Wise Follies (35 page)

Chapter
28

Poor old Cyril has
shuffled off this mortal coil and ended up in Tarquin’s stomach. I wish he’d had a more dignified departure. It’s so sad. He was a very nice budgie in his way. Now that he’s gone we seem to discern his positive attributes more clearly. He always had a lovely plumage. And he did enjoy his birdseed. Though he could only say one word, his diction was perfect. Maybe his spirit is soaring over the Australian outback. That’s what I told Mrs Peabody anyway. I hoped it might cheer her up.

Mrs Peabody is very distressed. She blames herself. She left the sitting-room window open when she was out in the back garden. Tarquin must have climbed through it because when she returned she found the cage on the floor and Cyril had gone. Tarquin had some feathers in his mouth and Dora was squawking plaintively on the top of the dresser.

I feel so angry with Tarquin. I know cats do this kind of thing, but it’s awful. ‘You horrible cat,’ I tell him. ‘We should have called you Fred. You won’t be getting those tuna chunks you like for dinner. Cats who eat poor little budgies don’t deserve haute cuisine.’

I must say, Liam has been very kind to me about Cyril. I suppose you could say we are united in our grief. Mira hardly knew him. Apart from Mrs Peabody we were probably his closest ‘friends’. Dora and he never really hit it off. She is certainly not in mourning. In fact she’s looking far more contented these days. Being single obviously suits her.

‘You mustn’t feel guilty,’ Liam said the other day when we met each other at the corner shop. ‘There are lots of cats in the neighbourhood. Mrs Peabody shouldn’t have left that window open when she was out.’ As he spoke Elsie came in to buy a newspaper. He introduced us. She smiled at him most tenderly. They do seem very fond of each other. As they left I heard her saying, ‘So that’s Alice, is it?’ in a rather pointed manner. I don’t know why she said it like that. Maybe I misheard her.

When I got back to the cottage that evening I discovered that James Mitchel had sent me a letter. In it he thanked me for the ‘lovely’ dinner and said he wondered if I’d like to exhibit some of my paintings in his new studio. In normal circumstances I would have been over the moon, but the suggestion was so obviously prompted by his defection with Matt that I almost dismissed it. However, Annie and Mira have been adamant that I should grab this offer. ‘Remorse can be very useful sometimes,’ Annie commented rather ruthlessly. ‘Go for it, honey. And get him to print the invitations.’

‘I know Matt would want you to do it,’ Mira added. ‘He’s so fond of you, Alice. It’s a little fig leaf.’

‘Fig leaves are frequently used to cover genitals,’ I told her. ‘And I doubt if Matt needs that kind of foliage when he’s with James Mitchel.’

‘I think she means olive branch,’ Annie interrupted. ‘Look, I don’t know what I’ll tell James, OK?’ I glared at them. ‘Now, please, excuse me. Eamon will be returning tomorrow and I need to wash my hair.’

Eamon is home. I met him at the airport earlier this week. I stood at the arrivals area and rather envied the cosmopolitan folk who had just disembarked from various jumbo jets. Even though most of them looked solemn, there was still a tinge of adventure to them. A touch of the exotic. There was a nonchalance about their recent peregrinations that was deeply impressive – especially to someone whose most recent trip abroad was a short shopping trip to Chester via ferry. I watched the way their faces suddenly transformed when they saw their loved ones. The broad smiles, the relief, the laughter. I began to wonder what face I should prepare for Eamon, but in the end I didn’t actually see him arriving. I’d gone to check whether the flight was on time and when I returned it was he who tapped my shoulder.

‘Alice!’ he said.

‘Eamon!’ I replied. He put down his bags and put his big strong arms around me. It felt nice. Comforting. I was glad that he was home. We went to have a drink and I told him I’d decided to accept his proposal.

‘Oh, Alice, I’m so glad,’ he beamed and then he ordered a bottle of champagne. It went ‘pop’ just like it’s supposed to. It fizzed into our glasses – its bubbles dancing.

‘Yes, yes, this is right,’ I thought. ‘This is what you do when you become engaged. I’ve become engaged. Me. Alice Evans!’ I snuggled against Eamon’s shoulder contentedly. I’ve watched so many of my friends getting engaged, and married. I’ve been to their babies’ christenings. I’ve been the onlooker at these occasions so often that I began to suspect that was my role. And now Eamon wanted me. A kind, decent man had chosen me to share his life. I gazed at him gratefully. He looked particularly handsome that evening. He had a tan and sunstreaks in his hair. His expensive linen suit was perfectly tailored. When people glanced at us they gave a little smile. Any reservations I might have had evaporated as he refilled my glass. The champagne came from a particularly good vineyard apparently. He’d specifically asked for it.

‘We should have this champagne at our wedding,’ he said and I agreed with him. ‘Shall we have the reception in Cassidy’s Hotel?’ he then enquired.

‘Yes, that sounds nice,’ I replied. I didn’t mention that I had considered holding the reception in the California Café. Eamon likes to do things with a certain style and it would have been too informal for him.

‘I know the chef at Cassidy’s,’ he said. ‘He does the most marvellous seafood.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave the menu to you. You know more about four-star cuisine than I do.’

Eamon took my hand and pressed it warmly. ‘When would you like to get married, Alice?’ he asked. ‘We’ll need to book the church and hotel and musicians in good time.’

‘The musicians?’ I frowned.

‘Yes – I thought it might be nice to have a string quartet playing while we are eating. Though if you don’t want them that’s fine.’

‘Oh, why not,’ I said. ‘I like Vivaldi. Maybe they could play something from The Four Seasons.’

‘I’ll request that they do so.’ Eamon got out his Blackberry and keyed in a note. ‘So, Alice,’ he continued. ‘What date should we set for our wedding?’

‘Sometime soon,’ I answered. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’ As soon as I said that sentence I realized it hadn’t sounded right. I’d obviously drunk too much champagne. Eamon frowned. ‘I mean, we’ve known each other quite a long time,’ I added hastily. ‘There’s no call for a long engagement, is there?’

‘Indeed,’ Eamon said. ‘Have you a particular florist you’d like me to contact?’

The more we talked, the more obvious it became that Eamon had given this wedding a good deal of thought. His methodical nature required that we discuss every aspect of the occasion at some length. I must say I didn’t feel like talking about it all just then, but it was also rather reassuring to know he was prepared to look after most of the details.

‘Oh, I haven’t shown you your present,’ Eamon suddenly announced, as we were about to leave. He opened his perfectly packed suitcase and removed a paper bag.

‘It’s lovely!’ I exclaimed as he revealed a brown hand-knitted sweater. The minute I saw it I knew it was a size too small, but of course I didn’t mention this.

‘Llama wool,’ Eamon said happily. ‘Feel the texture.’

‘Mmmm – super,’ I smiled. ‘Most unusual.’

I am now sitting at Eamon’s kitchen table wearing my new llama wool sweater. It hasn’t stretched yet and is, frankly, rather uncomfortable. There seems to be some dried foliage woven into it – it was probably knitted outdoors. It also smells of something, llama probably. I haven’t said any of this to Eamon. We’re having breakfast. I’d forgotten how quiet Eamon is at breakfast. When we marry I think I may start wearing a Walkman. I’m currently reading the special offer on the back of a cereal pack. I could get a transistor radio if I get into muesli in a really huge way before the end of the month.

Eamon is reading the sports page of his newspaper as he munches his toast. Any small exclamations he makes tend to be prompted by a golfer called Nick Faldo. He’s probably reading a report of the game we watched last night on television.

‘We don’t have to watch this you know,’ he’d said. ‘I could record it. We could rent a DVD. You like the romantic stuff, don’t you?’

‘No, let’s watch the golf,’ I replied quickly. ‘This is more restful.’

It was quite relaxing actually, watching the crisp, purposeful men, striding over vast tracts of tailored grass. The announcer’s voice sounded almost sleepy, like a bee humming softly in a faraway blossom. We all have to find our sweetness somewhere, and sprawling quietly on Eamon’s firm, upholstered sofa, did have a muted contentment to it. A kind of calm.

We made love later in his big bright bedroom. The sheets smelt new. Magnolia I think the colour is. I just lay there and let him caress me. Eamon’s a gentle lover. Though it was very nice I felt detached somehow. Like I was a small island and he was one too. I found myself wondering if I should double-glaze the studio he’s promised to build me. In fact I got so preoccupied with this that the ‘hardness of Eamon’s manhood’, as they say in some women’s books, was almost inside me when I realized I hadn’t put my diaphragm in. I leapt out of bed.

‘What is it?’ Eamon asked, understandably peeved.

‘My diaphragm. It’s in my bag.’ He watched as I fetched the pert round plastic container. The sort of container that at another stage in a woman’s life might contain accessories for, say, ‘My Little Pony’. I put spermicide on to it and squeezed the springy rubber together, attempting insertion. It sprang from my hand and leapt across the room. ‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit out of practice with this,’ I said as I retrieved it and tried again. Eamon watched with mounting frustration. After the fourth attempt he said, ‘Do you really need it anyway? If we want a baby why not start now?’

I looked at him guardedly.

‘Come on, Alice.’ He reached forwards and touched between my legs in just the right spot. ‘Yes! Yes!’ my hormones screeched. ‘Go for it – come on!’ they shouted like American cheerleaders. I listened to them. I relented. Wantonly, excitedly, I tossed my diaphragm on to a chair and lay down beside him. There is something about attempted procreation that is extraordinarily seductive, if you’re in the mood for it. And I was.

Afterwards, when I was in the bathroom and some of his sperm was sliding slipperily down the inside of my thighs, I wondered if I’d done the right thing. I thought of the photographs in magazines I often stare at the pictures of serene women holding their newborns besottedly. I’d probably do that too – just not with the panache of, say, Angelina Jolie. ‘After all, Eamon and I are nearly man and wife,’ I told myself. ‘And he’d make such a good father.’

Then I picked up my diaphragm and blithely tossed it into the rubbish basket.

Chapter
29

I’ve decided to accept
James Mitchel’s offer to have an exhibition in his studio. Matt phoned the other day and persuaded me. I was very cool with him at first, scarcely speaking, but he seemed so desperate to make amends that I found I didn’t want to hate him anymore. Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself in a way. Holding on to grievances takes away the lustre from one’s days. It can become a habit and, after all, falling in love with James Mitchel wasn’t Matt’s fault really. It just happened, the way these things do. And I’m no longer sure if James was my Mr Wonderful anyway. I think I must have had a fully formed infatuation that I ‘made earlier’ as they say on cookery programmes. One that was just waiting for somewhere to land. I know it sounds strange, but I think I may even have mixed James Mitchel up with Jesus. When I went into that church I so wanted to talk to him. Hold his hand. Gossip. Maybe even have a cup of coffee. But Jesus was moving in ways that were too mysterious for me, so I worshipped James Mitchel instead.

Matt’s the one I miss now, not James. And at least that dinner party fiasco has led to this offer. I’m getting an exhibition out of it – some form of compensation. Since Eamon and I may well be starting a family soon the timing is just right. I wouldn’t have much time for my art with a baby in tow. I might as well take this opportunity while it’s there.