The Pillow Friend (21 page)

She had never told him that she was a poet, too, although she continued to write, usually early in the morning while he slept, and was producing a complete poem nearly every day. Each one she left as a love offering on his desk. Neither of them ever spoke of this.

She believed that she would be the exception, the one woman he could live with, but obviously it would take him some time to come around to this realization. In the meantime, she was determined not to be a drag on him in any way. It turned out to be surprisingly easy to tap into the black-market world of low-paying jobs, despite the soaring unemployment figures currently making headlines, and soon she was working as a cook-waitress at a cafe in South Harrow. She found a room to rent nearby, but spent little time in it. Now that she had a place of her own, the poet discovered that he wanted her as much as ever, and they spent every night together in his bed.

Two months passed, then three. She was still happy, although no longer writing. It might have been lack of time and energy—it was difficult, between her job and her lover, to ever get two consecutive hours to herself—but she felt the real reason lay deeper, that the well of creativity she had magically tapped into had run dry. Or maybe it was just that the need to write had gone. She didn't really regret it. Once she had wanted to be a great poet, but now she just wanted the poet to be her husband. She'd be legal then, she could give up the smell of stale fat frying that always clung to her clothes and hair and get a decent job, she could give up that poky furnished room in South Harrow and live honestly with her husband, maybe they would have a baby. . . .

One day after work as she let herself into his house she was aware of a charged atmosphere. The skin on her arms and back prickled. She thought she smelled something in the entrance hall, like a woman's perfume, but when she sniffed it was gone. She went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and found the kettle still warm from recent use. Yet he never drank tea. The last of a pot of coffee, well-stewed by now, still simmered away on the hot plate of his coffeemaker.

It was at that moment, sensing the recent presence of some possibly threatening stranger, that she realized the key ring was gone.

She clutched her left hand in her right, tightly, as if she'd cut it and had to staunch the flow of blood. She couldn't remember the last time she'd noticed it, but surely it had been there this morning?

More than three months, almost more than four now, since she'd first walked into this house, a stranger, and found the ring and put it on. She had never taken it off since, she was sure she hadn't taken it off, and it had always been a perfect fit, so how could she have lost it?

She began to search, frantically, crawling around on the kitchen floor, then rummaging through the cushions of the sofa and the easy chair in the lounge, aware even as she did so that she was more likely to have lost the ring at work. Maybe she had taken it off to wash her hands and left it beside the washroom sink.

She didn't find it, not that day and not ever, no matter where she searched. Her lover was no help. He said he hadn't noticed that she wore a ring. When, indignantly, she described it, he said yes, he remembered something like that, but she hadn't worn it for ages. He also denied that he'd had a visitor that day, gazing at her with his unbelievably guileless blue eyes, and she was afraid to insist. She had the sudden cold unwelcome thought, as he kissed her gently and told her not to worry, commented that she looked tired and perhaps should have an early night tonight, that he had fallen out of love with her.

She got up early the next morning and tried to write. It was the old, nearly forgotten struggle in the dark once again, and she knew, in the certainty of despair, that it would always be like this from now on, since she had lost the ring.

That evening he took her out to dinner at the Indian restaurant at the bottom of the hill. Over the naans and the curry he told her he needed to go away for a while, by himself. He thought he'd probably go to the Lake District, or to the Highlands of Scotland. He needed to do some walking and some thinking. The Muse hadn't been answering his call lately; he was in a rut. And while on the subject, he rather thought the two of them were in a rut as well; some of the magic had gone. A little time apart would be good for them. When he got back, they'd see how they felt. He'd phone her when he got back.

She clung to the fragile hope he offered, struggling to believe that when he got back all would be well, that all was not yet lost. He made love to her that night as one who performs a familiar task, his thoughts far away, yet she still tried to tell herself that it was as good between them as it had ever been.

The next morning she woke before he did, and wondered as she lay there beside him if there was any point in getting up and trying to write. She had just about decided there was not when she heard something fall through the letter box. An image came into her mind as she heard the sound, of a large, brown envelope containing a sheaf of unsigned poems. It was hours still before the postman would come—this had to be a personal delivery, and the person who delivered it, she knew with absolute certainty, would be wearing a gold key ring. Her name didn't matter, only her function as the poet's Muse.

MEETING THE MUSE

What is it men in women do require?
The lineaments of Gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

 

—William Blake, “The Question Answer'd”

 

I must marry a poet. It's the only thing.

 

—Elizabeth Smart

 

N
o, it didn't happen like that.

Agnes wrote a story, making use of her fantasies about Graham Storey, and she sold it to
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
. When it appeared in print and she read it, nearly a year later, she realized that she felt differently about “her” poet now. Writing the story had cured her of her fantasies; she had moved on.

But she was still living in the same place, leading the same life, although the very comfortableness of it all was making her uncomfortable. She was twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine, and she was still just playing at living. It was time to move on in reality, not just in her mind; time to make some commitments, time for marriage, or foreign travel, time for a more demanding job in one of those cities she had always dreamed of but never even visited—London or New York, Paris or San Francisco. Time to go out there and find her real life.

Walking up Guadalupe Street, the Drag directly opposite the university, she was scarcely conscious of her surroundings, the warmth of the spring evening, the storefronts and street vendors. Imagination put her in a cooler climate, strolling through the streets of Bloomsbury, searching for the British Museum. With part of her mind she considered her savings account: there was certainly enough to fund a vacation in England this year, but should she spend it on a two-week vacation? Maybe she should pick up a copy of the
New York Times
in the University Co-Op and check out the jobs. If she found something and wanted to move, she'd need all her savings then. She'd nearly reached the Co-Op, moving easily, unseeing, through the crowds of students and street people, when one of the blur of faces suddenly burst upon her like a vision, with hallucinatory clarity.

It was impossible; he was, he must be, just some seedily handsome stranger, but he looked
astonishingly
like the author's photograph on the back cover of Graham Storey's latest collection of poems.

His eyes were large and blue, wide and wondering as a baby's, behind round, wire-rimmed glasses. His hair, cut very short, was gray, and there were deep lines, like brackets, from his nose to the corners of his narrow mouth. He was a slightly built man who walked with a subtle stoop, like someone much taller.

As she stopped, staring at him with wonder close to fear, she heard a woman's voice speak her name.

There, standing beside her vision, right in front of her, was Lynne Haden, a local writer who had once been her creative writing teacher. “Just the person,” said Lynne. “I know you'll be eager to meet our distinguished visiting poet. Agnes, meet Graham Storey. Graham, this is Agnes Grey.”

“It
is
you! I thought I was dreaming!” With laughter, his face changed, became real, alive, more ordinary. His mouth was larger than it looked in repose, and his front teeth were slightly crooked, like her own.

If we ever have a child, she thought, it will have to wear braces.

“A pleasant one, I hope.”

“Huh?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Your dream.”

“Agnes is always dreaming,” said Lynne. “She's a writer, too.”

“Only a children's book,” she said, shaking her head frantically.

“Only?”

She heard a mocking stress on the word and was seized by apprehension. What did he know? Had he read anything of hers? She felt herself blush. “Uhhh, and a few short stories, that's all, nothing very impressive.”

“You don't find books for children impressive?”

Too late, she remembered he had written a children's book. “Some are, of course. Not mine. I loved
The Village of the Cats
.”

“You've read it? It wasn't published over here; I couldn't sell it.”

“I ordered a copy from England. I really did like it; it was so simple, but perfect, every word. Like a poem with pictures. The pictures were great, too. Was there ever a sequel?”

He gazed into her eyes. “There was supposed to be, but unfortunately the artist and I split up shortly after that book was published. She had been my girlfriend, and afterward it wasn't possible for us to work together. Not my wish, but she—”

“I hate to interrupt,” said Lynne, “but there are other people waiting to meet you, Graham.”

“I'm terribly sorry. But—would it be possible for Agnes to come along?”

Lynne shrugged, looking at her. “Sure. If you want. It's only drinks in the faculty lounge.”

“I'd love to, thanks.”

She floated along beside them, dazed by her magical good fortune. Not only to meet him, but to be allowed more time with him. “You're my favorite living poet, you know,” she said.

He looked comically alarmed. “Thank you. You don't have to say things like that!”

“I'm only saying it because it's true. Well, it's between you and Adrienne Rich and Marilyn Hacker.”

“The only Brit. I'm flattered.”

“The only boy,” Lynne pointed out. “Here we are. Brace yourself.”

“Trial by sherry, I call these things,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth to Agnes as they followed Lynne from the warmth of the street into air-conditioning.

She had expected that he would be swept away from her by the others—mostly English Department faculty and graduate students—who had assembled here to meet him, and he was, periodically, but after every time he made his way back to her again, to turn the full, blue beam of his attention on her, flatteringly interested in whatever she had to say. After about an hour, when the party was visibly declining, he said, “It's a bit unfair of me to ask, but would you have dinner with me this evening?”

Some of the wine in her glass sloshed out. “I'd love to! Why is it unfair?”

“Because I'm about to lie, and make you party to the lie. Lynne's expecting to take me out to dinner,
tête à tête,
and the only way I can see of getting out of it is to plead jet lag exhaustion and say I'm going straight back to my room, to bed, alone. She'll offer to drive me back.”

“I have a car.”

“Of course you do, bless you. I'm going to break the news to her. She won't be pleased, so put that glass down and get ready to scamper when I signal.” As they left together she caught a look from Lynne which made her shiver and all at once feel more sober.

“Don't you like Lynne?” she asked when they were outside.

“She's all right. Just another lonely lady. Is she a particular friend of yours? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have involved you. I know it must have seemed particularly cruel, to dump her and go off so obviously with her younger friend, but I don't like predatory women, and I didn't fancy going to bed with her at all.”