The Post-Birthday World (19 page)

She’d waited for an hour at the South Ealing station before the system deigned to announce that there would be no more Piccadilly trains this evening. “I missed the tube. Took forever to find a taxi.”

“

You,
spring for a cab?” His tone wasn’t chiding, but grateful. It was nearly two a.m., an improbably long evening for a girls’ night out, and his mind must have been churning with assaults, rapes, and train accidents. “Why didn’t you call and let me know you’d be so late? I was worried.”

“Sorry, I really should have. But finding a working pay phone would have delayed me even longer. Maybe it’s time we break down and buy mobiles.”

“Cells cost a fortune here. And I can’t stand people shouting to their invisible friends down the street. You can’t tell the difference between CEOs and the homeless anymore. But didn’t you find a phone to call a minicab?”

“I didn’t want to confess,” she said sheepishly. “I didn’t have any minicab numbers on me, so I grabbed a black taxi off the street. I refuse to tell you what it cost.”

“Fuck it,” said Lawrence. “I make good money. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

Irina plunked down beside him on the couch, and Lawrence shot her a quizzical glance. Lawrence always extended on the sofa; Irina always assumed her armchair. She kissed him, with closed lips, but on the mouth. “I think you’re wonderful.”
“What brought that on?”
“Only that I don’t tell you that often enough.” When she braved an arm around his shoulders, his body tightened, and he looked crowded. After waiting a discreet beat or two, Lawrence disengaged himself politely and got ready for bed.

Irina’s killjoy pragmatism that Friday night had perturbed not only Betsy, but Irina herself. The fact that she considered her relationship with Lawrence a miracle did not comport with this appearance of reduced expectations. Irina had never bought into the notion that you “worked on” a relationship like a job, but there was something to be said for paying attention to each other.

Unfortunately for Irina’s turned leaf, Lawrence was not himself still recuperating from a recent scare with a mouth. Though he acceded in principle to her fervent declarations that they should spend more time together, his affable cooperation never seemed to extend to a particular afternoon. She asked him three times if he wanted to go see

Boogie Nights,
but he had an article to finish. She invited him to come along on her trip to Borough Market, but he “hated shopping” and would rather catch up at the office. By the time she inquired if this Sunday he would join her on one of her long ambles through Hyde and Regent’s Parks, she used the negative construction, “You wouldn’t like to X, would you?” and her tone was forlorn. No, as a matter of fact he wouldn’t.

Her physical advances were no more successful. When she sidled up to him in bed mornings, he wriggled and mumbled that he was hot. Her returns to his couch continued to feel like territorial incursions, and eventually Irina would retreat to her armchair. When she held his hand on the street, he’d have to scratch his nose. Her one request for sex face-to-face had been so unavailing that she was reluctant to try again, as she was also reluctant to demand, once more, to be kissed. You shouldn’t have to ask, and it seemed too torturous for words to ask that she not have to ask.

Alas, she was treating the symptoms and not the disease. There was a reason he was discomfited by her sprawling across his chest, plopping on his personal sofa, clasping his hand, meeting his eyes during sex, and— most of all, strangely enough—opening her mouth to his. While one could conjure a variety of abstruse psychological labels for the underlying condition, the most succinct of them was

Lawrence.
Any ailment that went by so dense and complicated a name would not easily admit of a cure.

So Irina resolved to treat one symptom that had become a disease in itself:

television.
Lawrence turned on the news when he came home, kept all manner of rubbish nattering in the background through dinner, and then plunked in front of the box until they turned in. Holding hands was one thing; this time she was in for a fight.

When she announced that she’d like to experiment with keeping the TV off evenings, Lawrence was consternated. What, he asked, did she propose they do instead? Listen to music . . . read . . . , she proposed tentatively. Lawrence observed that he spent

all day
either reading or writing text, thank you very much, and he needed a break. Moreover, Lawrence didn’t play an instrument, keep a woodshop, or build ships in bottles. What did she suggest, that he take up knitting? It was one of those funny existential moments when there simply seemed dismayingly few things to do in the world, period. Irina was at a loss.

“We could . . . talk,” she submitted.

“We do talk. But talk is more words,” he objected. “In the days before electricity, you got up with the sun, muddied around in the fields all day, and by the time you’d grubbed up something to eat, it was dark—that is, totally dark. There was nothing to do but sleep. Now even people like me who put in damned long hours have more leisure time on their hands— more light—than they know what to do with. That’s what television is for. It takes up the slack.”
“Television is words,” she said meekly.
“Television takes
no effort,
and that’s the point. I come home, I’m exhausted.”
“It just seems tawdry. That noise all the time. We’re not really together.”
Lawrence relented—or pretended to, though in retrospect the experiment was rigged. For three nights running he put himself at her disposal, a nice way of saying that he dumped his full 160 pounds in her lap. The only diversion Irina could come up with was Scrabble, which Lawrence tactfully refrained from observing was still
more words,
and which, after he placed the Q on a triple-letter score two games in a row, he seemed destined to win by a humiliating margin. Defeated in every respect, on the third night Irina turned on the TV herself.
Thus it was all the more extraordinary when two nights later Lawrence turned it off. “Listen,” he introduced, settling into a confrontational position on the couch. “I know you’re not that interested in snooker. For that matter, you’ve never seemed all that interested in Ramsey, either.”
“Snooker’s all right,” she shrugged, curious.
“See, the Grand Prix is coming up next week in Bournemouth, and I thought I might catch a round or two.”
“If you’re asking permission to watch television, I’ve given up.”
“No, I meant go to the tournament.”
“By yourself?”
“Not exactly. Ramsey would be there. Thought we might arrange a boys’ night out—like you and Betsy.”
“Why don’t you want to go with me?”
“It’s not personal! I could just use a little guy time.”
“What’s with this powerful interest in buddying up to Ramsey? You don’t have much in common. He dropped out of school at sixteen.”
“Ramsey’s not stupid.”
“Maybe not, but you couldn’t call him an intellectual. I doubt he knows much about British politics, much less about the Tamil Tigers in Indonesia.”
“I can talk about the Tamil Tigers at Blue Sky until the cows come home.”
“With
Bethany,
I assume,” she said too quietly to be heard, and when Lawrence asked her to repeat herself she said never mind.
“With Ramsey,” said Lawrence, “I talk about snooker.”
“Is that what he wants? He didn’t talk about snooker with me.”
“Look, I’d only be gone overnight, and you’ve been ragging on me to do something besides watch TV. Now I come up with something, and I get it in the neck.”
Irina mumbled to her hands, gone icy again, “I’ve been looking for things for us to do together, and you’re always busy. You hardly ever take a trip for fun. Now when you will do, you want to go alone. Why are you trying to get away from me?”
Softening, Lawrence knelt by her chair. “Hey. It doesn’t make sense for you and me to go to a snooker tournament. You’d get bored. Besides, Ramsey’d be there. If you’d like to do something together—wouldn’t you rather it were just us two?”
“
Just us two
doesn’t seem to do it for you lately,” she said glumly.
“Oh, balls. It just seems an awful lot of trouble to go all the way to Bournemouth for a game that’s not up your alley. But we could still watch the tournament together. The first rounds are broadcast late, at eleventhirty. Maybe get a bite out first. Make it a date?”
Irina perked up a little. “Okay. Would you like that?”
“Of course! And then if Ramsey makes the second round, maybe I will go to Bournemouth for a night. He sounded optimistic.”
“You talked to him?” asked Irina sharply.
“Sure I did. Free tickets!”
“So how is he?” With luck, the wistfulness in her voice was not pronounced.
“He admitted he was lonely. Which considering the social life on offer for top-sixteen snooker players is strange in itself. But then he went on this long riff about how fortunate I was, having nabbed such a ‘class bird.’ It was kind of weird.”
“Why weird?”
“Men don’t usually say that stuff to each other.”
“Well,” said Irina. “Maybe they should.”

For their “bite out,” Irina had hopes of making a grand night of it at Club Gascon, but Lawrence preferred to cheap it at Tas just up the street, from which they could more easily make it home in time for Ramsey’s first round. She made it up to herself by dressing to the nines.

“You’re going to wear

that
?” asked Lawrence. “Tas is pretty downmarket!”
“Why do you get embarrassed whenever I look good?” She hadn’t intended the question as rhetorical, but Lawrence thought introspection was for losers and she got no response.
A pleasant establishment with blond wooden tables, Tas had lighting too bright and service too prompt; it was one of those restaurants that you could stroll into and then find yourself back out on the pavement fortyfive minutes later wondering what happened. “Not very romantic,” said Irina wanly once they were seated near the kitchen.
“You’re not into schmaltz anyway. The food’s decent, and I’m hungry.”
“So,” she said with an intensity at odds with their rotgut red, “how
are
you?”
Lawrence didn’t look up. “Okay,” he said absently. “The fact that Sinn Fein’s been asked into talks without so much as saying they’re sorry is bad news politically. But I’m sure to squeeze some op-eds out of my indignation, so it’s good for me.”
Irina had asked how he was, not how his work was going, but for Lawrence these inquiries were synonymous. “I guess for you it’s good when the whole world blows up.”
“That’s right!” he said cheerfully. “World’s always going to hell anyway. Someone might as well cash in.”
“I don’t know why you’re studying the menu. You always get the same thing.”
“Lamb-stuffed vine leaves!” Lawrence had blind faith in the merits of repetition, and may never have reflected on its insidiously erosive effects. Little by little, the appeal of those vine leaves would abate. But Lawrence did not live in a world of subtleties or shades, and was certain to experience being sick of this order on a single evening all at once. He did not keep track of gradual disintegrations. For Lawrence, a leftover in the fridge was either fine or it was spoiled, while Irina could detect the incremental waning of flavor and the first faint whiff of corruption without having to meet a forest of mold to throw it out. In relation to food his black-and-white vision had negligible repercussions, but in relation to Irina his color-blindness was potentially perilous. He wasn’t
vigilant.
As Irina soaked a square of spongy sesame bread in tahini dressing, she paused to consider the rashness of her sudden impulse this evening. It was true that Tas wasn’t romantic, but when you did seek to arrange romance by design it was most apt to elude you. If nothing else, the quality of spontaneity could not be planned.
Meantime, Lawrence remarked, “I hope you don’t mind, but I took a look at the drawings you’re doing for Puffin. They look really— professional.”
Irina sighed. “They’re merely competent. Even Ramsey hinted that Jude might have had a point when she called my later work ‘flat.’ ”
“Flat my butt. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not beautiful, it’s pretty. I’m doing illustrations, but, sorry to be pretentious—not art.”
“Why do you have to be so hard on yourself? I think everything you do is great!”
They weren’t communicating. Lawrence tossed the human spirit into the same mythical grab-bag as elves and fairies.
Over salad, Irina mentioned, “You know, this Asian financial crisis may be bad for our investments, but it might have one upside. The baht is in freefall. Taking a holiday in Thailand in the next few months could be fantastically cheap.”
“Why would we want to go to Thailand?”
“Why not? We’ve never been there. The beaches are supposed to be gorgeous.”
“I hate beaches. And if I’m going to go abroad, I’d rather go somewhere that can double for research. Frankly, I’ve thought about taking a trip to Algeria.”
“You are
not
going to Algeria!” Irina exclaimed.
“Why not?” His innocence was feigned.
“It’s only one of the most dangerous countries in the world at the mo- ment.”
“According to whom?”
“According to
you.
I read that
Foreign Policy
article of yours.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked bashfully.
“You left it out.”
“Took it from my briefcase is all.”
“I thought you wanted me to read it.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “Maybe.”
“So you can forget Algeria. I’ll handcuff you to the bedstead first.”
“Sounds fun.”
If only he were serious. “As for Thailand . . .” Irina took the plunge. “I thought it might be a good place for a honeymoon.”
“Whose?” he asked, in earnest.
Irina simply stared at him.
“Oh,” said Lawrence.
“That’s it?
Oh?
”
“I guess a ‘honeymoon’ would entail getting married first.”
“That is generally a prerequisite.” This wasn’t going well.
Lawrence shrugged, expressing the same scale of emotion she might have raised had she successfully cajoled him into ordering something new off the menu. Not only the same scale, but the same emotions: skepticism, wariness, and dread.
“I guess so,” he said. “If you want.”
“If
I
want. Wouldn’t
we
have to want?”
“It is your idea.”
“We’ve lived together for over nine years. You couldn’t call the notion bizarre.”
“I didn’t say it was bizarre. I’m just not especially bothered either way.”
“Not bothered.”
“You’re repeating what I say a lot.”
“Maybe I’m wishing you’d say something else.”
“Look. You know I can’t stand ceremonies.”
“Like beaches. And other people.”
“Are we talking a white dress and reception? Because I’ve been to loads of weddings, and I’ve had it. Friends resent the plane tickets and hotel bills; the
happy couple
resents the catering. Both parties think they’re doing the other a huge favor. The hoo-ha is over before you know it, and all anyone’s got to show for it is a hangover. Weddings are a racket, and the only people who profit are florists and bartenders.”
“Are you quite finished? Because I never said anything about a reception. A registry office and private toast with Korbel is fine by me.”
“We could at least spring for Veuve Clicquot,” said Lawrence, who had his standards. “But what’s got into you? Sure, we could do it, but we could also skip it, right? Why not keep on the way we’ve been doing?”
“Why not order the lamb-stuffed vine leaves one more night?”
Lawrence looked baffled. Irina hadn’t the energy to explain, since she shouldn’t have to. Why get married? Because it would be fun. Because it was the very folks who claimed that they “couldn’t stand ceremonies” who needed them, who without the barreling intrusion of occasion would, metaphorically, order the lamb-stuffed vine leaves for eternity. Because— how could she say this, when it was Lawrence’s place to say this to her?— he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the lovely, the nonpareil Irina McGovern.
“Never mind,” she said wearily.
“What did you mean, about the vine leaves? They’re great, as usual. Want one?”
“I’ve had them before,
bolshoye spasibo.
” Some instinct dictated that she use the rather formal form of
thank you.