Meeting Lydia Page 20
This was his opportunity – the perfect opportunity – to say sorry. But he didn’t. Instead he said: “But you still love me don’t you?”
Marianne was privately annoyed and unforgiving still. They could have a row about it. She could take the discussion forward, repeating that she felt hurt and making him feel guilty. But that would have been like she was extracting an apology and it would have meant little. She wanted him to apologise with sincerity and not because he thought there was no choice. Once she would have replied without hesitation that she loved him. This time she said: “What is love? I don’t know any more. It’s been a difficult year. You haven’t been easy to live with. You’re much nicer when you don’t drink too much.”
“It isn’t the booze.”
“You just said it was.”
“The booze is a consequence, not a perpetrator.”
Marianne was baffled. She put down her comb and turned to get into bed. “A consequence of what?”
“You don’t look at me like you used to do … Like you did until just a few months ago.”
“So now you’re saying it’s my fault?”
“I don’t know when it started – or how. You don’t act as if you love me any more.”
Marianne was not in the mood to pacify. “It wasn’t easy to feel love with Charmaine floating about in the background. I’m sure you don’t want me to fake it. I’ve never faked anything with you!”
When Holly was alone with her mother in the kitchen next morning, Marianne sought to reassure her that Dylan met with their approval.
“He’s perfectly lovely,” said Marianne, creating a pile of wholemeal toast. She was about to add that both she and Johnny would have preferred to hear that he had firm career options in mind rather than swanning around doing research or travelling, but she stopped the words escaping just in time. This was her mother again, whispering in her brain. Research or travelling might have been things she would have done herself if she’d been given some encouragement. In any case, it was only his second year in college. Time enough for the future to sort itself out.
“He is lovely, isn’t he!” said Holly. “Not a malicious bone in his body and sooo mature. We talk for hours about everything. I’m sooo lucky.”
“You deserve someone nice,” said Marianne. “He’s lucky too.”
“He’s really kind. I mean really kind. I’ve never met a guy who’s so thoughtful. And it’s genuine – not just put on to impress. He’s kind to everybody.”
“Kindness is an often underrated quality,” said Marianne.
“Dad’s kind,” said Holly, exploratively, as if waiting for a contradiction from her mother. “Or he was until this last year or so … I don’t like to see him upsetting you.”
“We’re fine. Don’t worry about us.”
“I heard you arguing again …”
“Not arguing. Just discussing. It takes time to put the train back on the track, but we will.”
Holly narrowed her eyes and looked closely at her mother; wanting to believe.
While they chatted Holly sat down at the little pine table in the corner and began working through the toast pile. “And what about Harry Potter? Are you still writing to him?”
Marianne felt the rush of heat rising from her knees and she went to water her pots of herbs on the window sill. “Now and then.”
“But you haven’t met yet?”
“No.”
“I wonder when you do if he will be like you think he is.”
“I doubt that anyone would be exactly as expected after thirty-odd years and a few emails.”
“Does Dad mind?”
“What is there to mind? It’s not as if he was ever a boyfriend.”
Holly shrugged.
Then Dylan came in with the typical awkward gait of a nineteen-year-old with seemingly too many uncontrollable limbs, and hair that flopped disconcertingly over one eye and shoulders that seemed too wide to fit through the door frames.
“Hi-ya,” he said, grinning and taking a seat by Holly and helping himself to a piece of toast from her plate. He began to spread it liberally with strawberry jam. “Did you know, yeah, that pigeons used to work on the production line in some jam factory? They pecked the jars and could identify the sound made by a cracked jar. If the sound was wrong, they triggered a lever and the jar was ejected from the line.”
“Who on earth told you that?” said Holly.
“One of our lecturers.”
“It must’ve been a joke,” said Holly.
“I think not,” said Dylan earnestly. “Even if it was a joke, it is perfectly possible to train them.”
“Indeed it is,” said Marianne. “Learning theory …”
“Exactly,” said Dylan. “Positive reinforcement!”
Holly pulled a face.
Marianne smiled. “What are you two planning, today?”
“Dylan wants to go on the London Eye. We might go by boat from Greenwich. Why don’t you and Dad come too?”
“I’m sure you don’t want us cramping your style.”
Dylan interjected: “Please do come. It will give us a chance to chat some more.”
This guy chats! thought Marianne. A man who chats; such a rare thing, and she said that they would love to come and went to find Johnny to persuade him.
The Thames sparkled and glinted, bejeweled with spring sunlight and Marianne was glad they had decided to go out together. Spontaneity had been missing in recent years and it would do them good to break from predictable routines. They were in Greenwich and they walked past the majestic Cutty Sark in its dry dock, oozing history to such an extent that one could almost hear the calls and smell the sweat of the mariners who once climbed her masts and set the sails.
Dylan was impressed. “I’ve never seen her in real-life before. She’s cool. Much better than on the telly behind those marathon runners.”
“Why do men call boats she?” asked Marianne.
“Don’t you approve?” said Dylan.
“It smacks of oppression,” said Marianne.
Holly interjected: “Dylan, don’t get Mum onto her favourite subject, please.”
“I think it’s a compliment to women,” said Dylan, adding mischievously, “and didn’t Holly tell me you once had a car called Jeremy?”
Marianne laughed.
On the pier waiting for the launch to Westminster they gathered with the tourists. Marianne and Holly left Johnny standing a few yards away with Dylan, gesturing towards the wharfs on the north bank and no doubt giving his own explanations about the history. She thought he looked rugged and handsome with his grey flecked hair blowing in the breeze. Still got a cute bum too. Must tell him sometime soon when the dust settles.
Then, without the warning that one might hope accompanying such a surprise, and with hair tumbling in a cascade of peroxide waves, who should be in the queue in front of them but Charmaine with an insipid looking man in tow. She had on a frilly skirt that was too short and the backs of her legs were orange with fake tan and dimpled with cellulite.
Marianne was instantly irritated and, taking a deep breath, stole the initiative before Charmaine noticed her.
“If it isn’t Charmaine!” she said with a touch of iciness.
Charmaine swung round, nearly overbalancing on her spiky heels. The man beside her reached for her arm to steady her.
“Johnny – John’s wife. Though I’m sure you remember …”
“Oh, hullo … Gosh …”
A waft of sickly alien perfume drifted under Marianne’s nose. Perfume she’d desperately tried to detect on Johnny’s shirts, or on Johnny himself, and the menopausal madness crackled in her brain and unleashed her tongue.
“Gosh, indeed …” Marianne smiled, sending mixed messages, hoping to confuse.
Charmaine looked as though she wanted to escape, eyes darting this way and that under designer-framed sunglasses, while the man she was with stared open-mouthed, as if he had walked into a film halfway through and was
trying to catch the plot.
“So rude of me not to introduce myself,” said Marianne, extending her hand to the man in question, surprised that he wasn’t more hunky. “Marianne Hayward, amazingly still married to Johnny Ingleton, despite Charmaine’s best efforts … I take it you are someone else’s husband?”
“Mum!” hissed Holly from behind Marianne’s shoulder where she had been skulking since the beginning of the conversation.
The man shook Marianne’s hand in a reflex action, closed his mouth and gulped, then opened it again and made a strangulated noise. Charmaine chipped in: “Nice to see you again, but I think we should be—”
“And where exactly might you be going on such a beautiful day? Down to Westminster, same as us? There might be time for a little chat before the boat arrives, don’t you think? I would really like to know why you were trying so hard to steal my husband.”
Now it was Charmaine who stared, transfixed, uncertain. “I was only being a friend; trying to help,” she said. “John said you were going through a bad patch.”
Holly backed away awkwardly in the direction of Johnny and Dylan.
“Coming onto him? Going for drinks with him? That was help, was it? Telling him about your love-lorn plight? Making him feel sorry for you? Calling him John? Flattering his middle-aged ego with your glamour-puss style? All designed to rock our boat a little more.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Charmaine, flustered.
“Quite so,” said Marianne. “It’s just as well I am not the violent type.”
The man whose name was still in question said, “I say, is this really necessary?”
Marianne exhaled and smoothed her skirt. Now she had started, she felt the weeks of accumulated vitriol backing up as if behind a sluice gate that was leaking spurts at the moment, but was in danger of collapsing and spewing forth all her anger. Should she let go completely? Should she have a raving rant at this woman who had wrecked her peace of mind from the moment she appeared in her kitchen all glossy and polished; from the time Johnny had become infatuated and thoughtless? Or should she stop now, enough said?
One or two other waiting passengers were looking over their shoulders, evidently listening, but trying not to stare. Dylan too now hovered in the background, bush-baby eyes unblinking. The pause was palpable. Press the red button now, thought Marianne. Option one: slap the face!
“You endangered a perfectly happy relationship. Should I be very British and silent and let you think no harm has been done? Your little-girl-lost act took in Johnny, but not me. You’re good, I’ll say that.”
“I was confused,” said Charmaine. “I didn’t mean … Really … I’m not like you think … It was a mistake …”
Suddenly Johnny was at Marianne’s side, giving her warning glances, steering her away down the pier towards the river, looking apologetically at Charmaine and the nameless man.
Marianne allowed herself to be steered, because she wasn’t clear what to do or say next.
Holly reappeared. “Sooo embarrassing, Mum.”
“Everything’s under control,” said Johnny.
“You should’ve let me finish,” said Marianne, glaring over her shoulder at Charmaine who was walking back towards the Cutty Sark, evidently no longer intent on catching the same boat.
“Wicked,” said Dylan, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Nothing like this ever happens in Rustington!”
29
Psychobabble
‘Give me a child till he is seven and I will give you the man’
Jesuit motto
In Beckenham the spring blossom burst forth with sumptuous candy-floss colours and with Easter over, Marianne once again turned her attention to Edward.
To: Edward Harvey
From: Marianne Hayward
Date: 17th April 2002, 21.11
Subject: A Question of Understanding
Hi Edward,
Holly has been and gone. She brought her new boyfriend home. We both approve, which is a great relief as they’re clearly madly in love!
I have been puzzling over how men and women are able to write books from the perspective of the opposite sex. Many men write of us as remote, manipulative and mysterious creatures, full of sexual allure, but without heart. Men can only really know us if they listen beyond what their wives, daughters and women friends are saying. And are we women any better in knowing men? We think we do, but too often we know without any attempt to understand. If we understood, we wouldn’t try so hard to change them.
These are idle thoughts …
Time to sleep.
Marianne
To: Marianne Hayward
From: Edward Harvey
Date: 17th April 2002, 21.57
Subject: Re: A Question of Understanding
Hi Marianne,
Daughters and boyfriends are an unsettling combination! We are only just entering that arena with Rachel.
What do you mean ‘listening beyond’?
Edward
To: Edward Harvey
From: Marianne Hayward
Date: 18th April 2002, 19.12
Subject: Re: A Question of Understanding
Hi Edward,
I mean don’t take what is said at face value. It’s not that women mean to deceive. But they think men will be frightened by the truth unless it is unravelled slowly. So they say something that runs parallel to the truth and expect to be asked further questions – as their women friends would do. Women friends are always fishing, but men accept what’s said and move on to the next thing – often football …
So the confusion perpetuates …
Marianne
To: Marianne Hayward
From: Edward Harvey
Date: 18th April 2002, 23.02
Subject: Re: A Question of Understanding
Dear Marianne,
Indeed!
So that’s where I’ve been going wrong all these years!
Edward
Dear Marianne? This was a deviation from the norm. Was it a patronising ‘Dear’, an acknowledgement of friendship, or a slip of the keys?
She smiled. She suspected Edward would not be impressed by her feminist principles. She wondered if Felicity kept her thoughts under wraps to keep the peace. Or maybe she was the kind of woman who was happy with a cave man. Except she didn’t think Edward was a cave man.
It seemed to Marianne that Edward didn’t go wrong at all. But maybe he wasn’t the New Man she had suspected. She would probe further.
To: Edward Harvey
From: Marianne Hayward
Date: 19th April 2002, 17.38
Subject: Metrosexual Man
Hi Edward,
Have you heard the term metrosexual? This is the man of the 21st Century, the next evolutionary step from the New Man. Metrosexual Man is in touch with his feminine side. He is androgynous and has high emotional intelligence. He continues to challenge traditional male stereotypes.
Holly’s Dylan seems to fit this description. Best wishes,
Marianne
To: Marianne Hayward
From: Edward Harvey
Date: 20th April 2002, 22.28
Subject: Re: Metrosexual Man
Hi Marianne,
Metrosexual Man?!! Mere psychobabble! (Sorry, no insult intended …)
Will have to hope Felicity doesn’t get to hear about this or there will be even more for me to try to live up to!
Am coming to London next Thursday to lecture to the Camden History Society. You’re welcome to come if you’re free!
Dashing …
Edward
“Shit!” said Marianne to the computer. “Typical, typical… Shit!”
She gazed at the email from Edward in near disbelief. She shook her head and sighed. Why oh why of all days did he have to pick that one to suggest meeting? She didn’t even need to ask him whether the lecture was during the day or in the evening. Either way was impossible. She was teaching from nine to four and interviewing prospe
ctive students in the evening. She would finish, shattered, at about eight – no time to freshen up and go out again. In any case, when they did finally meet, she didn’t want to be a complete wreck.
To: Edward Harvey
From: Marianne Hayward
Date: 22nd April 2002, 21.12
Subject: Re: Metrosexual Man
Hi Edward,
Alas I am teaching all day on Thursday followed by an interview evening – otherwise it would have been lovely to come and hear your lecture – (you didn’t say what it was on?) But there will be other opportunities I’m sure. In haste …
Best wishes,
Marianne.
“Shit.” She said again. “Dammit … dammit … dammit …”
“What’s the matter with you?” Johnny appeared suddenly in the doorway, his shirt splattered with water from doing the washing up. He looked at her searchingly, a little sadly, brow furrowed. Since the fracas on Greenwich pier and the subsequent arguments, he had tried to talk to her about how she was feeling, but she had remained silent and distant, disinclined to say more than she already had.
“Are you coming down? Do you want tea?” said Johnny. Marianne hastily clicked Send later. “Yes please,” she said, smiling, feeling all hot and hoping she wasn’t blushing. In any case, what was there to feel guilty about?
*
“Cyberaffairs …” said Marianne to her students, a couple of days after the invitation from Edward. She paused expectantly, hoping she was adopting the kind of tone David Attenborough might use when creating anticipation before explaining the habits of some obscure animal living in the dim dark world of the ocean’s floor. “What do you think we mean by cyberaffair?”
“Straying away from home online,” said Jason.
“Love on the internet,” said Stanley. Today, instead of the plaits, his hair was a springy bush of tight black curls and he was dressed from head to foot in lime green, standing out from the rest of the class and their monochrome sobriety.
“Yes,” acknowledged Marianne, “although the ‘love’ word might not always be appropriate.”
Stanley grinned and exchanged a significant look with one of the girls sitting across on the opposite arm of the horseshoe.