The Essence of the Thing (2 page)

2

Jonathan had been looking downwards, as if in search of the atavistic poker, the atavistic fire; he now looked up once more.

‘I want you to move out,’ he said. ‘Sorry—there really isn’t a nice way to say this, as I said before. Sorry. It just isn’t working. I mean, you must know that as well as I do.’

‘Move out,’ Nicola repeated dazedly.

There was this dreadful lurching feeling in her stomach and she had begun to tremble. Her fingers closed more tightly around the keys, the money, the cigarettes. This was a very nasty kind of joke; it did not seem possible that it could ever become funny.

‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘Well—that is—I’ve thought about this, obviously—’ He was suddenly on much firmer ground: he was down to brass tacks, now. Brass tacks were his stock-in-trade, he being after all a lawyer. ‘I mean, yes,
I
could move out, of course, and you could stay here, if you wanted to, but I just assumed you wouldn’t want to take it on. I mean, I’m offering, obviously, to buy you out.’

Her state of shock was only intensified by each succeeding sentence. He was offering—obviously!—to buy her out. She had said nothing, and so he went on. He was looking carefully at the china poodle dog.

‘I’m assuming, of course, that you wouldn’t want to buy
me
out.’

Couldn’t. He means,
couldn’t
. How very tactful. Of course she
couldn’t
. Nicola worked in the publications department of a famous, but medium-sized, arts organisation. She found that she was not trembling quite so much now, and might dare to speak.

‘No,’ she said, quite evenly. ‘I wouldn’t.’

There was a very brief pause: you could hear the silence.

‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘I wouldn’t want you to buy me out
either
.

In fact, Jonathan, I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about. I don’t believe this conversation is really happening.’ She got up. ‘Look, I’m going to hang up my coat,’ she said. ‘And I’m going to make some tea, okay? And then you can tell me all about it. Because just at this precise moment I don’t understand what the fuck you’re on about. Excuse me.’

And she left the room.

3

And although she was still in a state of extreme shock, and still trembling, she was beginning now to see—to realise—
to understand
— that the thing which was truly wrong was not so much the dreadful scene into which she had just been precipitated, as the misapprehension (whatever it might be) which had given rise to it: she was beginning now to understand—and she became more certain by the minute—that Jonathan’s ‘conclusion’, however rational in itself, could have derived only from a hugely wrong, a wholly false, initial assumption, and that all that was now necessary was the careful discovery of this assumption and the calm revelation of its falseness. Now that she knew what she must do there was nothing truly to worry about, nothing truly to fear. She had stopped trembling; she went and made the tea, and took it into the sitting room.

They were both silent while she poured it out; she handed Jonathan—still standing at the mantelpiece—a cup and then she began to take the cellophane off the cigarette packet.

‘I’ve asked Winkworth’s to send someone round on Monday morning to do a valuation,’ Jonathan said. ‘I thought that was the fairest way. Property prices haven’t moved much since we bought this place, but I thought if we got a valuation now, I’d be prepared to give you your share of the current value
or
your original stake, whichever is the greater. If you see what I mean. Can’t say fairer than that; I hope you agree.’

Nicola lit a cigarette.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t possibly be fairer.’ She inhaled. ‘There is a problem, though,’ she went on.

‘Oh, I suppose you’re thinking about the f and f,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’m sure we can sort that out easily enough.’

‘No, that’s not it,’ said Nicola.

‘What then?’

‘Jonathan, do sit down.’

He looked reluctant, but did so. She took another drag. Even though she had seen what she must do, it wasn’t easy to begin.

‘The problem,’ she said, ‘
the
problem is, that I don’t actually understand what all this is about. I mean, something has evidently gone wrong, badly wrong: and I don’t have a clue what it is.’

Jonathan looked surprised, and even slightly pained. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s
gone wrong
. Nothing in particular, that is. No, truly. It’s just the whole thing. It’s us.
We’re
wrong. I mean, as a couple. I thought you’d realised that as well as I had. You know how it’s been. Well. Need I go into it?’

If this was the initial assumption, the revelation of the falseness of which would lead to the collapse of Jonathan’s entire argument, then hard as it had been to begin, it would be harder still to continue: his speech had thrown her into a state of even deeper shock and pain. She began to tremble again.

‘I evidently don’t know
how it’s been
,’ she said shakily. ‘Of course we’ve had our sticky moments, every couple does, but—but—
I
thought we were happy.’ And with these words she began, at last, to cry. Her tears began to fall quite heavily; she could not speak further, and began even to sob.

Jonathan, sitting at the other end of the sofa, took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her silently—a large square of rumpled, but clean, linen. She buried her face in it and wept uncontrollably for some minutes. The world she had inhabited having been smashed to pieces (whose jagged edges cut her wherever she turned), it was the only natural thing to do.

4

Jonathan waited, staring into the fire which was not there, until Nicola’s tears subsided; at last she blew her nose, and looked up. She could almost have wished her tears to continue, for the icy darkness of this dreadful new consciousness. Whatever was wrong was deeper and more secret an affair than she could have guessed. It lay in the very heart of their lives, it lay in them, it lay, for all one knew, in their actual souls: if souls they possessed.

‘I don’t understand you,’ she said once more. ‘I don’t understand anything you’ve said.’ And she could not have spoken, could never have spoken, so truly. Her whole mind was black with incomprehension.

Jonathan had stood up again; he leaned once more against the mantelpiece. ‘I think that rather proves my point, doesn’t it?’ he said.

Even now she could not quite believe that he could say such a thing to her, at such a moment. She was silenced, but at the same time she found that tears had once more filled her eyes. She picked up the handkerchief and wiped them away, but more came; she was on the point of sobbing again. ‘It’s just the shock,’ she found herself thinking; ‘it’s simply the shock.’

Jonathan made a shrug of impatience. ‘
Please
don’t cry any more,’ he said. ‘It really isn’t helpful.’ He poured some more tea into her cup. ‘Here, drink this,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better.’

She left the tea where it was.

‘I’m sorry you’ve taken this so—hard,’ he said.

She knew, instantly, that he had been on the point of saying ‘badly’, and had stopped himself just in time.

‘I really didn’t expect it. That you should have thought we were
happy
was the last thing I expected. But there you are. We don’t understand each other, as you said. We’ll be much better off by ourselves.’ And he said this almost with satisfaction. It was clear that he thoroughly believed it.

It was only now that the likeliest, the most banal, explanation occurred to Nicola’s dazed and grief-stricken mind.

‘Is there someone else?’ she said.

She looked at his face carefully, steadily. His surprise was unmistakable; he even looked rather affronted by the suggestion.

‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I would have told you if there had been.’ There was a pause. ‘No,’ he continued. ‘No one else. Just us.’

‘Us,’ she repeated. ‘And now, it seems, there’s no
us
.’

He said nothing: an infinite boredom seemed to have possessed him: she recognised that expression, she remembered this sensation: he had hardened his heart, and closed his mind, against her. He would answer no questions, he would be cold to every appeal; she was altogether, for the present time at least, shunned. She recognised that expression, she remembered this sensation of death-in-life, and she was filled with a desolation which made her tears of a few minutes ago seem luxurious.

‘Jonathan,’ she said; ‘don’t
do
this.’

He ignored her. She might not have spoken. He picked up the tea tray. ‘I’ll sleep in the spare room,’ he said. ‘Are there sheets in there?’

She looked away from him with a kind of disgust, and ignoring this too he went on. ‘And by the way, I’ll be away at the weekend— parents.’

Just so. And tomorrow was Friday.

‘I’ll go straight down after work. Okay?’

She shrugged slightly, still speechless, and got up.

‘Well, goodnight,’ he said blandly. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

She stared at him dumbly, and left the room. Having been cast out by him, she now found—as she had found before—that she was capable only of speaking and acting, even to a degree apparently of feeling, like a stranger. But struggling, terrified and helpless, a loving and trusting Nicola shrieked in anguish from the depths of this stunned and frozen stranger.

5

‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Can I come round after work?’

‘Just you?’

‘Yes. Just me.’

‘Is anything wrong?’

‘Ish.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘I’m afraid Geoff’ll be here. It’s one of his days off.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll bring something to drink. Is there anything else you’d like?’

‘No, something to drink will do nicely.’

‘I’ll see you later then, around six-thirty, okay?’

‘Yes, see you then. Take care.’

‘You too.’

Susannah hung up.

‘Who was that?’

‘Nicola.’

‘What does she want?’

‘Me.’

‘Why?’

‘A friend in need.’

‘Oh? Something wrong?’

‘She says ish. I dare say we’ll find out tonight.’

‘Oh, God. She’s not going to go on and on, is she? I might go out and leave you girls to it.’

‘As you like. We can manage without you.’

‘Is she coming here for supper?’

‘Well, naturally. She’s coming straight from work. She’s bringing something to drink.’

‘Tell you what. I’ll stay until we’ve eaten and then I’ll bugger off down the pub.’

‘It’s karaoke night.’

‘All the better.’

‘I thought you liked Nicola.’

‘She’s a sweetheart.’

‘So?’

‘I just don’t like women going on and on.’

‘Exactly what do you mean by that?’

‘You know. On and on. Complaining. Usually about a man.’

‘If only there were never any occasion to.’

‘Come, now. You don’t hear us men going on and on.’

‘You have no occasion to.’

‘Can it really be as simple as that?’

‘Possibly not. Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it. The thing that’s wrong with women is that they go on and on, and the thing that’s wrong with men is that they don’t.’

‘Do you think I should do my Joe Cocker number tonight, or that Bryan Ferry one?’

‘Honestly, Geoff. This is no time for joking. Nicola might be in real
trouble
.’

‘Not her. That chic little Nothing Hill set-up with the deluxe plumbing and the stuffed shirt laying down the old claret. No way. She probably just wants some help with her vol-au-vents.’

‘Geoffrey: you are
an idiot
. I think you’d really better make yourself scarce tonight after all. Do the Joe Cocker. Now bugger off and let me get some work done.’

Susannah worked from home, and Geoffrey was a lecturer at a former polytechnic, so between them they just managed to service the mortgage on a house in Clapham which they had bought before the neighbourhood became quasi-fashionable. They had one clever child; they could not afford another.

Later on that day Susannah gave Geoffrey a shopping list and he went to Sainsbury’s and got everything in, plus some caramels.

‘What’s this?’ said Susannah, unpacking.

‘Caramels.’

‘What for?’

‘For you.’

‘
Me?
’

‘Yes, why not?’

‘
Why?
’

‘A token of my esteem.’

‘Oh, I wish.’

‘And my love, admiration, gratitude, etcetera.’

‘Oh, yeah. Want one?’

‘Well, since you ask. Just one.’

The clever child, a boy of nine, at this moment came home from school.

‘Cor!’ he said. ‘You’re eating
sweets
! Cor!’

‘Well, we’ve been good today,’ said his father.

‘So what else is new?’ said the child, whose name was Guy.

‘Give me a kiss,’ said his mother

‘All right,’ said Guy, and obliged.

‘Want one?’ she asked, offering the caramels.

He took one.

‘Do you want to see my poem?’ he asked them.

He was invited to read it to them, and did so.

‘Cor!’ said Susannah. ‘That’s really whizzy. Well done!’

‘I wish I could write like that,’ said Geoffrey.

He meant it, too: any adult might have wished as much. But there you were.

6

They were all sitting around the kitchen table eating spaghetti and drinking the wine Nicola had brought, except for Guy, who was drinking chocolate-flavoured milk. When they were all done, Guy obtained permission to go and watch television and the adults sat back and sighed at each other.

‘So how’s Jonathan?’ said Susannah.

Nicola was smoking a cigarette. She fiddled with her lighter.

‘I’m not exactly sure,’ she said.

‘Are there grounds for concern?’ asked Susannah, who had from the inception of this relationship believed that there just possibly could be.

‘Well. You see…’

‘Go on.’

‘I went out last night to buy some cigarettes.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘We’d been sitting around watching telly; it was a perfectly average evening.’

‘Yes, I know the sort of thing you mean, we have those too.’

‘And so, anyway, I went out to that offy and got the fags and came straight back, and when I got in, Jonathan called out to me and said, Come in here, I want to talk to you. So I did, I mean I hadn’t even had a chance to take off my coat, and he told me, he said—’ She broke off.

‘Yes?’

‘He said, I want you to move out.’

‘He
what
?’ cried Susannah.

‘Just like that?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Yes, just like that.’

Her interlocutors sat there, stunned and appalled.

‘I mean,’ said Susannah, ‘had you no suspicion beforehand—’

‘No, none. I mean, absolutely
none
.’

‘He must be round the twist.’

‘He seemed perfectly rational.’

‘That’s when they’re at their worst.’

‘Ho hum,’ said Geoffrey.

‘You shut up, you,’ said Susannah.

He ignored this. ‘What happened then?’ he asked.

‘Well—’ said Nicola; and at some length she managed to relate the rest of the conversation and to describe the sensations which it had induced in her.

Her friends were still appalled but they were no longer stunned.

‘He’s a complete and utter rat,’ said Susannah. ‘It’s a merciful release.’

‘Do you really think so?’ said Nicola unhappily. The relating of the tale had left her shaken.

‘Absolutely,’ said Susannah. ‘He’s
a rat
.’

‘Well, perhaps not exactly a rat,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But certainly a prat. A prat, definitely. But that was always obvious. I mean, just look at the guy. You’re better off without him,
much
.’

‘But I love him,’ said Nicola, and burst into tears.

Susannah slid her chair around until it was beside Nicola’s, and put her arm around her friend’s shaking shoulders. ‘There, have a good cry, darling,’ she said. ‘Susannah’s here.’

She continued to hold her as close as she could, patting her back from time to time, and meanwhile she turned her head and shot a withering look at her husband. ‘
Piss off
,’ she mouthed at him, and after raising his eyebrows he muttered an excuse and got up and left the room.

‘There,’ said Susannah, ‘there, there. Have a good cry. Stupid men. There, there.’