off-licence.

‘But that does not mean he’s gay.’

I’ve got mascara in my eyes and it’s burning. Am I deaf? ‘Pardon?’

‘I said,’ she repeats, ‘that it doesn’t mean he’s gay.’

Oh.

‘What does it mean then?’

‘Well.’ She’s the one crossing her legs now. ‘It means that he’s questioning his sexuality, what it means to be a man. It does not mean he’s gay.’

Wait a minute.

‘I’m just telling you what he told me. Don’t you think he knows if he’s gay or not? Also, we didn’t fuck. Don’t you think that’s significant?’

‘There are many reasons why sexual relations cease in married couples.’ She adjusts her glasses and cocks her head to one side. ‘Why do you think they stopped?’

‘Well.’ I cock my head too. ‘I think they stopped because my husband is gay and because he’s not interested. Let’s face it, if you want to do something, you usually find a way of doing it. We didn’t fuck because we didn’t want to; it’s as simple as that.’

She arches an eyebrow. ‘So you didn’t want to fuck either.’

‘Being rejected twenty-four hours a day is not an aphrodisiac. It’s humiliating.’ And then I add, somewhat defensively, ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

She cocks her head the other way, like a parrot. ‘And yet you claim to have married a gay man.’

‘Yeah, well, apart from that.’ What is it with her? This isn’t at all what I expected. I feel like I’ve fallen into an episode of
Perry Mason
. ‘And I’m not
claiming
, I’m telling you what I know to be true.’

She’s looking at me over her glasses again.

‘Look,’ I continue, ‘he doesn’t want to be gay, it’s damned inconvenient for him – he’s a very conservative guy, from a very conservative family. And I come along and we fuck and he tells me this thing and I’m so crazy with fear of being alone and I say, “No, you’re not. Look, I’ve fixed you.” And he loves that because that’s his problem solved and we get married and someone’s got to be crazy because you can’t marry a straight woman to a gay man without someone going mad, so it gets to be me. Get it?’

She says nothing.

I hate her.

‘Well, I do. And that’s something.’

‘You seem angry,’ she observes.

I’m clutching handfuls of chenille throw in both fists. ‘Angry? Yeah, just slightly. Just slightly pissed off.’

She removes a piece of lint from her skirt. ‘And why do you think that is?’

I can’t believe her. I want to throw things, to rip those lousy pictures off the wall and smash them into her face. ‘Why? Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said?
I’m married to a gay man!
’

She considers this. ‘That’s your perception of the situation.’

I can’t stand it. ‘What does that mean, “my perception”? You know what, it’s a lot more than my perception, it’s my
experience
– my hard-earned experience of the situation, whether you believe it or not.
I’m not crazy!
My experiences are real. I don’t need you or anyone else to verify them for me. If ever I was crazy, it was when I believed that someone like you, with your … your incredible mediocrity, could help me!’

I’m on my feet.

‘Anger can be very healthy,’ she says.

‘Fuck you,’ I say, putting on my coat.

Her kids’ university fees are walking out the door. She stands too. ‘I think we’re making real progress, Louise. But you may be feeling a little unsupported at the moment and we should think about increasing your sessions.’

I turn and take her hand in mine. We’ve never touched before; I feel her recoil but don’t care. ‘Thank you for all your help. Extra sessions won’t be necessary. You’ve taught me that my biggest mistake is giving my power away to people who haven’t got a fucking clue.’

I let go of her hand and it drops limply by her side.

She’s speechless. Only she manages to talk anyway. ‘Louise, what are you doing? You can’t finish your therapy just like that! We should discuss this over a series of sessions … we need to resolve the relationship.’

I feel sorry for her; she’s pathetic.

‘No, no we don’t. We don’t need to talk, we don’t need to discuss, or resolve. Send me a bill. Buy yourself a decent pair of shoes. Do something for a change. Talk is cheap.’

I open the door.

And walk through it.

Why is it easier to walk away in high heels?

L
Lingerie

The number of articles worn by a fashionable woman has considerably diminished since the beginning of the century. However, even though a woman’s lingerie may be reduced to two pieces, they should at least be matching. It is the height of negligence to wear a white brassiere with a black girdle, or the reverse. Bright-coloured undergarments are charming, but of course can only be worn under dresses which are opaque or dark. In the summer, it is preferable to stick to white. If you are extremely refined and rich, your underclothes might match the colour of your outer ensemble
.

Women are making a mistake in neglecting this potential added attraction to their charms. In short: when you dress, think always that later on you will be undressing and in front of whom. After all, nothing betrays a woman more than her lingerie; it is infinitely more revealing than a thousand hours spent on a psychiatrist’s couch
.

One final word: this is not an area in which you throw discretion to the wind. Do not confuse beautiful lingerie, the kind that supports well and remains fresh, with the cheap, vulgar stuff of men’s magazines. Fascinating? I’m certain. But elegant it is NOT. A man likes to think that his wife is attractive and discerning even when he is not looking, and surely, that is the image you want him to have at all times and the one that will excite his deepest admiration
.

One day, after I’d hung out my washing on the kitchen drying rack, Ria takes me aside.

‘Louise, what are these?’ She points to a pair of ancient Sloggi briefs that are clinging in grey, exhausted resignation to the line. (No matter how many I toss out, The Curse of The Dingy Knicker haunts me, mysteriously refilling my drawers with shabby pants.)

Not since my early childhood, when I was young enough to wet my pants, has anyone called such dramatic attention to my knickers. I look them over closely.

‘Knickers?’ I offer, hesitantly. (Even I have to question their identity.)