Chapter 15 – A Trip to London
A fast kiss at the train station –
“You can reach me at The Royal Grenadier Hotel” – and he was gone. Leaving her to muse ruefully on all these new positional changes in their relationship.
Hadn’t she always leaned on his preferences and decisiveness? Was it possible that – after all – she HAD masked her true self from her husband and only now was it beginning to emerge?
No. She had masked her true self from herself. And it was understandable – the future was aspirational – one yearned to become a “certain somebody.’ It was only later that you found some doors were closed – always would be closed because you yourself really didn’t want them. Really didn’t.
Did this work for men as well, she wondered? Did they know their real selves so little? Ian had been raised with certain expectations – to ‘rise in the world,’ for example – which he was fulfilling. But women were encouraged to adapt in a way men were not and so inevitably, they looked for someone to adapt to.
If Ian’s real, poetic self had yet to emerge she was certain the revelation would take a very long time. It could only happen after he had tried his dream of castle ownership, BBC employment and ‘partying with the right people” – and found it wanting. It could be, Scarlet realized, a very long wait.
She had thought she knew him so well that she could have said exactly what he was thinking at any given moment and that made him the only man for her. But she was beginning to realize that no couple can really know each other because the challenges of marriage itself – of parenthood – must mold their characters. An unchanged soul would be shallow and undesirable for that very reason. They had always been on a journey; it remained to be seen whether they could travel together.
She recalled Ian on their very first date saying as she dithered over Indian food, “Don’t over-cerebrate. Lean on me. That’s what I’m here for.”
Those words – so erotic at the time – now seemed appalling. Naturally, it wasn’t just his words but his face and body, his gorgeously explosive masculinity, the testosterone that dripped off him like cologne – turning both her head and heart. She had suddenly felt confident of reveling in the utter relaxation she required for erotic satisfaction. She could float – she could surrender.
Now she was finding out what exactly what it was she had surrendered to. They had both used her “American optimism” as fuel to stabilize his “English pessimism”. She had literally been the making of him. And she had given herself to the enjoyment of every moment.
Until now. Now she felt unpleasantly certain that he had dismissed her from his mind as he boarded the train. He was whistling. Whistling was his “tell”. Long ago he’d criticized her “bad” poker face, that American refusal to create a social personality – calling out her “giveaways” of furrowed brow and trembling lip. Because he positioned himself as the expert it hadn’t seemed appropriate to explain to him that he had “tells” of his own – an overly rigid “poker face” for example! Only used while playing poker! And the whistling. That was worse. It meant he was going hunting. And looking forward to it.
Having Ian gone was a relief in at least one way – no regular meals. Much easier to diet — “slimming” the Brits called it. Ian loved fried breakfasts, relished cheese, desired iced cakes, dreamed about “old-fashioned English teas” with the “top of the cream”, demanded a constant supply of sandwiches, sweeties and savories. He considered a castle owner entitled to nuts served with his port. It was dangerous (and expensive!) keeping up with him and Scarlet knew she daren’t try. She couldn’t eat any of it and lose this bulky baby weight. Since she couldn’t match him indulgence for indulgence she might as well make up her mind to monastic living.
Ian was a tall man, a big man, perhaps running a bit to fat these days, in the belly, in the chin, but to Scarlet’s loving eyes he was only that much more powerful and desirable now that his solid middle matched his massive shoulders.
The easiest things to give up were alcohol and meat: chocolate was the stumbling block. She treasured that cup of cocoa at bedtime too much to surrender it. Another American habit! She had been sleeping badly, listening to Nicholas cycling through his moods. She required comfort to confront these cooling nights.
The day after Ian left it snowed – the first snow she had seen in England, a country which had previously been uniformly cold, wet, dank and gray. This snow was white, full, American in its lushness. But who could she share it with?
The Royal Grenadier had no telephones in rooms, so she left messages that were never returned. Finally, after four days, a telegram.
“Good news. Home 22 6:15. Love, Ian”.
Scarlet sighed with relief. On the 23rd it would be six weeks since Nicholas’ birth. She had marked that calendar date with a rose.
Alysse Aallyn 
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