Ordinary Miracles (13 page)

While I say this Cait Carmody appears in a short skirt and starts serving
hors-d’oeuvres
to the jury. And when I look at
the judge more closely I realise that, under his wig and false
moustache he is, in fact, Bruce.

At this stage of the dream I usually wake up in a cold sweat and take one of those little pills Susan got me from
h
er Chinese herbalist. Then I lie in bed for a while and feel
foolish.

‘Hundreds – thousands of women find out their husbands
have been having an affair and don’t make such a fuss about
it,’ I think. ‘And anyway, if I’d been a better wife he wouldn’t
have strayed. My lingerie has always been too sensible and Bruce so likes suspenders. I should have taken more interest
in
Avril
too. Just a little more effort would have done the
job. Just a little more dedication.’

At times like this my thoughts sometimes stray to the sock
I tried to knit at primary school. The teacher kept making
me rip up the heel and start again. ‘Try harder, Jasmine,’ the teacher kept saying. ‘Follow the pattern – that’s all you need to do.’ I never did finish that sock. This was a pity because it was in quite nice blue wool. I suppose deep down in my ten-year-old heart I knew that knitting
the perfect sock was not my calling. Deep down in my
ten-year-old heart I suspected that socks would be things I could buy.

I’ve been buying lots of books lately that purport to
‘Change Your Life’ – though frankly I’m beginning to suspect that I can’t go into Waterstones about this one. I’m beginning
to suspect I’ll have to somehow work this one out on my own.
Books do help though. Crisis seems so much nicer between
covers.

I’m admiring my new book on lesbianism, and its shiny
blue cover, when Mr McClaren appears by my desk. He
glances keenly at the book and then at me. ‘I – I got it for
– for a friend,’ I say with a blush as I shove the book back
into its bag.

‘Interesting subject,’ remarks Mr McClaren, who is still
looking at me. ‘I’ll have my tea now, and then we’ll get on
with some letters.’

‘He would come along just then,’ I fret as I go to th
e company’s small kitchen. ‘And he’s probably ultra-
conservative too.’

While Mr McClaren is drinking his tea I drink mine. I’m
growing rather fond of his favoured blend and the light, fine
bone china cup that I sip it from. Yes, there’s something
rather restful about Mr McClaren’s steady, though civilised,
self-interest. This comes as something of a surprise to me.
I do not normally take to people who expect to have their
whims and pleasures so readily serviced. I’m not at all sure that being able to boom, ‘Book me a table for two
at La Forenza’s, and then collect my dry cleaning – and
sharpish,’ should identify someone as a candidate for top
management.

But Mr McClaren doesn’t boom and I don’t want to think
about all that now. I need a bit of calm and quiet, and since
these also seem to be Mr McClaren’s current priorities, we
can comfortably share the same clearing.

When I go into his office to take down some more letters
he’s unwrapping a parcel. It contains a small oil painting that
he’s just bought.

‘What do you think of it, Jasmine? Stand back. Give me your honest opinion,’ he says, almost as if talking to an equal.

It’s of a naked woman with a big orange bottom. ‘I – I
think it’s very nice,’ I mumble.

‘Yes – it’s the expression on her face I like,’ says
Mr McClaren, who is studying my face with new interest.

‘Is that chair comfortable?’ he asks as I sit down. ‘Because
you can use the one by the window if you’d prefer. It has
a straighter back. My usual secretary prefers chairs with
straight backs.’

‘No, thank you. This chair is fine,’ I say. It seems that h
is doubts about my sexual proclivities have moved me up
a number of notches in Mr McClaren’s estimation.

When I get home I find that Eoin has sent me a letter. He
gave me his card towards the end of the course. I thanked
him and said I didn’t have a card myself. Then he said that was all right because he’d write down my address. He said
this in a tea-break, and so I hoped he’d forget by the time
he got hold of pen and paper back in the classroom. But he
didn’t. It went straight into his address book.

Now Eoin says that his greyhound is running in a race in
Shelbourne
Park and so, since he’ll be up in Dublin again and staying the night, he’d like us to meet. He says he now knows
we can only be friends, but it would still be nice to go out for
a drink.

I know – I just know – he’d arrive at the pub doused in
aftershave.

Just as I’m wondering how to tell Eoin politely, but clearly,
to fuck off, the phone goes. It’s Bruce and he sounds rather put out. Apparently Eamon, one of the actors in
Avril: A Woman’s Story,
saw me with a strange man at the cinema.
He saw the man link his arm through mine as we crossed the
street. We looked very close and friendly, apparently.

Eamon wasn’t going to tell Bruce this, but then he did
because he thought Bruce ‘should know’.

‘If you’ve become involved with someone else you should
have told me,’ Bruce says petulantly.

‘I haven’t got involved with someone else.’

‘Who was he then?’

‘Just a friend from the course.’

‘Rather a close friend, by the sound of it.’

‘Well he isn’t.’

‘Look, Jasmine, I’m getting pretty confused about all this.’

‘Confused about what?’

‘About you moving in with Charlie and…and going out on dates.’

‘I’ve only been out on one date with Eoin – and it wasn’t the kind of date you mean.’

‘So Eoin’s his name is it?’

Bruce can be like a terrier when he gets going. He has a jealous streak in him and it’s been the cause of numerous arguments in our marriage. I used to find his insecurity irritating but reassuring. I figured that if he were so concerned with loyalty then he, himself, wouldn’t stray.

‘I’ll give you until next month to come back – otherwise I think we should separate,’ Bruce continues. ‘You’ve made your point and I’ve finished with Cait, so I’ve kept my side of the bargain.’

‘What bargain?’

‘It’s pointless this game-playing. Either you’re prepared to give our marriage another go, or you’re not.’

I’m so angry I can’t even speak.

‘Jasmine – are you still there?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘No I’m not.’ Then I start deep breathing. This is something I’ve learned from my yoga and meditation class and it’s surprisingly helpful when you feel like attacking someone with a chain-saw. The alternative is to scream at Bruce down the phone, and I’m not sure I have the energy. He’ll ring back if I hang up.

‘Jasmine, I know you’ve every right to be angry with me, but surely enough is enough. I really do feel like I’ve reached the end of my tether.’ Bruce is sounding more and more self-righteous. He’s also been drinking. His words sound slightly muffled and he sighs in strange places.

And then a weird thing happens – I start to laugh. Great big belly laughs that boom down the phone.

‘Jasmine!’ Bruce shouts. ‘Jasmine, calm down. You’re
getting hysterical.’

‘No I’m not,’ I splutter. ‘It’s you who’s hysterical Bruce.
You really are a hoot.’

‘I’m going to hang up now. We’ll talk later when you’ve calmed down.’ Bruce has assumed the soothing tones of a
helpline volunteer.

‘Yeah, go ahead. Hang up. That’s a good idea.’

But he doesn’t hang up. He says, ‘I know you won’t like
me saying this Jasmine, but it seems to me that some of this
– just some of it – has to do with the…the change.’

‘What change?’

‘You know – the – the menopause.’ Bruce says the word
cautiously.

‘I haven’t started that yet Bruce. The only thing that gives
me hot flushes is you.’

There’s a point in prolonged and fruitless attempts at
communication when you just give up, and I’ve reached it.
The effect is quite bracing. Suddenly I’m no longer swinging
fearfully on a tattered rope bridge. Suddenly I know this
chasm is too wide, to deep, to cross. I’m turning round. I’m
turning back. Whatever I say now, it doesn’t matter.

‘I mean, I’m not saying I don’t understand how much I’ve
hurt you. But I don’t know how to make up for it – what
to say. Your behaviour lately has been so – so – out of
character.’

‘I’m glad you think you understand so much.’ I’ve stopped
laughing.

‘Well, I do try.’

‘Because it seems to me you don’t understand much at all.’

I can almost hear Bruce deflating, like a pricked balloon.

‘Anyway, I’ve got to go now,’ I continue.

‘Why?’

‘Katie will be arriving soon. But I think you’re right about us separating.’

‘I didn’t say we should separate.’

‘Well I think we should. We don’t understand each other any more.’

‘I think we do.’

‘No. If you did understand you wouldn’t dream of making such a fuss because I went with a friend to the cinema.’

‘How am I to know he’s just a friend?’

‘You’ll just have to trust me. He is interested in me, but I’m not interested in him.’

‘Okay – okay. I believe you.’

‘But I can’t believe you any more, Bruce. Don’t you see? That’s what happens when you lie and lie to someone. How can I know if you mean anything you say?’ I’m amazed that I say all this so calmly.

The phone goes silent. I don’t like this silence. It’s sad.

‘I’ve said all the wrong things, haven’t I?’ Bruce sighs.

‘Yes, you have.’

‘I didn’t mean it – the bit about you having to come back in a month. I was just trying to push you. I didn’t know what to do. What should I do, Jasmine? Tell me.’

‘I really don’t know, Bruce. I wish I did.’

‘I’ve been a pig, haven’t I?’

‘Don’t let Rosie hear you say that.’ I smile. ‘She prides herself on her sensitivity.’