No! I Don't Want to Join a Book Club: Diary of a Sixtieth Year (4 page)

November 14

Now, as I start writing invitations to total strangers—Lucy gave me a guest list—I begin to feel slightly anxious. It’s bad enough giving a party oneself, but giving one for someone else—everything has to be immaculate. Was this, as my father used to ask, wise?

Nov 18

Came downstairs to find Maciej, my gorgeous Polish cleaner, sobbing his eyes out over the kitchen table. Turns out his pregnant girlfriend has run off with his best friend. I really love Maciej. He has fine features, like Chopin, and wonderful long hair tied in a ponytail—the only man I’ve ever seen who looks good with one. He’s not bad with a Hoover, either. Naturally, back in Poland he trained to be a biochemist or a brain surgeon or something, but can’t get a job here so is reduced to cleaning.

I put my arms round him and gave him a hug and made him some tea, and he smoked a cigarette and told me all about it, and then Michelle came in and he quickly pulled himself together and started wiping the surfaces.

December 1

Penny helped me shop for the party at Marks and Spencer, which was very nice of her since she’s not coming. She’s got to go to see her daughter, Lisa, who’s recovering from a broken love affair.

“Men!” said Penny, as we stared into the freezer section hoping to find a thousand frozen sausage rolls for under a tenner. As it was, we found only fourteen boxes of “Indian-style” cocktail snacks for some astronomical sum of money.

“We’d need about a hundred of those,” I said. “Too expensive.”

“Are we reduced to Iceland?”

“We are,” I said. “Anyway. Men! Poor Lisa. I’m planning to give them up.”

“I didn’t know you had any to give up,” said Penny. “Anyway, this boyfriend of Lisa’s, he was just so sweet! And then he says he’s frightened of commitment and gives her the boot. When am I ever going to have grandchildren?”

“Well, I asked Jack the other day when I might hear the patter of tiny feet, and he just said, rather tersely, that I should get a dog, and then I’d hear the patter of four tiny feet,” I told her.

Penny said: “I used to say to Lisa: ‘Wait till you’re married before you get pregnant,’ and then I said: ‘Wait till you’re in a stable relationship.’ And now, I say: ‘Oh, darling, why don’t you stop taking the pill and just have a few one-night stands?”’

December 2nd

It was a freezing cold day, but I dragged myself up to Harley Street to see the bunion man. A nice bloke—not the usual private consultant with a bow tie and a snotty voice and a bedside manner that oozes out of him like oil. He had a cockney accent and a practical manner, more like a builder than a medical man.

“Oooh, you’ve got a right one there,” he said, looking at my feet, in much the same way as a gardener might remark on spotting a fearful display of greenfly, or a plumber might declare on discovering a giant leak. It is, indeed, a “right one,” a huge, red, sore lump that makes it impossible to buy any shoes other than comfortable ones. Not that I’d want to buy uncomfortable ones, but now and again it would be nice to be able to slip into an Emma Hope or a Jimmy Choo without screaming.

“Inherited, you know,” he added, writing up his notes. “Anyone else in the family got one?”

“We all have bunions like this,” I said, not without some pride. “It’s known as the Sharp bunion. My mother, who had one, tried hard to prevent my developing one by shoving me into Start-rite shoes from an early age, and getting my feet X-rayed on those evil machines that you used to see in shoe shops before they realized that they were belting out radiation to all their customers. She even took me to see Dr. Scholl, forcing me to wear metal supports in my shoes for three years. But nothing made any difference.”

The bunion man scoffed. “Wouldn’t,” he said. “When would you like to come in?”

“Hang on a minute,” I said. I felt I was being rather oversold. “What does it entail?”

It turns out that these days you don’t have to have your leg in plaster for six weeks, which is a relief, and it is all done incredibly quickly under a local anaesthetic. Then your feet are shoved into rather weird shoes for a couple of weeks, then comfortable shoes for six, and then—“Manolo Blanket, here we come,” I interrupted cheerfully.

“Blahnik,” he said. “And there’s no pain; you’re walking within two hours.”

“Done,” I said.

It’s booked for January.

Oh dear. Is this wise?

December 3rd

The big day of the party. A gray Thursday afternoon, and I had pushed back all the chairs in my sitting room, sprayed it with something weird from Floris that someone had given me many Christmases back, put out the thinly sliced salami, shaken the crisps into bowls, distributed the trays of water biscuits covered with sour cream and salmon eggs, checked that the sparkly wine was cooling in the fridge, given the final touches to the flowers in the corners and polished the glasses. A thousand mini sausage rolls from Iceland were crackling in the oven.

Glasses polishing is very important as you get older. Jack’s late godfather lived with his wife in a grisly bungalow on a private estate by the Thames, and the big drawback to visiting them, in their old age, was the filth. Cat hairs everywhere. All the surfaces covered with stickiness. And those smeary wine glasses. Not just that, but they used miniature plastic footballs as an alternative to ice cubes and, in every one of the indentations of these pink and blue spheres, lay gray and greasy dirt.

As a result, I am scrupulous in the glasses department. (I’m told by Hughie that the older you get, the more important it is to be clean. New shirt twice a day, is his motto, and the tie must be checked hourly for stains. Bottoms of trousers also must be monitored in case they’ve brushed in the mud, and shoes must be polished every morning.)

There was a lovely expectant preparty feeling to the room. I closed the shutters, put on the lights, turned on a low piano boogie…sat down and felt those confused feelings, a mixture of excited anticipation and a sinking feeling, wondering why the hell I’d thought of arranging a party in the first place. I wouldn’t know anyone there, it was stupid of me, everyone would think I was pathetic, didn’t have any friends of my own, I would just be doing a skivvying job. Thank goodness Hughie was coming to help with the drinks pouring.

The phone kept ringing. One person asked nervously: “Could you tell me—is it
safe
to park near your house?” Clearly from the country.

The fake fire puttered in the grate. On the mantelpiece in a silver frame sat a picture of Jack and Chrissie—Chrissie looking stunning as ever, with long blond hair and rather a sultry expression, and Jack looking pale and tense, smoking, his eyes bright red dots like Satan, and wearing, of all things, a suit. It had been taken a year ago, at his grandmother’s memorial service in Ireland, on the cold, gray day when she was buried, amid lots of champagne, laughter and memories of her fey Irishness, her madness.

I had once gone round to her flat in Kensington and in the window frame was jammed a large cardboard sign, made from an old cornflakes packet. On it she had scrawled: “Who killed the owl in Avondale Park? Murder most foul. I know who killed the owl.” When I knocked, she shouted: “Who is it?” I said it was me, and she yelled: “Go away, you thief!”

The phone rang again. “What should we wear?” A bit late to ask that, I thought. I was wearing a very nice orange-and-green-spotted skirt from Hobbs, a black T-shirt from Shepherds Bush market and a piece of fifties costume jewelry belonging to my mother, and I looked rather mad and smart.

Outside, someone shouted “Fuck off!” into a mobile. I think it was a mobile. There was no answer. A dog started barking and a child started wailing. “Fucking cunt!” shouted someone else. “‘Oo you callin’ a fucking
cunt
?” The arguing voices faded down the street. “You said…” “I did not say…” “Fucking did…”

The phone rang again. It was Jack.

“Can you talk?” he asked. An odd question.

“Oh, hi, darling,” I said. “Actually, I’m just sitting here feeling like a total wally waiting for people to arrive for a party that I suddenly wish I weren’t giving. How are you?”

“Well, Mum,” he said. “I’ve got some news to tell you. Perhaps now’s not the best time.” I could hear excitement in his voice. I just couldn’t imagine what he was going to tell me. An article he’d written for
Psychology Today
had been accepted? He’d inherited a fortune from a distant relative of his dad?

“No, tell me now,” I said. “No one’s here yet.”

“Not even Hughie?”

“No, he’s late again.”

“Well. Chrissie’s pregnant.”

I could not believe my ears.

“What!”
I said, like an idiot.
“What!”

Then a huge feeling started to creep over me. Those words were like the splitting open of a dark rock. It was as if all my life the sky had been covered with thick, dark clouds and suddenly they’d parted to let a huge, dazzling shaft of hot sun pour through. I felt as if I had been drenched in happiness—no—more than that, as if I was being totally immersed and marinated in joy. It was a completely unfamiliar feeling. The carpet had been pulled from under my feet and had sent me cascading into a golden cavern, as if all the happiness that I had found it so difficult to garner throughout my whole life, had been waiting behind a door, which had suddenly opened, letting it burst out all at once.

“But don’t tell anyone,” he said, unaware of the transformation that was going on the other end of the phone, “because we have to keep quiet about it for three months till it’s OK. But we had to tell you. What do you think?”

Perhaps my silence had rather unnerved him. “I think…darling…I can’t speak,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. “I think it’s just…just
wonderful.
Oh, how
wonderful!
”

Just then, through the shutters, I saw the security light go on, and heard the bang of the gate. Someone was staring at the door outside, wondering whether to knock or ring. What a moment to have a party.

“Let’s talk later, darling,” I said. I stumbled, barely conscious with elation, toward the door and opened it to greet Hughie, who’d arrived with Lucy and her family. She was wearing a little black hat, with a sparkling pin in it, and a sparkling skirt. She looked very nervous and very happy as she came into the room. “Oh, Marie, how lovely!” she exclaimed. “What can we do? Doesn’t everything look
charming
!”

I just grinned back like someone on drugs.

Of course the party went beautifully, but I just couldn’t concentrate on anything anyone said. The problem was, I wanted to tell everyone, particularly Lucy, so sympathetic and herself already a grandmother. But I knew I could say nothing. I felt as if I were stoned. It was like the first time I ever smoked dope. My head seemed swollen with an indescribably intense feeling of—what? Intensity, is the only useless answer I can give. My whole body felt encased in cotton wool, and warmth. By the end of the party I thought I was going to burst.

Everyone had gone, and Hughie had stayed behind to help me fix some electrical fault, which had blacked the party out, luckily, at the very end. Realizing there was nothing we could do, we decided to leave it and he drove me to the restaurant where we were having supper with Marion and Tim.

“Well, that went well,” said Hughie. His car is all old and glamorous and leathery (he is pretty old and glamorous, too, actually, but not at all leathery), and I sank back in blissful silence. Finally I could hold myself back no longer.

“Hughie, I have a secret but I can’t tell anyone and it’s killing me. Will you promise not to repeat it to anyone, not even James?”

He promised, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Jack and Chrissie are pregnant!” I said.

“How marvelous!” he replied. “Congratulations! So you’ll be a grannie!”

“Grannie Sharp,” I said, trying the words out for the first time. “I think it’s what I’ve been hoping for all my life. It’s what I’ve always wanted to be when I grew up. Oh, I’m so happy!”

December 14th

Christmas is coming. Always a dodgy time for us singles. Chrissie and Jack are spending Christmas with Jack’s dad, David, which is sad but at least it means that I can get next Christmas with the new baby, so it’s worth sacrificing this Christmas. Michelle is going to her family in Paris, Penny’s going to Lisa’s, and Marion and Tim say they’re having an open-house Christmas “for all the lonely flotsam and jetsam who don’t have a family to go to.” Not sure I really want to be categorized as a bit of “lonely flotsam or jetsam,” sounding, as it does, rather scummy and washed-up, though it’s very nice of them. Anyway, I’m not going to be a lonely flotsam or jetsam because I’m going to go round to Hughie and James’s. So ner.

Dec 21

Got this round-robin letter with a Christmas card from an old school friend who lives in the country: