#Haiku: Marriage
Alone we perish
Jointly we’re immortal.
Heaven’s joy
Maximized
Tag: #Romance
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Embattled Love – the diaries of Alysse Aallyn
Train to NYC – Tues 16 Dec 80 – 10:05 am
First article about psychoanalysis (New Yorker) much better than second one. If only one had endless money & time! Think about Avril’s fear – that pain exhumed will rise up and annihilate us. Neglect PLUS fear of abandonment are Mom & Dad’s legacy!
So many unanswered questions. When Mom seemed not to hear us was she really in a trance or just pretending? Dissociative state from childhood abuse? Genevieve and I have discussed this – we were completely unable to get her attention. She seemed frozen. Didn’t even flicker. Where’d she go? She was raised in isolated conditions with no Mom, (not allowed to have friends over or bring them to her house.)
She was always “overwhelmed” and could alleviate her guilt by smothering Avril. She clings to Daddy like a lifebuoy, like she’s HIS child.
Telling his children we were going to be “poor” when we moved to Africa was probably a mistake. He just wanted to instill frugality but it was a bombshell in a child’s world and certainly not accurate. NOT told about Uncle Charles’ inheritance or Dad’s portfolio. In Brockton public school my experience with poverty was intimate & scary. That friend who slept on the floor, whose parents had beer but no furniture. It hurt physically, like hunger.
I dealt with it by sleepwalking & hypochondria about blindness & disease (not too paranoid in Africa.) Parents Victorian in their ability to refuse information. Avril’s isolation from the rest of us almost too painful to recall.
Dad sneered at and made fun of our schooling, friends, religion, parents. No system was “good” enough for us. He said news & history was lies & propaganda. TV & movies were crass manipulation and teachers were ignorant. You can’t just say that and then send kids back to school! No expertise allowed or acknowledged. Parents always mildly surprised when we got jobs.
I recall my religious longings quite clearly. First I thought ‘God’ was a dirty word because people acted so weird about it. Brockton had no Friends meeting and the Methodist Sunday School we attended a few times (Mom and Dad dropped us off, didn’t attend the church) was confusing and meaningless. When Mom read us the 23rd psalm, we jeered at it the way we’d been taught and she cried! Then of course Dad yelled at us!
Being unwillingly in “the vanguard” certainly feels like being an outcast! Don’t know how to help Avril’s depression – my badgering psychoanalytic/spiritual letters aren’t welcome. We were fated to follow the pattern of Dad’s growth, whatever that might be.
Last Thanksgiving when we played the game “psychiatrist”. Mom said the year she’d like to live over was the summer of 1958, cruising the Georgian Bay. The closest we got to perfect family happiness. A weirdly frozen unchangingness. Isolated from everyone! Produces an anguished Sisyphean yearning that’s with me still.
I did better with the loneliness. Avril fears to re-live it. Mom actually carries it around inside her like a dead baby!
My curiosity: what future did they envision for us? They acted so weird about basic mental health – “too bad you’re that way” instead of encouraging “good” choices. Because there was no good path? When we followed their with husbands, children, they didn’t react with any particular glee. Julio & Kent were run through the wringer and would state right now Mom and Dad loathed them.
Both my weddings were icy, much as I tried to rewrite the family. I think they worked out the personal animosities of their relationship over our quivering live bodies.
Dad’s insistence that the only college possible was Chevenix, the only belief system acceptable was Quakerism so weirdly rigid. We could never “discover” anything, it had already been discovered.
I think our efforts at crawling into adulthood were actively repulsed. We clocked in, admiring of them and their “success”, allowing things to be done for us. Behind the pain lies rage; both endlessly intensifying. Gen & I fought back – Avril & Merrill endlessly victimized.
Don’t want to see Ezra today, don’t feel I have anything new to talk about. I could discuss his book – if I’d read it.
4 more days of school. Tolerable, definitely. Think I’ll start a conscious course of praying for Avril – see what happens.10:25 AM Thurs 18 Dec 80
Should be correcting papers but can’t face it yet. Looking forward to a breather from school. Wish I could go to church every day but there’s nothing nearby. Hoping it will be different when I go to Fordham. Paulist church too big – I liked Church of the Resurrection on E 77th.
Pretending to look at the floating countryside I eavesdrop on conversations behind me – art dealers: “Are you ever asked about your credentials?” Answer, “No, never. They only ask about credentials when you’re applying for low-paying jobs.”
Christmas shapes up interestingly. Caroling in Haverford Sun, Christmas eve with the Brintons till 4, then dinner with Louise. Christmas Day with Lois. Avril 26th and Genevieve 27th. Douglas cocktail party 28th. Shawn Kobler to dinner sometime after that.NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS
- Get up earlier, go running with T
- Write in diary every day – match flow of life to flow of thought.
- Go to church oftener
Christmas Day, noon – 80
An extravagant morning of love with my honey brings me out of the depression I’ve had since Mon. Came back from an awful day of school to hear about Toss’s interview with his father’s lawyer friend – no dice. T comes from the wrong law school, nobody’s hiring. They won’t even hire from Temple – they recruit at “premier” schools in junior year. T. feels certain he wants to start out soloing. I’m scared of the insecurity but I’m not pregnant and we have no rent – it’s the perfect time. Then T said he wanted to buy a word processor which we fought about for the rest of the night with T becoming so angry he almost strangled me. Nightmare visions of my first marriage kept floating in front of my eyes.Capital can only be spent on state of the art equipment to impress everyone – then we sit back and wait for the money to roll in. Which it never does. Why not rent a word processor?
He plans to open his office in his mother’s house. I think we ought to wait till he has some business first. I offered to help. “No, Alysse,” he said coldly, “I’m not going into law partnership with you.” Whew!
He pointed out the “thousands” we’re losing because I’m going to school, not working – dirty pool! Took it back later. If Mom & Dad weren’t paying for school HOW would I justify it to myself?
He says that makes him feel like shit – i.e he wishes I was POORER. I said he really needs to settle something with Lois about the rent – nothing’s formalized. If the plan is free-lancing and risk, she’s an investor in his future. God, to have $8,000 a year of my own it seems so MINGY. Why can’t I bring that in from writing? Why do I always end up in these trackless wastes?
10:15 AM Fri Dec 26 – 80
Excellent Christmas. Part of what made it so good was limited time with everyone except Lois! Wednesday spent one hour with Brintons, one hour with Lois! Then a long scary ride home with a blowout – but it didn’t happen on the ice and Toss was able to change it in record time.
Yesterday at Brandywine with Lois 3:30-7:30 then again 10-11:30. (A bit much.) Intervening time helping Granma in Haverford put up tree & exchange gifts. T was a perfect love, a divine angel. Much cleaning of the house now to get ready for Avril.12:45 AM 30 Dec 80 – Tuesday
Shouldn’t be joyous about my vacation’s end but I am eager for 81!
Read Mary Hoxie Jones’ Mosaic of the Sun with a curled lip. Reminds me of Eliz Gray Vining – holier than thou. I think Christians should be spiritually barefoot – ready to shed baggage – test the rope themselves instead of whining about Unwashed Youths and Angry Blacks. Such authorities on other people’s “place”!
Turned to Wm Pitt Root’s The Storm – excellent, a born poet but heavy going – reading him too fast would give you the bends.
Now into Emily Dickinson thank GOD. What a joy. You can read her at any pace you choose – she’s available at every level. Her organization is so original, wouldn’t translate at all. What did V. Woolf think? Should have liked & claimed her.
This burst is result of trying to prepare definitive vol of my own stuff. Sickened by my publications – 25 in 5 years!New Year’s Eve 1980
Tonight incomplete without “last entry.” Last time I tried to write T pulled me away and made love to me.
This holiday would be unalloyed happiness if it weren’t for the night of the 26th when I drank too much Jack Daniels and threw up. Stupid. Thought I was past that! Kept Avril & T from going to the film we’d planned. But we’ll see it tonight. Somehow makes it less shameful. Glorious private evening – Convict’s Last Meal of roast beef, potatoes au gratin, chestnuts, peas, salad, champagne, coconut custard pie.
2nd bottle champagne after film if we have stamina.1 Jan 81
Resolution; keep better track of my life in this diary but wish I had a better life to keep track of. Particularly grim holidays while Lois repeatedly attacked Ricardo in front of everyone – people afraid to intervene because she’ll attack THEM (my ideas were called “foolish” and “romantic.”) I tried teasing her by accusing her of “escort beating” while Ricardo murmurs from the corner of the room “I forgive her – She’s been so hurt.”
Guess what? Lois has no sense of humor. This is my landlady. She wants to rent the Little House at highest dollar – since that’s where our washer/dryer is we need a washer/dryer here.
No.
Just no.
She’s a weird one. When I suggested taking down a mirror so blotchy you can’t see yourself in it (it needs to be resilvered) she burst into tears and Toss attacked ME. She said she was willing however to rebind the first editions – I had to point out that destroys their value!
So there’s nothing I can say. My job is to clean (and then be criticized for it.) Toss has taken over cleaning the silver because I can’t be bothered to do it “properly”.
To NYC for preview of Frankenstein – awful – we missed dinner because our train stalled in snow. Playwright overly wedded to novel – death after ludicrous death – not even rescued by special effects. Off to empty little bar Vintages for late supper ruined by Seth who teases Toss mercilessly. It’s the apparent goal of this family to get a scapegoat and ride them to death. Starting to see why Sutton got the hell out – who would stick around for this abuse?
Ricardo, it seems. And Lois doesn’t respect him one bit for it.
Boring New Year’s Eve party in Merion – I had high hopes (they were all psychiatrists) but all they talked about was heating bills.
Got rid of Seth & Susie 4 pm – pizza and wine dinner – delicious lovemaking. Read The Poet – most poems shockingly bad – but there was one poet I liked – Katherine Hanley – so I wrote her a fan letter.
On the good side: almost finished Pinch of Death. T. is my soul – so good & calm & not provoked at all by Seth who raged against Lois. Ugh. Exams next week.
Bored to shriek point by Trent’s Last Case.2 Jan 81
One final entry waiting for Sue & Seth to come so we can all catch the 4:25 to NYC.Thinking about male violence. Interesting that Toss doesn’t “realize” he threatens me physically. He says I must know he’d never hit me but when he’s angry he breaks things or grabs me by the throat. I point out I don’t do that! But most men regard women’s statement that they are continuously reminded of the threat of male violence as feminist cant!4 Jan 81
Weather so cold it’s hard to breathe. Toss’s Reed roommate to dinner – watched Murder Once Removed over chestnuts roasted in the hibachi & 2 bots white wine. Struggling with Life & Letters of John Galsworthy.5 Jan 81
To Princeton to do laundry. Bought life of Dorothy Kilgallen and have been glued to it all day. Wretched woman. Hypnotic erosion of all her values.
Toss confides out checking acct is down to $200. Complete refusal to dislodge capital. Fortunately, I’m expecting $120 this week. NJ Bar prep starts 12th – not soon enough for me.6 Jan 81
Taught my class for the last time. I hate review – it’s hell. Sweating so hard I was afraid to lift my arms. Maria asked good questions – James said he didn’t know anything about writing before – now he does.
Had to rush to the Whitney to meet Toss & Sutton. Met Sutton’s new flame, widow Pansy Burke – seems nice. She does drop a lot of names.
Sutton dislikes Hopper. Weird! I feel it’s because Hopper is not romantic enough for him. We had an uproarious dinner at The Palms – nothing “mignon” about my filet – it weighed at least 11 lbs. Wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t eat it. Then brandy at brother Dom’s.
Get into Princeton 3 AM and our car won’t start. Wrecker (“Mother’s Recovery”) comes at 3:45.
Sleep till 1 PM then have to rush to catch the 3:05. Did a good story in Writer’s class. I am despised for my “upbeat ending” – feel mistaken for Aurelia Plath: “Keep a song in your heart.” Professor says there are NO happy endings in Great Literature? I say what about Shakespeare’s comedies. He says comedy is not drama by definition. I say what about Jane Austen? His face tells me what he thinks of HER.
On the train home I reflect on the mysteries of talent. At least 4 in class VERY talented – what will become of us? Possibly: nothing.
I have an idea for a feminist lit mag when I get home; tell T. If we want to BE published we must publish others. My title is “The Feathered Violin” his is “The Burning Bush.” Ha ha.8 JAN 81
I wake up early to study – making love luxuriously with T when he says “Could you tolerate coitus interruptus for once? I have to call my broker.”
I rush into class 20 mins late to administer my own exam. Kids not punished for that – what they ARE punished for is me being their teacher – graded by the one supervisor who dislikes me. She flunks all my doubtfuls and Maria who should have gotten through. Requesting retest for Maria.
Long argument over dinner about language requirements in schools. Toss says I am “hostile” to his ideas. I say women are supposed to empathize & sympathize and HE doesn’t do that to MY ideas so why not say what I really think? This evolves into criticism that I expect him to pay for my education. Why don’t I take out student loans. He can’t borrow on margin for me. I say I’m paying with family money (Capital!) feeling he really wants me to see that I’m not actually “making” money (incontestable.) Now he is rattling dishes angrily downstairs – his turn to wash them.13 JAN 81
Off to Phila where T will request variance so he can have law office in his mother’s house. Says this will make him feel better and I am all for it.
Lois shows off a property she is longing to develop into an Italianate palace for herself. Warns me to SAY NOTHING about it – she is always worried people are gossiping about her.
Came home to crisis – frozen water pipe dumps water into living room. T takes a steak knife to the hall ceiling to see where the backup is and finds it.
Afraid my class is right and my novel is hopeless and can never be shown to anyone: I wrote it “too fast” for it to be any good. 7 yrs bad, 3 months worse. Depression. -
Embattled Love – the diaries of Alysse Aallyn
1 Nov 80.
Toss so angry when I criticized his procrastination (he keeps saying he’s going to look for a job and not doing it) he pushed me into the bathtub! He denies that housework is humiliating but he doesn’t do it because he doesn’t want anyone to see him doing it. When I was having coffee in bed he pulled all the sheets off as if he was going to wash them but when I got home they were still on the floor. Guests to dinner – in the middle of the meal he would suddenly turn and glower at me hostilely.
Horrible day at school – EVERYONE IN THE CLASS got an F on their Prelude paper! We all had the “wrong” reaction because we had the nerve to react personally. I immediately bought my first-ever set of Cliff’s Notes. If there’s a “right” response I’m going to give it – don’t want another F. (We all get one more chance.)
K. Mansfield’s Letters unbearably sad. She would envy T’s & my life together so much.Sun 9 Nov 80
Thrashed it out and fell into each other’s arms. One must insist on justice but not too much. Love requires acceptance and we both are suffering. He envies me having someplace to go and I wish SOMEONE ELSE was going there! I have to give up this 50/50 concept – our definitions are just too different. If you want it done your way you really have to do it yourself. He applied for a job in Princeton – relief. Hope he gets it.
Still reeling from nightmarish election results. T. telling me I threw my vote (for Anderson) away.Vet Day 11 Nov 80
Toss out sleeping in his study. Poor man. He promised he wouldn’t but the next 2 weeks will be a nightmare for him so I hate waking him. The house is at last tidy which is something that’s frustrated me for a long time. I think I talked T into my plan to paint the wicker furniture dark blue. We can use my study as the baby’s room for the first year.
Just finished Sackville-West’s Challenge – the whole course of the Violet -Vita affair laid out there.15 Nov 80 – 4:30
Toss and Lois’ boyfriend Ricardo roofing the barn – but it’s getting dark and they’ll have to come in soon. My nerves are snapping with exciting revelations about my writing. Cut my teeth on other people’s writing – sharpened my tools – now it’s time to do my own thing. A bit frustrating that my Fiction is class so stuck in Stage 1.17 Nov 80
Bad times for us get worse and worser. Intense nostalgia for my dancing days washes over me – because I feel alienated from my own body! Part of the “psychology” of “giving it up” to get pregnant I know. Need to find a dance class for fatties.
T. and I had a terrible argument about child pornography – he says acts can be censored, ideas never. I totally disagree! One bad idea leads to another one – you have to cut SOME of them – bad social ones – off at the pass. They’re taking up brain space you could use to think other thoughts – it becomes a race to the bottom. He said I was trying to “control” him which surprised me. Doesn’t he try to change MY thinking? Aren’t we trying to influence each other?Fri. 21 Nov 80
Toss read my diary – said, “I want to save you from this ogre but it’s me.” I said I have to write what I think is happening and how I feel about it! He asks – why aren’t I controlling my own thoughts the way I recommend others do?
I say I’m trying. But we need to figure out what reality is first and if you’re a writer you REALLY need to. I found and read him some good parts where he’s the hero!
Really enjoying Fat is a Feminist Issue. I’ve definitely been eating my
anger!1 Dec 80
Easier holiday than usual for everyone except Avril. She’s gained weight during the scary move, then the frightening job search then the threatening days of a new job surrounded by traumatized women. “I don’t even want to THINK of anyone touching me now,” she says. I get it! I am contemplating swelling up to blimp size on purpose! Will my husband still love me? Will the honeymoon be over forever or will I be able to get back to normal? Stay tuned. I lend her Fat is a Feminist Issue which I think is a big help but she never likes those books as much as I do.
Thought of a good ending for Pinch of Death. Hate myself for compromising all the way along trying to get Fiction class to like me. Means this novella is not good enough to represent me.6 Dec 80 –
Lying in bed with a glass of vermouth while Toss in long underwear plays on the floor with Weasel. Soon he’ll take a shower – then delicious sex.
A wasted day – cooking, housework, letters – making social engagements for Xmas. T read my story Kisses in the Dark through and liked it. Made love last night after movie It’s My Turn (not very good) partially clothed on the living room floor! I prefer the bed!9:30 PM 8 Dec 80
Lying in bed with a beer – there is no wine – feeling very bad tempered. Fordham very dissatisfied with Chevenix transcript – they say they need some sort of “evaluation.” Why do I attend these hippie schools? Oh, the horror.
Rough time today Christmas shopping. Toss thinks it’s an insult to buy inexpensive presents – he wants to follow the rich people’s “codes” but on the other hand we’re broke! Conundrum. The bar exam’s the end of Feb. Can we make it till then?9 Dec 80
Glamorous new gilded diary – I was hoping for a new life to go with it but here are the same old problems. Last night I was so upset at the prospect of having to find someone to evaluate my work at Chevenix I cried. Feels like having to describe a rape in order to get “compensation” – how could that be worth it? What a horrible school that was. Toss very, very good with me, so tender & supportive.
We were supposed to get up early and go running – I woke at 7 still with the headache I’d had the night before – realized that in my crowded life I’m crowded to the wall – something has to give. Won’t even try to grade those papers today – maybe not go in tomorrow. Finish up the Seiden paper as good as I can do it.
9 Am phone call from Lois – Aunt Henrietta died in her sleep, John Lennon shot by a crazy. If he’d stayed in London where it’s harder to get a “warm gun” – oh well.
Toss & I went running – lost Weasel dog – called & called – came home to find her cowering. Me furious. Run ruined. Gotta dress & go.9:05 PM Another bad, frighteningly depressing day. Being necessarily humbled, I suppose. I am as sick with fear over this Shelley paper as if I were a 15 yr old about to be tested in math by Master Don Byerly.
Read Prometheus Unbound when I got home, glanced through criticism, had a bath, “treated” myself to Monica Dickens’ Winds of Heaven. The shrieking blasts of anguish through that book doing nothing for me, however. The point of Dickens’ books – God hardening us. Prophetic case on 60 mins.
Should reason myself out of this depression. Happy memories of Washington, sitting in my garden reading Bloomsbury Portraits, lolling in restaurants over wine, no bills due. Bad conjunction with Ezra giving me bad news about Kisses and this awful Shelley paper. (Charlene wrote a good one but it mentioned God and Seiden gave her an F.) I take my F with all the equanimity I can muster. Long break upcoming – maybe finish Pinch for Ezra’s inspection.
What I hate most about depression is being depressed. The physical condition. Worry it’s hurting Toss (who has more reason to be depressed than me.) Give it up to God. Throw it at Her like a curveball.15 Dec 80 2:30 PM
Living with Toss kills my diary dead. I use it as a steam valve. The only things I can’t discuss with Toss are my fears about him! The result; it seriously distorts our life together. Decided to forget “stream of consciousness” and try Page A Day (I really need 2 pages) so bought a beautiful white leather one I can’t wait to attack. Full of horoscopes, religious holidays, full moons.
But now in the 16 days remaining I glut myself of Complaints & Fears.
I really don’t know what’s the matter with Toss. (I’m sure he’d say, “Marriage”.”) He talks endlessly of wanting a job but takes no steps whatever. (Says he only has Jan to look, Feb he needs to study.) Look back on my times of similar paralysis – mainly 1973 – every step an effort. I blamed PLUMLY. All the “assumptions” of my life completely unacceptable. Bound hand and foot by speechlessness – needing new definitions of world & self.
In Toss’s case can’t be that – he was “successful” before me – and it’s gone on too long for mere indecision. I think it’s an overwhelming fear of rejection – something I can sympathize with (although his chances of success are 1000 times mine.) This AM he was in a bad mood because of sleeping till 11:15. It’s against my nature to push, shove & nag, I just won’t do it.
Saturday we made an agreement – I would clean the kitchen, he would vacuum. He didn’t get to it till Sunday! I had to remind him about rest of the house. He seemed surprised but cracked down & did excellent job. I think it’s critical we share housework but his non-violent non-cooperation tough to get around. He thinks a big effort once every 2 weeks should cover it.
My slightest comments become part of his “mythology” so I guess I’m handling this badly. Maybe I should assign tasks. I am cooling off on the idea of him having his own law firm. He really needs to work for someone else. I like the idea of having our own press or buying a small newspaper. He’d be wonderful at that.11:45 PM – Finished Waugh’s Letters. Very instructive – a necessary corrective to the impression one gets elsewhere. His loneliness, fear of poverty and modernism are sad enough – but not so tragic (TO HIM) as people thinking him a “bore”. That was the revelation from which he never recovered. (He WAS a bore because of the drinking. His solution? Drink more!)
Always a mistake to surrender one’s responsibility. (Only possible result: alienation.) Inevitable that Waugh’s identification with Catholic injunction against birth control would lead exactly where it did – unbridgeable distance from wife. (They lived in separate houses so he wasn’t bothered by kids’noise.)
Half read, half skipped Wills’ Chesterton. Very PhD thesis – no concession to reader. No frills.
Radio program about Christian employment agency got me thinking. I’ll write to Witness and see if they want my writing. Put my name in at the agency – just fishing. I’m sure there are more born-agains and Catholics looking for edit jobs who would fit in better but you never know. Toss’s friend Dave Swift might turn up something also.
Met Toss at the station at 8:40 we agreed we’re too ornery & snappish, must be more gentle in future.
A perfect night. Me in nightshirt, T in bathrobe – silver tray between us containing emptied manhattan & rob roy glasses. We share a stogie. Feels like Christmas!
Reconciled to not getting pregnant immediately. We talk of taking Sept trip to Ireland – how I’d love it! Discuss a year in Eng – me absorbing the place while T studies law. Time is closing in on us making it impossible to break free. I think about Chesterton’s statement that Christianity represents a crossroads in one’s life. Feeling free. -
Embattled Love – the diaries of Alysse Aallyn
2 Oct 80
Not pregnant, alas. Period came two weeks late but it came. Hard to keep up with this level of disappointment. BA crisis solved – I can keep teaching as long as I’m WORKING toward BA which is all right with me. Investigating Fordham discover they have a “Math for Poets” class that gets me out of their science requirement! That’s the school for me! Been having good meetings with students lately – finally getting through to some of them. If they pass the essay they can stay in the school – they’re on trial, just like me.5 Oct 80 –
Lois upset with me because I want to sell the piano – I even found a buyer. We could really use the space. But she says she doesn’t want to sell – it’s a boring unspecial upright piano. But a reminder whose house this is. She also told me not to get pregnant before we have health insurance! I smiled and said it seemed my body IS waiting! Did not enjoy the evening so overdrank. Not too badly – just enough to be annoyed at myself.
Finished Marge Bacons’ Lucretia Mott. A charmed, serene life.
More laundry, more writing.6 Oct 80 –
A good day – much accomplished. Ordered the most beautiful stationery in Princeton – had to pay extra for colored ink but it’s worth it.
Asked Toss over after-dinner cigars if he thinks this house will ever be his. He said he thought it was an excellent chance. After all, a farmer farms the land and the whole place desperately needs updating which his mother doesn’t want to pay for. I rhapsodized about adding a stone tower like the Brandywine Museum – he said we’re more likely to be cooking over a sterno pot in a field! Not very confident of his chances for passing the bar apparently! He needs a job because he’s driving me crazy.
He spent the afternoon rewiring the garage so it can be lit from the house. Anything rather than basic housework which he considers low on thrills. He doesn’t seem to understand how insulting that is to me! However, he’s fine with hiring a cleaning lady which I’ll do the minute I can afford it. Read Love & Work: The Crucial Balance. Distinguishes between “love” oriented people who want to love their work and task oriented people.Wed 8 Oct 80 –
All my emotional eggs are in one basket! Overwhelmed with love for Toss – don’t want anybody else. People come – and then they go – and I’m overjoyed to see the back of them. I’m not sure I even need friends. Disgusted by the world weariness of PD James’ Black Tower. I’ve given up on her. Pity. Everyone else likes her.Sat 10 Oct 80 – StormFall Farm
Absolutely exhausted. Next time Toss suggests coming here I’ll have to tell him my idea of rest & recuperation isn’t cleaning a 7 bedroom mansion! Toss is frenzied about the place. When I asked him who put him in charge he admits he just took over. He lashes himself constantly with imaginary humiliating words he assumes “everyone” is saying. Right now he’s yelling downstairs – some kind of breakthrough with the water system. I’m so tired I could just fall over.5:30 PM – Thurs 15 Oct – 80
Can still be thrown by a bad day. Got so absorbed counseling a student I was 15 mins late to class – now I’m hiding in the library calming myself down with Mary Daly’s Beyond God the Father. Very interesting but kind of naive. Don’t reject airplanes because you hate bombers! How would most men score on the Sermon on the Mount test? But I certainly understand the hopelessness of “institutionalizing” emotionality. Supernature gets us off the gerbil wheel. Too much gerbilling here. Don’t see how I can handle more than a year of this place.
At least T & I see eye to eye about the housework. I got him to see everyone wants to do “executive” functions, no one wants to do grunt work so we have to share that out. An hour a day would be plenty!Fri 17 Oct 80 – On the train
Just finished May Sinclair’s 3 Sisters. Fascinating & beautiful feminist plot. Can’t think why she’s so forgotten – probably because she didn’t make a fuss of herself.
Managed to forget a teacher’s meeting this AM – another sign I’m trying to fit the round peg of my life into that square hole.20 Oct 80
Staying home with an awful cold finishing Prelude so I can write my Wordsworth paper. Type tomorrow AM.
Difficult weekend with friends. Don’t know how to handle Toss’s anger in front of other people. Friday night was his night to cook – he made a wonderful boeuf bourguignon. But on my night (Sat) he was so interfering I just let him do it. He’s moved everything around in the kitchen so I can’t find anything – embarrassing.
He seems to be reproducing his mother’s ploys and tensions. Wish he had a little more of his laid-back father in him!
Read Jean Rhys’ Quartet and Smile, Please. What a writer! Such purity! I am really envious. Don’t agree she’s beyond self-pity however – the books pulsate with it. What a pity respect & love aren’t joined in the male as they are in the female.
Now reading Janeway’s Powers of the Weak. There’s a chapter missing! Interpersonal power politics between husband and wife!
Avril called tonight to say she got the Maine job – (domestic abuse shelter) $11,000 the first year! Bravo! Avril wants to open a bar in Hallowell called “So’s The Governor’s Sister.” Funny.22 Oct 80 – Train
Creature from the Black Lagoon discussed in Eng class. I was too stupid to contribute. Brent criticized my story Travel Fever – bad ending – (fair enough) but he also said he was surprised at the cruelty in the family! (Katrina the scapegoat.) This from a man who admires Flannery O’Connor. Better off working on novel and NOT short stories. Don’t think I have the art.26 Oct 80
Horrible fight with Toss began with my criticism of his old newspaper and rusty tobacco tin collections – do we really have to save all this moldering junk? He blames me for the “bad move” from KY in which he lost so much stuff. But I moved, too. (TWICE.)
He also had the nerve to say we “live like slobs” when he was supposed to clean the living room 2 days ago. (He’s doing it now.)6:30 PM – He came upstairs and apologized – very sweetly. Lovingly, courageously and open-heartedly. So we did go for walk – gathering branches & berries to decorate house. Saw a beautiful dead bird with a black ruff around its neck – feathers green and black. Blissfully happy reading Rose Macaulay’s Letters. News that Commonweal will publish my poem Life of the Virgin!
30 Oct 80
Very interesting discussion with Toss – he cooked a fabulous leg of lamb (but still refuses to vacuum.) He said Henriette Wyeth not worth the ink she’s getting for her show – I said art is really lacking in feminine emotion (Rothko Pollock & de Kooning masculinity reduction ad absurdum) and a woman painter raised in a family of male painters is a “test” case. What’s the missing element? Supernaturalism! Since we borrow our bodies from earth our souls are our only true individuality. -
Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn
Chapter 33. Miss Austen Entertains
There followed the happiest, most relaxed afternoon Scarlet could recall since – well, girlhood!
With the baby in a shawl-sling they explored Jane’s old house in the company of a large, friendly group of Japanese tourists all oohing and ahing and picture-taking.
“I didn’t know she was only forty-one when she died,” said Scarlet, feeling sadder than she’d felt since her own separation, “She seemed so mature.”
“Luckily, she left sufficient books to delight us,” said Pom. “Not just tantalizing glimpses, the way it is with most artists who died young.”
“I think you’re agreeing with me,” said Scarlet.
“I suppose I am. She seemed fully formed.”
They gazed in awe at Jane’s “writing table,” a small, round, unremarkable piece of wooden furniture.
“Looks uncomfortable,” commented Scarlet. “Where would she put the finished pages?”
“She must have broken each novel down into small, manageable bits,” Pom suggested. “Just the opposite of the way I work, as you have seen. I like to mess up every part of the studio, as well as the canvas.”
Scarlet, who had always aspired to work at a beautiful desk, said, “I always end up doing my best writing on my lap. In the train, or a café, or somewhere.”
“Poets are lucky,” Pom said. “You can give yourself to inspiration. In my case it’s a hard, disgusting slog – usually for nothing. First you must commit to some physical piece of canvas – prime it and so forth. Too bad for me that I hate drawing, watercolor – nothing easy for the Bronfens.”
“I do wonder what I may be getting into in my new job.”
“The editing doesn’t sound as difficult to me as the old-lady wrangling.”
“That’s just what my husband said.”
Pom sniffed. “Well I certainly don’t want to be like HIM.”
“You’ll meet my employer if she’s in residence. And I don’t know why she wouldn’t be.”
Pom was suitably impressed by her new home’s location, but Scarlet began to worry as she inserted her new key for the first time in the bright green front door. Esmé Hope Bottomley stood on the other side.
“I’m sorry,” gasped Scarlet, “I was hoping not to startle you. Should I have rung?”
“Not at all. I saw you drive up. I was just beginning to think I’d imagined you – a stitch in time, as they say, so long desired.”
“Allow me to present Mr. Pomeroy Bronfen,” said Scarlet, “A neighbor who offered to help. He’s a painter.”
“I’m accustomed to wrestling vast canvases upstairs, so I’d hoped I could be of moving assistance,” said Pom, as he took Miss Bottomley’s hand.
“Any extra pair of willing. manly arms is always welcome at our vast estate,” said Miss Bottomley, blushing like a girl. Handsome Pom was having his effect. “Scarlet – may I call you Scarlet? will show you round.”
“You’re a lucky girl,” he commented appreciatively as he helped her move her trunks to the upper floor.
“I do seem to fall on my feet,” Scarlet agreed. But she warned, “Remember, it’s just for three months. A try-out for us both.”
Her few items were soon moved in. Miss Bottomley had prepared tea downstairs, offering a carefully segmented orange and a sadly stale wholemeal loaf.
“Thank you,” Scarlet sighed as they sat down, “This is very welcome. It reminds me I’ll need to get to the grocer’s.”
“And you do have a nice big car,” said Pom. “If Miss Bottomley needs anything.”
Miss Bottomley positively flirted with him. “Scarlet is fortunate to have such uncommonly attractive errand boy, Mr. Bronfen,” she said.
“I am an errand man,” insisted Pom. “And please call me Pom.”
It turned out that Miss Bottomley had her small weekly allotment of groceries delivered by Sawditch & Sawditch – her bacon, apples, oranges and cheese barely took up one drawer of the vast refrigerator. She offered to “watch” Nick, napping peacefully in his carrycot.
“Simply rock him if he wakes up,” Scarlet suggested. And when she was alone with Pom remarked,
“I think we must buy some fresh vegetables. I worry Miss Bottomley isn’t getting her nutrients.”
Pom’s fond comment sounded indulgent rather than censorious, as it would have been had Ian phrased it. “More Americanisms. I must say I like it. Too many old people subsist on spam and tinned peaches.”
“And that’s only the most fortunate,” said Scarlet. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”
When he insisted on taking the wheel even although the grocers were right around the corner Scarlet teased, “Why Mr. Bronfen, how very American you are becoming.” -
Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn
Chapter 31. Paradigm Shift
Scarlet and Nicholas drove Ian to the station. Scarlet felt certain her determined plan to shake off the dust of this country house and leave him forever must shimmer on her in an unmistakable miasma but he seemed irritatingly smug, as if any plans of hers were unimportant and risible, no concern of his and must inevitably go awry. It was all she could do to prevent revealing the boiling anger which was probably his real goal but she somehow managed it and was rewarded with a patronizing kiss and a wink to all the other business commuters as if to say, “We’re well out of these teacup tempests, blokes!”
She stopped at the garage to top the tank with petrol. What pleasure it gave her to see Candi’s “gift” hanging in the window, slightly to the left of the neon Pirelli sign. She chuckled so loudly that Frankie commented, “You’re in a good mood today.”
Scarlet responded, “You know, I really am.”
A few more items packed in Nicholas’ suitcase and her own, a change, a wash, a feeding for Nicholas and then she was ready to go. She packed his bassinet, the book boxes, the trunk – she left his crib. She left all her dishes, taking only the ancient butter molds India had sent to bless her marriage. Seemed like they had been unsuccessful. And they were off.
At the gate, she almost struck another car – Pom’s aging Dorset. He jumped out, whistling as he saw her load.
“Looks like the French are leaving Moscow,” was his comment. Tears sprang to Scarlet’s eyes. This meeting was something she hadn’t reckoned on and it felt emotionally loaded.
“I’ve got a job,” she said sniffed, despising herself.
“And you’re driving up to town?” He cast his eyes over the situation and she could see him summing up her dilemma in his head. Accurately, she had no doubt.
“Well, this is wonderful luck for me,” he said, falsely, Scarlet felt certain. “I need a ride up to town and it looks like you could do with an extra pair of hands at the other end.”
Scarlet gulped, unable to speak.
“I’ll even do the driving,” he offered. “Come on, what do you say? Less worry on the roundabouts.”
English roundabouts – everyone driving with demented entitlement – were particularly nasty.
“It’s that you all persist in driving on the wrong side of the road,” she laughed, hearing the tears in her own voice.
‘It’s not the only thing we do wrong, either,” he said. “Meet me at the garage?”
Following his car gave her time to collect herself. Pom gave some brief orders to Frankie and slipped him a pound note. They looked cozily complicit. She was re-positioning Nicholas’ carrycot and saw the whole thing.
“What was that about?”
“He won’t mention that you gave me a ride. We don’t want the wrong people drawing the wrong conclusions.”
“That we don’t,” she agreed. She wondered, where was Ian’s detective now? Hiding behind one of these lace-curtained windows? Concealed behind a hedge? Should she warn Pom that he might be on camera?
“Don’t you have any luggage?”
He waved the open basket of shortbreads and jams he was carrying. “You don’t call this luggage?”
“I certainly don’t.” She sat in the passenger seat as he assumed the controls.
“Well, you’re right. I have plenty of clothes at my flat. This is my formal and very inadequate apology for my not telling you that nasty old house has broken up every marriage it ever got its misbegotten claws into. I wonder you don’t sue me.”
Scarlet burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, “I would have rather – This isn’t your burden.”
He touched her hand briefly. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends boo-hoo in front of friends. You’ll see plenty of my sniffles and wails when I’m turned down for the Art Moderne Juried Show.”
“It’s definitely your turn,” she laughed.
“Didn’t I sob and shriek throughout Rear Window? Because that’s my memory.”
“You did NOT.” There was something so amusing about this man. He always reliably boosted her spirits.
“You didn’t notice in the dark. I assumed you didn’t care.”
“What on earth about Rear Window would make anyone sob?”
His face turned serious.
“Isn’t it the story of a poor crippled man – one who asserts some pretense of professionalism, even artistry I should note – looking on at life, unable to participate? That’s me.”
“That’s you? Impossible! Explain.” She hastened to add, “Unless you don’t want to.”
“Certainly, I want to. I brought it up, buddy. Pal. Whatever it is you Americans say. How long do you think I had to loiter around your gate looking for an opportunity to insert myself into your family drama?”
She was utterly nonplussed. He MUST be joking. “I don’t know – how long did you?”
“Long enough so that here I am. Ready to confess my horrible secrets. I guarantee they more than equal yours.”
“Dubious.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He shifted as smoothly from comedy to seriousness as he shifted automotive gears.
“Spill.”
He drove in silence for a moment and she didn’t interrupt his thoughts. Finally, he said, “You must wonder why I’ve never married.”
“My husband said you were a poofter.”
“His type would.” He ground his jaw, then said, “I suppose now you’ll defend him?”
“I’ll never defend him again. I’d like to think his awfulness can no longer surprise me.”
“All right, I’ll tackle his defense. I mean, who can blame him? We inveterate bachelors get this a lot. Add a British public school education and it’s really a wonder that I’m not as queer as a jellied eel. But no. The truth is I conducted a thirteen-year affair – thirteen sad, wasted years – with a woman who was married to someone else.”
When he fell silent, she prompted, “And then?”
“And then her husband died and she married another bloke. It was – the biggest shock to me. I can’t describe.”
“A paradigm shift.”
“Exactly.”
“You didn’t know about – the other fellow?”
“I don’t think he was part of the previous picture. He’s actually a very upright Catholic peer. I doubt he’d have sprung for matrimony if he knew about me. Certainly, he would never have even approached her if she hadn’t been a widow.”
“Sounds like you could have sunk her if you’d wanted to.”
“Could I?” He considered. “That didn’t occur to me. After I saw how she really was – after I had my re-visioning – I really wanted nothing further to do with her. After that, I was too absorbed in my self-hatred to tackle anybody else.” She thought of the sudden change from impressionistic color to black and white rage revealed in his paintings.
“Why hate yourself just because she was using you? I don’t waste my time hating myself for not being more like Candi. I pity her, actually. My husband called her his “bit of fluff” and insisted she was completely unimportant and he felt nothing for her. I doubt THAT would make any woman proud.”
“Possibly your inner strength is the reason I admire you. Add that to your deep intellect and your outstanding beauty and anyone can see why I cling.”
She refused to allow his seductive teasing to change the subject. The more the conversation shifted to her, the less she would find out about him.
“It’s all very Branwell Brontë,” she said finally. “The exact same thing happened to him.”
“Did it? How unflattering. I seem to recollect he was a falling-down drunk and an epic family disappointment. Luckily I have no family left to disappoint.”
“He let it destroy him. As you’re so obviously not doing.”
He looked at her with an expression of immeasurable sadness. “Yet here I am inserting myself into yet another marriage. Like a reflex.”
“I would have said you’ve inserted yourself into a divorce.”
His eyes seemed to plead a question.
“Are you so certain?”
She felt a bit shocked by his naked emotion. “Let me explain.” He would never understand if she didn’t. “My husband just told me that all men have girlfriends. Furthermore, he plans to always HAVE girlfriends. He doesn’t care what I do! He’ll pretend otherwise, if I insist. He certainly feels free to lie to everyone involved because, apparently “everyone” does it.”
“All men? Or just English men?”
“Oh, he’s very scathing about Americans, tied to their mommies and wives. Let’s say he claims all men who are really men have as many girlfriends as they possibly can. He says adultery strengthens marriage.”
“How Victorian.”
“Is it?”
“Well, the Victorians argued that the only way to have good girls is to have bad girls too.”
“The Victorians?” Scarlet laughed. “Ian told me to read Lawrence.”
“D.H. or T.E.? What dreadful taste he has.”
“He told me I can lump it or leave it. So, I’m leaving it. I’ve –“re-visioned” him. And I don’t want what I see.”
“He’s aware you’re leaving him?”
“Not yet.” She chewed her lip, uncertain what to reveal. Yet having someone in her corner – especially after the disappointment of India’s letter – was too alluring. Necessary, in fact. Habit-forming, even.
“You know that solicitor you sent me to –“
“Bob Thomas?”
“Actually, his name is Pelham D’Arcy – he’s the matrimonial guy with the same firm. Anyway, I think he’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad.”
“The deck’s stacked against me as a mother so I have to be careful. Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence.”
“They couldn’t get it out of me under torture.” He squeezed her hand again.
“I hope that’s true. I mean, I don’t actually hope you’re tortured –“
“They could hardly do anything to me I haven’t already done to myself.”
“Well, stop it. We need clear heads.”
“Clearing, clearing…” He expertly negotiated a roundabout. “Cleared. Continue.”
“Ian had us followed.”
As she had foreseen, he couldn’t take it in.
“He had US followed? But there is no us!”
“I saw photos of our day – and night – in London. Complete with me going into your flat. Pelham D’Arcy said it can’t continue.”
“Oh, my God!” He was stunned. And silent.
After awhile, she said, “For all I know the detective is still after us.”
Pom checked his rearview. “I’ll try to see if any of these cars are following. Mind if I take a circuitous route?”
“Yes,” she said frankly. “I do mind. I would prefer that you help me unpack – in the full blaze of afternoon, before the eyes of anyone who cares to know – then we part company, and I don’t go to your flat and we have no more dates, we should be all right. Then I can insist we are only friends. If it comes to that. Do YOU mind? You can see I’m taking more advantage of you than you could ever take of me.”
“I’m honored to be your pack mule,” said Pom, “As well as your buddy and your friend. However long it takes.”
She hoped she could ignore this last remark.
“It’s not all bad news,” she informed him in a welcome change of subject. “I’ve gotten a wonderful job that comes with a new place to live.”
“The Kensal Green lady?”
“No. That was the BBC realtor, who it seems works only for my husband. My new job came through a newspaper advertisement – some wonderful eighty-eight year old author wants help updating her work but nobody who applied for the job had ever heard of her. Except me.”
He gasped appreciatively. “You were a shoo-in!”
“I was!”
“Who is she?”
“Esmé Hope Bottomley.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have gotten the job. Is she English?”
“She is, and the funny part is – I’ve only just discovered her! She was recommended to my by – of all people – Candi’s husband!”
“Candi has a husband?”
“Sad to say.”
“What a mess.” He shook his head. “Miss Bottomley expects you to live-in?”
“She’s all alone in the most fabulous house she just inherited. I get the whole second floor – I guess the Brits call it the “first floor”. She never goes upstairs.”
“And that’s the Norfolk Crescent address?” He whistled. “Pricey. My only concern would be you’ll end up caring for a very infirm old lady.”
“I don’t think so,” said Scarlet. “She’s got tons of cash, and besides, it’s only three months to start with. Anyway, I told Ian all that – he would know I’m taking Nicholas if he thought about it – but I didn’t make a point of it. He seems to think I’ll fold.
But I’ll never give in to this philosophy that men get mistresses and women get houses – as a booby prize, presumably. My theory is, of course I get Nicholas who’s only seven weeks old. My solicitor wants me to stop communicating with Ian. He says he’ll do all that dirty work.“
“Can you resist monitoring Ian and telling him off?”
“I hope so. I don’t want to know what he’s up to and I don’t want to hear his lies. Silence suits me perfectly. The solicitor did say you and I must be careful with our friendship.”
“I only hope you know what you’re doing.”
She felt a flicker of panic.
Another subject change was called for.
“Tell me the truth. Do all men have girlfriends?”
“I’d say it’s time somebody explains to you the difference between dogs and wolves.”
“One’s tame and the other’s wild. I know that much.”
“That’s not it. The interesting part is, the wild ones are monogamous and the tame ones – aren’t.”
“Wolves are monogamous? I guess I didn’t know.”
“It’s a well-kept secret.”
“Very well-kept. American girls call predatory men “wolves”.
“See how deceptive language can be?”
“Truly. One needs a native guide.”
“Fortunately, you have one.” He gave her a meaning look. She laughed.
“I think you’re saying that you’re a wolf? In the scientific sense, of course.”
“Well, I have been so far. I prefer loyalty over selfishness. In the long run, it’s better for the tribe.”
Nicholas muttered and sputtered. Pom turned off on the Farnham exit. “Sounds like somebody’s ready for lunch. I think we all could use a bite.”
“Got an idea where we’re going?”
“I do. Used to be my favorite place but –“ he shook his head. “No blubbing, I promise. I haven’t been back in awhile.”
“You can blub all you want,” Scarlet said generously at which Nicholas’ muttering turned into outright crying.
“We’ll all blub together,” agreed Pom. -
Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn
Chapter 11. The Guests
Ian continued to surprise her. He stood looking down on her humorously, but distantly, as if he were visiting from somewhere else. He had a long smooth patter prepared about how he had occupied himself while in London: cultivating television executives, meeting the right people, offering services, making pitches, being…himself.
Scarlet found this naked pursuit of cash so repellant that she asked no questions, accepting it at face value. What else could she do? They needed money to live. She had agreed to live in this house, she had willingly added an extra mouth to feed. He was her husband, the father of her baby and she needed to accept and support his ideas. In aid of this charm offensive, Ian informed her that he had invited weekend guests.“Show off your accomplishments,” he oozed, “Let them see we’re a package deal.” To Scarlet it seemed strangely as if his sudden need of her hostessing shifted the power balance between them.
Scarlet wished he’d waited for Nicholas to recover from night-screaming colic before entertaining. She also knew he didn’t want her to become the kind of woman who talked endlessly about baby’s digestive and bowel complaints. Ian had planned a life above the muck and so far she had failed him. But muck was artist’s fertilizer! For the first time in her marriage she felt the need to learn negotiation; or at least some basic bargaining skills.
“If I can have some help with the food,” she requested. “I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen while you entertain the guests.”
He was smart enough to realize that it was his own insistence on keeping the dining room separate from the kitchen had let him in for this so he capitulated almost immediately.
“What kind of help?”
“Remember those dreamy trifles Pom served? They were made by Mrs. Ryquist over at the pub.”
“I like your cooking,” he complained, his argument weakened by the fact that this was the first she’d heard it. She pushed her advantage.
“I’ll be doing plenty of cooking. Let’s order fill-ins, say, a ham, some soup, a trifle and a cake for starters. Think how helpful that will be.”
Ian knew when he was beaten. “Whatever you want”.
David and Candianna Pourfoyle were the very couple to whom they’d sublet their tiny flat – Scarlet felt at first relieved when Ian mentioned their names. At least it was someone she knew!
“A practice run,” said Ian, “Polishing our routine before inviting The Big Guns.”The more Scarlet thought about this, the more unsettled she felt. She even had the paranoid thought: What if the subletting happenstance was planned behind her back and not, as she had assumed, random?
Was this sense of having undergone a radical sea-change what being a new young mother was all about? Scarlet shuddered at even trying to find her sea-legs in this new world when she felt so personally raw and physically overwhelmed.She had met the Pourfoyles only once it and they seemed so nice – he taught literature and she had some kind of art gallery job – a sublet was all they could afford. Newlyweds are foreigners to each other anyway and these two had been born in different countries. The similarities to Scarlet’s and Ian’s background only made them more simpatico.
David was younger than Candianna and Canadian – they’d actually met on an Atlantic crossing – she was from one of those Balkan countries perpetually at war and seemed in need of a safe harbor. David seemed like a sweet, gentle man ready to be a hero – in this case rescuing Candi from a dreadful marriage with a violent man. Candi had actually been married three times previously – Scarlet assumed that to women of Candi’s birth culture marriage was simply an escape.
“Candi” wasn’t even her real name – she had re-named herself but didn’t Americans love re-invention? Scarlet thought she could have picked a better name. But if English wasn’t your first language, wouldn’t you make just that type of error?
Eventually she discovered a way to look forward to the weekend, singing as she planned guest room drapes, cushions and bedcoverings. Deep plum crewel work on a rough, almost canvas backing – courtesy of Tatiana Designs, another little shop she had discovered in Oakhampton. She’d coveted everything there but she couldn’t afford the clothes – the furnishings were being sold off cheap so Tatiana could concentrate on fashion. “We sell direct to Montcalm Clothiers,” Tatiana had bragged.
This emporium seemed good place to guide Ian to when he was looking for a present. He had previously revealed a boring tendency to settle for ho-hum gifts like perfume and necklaces purchased at jewelry stalls. He couldn’t go wrong at Tatiana Designs and even Tatiana herself was interesting, although her Russian accent might be as fake as her Egyptian makeup. But why quibble with poseurs if they made life more fun? They were artists mastering their material.
Candi and David arrived on a Thursday night. They expressed satisfactory appreciation of the house, oohing and aahing at just the right moments and David, thankfully, was a non-smoking light drinker.
“You’re very brave, bringing children into the world, what with the bomb and all,” said Candi.
Scarlet, who smiled encouragingly, privately dismissed her as not very bright.
“They’re hard to avoid,” said Ian with unnecessary gloom.
“I’d love having kidlets someday,” David contributed. Poor David. There was something so pathetic about him. Why was Scarlet so certain he never would have kidlets, or really, much of anything at all? He was such a follower.
Scarlet waved a hand at the spiral staircase. “My study’s up there,” she said. An irresistible brag.
Candi became goggle-eyed. “I’d love to see it.”
“It’s not fit to be seen.” Truth was, it was just too private. But why did she feel so uncomfortable declaring it off-limits? Because hostesses were obligated to throw open all the doors and welcome anybody in? Scarlet shuddered at the thought of other people’s hands touching sheets of her half-baked ideas – those ideas would be blighted forever. She would never be able to get back to them. It was like people asking you to bathe in front of them. “Don’t mind us!”
“Oh, please,” said Candi and David took her arm restrainingly. Did it come from being foreign, this cluelessness? English as a seventh language?
“At least tell me the color scheme,” said Candi. “I’m psychic about colors.”
“Red and purple,” said Scarlet, suddenly deciding that she really quite disliked this woman. Who wouldn’t be repulsed by her strange trick of bugging out her eyes like a starving Pekingese? It was so corny, so fake, reminiscent of bad hypnotists and unpersuasive stage magic. Did men really fall for this kind of thing? And yet both David and Ian looked at her as a mongoose might gaze at a snake.
“Red for Scarlet,” said Candi. “How unexpected.” Perhaps she wasn’t clueless after all.
A dinner out, a dinner in, two breakfasts, one lunch and another at the station in Oakhampton – Scarlet had never realized how much trouble guests really were. Their small London flat had prevented them from ever having company.
Candi claimed to eat “nothing” yet she was a fount of complaints and requisitions: “China tea, never Indian,” “Can’t abide garlic”; “No tree nuts”; “Cucumbers don’t agree with me” – it would be easier to just show her the kitchen and tell her to forage. Scarlet refrained from pointing out that she must partake occasionally – you didn’t get substantial hips and breasts like those without tucking in. It did turn out that she was very fond of scones with Devonshire clotted cream. Starches and sweets! So that was the secret!
David at least ate heartily, behaving as if he was on a gastronomic vacation, and assisted with the washing up while Ian, who pretended to assist, regaled them with his stories. Candi watched him with overly shiny eyes. She must spruce up her makeup every twenty minutes, thought Scarlet.
The red wine vanished immediately; Scarlet had reason to be grateful for the Grüner Veltliner. She made a mental note to thank Pom again. He would never get any other benefit – Ian accepted all the credit and relished the opportunity to show off his knowledge of Austrian wine.
“I usually buy Traminer but this is drinkable,” he opined. It was all Scarlet could do not to roll her eyes. Fortunately, Candi picked up any and all conversational slack, talking endlessly about her gallery job. She passed around tickets and cards to multiple openings and receptions – painters – all male of course – who seemingly enjoyed picturing women as corpses, robots and birds of prey. Scarlet began to feel the pressure that had triggered some of Pom’s re-envisioning. Moving with the herd was deadly.
On their guests’ last night Scarlet was yawning and ready for bed at eight o’clock. With monumental effort, she held out till eight-thirty.
“I think I’ll feed Nick and turn in myself,” she suggested.
Candi said, “You must be very devoted to risk spoiling your figure.”
“And a lovely figure it is,” David toasted her “To the cook!”
None of it felt complimentary.
Would Ian EVER come to bed? She awoke at two o’clock with a sense of dread. He wasn’t there, and though his side of the comforter seemed disturbed she could have done that herself, tossing and turning while escaping The Dark Tower. At last she rose, donned a pink paisley wrap and drifted downstairs with the excuse of re-filling her hot water bottle.She could hear whispering but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. She took advantage of the time the kettle took to boil to wander from room to room and as she moved the whispering stopped. Could it be coming from the undercroft – the “crypt” in Pom’s parlance? But it was so cold and uncomfortable down there. If they were getting wine why didn’t they come back? And who required wine at breakfast? Maybe it was just the wind she was hearing.
But Nick’s cry was unmistakable – she filled her bottle and rushed to feed and change him before he woke the house. As if the house had ever been asleep!
Alysse Aallyn 