The Real Thing (22 page)

He was alone. It was eleven at night, and he was ready for bed. Instead he poured himself a Scotch, not his custom at that hour, and sat looking at a dead television set, as if it might suddenly grant information. He was much more disturbed than he felt he ought to be.

A few months later it was he who rang her.

‘Jody? Sebastian.’

‘Hi, Sebastian,’ she said, deliberately offhand, he was sure.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said cautiously, ‘but I remembered you rang me once.’

‘So I did.’

‘Well, it’s like this. Henry asked me to ring you to say he has gone off with Angela to see Connie in her school play. He tried to get you and couldn’t, and he can’t see
you this weekend.’ A silence. ‘You see, he had forgotten about the play. Connie, you know – the child.’

A cautious stifled voice, which seemed to be trying out each word, listening to it. ‘You mean, Henry, my loved one, asked
you
, his ex-wife’s loved one, to ring
me
about
him
not seeing
me?’

“That’s about it, yes.’

A sound that could have been a sob, a curse, a prayer.

‘Well,’ said he. ‘There you are.’

‘Excuse me, but how do you come to be in a position to be passing on messages from Henry?’

‘I was with Henry and Angela last night, as it happened.’

‘A threesome?’

‘No, actually a foursome. My wife – well, my former wife, was there too. Olga.’

‘Listen,’ she said, in a voice kept muted with an effort, ‘I think that’s all shit. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry, too. But what is?’

‘Henry tells me I am a barbarian. That’s what he says. I don’t go for all this sweetness and light. It’s not natural. It’s not healthy. And it’s
stupid.
There’s nothing but pain in it for everyone.’

‘A point of view, I suppose.’

‘Oh
God
, if you only knew how I hate this humorous sterilizing of everything.’

‘Everything
real?’

‘You said it. Right. Exactly so. Everything real.’

‘And you don’t believe people should be friendly after a divorce?’

‘Once my divorce was through I said I never wanted to see him again. And I haven’t. My ex-husband. Marcus.’

‘Ah.’

‘A louse.’

‘But I thought you had a child together?’

‘We do.’

‘But you never meet.’

‘No.’

‘Ah.’

‘Ah to you too. Well, message delivered, and thank you.’ She rang off.

He attempted a laugh but again found himself pouring a drink.

Some months later she rang him. ‘What’s all this about you and I going up for a nice weekend at Henry and Angela’s cottage?’

‘It was mentioned.’

‘And what did you say, Sebastian?’

‘I said I thought it was premature.’

‘Premature,’ she screamed. ‘Look, no, just a minute … I want us to meet. Just you and me. I want to talk.’

‘What about?’

She laughed. He felt encouraged: that was a real laugh. That’s better, he was thinking.

‘What I want to talk about isn’t – practicalities. Not where to put the children or who pays for what. There’s something … I don’t know exactly how to put it.’ He did not say anything to encourage her, so there was a pretty long pause. Then she inquired, reasonably, ‘Don’t you ever feel as if you are up against something – well, intangible?’

“What sort of thing?’

‘With those two. Henry and Angela.’ He still did not help her, and she went on with difficulty. I mean, inadequate, that’s what I feel, I don’t match up.’

‘Oh
that,’
said he, given a handhold. ‘Of course, inadequate, but then, who doesn’t feel inadequate?’

‘For Christ’s sake
no
, just don’t do that.’

‘What?’

‘Just dismiss it.’

‘I didn’t know I had.’

‘Of course you didn’t. You people never do, do you?’

‘Meaning us, the English?’

‘Yes. That’s it. Precisely.’

‘But I understand you married one?’

‘I did. And I am pledged to wed another, Henry. Marcus, then Henry. A rich education in sweeping things under the carpet.’

‘It sounds to me as if we’re not really your cup of tea.’

She laughed. ‘Have you got anything against our meeting? A little chat? A meal?’

‘You live in Manchester?’

‘Yes, but I’m in London this weekend.’

‘Do you want to come here?’

‘Neutral ground. A restaurant.’

‘Good God, I never thought of myself as a minefield. Or something.’

‘Or something. What kind of restaurant?’

I don’t give a damn.’

‘You don’t? I’m told – far too often – that Angela is a perfect cook.’

‘You can have too much of a good thing.’

‘Oh. All right then, where?’

They agreed to arrive late at the restaurant, so as not to be hurried, and in fact the place was emptying. They sat examining each other with a curiosity due almost entirely to the absent Henry, the absent Angela. She was thinking, why should Angela get rid of one, and take on another just the same?

But he was thinking, My God, Henry’s going to find her a handful, after Angela. And congratulated himself on getting the better bargain.

He was a tall, dark, rather stooped man – as if even the height he had seemed to him too obtrusive, and he was trying to lessen it. He wore conventionally good clothes.
He had a quizzical look, a sign, she was convinced, of the deprecatory humour that drove her wild. He was smiling politely at a dramatic blonde dressed – he felt strongly -much too handsomely for the occasion.

He was more on guard than he knew, although he had said to himself before arriving. Now, careful, the slightest thing sets her off. Every line of him said, ‘Don’t come too close.’ He leaned back in his chair, even tilting it as she leaned forward towards him. She was aware that they must look as if she pursued him, but she did not care.

He was thinking that her voice did nothing for her. A pity, too, that Americans had to – as they would put -verbalize everything. Intelligent: she was evidently that. But a pity that…

Having got the ordering of the food out of the way -unimportant for this occasion, she said, ‘Sebastian, how long have you been with Angela?’

He had to think. ‘Four years. At least.’

‘And I have been with Henry for three.’

‘I hope you have enjoyed yourself as much as I have.’

This, which he had hoped would set the tone for their conversation, made her smile, wryly. Then he smiled too.

‘All right,’ said he, ‘I’m doubtless an insensitive clod.’

‘It has never bothered you that it took them so long to divorce? It was a perfectly simple divorce.’

‘No, why should it?’

‘Only a formality!’

‘Do you see it as much more?’

‘Yes, I do. I didn’t at first, but then I began to wonder why nothing ever got started.’

‘It’s finished now, though. The thing was finally through last month.’

‘But let’s not be too precipitous, let’s not be premature!’

He acknowledged that she teased with the briefest of smiles. Let’s get on with it! – he was signalling.

‘I feel all the time as if things are not being said, there’s something I’m not getting to grips with.’

‘So you said on the telephone.’ Lest she take this as a put-off, he made a gesture which said, No, wait … He took a couple of therapeutic mouthfuls of wine, and his serious glance was meant to show he had every intention of meeting her honestly. But in spite of this he looked embarrassed and reluctant. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you’ve been saying. You see, I don’t think that I expect as much as you seem to. Of course there are barriers and difficulties. Henry and Angela were married for – I think it was ten years. They have a child – you know, Connie. All that isn’t just going to disappear because of – well, you and me? And I have an ex-wife. Olga. Did I tell you? I expect Angela finds things not too easy with me sometimes. And you have an ex-husband – surely Henry must sometimes …’

‘No,’ she cut in decisively. ‘No, absolutely not. I’ve cut that off. That’s the point. Finished!
Finita! Basta!
I don’t like ghosts in the machine.’

He sighed. He had not meant to, and now he looked guilty, and because of that she had to smile at him. Evidently Henry earned this smile often enough. A well-practised smile, he was thinking. ‘Why do you expect so much?’ he inquired. And this was the first (as she saw it) real thing he had said. He was speaking out of his own nature, and not what he believed he had to say out of self-defence. ‘Perhaps I am not so difficult to please as you? I’ve had a perfectly splendid time with Angela these four years. And I hope to have many more.’

‘I didn’t say I hadn’t had a perfectly splendid time with Henry,’ she said sweetly. And they laughed. Together. They even liked each other, as much as was possible
with those two invisible presences at the meal, Angela and Henry. ‘But I don’t see the point of marrying unless it’s all there, you know,
everything.’

‘Ah well, then I think you’re being unreasonable. Asking for trouble.’

‘Why bother to get married?’

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t? No, I mean that – kindly, believe me. It’s no good asking too much. It was the mistake I made with Olga.’

‘Did you ever regret divorcing her? Olga?’

Now, a hesitation. He did not like this. ‘Yes,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘Yes, I sometimes do. But we are the best of good friends.’

‘Like Henry and Angela.’

‘I hope so.’

‘And like you and Henry.’

‘I like Henry. My life is much better for Henry. He’s one of the people I’d go to if I were in real trouble.’

‘Rare.’

‘I think so, yes.’

Immature,’ she sighed, histrionically. ‘That’s me. I haven’t grown up.’ And then, in one of the sudden, almost savage turns he had been dreading, ‘Except that that is bullshit. Rubbish. Oh I know what you think of me. I’ve had it for years from Marcus, and now with Henry.’

‘Marcus the louse?’ He attempted humour. It was rejected.

‘Yes, a louse. In a word.’

‘Ah.’

‘He behaved … he certainly is immature. Why should I paper it all over, pretend it never happened? If that is maturity, then …’

‘I never once used the word!’

‘No, but put your hand on your heart and swear you didn’t think it.’

He had to laugh. She laughed. But hers was not the kind
of laugh that would stand up, he was thinking. The meal ended rather sooner than they expected. He was afraid she was going to cry. So was she.

This time weeks passed, and she telephoned him to ask, ‘What do you think, is it really a good idea for us all to spend a cosy weekend?’

‘Why not? We are all going to be seeing each other about this and that, I suppose.’

‘I bow to your superior worldly wisdom.’

‘Anyway, it is a very pretty place. I’m sure you’ll like it.’

She laughed. At him. He joined in.

It was a pretty place. Within five minutes of each other, he from London, she from Manchester, they drove off the main road through increasingly narrow lanes, until there was a large and old building with an arch in it, leading to a courtyard, between other, scattered buildings. The ‘cottage’ was in fact a shabby but commodious enough house with windows on to the courtyard, and through one of them Henry and Angela were visible, sitting at a table. First Sebastian, and then, more timidly, Jody, advanced to this window past plants in tubs and a sleeping collie, and presented themselves to the couple who energetically waved and smiled and begged them to come in. As Sebastian reached the door to the kitchen, Angela ran to embrace him, kiss kiss hug hug, oh darling Sebastian, while Henry affably smiled and turned half away, and when Jody appeared, immediately afterwards, Henry went to her and held her tight. ‘Sweetie,’ he said and, his head bent beside hers, he whispered welcomes. Angela, beside Sebastian (their arms around each other still), observed this without turning away, and on her face appeared the fleetest shadow of loss.

Then Angela and Henry left their respective loved ones,
and began whisking plates and glasses off the table. They stood side by side, backs to the sink, smiling.

Angela was a small, pretty woman, with masses of dark curly hair, and a sprightly amused air which did not leave her as she said enthusiastically to Jody, ‘I am so glad you are here. Really, it is ridiculous we haven’t met long before. I kept saying so, didn’t I, Henry?’

‘Yes, you did, but it never seemed appropriate,’ said Henry. He was a large, dark, amiable fellow, with a ruddy face, but this last was from the wine he and Angela had been drinking. Seen there, side by side, they were a pair, a match, a couple, full of well-being, full of goodwill.

‘Well, thanks,’ said Jody, and since Sebastian had seated himself at the table that stood in the middle of this large, shabby, pleasant country kitchen, she did too, exactly where she had observed Angela sitting, through the window. They all examined each other, not concealing it: natural enough that they should be curious, their faces, their poses, frankly said. Of course the women particularly took each other’s measure, meeting for the first time: but there need be no end to the new ideas suggested by their being there in the same room, For example, remembering that Jody had more than once suggested he and Henry shared qualities, Sebastian was regarding Henry from this point of view, but concluded, behind his smile, that only an angle of vision so far from anything he could approach was capable of such a comparison, and there was no sense in even trying to achieve it. He attempted this train of thought: Angela chose Henry, and now she’s chosen me, so perhaps there is something in both of us we are unaware of? But then, the parallel thought, Henry chose Angela, and then Jody, cancelled the first. Delightful Angela (perfection in every way) did not have one point where she could be matched with this dramatic Jody, who was sitting there in her elegant country clothes,
her yellow hair (dyed, he supposed) shiny and smooth, smiling and open, but as it were sharpened to a fine point of intelligence behind those shrewd, observant grey eyes. A very handsome creature, this Jody Henry was welcome to her.