Elegance and Innocence (5 page)

And suddenly it occurs to me, that maybe my mother and I have something in common.

Maybe I come from a long line of women who felt like a terrible mess.

B
Beauty

Since time began, women have sought after beauty with all the passion and vigour of Menelaus pursuing Helen into Troy and often with similarly violent results. And why shouldn’t they? Being beautiful has always been synonymous with owning the world on a string and what girl would not wish that?

Sadly though, only God and nature can make a beautiful woman and, to be perfectly frank, most of us do not and never will fall into that exclusive category. Perhaps you think I am being a little hard? Maybe I am. But I am of the philosophy that it is best to face the facts about oneself, especially the most unpleasant ones, early on in life and make peace with them rather than to waste years in nervous agitation pursuing goals and expectations far beyond our reach
.

Besides which, being beautiful is no guarantee of happiness in this world. I have known many beautiful women whose own inelegance and lack of breeding
rendered them so hopelessly unattractive, that it would’ve been simpler and less painful for them if they had been born plain. A woman must have a very strong character not to become distracted by her own unnatural power to excite attention everywhere she goes. And there is nothing more tragic than the sight of a badly ageing beauty who never had to develop her wit or imagination in order to amuse her companions or who always relied upon the excellence of her figure rather than the elegance of her clothes to make an impression. They are poor company and almost invariably develop ‘champagne chins’
.

While beauty, in its purest physical form, is nature’s gift alone to bestow, elegance, grace and style are infinitely more democratic. A little discipline and a discerning eye, along with a generous helping of good humour and effort, are all that’s needed to cultivate these admirable qualities. And a plain girl who spends a little time in honest self-reflection and who applies herself with diligence to the improvement of her mind and character, will awake soon enough to discover that she has blossomed into a fully fledged swan. The time she spent alone and undistracted by the world will fortify her, the discipline she learnt will carry her into old age with grace and courage, and above all, she will possess compassion, which
never fails to make a woman more attractive to those around her
.

I reach across to my bedside table and pick up the Post-its and a pen, while taking another sip of my tea. Of all the pleasures in this world, reading in bed in the morning with a fresh, steaming mug of tea has to be the most luxurious. I prod the mountain of pillows behind me into a more yielding shape and lean back.

To be beautiful. There are days when I feel fairly confident that I’m attractive but am I or could I ever be beautiful? Or am I one of those women who are better off facing up to the ‘unpleasant facts of life’?

It’s not really a question a girl should ponder before nine in the morning, still suffering from bed head and wearing her favourite faded Snoopy night-shirt. (I couldn’t quite bring myself to throw it away.) I push it from my thoughts and resolutely peel off another Post-it. ‘Beauty is no guarantee of happiness,’ I write firmly, ‘strive instead for elegance, grace and style’, and then paste it next to the other one on the wardrobe mirror. My husband, who’s getting dressed to do a radio play at the BBC, sighs wearily.

‘I sincerely hope we’re not going to become one of those “happy-clappy households” with charming little inspirational signs posted everywhere.’ He reaches for a pair of navy chinos and a worn Oxford shirt his mother bought
him two Christmases ago. ‘I don’t want our home looking like the Sunday school meeting room of a church hall.’

‘And what would you know about Sunday school meeting rooms?’ I parry lightly. ‘Anyway, when you close the wardrobe door you can’t even see them.’

‘Still,’ he persists, slipping his feet into a pair of ancient loafers, ‘I think that’s enough. I don’t want to dress in the morning faced with a thousand slogans declaring “I am enough” and “This too shall pass” or whatever pop self-help jargon is being bounced around these days.’

‘Fine,’ I say, more to end the conversation than anything. ‘I’ll keep them to myself.’

And it occurs to me that if he’s going to be out all day, it’s a perfect opportunity to renew my membership at our local gym. Bending down, I search underneath the bed until I locate my old gym bag, covered in dust, complete with a pair of twisted old trainers still lurking inside.

Perfect.

But my husband hasn’t finished yet. He removes the most recent Post-it and examines it more closely. ‘“Beauty is no guarantee of happiness – strive instead for elegance, grace and style.” What’s all this about, Louie? You’re not going all funny, are you? How are things going with your therapist?’

I’m certain I still own a pair of sweatpants somewhere and there must be a matching sock for this one. I rummage through the laundry basket.

‘No, I’m not going funny,’ I assure him, as I sift through
piles of dirty clothes, ‘and things are fine with my therapist. I’m just trying to make the most of myself, that’s all. It’s something I’m doing for me.’

He looks unconvinced, so I change my tack. ‘What I mean to say is, I just want you to be proud of me.’

His face softens. ‘But, Pumpkin, I’m already proud of you. You’re a very good girl,’ he says, kissing my forehead and patting me lightly on the head. ‘You’re a very good girl and a very good Pumpkin.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, smiling back at him. ‘Only, would you mind terribly not calling me Pumpkin?’

He looks at me as if I’d just slapped him across the face. ‘Not call you Pumpkin? What’s wrong with Pumpkin?’

‘Well, I know you mean it as a term of endearment but it’s just so fat sounding. So round and heavy. Couldn’t we have another name? What if you called me something like Sweetheart, or Angel or … or, I don’t know, what about Beauty?’

He frowns at me.

‘OK, well, what about Pretty? My Pretty? That’s nice, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve always called you Pumpkin. You
are
my Pumpkin,’ he says firmly.

‘Yes, I know, but we’re allowed to change a nickname, aren’t we?’ I try to pacify him by wrapping my arms around him but he sidesteps me and reaches over to pull his jacket from the back of the bedroom chair.

‘You can’t just make up a new nickname because you feel like it. After all, I’m the one who has to say it. And “My Pretty” sounds like a pantomime pirate.’

‘Yes, fine. But all I’m asking is that perhaps I could have a more attractive nickname … I don’t know … if it has to be a food then what about Sweet Pea? A pea is a lot smaller than a pumpkin.’

‘I am not some ageing Southern belle, Louise.’ And he sighs, pressing his fingers to his forehead and closing his eyes to concentrate. ‘Right,’ he says at last, ‘what about Sausage? It’s my final offer.’

‘Sausage!’

‘I’m English. You knew that when you married me. I cannot call my wife Sweet Pea or Sugar or My Little Dumpling or any of the other gourmet, internationally recognized terms of endearment.’

‘But you can call me Sausage?’

‘Well, not just Sausage. My
Little
Sausage.’ He smiles. ‘I think it’s sweet.’

Now it’s my turn to look unconvinced.

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Besides which, I really don’t have time for this right now. I must be going.’ He strides into the hallway and grabs his script from the small round table by the door. Leaning forward, he plants a quick kiss on my forehead. ‘I’ll see you when I get back tonight, Sausage.’

The door slams shut.

I walk back into the bedroom and stare at the dusty gym
bag and curly old trainers. What’s the point of going to all this effort if at the end of it, I’m still not beautiful and the most flattering thing my husband can think to call me is Sausage?

The siren song of the duvet begins to call me, luring me back into bed, away from the gym and this pointless pursuit of self-improvement. After all, I have only a few precious hours on my own to spend in a state of complete oblivion before he returns. My breathing begins to slow and my eyelids droop.

And then I see it, the little yellow Post-it my husband was examining earlier, floating like a butterfly near my pillow. ‘Beauty is no guarantee of happiness – strive instead for elegance, grace and style.’ I pick it up and paste it back on the mirror.

‘I am not a pumpkin,’ I say to my reflection. ‘Or a sausage.’

And I pick up my gym bag and leave the bedroom as quickly as possible.

While I still can.

C
Comfort

The idea of comfort has invaded every domain; it is one of the categorical imperatives of modern life. We can no longer bear the thought of the slightest restriction, physical or moral, and many of the details which were considered to be a mark of elegance some years ago are condemned today for reasons of comfort. Down with stiff collars, starched shirts, cumbersome hats, and heavy chignons! Practically the only die-hards to resist are women’s shoes
.

However, if women continue to seek comfort above all twenty-four hours a day, twelve months a year, they may eventually find that they have allowed themselves to become slaves to the crêpe-rubber sole, nylon from head to toe, pre-digested meals, organized travel, functional uniformity, and general stultification. When comfort becomes an end in itself, it is the Public Enemy Number One of elegance
.

It’s 7:15 on Friday morning and I’m getting ready for work. Although part of me still clings to the dream of being an actress, I earn my real money selling tickets in the box office of a small, self-producing playhouse in Charing Cross.

My husband is asleep on the other side of the bed and I get dressed in the dark. There’s not a lot left in my wardrobe to choose from so I put on the navy pinafore dress and the pink Oxford shirt. The dress is figure hugging and very tight, which is why I haven’t worn it in years. As I zip it up, my spine becomes erect, encased in the rigidly tailored bodice. I try to revert to my normal, semi-slouched posture and nearly asphyxiate myself. Next, I slip into a pair of dark brown stilettos I wore at my wedding. They’re the only pair of high heels left after the Great Cull, and suddenly I’m tottering around the flat like a little Marilyn Monroe. After so many days in cheap plimsolls and baggy chinos, it feels very unusual. I comb my hair into a side-parting, pin it back with a rhinestone clip and then apply a soft red lipstick. Leaving the flat, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the hall mirror.

Who is this woman?

I’m going to be late. But what I fail to take on board is the tremendous restriction of movement created by pairing a long, straight skirt with a pair of high, strappy heels. This ensemble is fine for staggering around the flat but obviously not meant for long-haul journeys. The faster I try to walk, the more I look like a wind up doll. The only way to move
forward at all is to transfer my weight in a slow, rolling motion from one hip to the next. The dress is now in control; it dictates when I arrive at work and how. So, I sashay forth precariously, swaying gently as I go.

There’s something about a slow moving female in the middle of rush hour traffic. Everyone, everything changes. And I discover that moving slowly is one of the most powerful things you can do. It’s different from being infirm or depressed. The dress makes sure I’m bolt upright, imbuing me with a look of haughty dignity, as if I’m above petty concerns like being at work on time. I appear to be walking because it amuses me, not because I have to. And in the sea of darting pedestrians around me, I have become majestic.

If you’re going to walk that slowly, you might as well smile. And here’s where it gets really interesting. Cab drivers slow down, even though their light is green, just to let me cross the road. The policemen in front of the Houses of Parliament say, ‘Good morning’ and tip their hats. And the tourists who cluster so frustratingly in front of Big Ben with their cameras step aside politely, as if they’ve suddenly found themselves in the middle of a great big living room and they’ve only just discovered it belongs to me.

Yes, the world is my living room and I’m a gracious hostess passing through, checking to see if everyone’s all right.

I have a look around. That’s another advantage of
moving slowly, plenty of time for browsing. The air is delicate and sharp, the sunlight crisp and wholly benevolent. Breathing deeply, or rather, as deeply as the dress permits, a strange, unfamiliar awareness descends upon me.

Everything’s all right. Everything really is all right.

As I saunter into the theatre foyer, my heart’s pounding and my cheeks are flushed. I notice my hand as it pushes against the brass plate of the box office door; it seems small and delicate and pretty. For a moment, I’m not quite sure it’s mine. But it is mine. And it is small and delicate and pretty.

Colin’s there, waiting for me. I have the keys to the box office door.

‘Well, look at you!’ he says, kissing me on each cheek.

I smile archly. ‘Whatever can you be referring to, Mr Riley?’ I unlock the door and switch on the lights.

‘Whatever, indeed! Let’s put the kettle on and then I want to hear all about it!’

Something amazing has happened. I’m no longer invisible.

Colin’s my best friend. He doesn’t know it, but he is. He’s always chiding me about how unapproachable and distant I am, but in fact, he knows more about me than my therapist and husband combined. A reformed ‘West End Wendy’, he used to be a dancer in
Cats
until a tendon injury put his spandex unitard days firmly behind him. He can still do an impressive pirouette when he wants to but
now he contents himself with teaching seated aerobics to the over-sixties in his local community centre (he loves it because they all call him ‘The Young Man’) and working part-time in the box office with me. We share not only a love of dance and theatre, but also a very similar Catholic upbringing, with what sounds like exactly the same sadistic nuns (or their relations) rapping our knuckles on different sides of the Atlantic.