The Post-Birthday World (14 page)

Alarming headlines were inconclusive, photos consuming most of the front pages.

Brow furrowed, Irina scurried back to their building, to find the girl from the ground-floor flat sitting on a lower stair with her head in her hands. Irina had never learned her name, but wasn’t so devoted to the chilly etiquette of urban life herself, nor grown so callous in her recent self-absorption, that she would angle her way blithely around a crumpled fellow tenant sobbing her heart out.
Irina put a hand, just, on the girl’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Do you need any help? What’s wrong?”
Again, with London protocol so drastically revised that Westminster could as well have issued a decree, the girl didn’t merely snuffle that she’d be fine, thanks, but began to gush. “My boyfriend doesn’t understand! He’s furious with me! He says I didn’t even cry like this when his mother died. But I just can’t
believe
it! I’m gutted! It’s so
sad
!”
Irina shyly unfolded the paper in her hand, which she had halved not so much for ease of carrying as out of respect. “I’m sorry, I just got up, and the papers only . . .”
Overcome, the girl could now only nod. “B-both. Both of them.”
This turn of the wheel wasn’t quite in the same league as the collapse of the Soviet Union, but in Britain it came close.
“This is absolutely incredible.” Closing the door, she hugged the headline to herself. “Diana!”
“What’s that cow up to now?” said Lawrence. She knew he would light into one of his cruel imitations.
“Oh,”
he said in falsetto, lowering his head and batting his eyelashes,
“I’d love to help the underprivileged, but I just ate five jars of marshmallow fluff, and have to go throw up! While I’m stuffing my whole hand down my throat, could you tell those nice people that was
not
cellulite in my thighs? I’d just been sitting on a chenille bedspread! Afterwards, can I tell that story about Charles saying, ‘Whatever love is’? Because with so many dresses I only wear once, it’s important to keep the commoners feeling sorry for me!”
“Are you quite finished?”
“Just getting started!”
“Because she’s dead,” Irina announced.
“Get out.”
“She and Dodi Fayed were being chased by photographers and crashed in a tunnel in Paris.” Irina delivered the news with spiteful triumph. Not often did she see Lawrence speechless (all he could manage was, “Wow. That’s weird”), and watching him flounder was satisfying. “So maybe the next time you start to say something vicious about someone you hardly know, you should stop to think that any day you could find out they’re dead, and consider how you’d feel.”
Over the national keening of the next few weeks, Irina took the jarring death of the “people’s princess” personally. In narrative terms, Diana’s story had lurched from genre to genre. Like Irina’s once-charmed romance with Lawrence Trainer, a fairy tale had soured to soap opera, and then hurtled toward tragedy.
* * *

“You said you had something you had to talk to me about, and this had better not be just another girly mope about Princess Di.” The merlot banged on the table, next to Irina’s zinfandel. “For a schlep all the way out to the East End, I expect nothing short of scandal.”

For some people keeping secrets was invigorating, but for Irina they were combustible; by September she was about to explode. Absent a therapist, the next best thing was plain-speaking Betsy Philpot. They’d arranged to meet at Best of India, a hole-in-the-wall on Roman Road. Betsy and Leo lived in Ealing, well west, and Betsy had resisted traveling across the whole of London with five Indian restaurants in her own neighborhood. But Irina insisted that Best of India served distinctive dishes at reasonable prices; it lacked a liquor license, but didn’t charge a corking fee. An executive with Universal—recently acquired by Seagram’s—Leo had just accepted a salary cut to stay on board. Glad to save a few quid on the wine, Betsy had relented. Besides, like most excellent company, Betsy was a gossip, and would have met Irina in Siberia if she had “something to talk about.”

With the conventional obsequiousness of Indian waiters (a thin cover for contempt), the Asian uncorked the zin, then presented their

“Well, out with it,” said Betsy. “Life’s short, and tonight’s shorter.”
poppadoms
and condiment tray with a flourish. Irina made a mental note to avoid the raw-onion relish.

Irina hesitated. Obviously, it was dangerous to spill the beans to anyone who was friends with Lawrence as well. But to release the story into the world was also to relinquish sole proprietorship. When you let other people in on your business, you allowed them to have cavalier opinions about it; you might as well hand guests your prized original Monet miniature for a coffee coaster. Too, the moment she opened her mouth, her transgressions would become a matter of public record. Any prospective retreat would leave a slime trail.

“You’re not going to approve,” said Irina.

“I’m your judge and jury?”
“You can be moralistic.” Though Betsy hadn’t been Irina’s editor for years, a shadow of hierarchy remained. Betsy wouldn’t live in any fear of Irina’s opinion of her.

“Excuse me, I didn’t realize this was going to be a critique of my character.”

“It isn’t.” Irina took a slug of wine. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t start defending myself against all the mean things you’re going to say when you haven’t said them yet.”
“My guess is that you’re the one who’s been saying mean things, about yourself.”
“You’re right there—vile things.” Another slug. “Anyway, back in July, something—happened to me.”
“You know how when you’re in the gym, and you have to do your situps, and you go for water and retie your shoes? Putting it off never makes it any easier.”
Crumbling her
poppadom,
Irina couldn’t look Betsy in the eye. “I met someone. Or we’d known each other for years, but only
met
-met this one night.” No matter how she told it, the tale sounded cheap. “I seem to have fallen in love with him.”
“I thought you
were
in love,” said Betsy sternly. Her own congenial marriage had the dynamic of a corporate partnership, and Betsy had more than once expressed a wistful envy of Irina’s conspicuously warmer tie.
“I did, too,” said Irina dejectedly. “And now, on a dime, I feel nothing for Lawrence, or nothing but pity. I feel like a monster.”
“—Since when do you
smoke
?” Irina’s British friends would have cadged one, but Betsy was a fellow Yank, and rather than slip out the packet of Gauloises, Irina might as well have tabled a Baggie of white powder, a used syringe, and a spoon.
“It’s only occasional.” Irina tried to direct the smoke away from Betsy’s face, but the circulation system blew it back again. “Don’t tell Lawrence. He’d have a cow.”
“I bet he knows.”
“I do the whole breath-mint thing, but yeah, probably.”
“Oh, he
definitely
knows about the ciggies. But you have bigger problems to fry. I meant I bet he knows you’re having an affair.”
Irina looked up sharply. “I’m not.”
Betsy examined her skeptically. “This is a platonic infatuation? You go to museums, and work yourself into ecstasies over a painting?”
“I’ve never been sure what ‘platonic’ means exactly. We, ah—it’s physical, all right. But we haven’t, ah, sealed the deal. I thought that was important.” She was not at all sure it was important. Restraint has an eroticism of its own, and the agony of forgoing sexual closure had for weeks achieved a sweetness that bordered on rapture. If this was loyalty, what in God’s name was betrayal?
“Has the nooky side of things been so bad, with Lawrence? Fallen off?”
“
Bad?
It’s never been bad with Lawrence. We probably, or we used to until recently, have sex three or four times a week. But it’s strangely impersonal.”
“
Three or four times a week,
and you’re complaining? Leo and I fuck about as often as we rotate our mattress.”
“I never know what’s going on in his head.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I’m too afraid that he’ll ask me what’s going on in mine.”
“Which is?”
The waiter arrived, and Irina colored. The Asian surely assumed that loose Western floozies routinely conducted just this sort of seedy discussion over
poppadoms.
“I think about someone else,” she mumbled once he’d taken their orders. “It started out as a last resort, and now it’s an entrenched bad habit. If I don’t summon a certain other party in my head, I can’t—finish the job.”
“This
other party.
What does he do for a living?”
“If I tell you, then you’ll know who it is.”
“You’re planning on getting through a lamb korma, a chicken vindaloo, and a side order of spinach and chickpeas without telling me the guy’s name?”
Irina stirred a shard in the coriander chutney. “You’ll think I’m nuts.”
“You’re projecting again.
Yo u
think you’re nuts.”
“It’s not that crazy. On the face of it, there’s no reason that a children’s book illustrator would have a whole lot in common with a think-tank research fellow, either.”
“What, is this guy some working-class gardener or something?”
“He
wishes
he were working class. But he has plenty of money.”
“Look, I’m not going to play Twenty Questions here.”
Irina shook her head. “If we ever go public, Jude is sure to think we were running around behind her back while they were still married. We weren’t.”
“Ramsey Acton?”
said Betsy with incredulity. “I’ll give you this: he is good-looking.”
“I hadn’t even noticed he was handsome before; or only abstractly.”
“This entire country has noticed your boyfriend’s good-looking, as of the 1970s.”
Their food arrived, and Irina helped herself to a tiny spoonful of each dish, which puddled in disagreeable pools of red oil on her plate.
“You know, you’ve lost weight.” The observation carried a hint of resentment. Betsy, as they say, was
big-boned
—though she was pretty, and Irina had never figured out how to tell her that. “It’s okay for now—you look hot as the blazes, frankly—but don’t overdo it. Lose any more and you’ll get waiflike.”
“I’m not on a diet. I just can’t eat.”
“You’re on the
luv
diet. Worth ten pounds. But don’t worry—you’ll put it back on at the closing end.”
“Who says there’s going to be an end?”
“Irina, get real. You’re not going to run off with Ramsey Acton. Jude made that mistake; learn from it. Get him out of your system. For that matter—if you’re telling me the truth—maybe you should get it over with and fuck the bastard. Stop building it up into such a big deal and find out one more time that fucking is fucking. On this score, most men are fungible. Then patch things up with Lawrence. As for whether you tell him about it and have a big cry, or shove it under the carpet like a grown-up, that’s your call. But
Ramsey
is a not a long-term prospect.”
“Why not?”
“For starters? Take what you said, about money. Sure, Ramsey’s made a lot of it. But according to Jude, it’s all very easy-come. There’s a corollary. She couldn’t believe how little there was to filch when they divorced.”
“She got a house in Spain!”
“Out of
millions
? I don’t know how much you know about snooker, but these boys make do-re-mi hand over fist when they’re on a roll. Why isn’t there more of it left? I’m not only talking about finance, but temperament. You go all the way to Roman Road so you can bring in your own bottle of red. You’re frugal. Ramsey? Is not frugal.”
“It could do me good, to learn to splurge a little. It has done me good.”
“Did you ever talk to Jude about what it was like to live with a snooker player?”
“Some,” said Irina defensively. “She moaned a lot. But she was prone to. As Ramsey says, she’s chronically dissatisfied. They were a bad match.”
“And you’re a good one? Go on the road with them, and you’re stuck in hotel rooms, playing with the tea machine. But they don’t want you to go on the road, not really. They like to play hard away from the table, too. And stay home, you’re a widow for the season, sitting there wondering how much he’s drinking, what’s up his nose, and who’s sidling next to him at the bar.”
“That’s a cliché.”
“They always come from somewhere.”
“Ramsey’s different.”
“Famous last words.”
Irina sulked over her spinach, and threw back another defiant gulp of wine. When the waiter silently opened the second bottle, she sensed his disapproval.
Betsy wasn’t finished. “If you’re seriously contemplating a future with this character, can we talk turkey? Ramsey’s, what, fifty?”
“He’s only forty-seven.”
“Big diff. Forty-seven, in snooker, is like ninety-five for everybody else.”
“Ramsey says that, when he started out, plenty of snooker players were only reaching their prime in their forties.”
“Times have changed. The superstars are all in their twenties. Ramsey’s slipping. You can count on the fact that he’ll keep slipping, too. Maybe it’s eyesight, or steadiness of hand, or just starting to get burnt out despite himself, but he’ll never get back to where he was. He’s never quite won the World Championship, and he hasn’t a snowball’s of winning it now. The point is, you’re getting the guy at the tail-end. It’s not the fun part. Sometime soon he’ll be forced to retire, unless he’s willing to publicly embarrass himself. Snooker’s his whole life, as far as I can tell. Retirement’s not going to be pretty. When I picture it, cognac and long afternoon naps feature prominently.”
“They almost always take up golf.”
“Oh,
great.
” Betsy heaped another spoonful of the neglected lamb onto her plate, eyeing Irina askance when she poured another glass of wine. “Listen, you must be having a rough time. But before you do anything hasty, try to be practical. Jude says he’s neurotic.”
“She’s one to talk.”
“I just want you to walk in with your eyes open. She says he’s a hypochondriac. That he’s superstitious and touchy, especially about anything to do with his snooker game. Expect snooker, snooker, snooker. You’d better like it.”
“I
do
like it,” said Irina. “Increasingly.”
“ ‘Increasingly’ means you didn’t give a shit about it before. But I get the feeling it’s not a fascination with snooker that’s driving this thing.”
“All right. No.” Irina had never tried to put it into words, and had a dismal presentiment that any attempt to do so would prove humiliating. Nevertheless, she’d give it a go. “Every time he touches me, I think I could die. I could die right at that moment and I’d leave this earth in a state of grace. And everything fits. No matter how we sit next to each other, it’s always comfortable. The smell of his skin makes me high. Really, breathing at the base of his neck is like sniffing glue. Slightly sweet and musky at the same time. Like one of those complex reduction sauces you get in upscale restaurants, which somehow manages to be both intense and delicate, and you can never quite figure out what’s in it. And kissing him—I should be embarrassed to say this, but sometimes it makes me cry.”
“My dear,” said Betsy, clearly unmoved; boy, was that speech a waste of time. “It’s called ‘sex.’ ”
“That’s a belittling word. What I’m talking about isn’t little. It’s everything.”
“It
isn’t
everything, though it seems that way when you’re drunk on it. Eventually the smoke clears, and there you are, with this guy downstairs hitting little red balls into pockets the whole day through, and you wonder how you got here.”
“You think it doesn’t last.”
“Of course it doesn’t last!” Betsy scoffed. “Didn’t you go through something like this with Lawrence?”
“Sort of. Maybe. Not as extreme. I don’t know. It’s hard to remember.”
“It’s no longer
convenient
to remember. Didn’t you two go at it hot and heavy for a few months? Or you wouldn’t have moved in together.”
“Yes, I guess. But this seems different.”
“It seems ‘different’ because right now you’re up to your neck in it. And meanwhile, there are traffic bollards in your head to keep you from getting at what it was like in the olden days with Lawrence. My money says it wasn’t different at all.”
“You think everyone goes round in the same cycle. You get all very giddy and infatuated at ‘the beginning,’ and then inevitably the fire dies down to sorry little embers. So in no time I’ll be having mechanical, impersonal relations with Ramsey three times a week instead of with Lawrence.”
“If you’re lucky.”
“I refuse to accept that.”
“Then you’ll find out the hard way, cookie.” Betsy’s eyes sharpened when they caught Irina glancing surreptitiously at her watch. “I’ll stand behind you whatever you do, because you’re my friend. And I promise I won’t say this again. Still, I’d feel remiss if I didn’t at least say it once. Lawrence may not be God’s gift to womankind. But—don’t laugh, this isn’t unimportant—he is a ‘good provider.’ He’s
solid,
and I’m pretty sure he loves you like all get out, whether or not he’s always able to show it. He’s the kind of man you’d want around in a flood or an earthquake, or when some hood is breaking into your house. Icing on the cake, he’s a caustic, irreverent son of a bitch, and I like him. I’m not saying that a girl doesn’t gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Just because if you leave him you’ll break his heart doesn’t mean you shouldn’t follow your nose—literally, from the sound of it. But I think you’d miss him.”
“And, in the other event, wouldn’t I miss Ramsey?”
“I don’t doubt that cutting this thing off right now would probably feel like hacking off your arm. But it would grow back. You’ve been with Lawrence, what, ten years?”
“Close,” said Irina absently.
“That’s like a bank account, steadily accruing interest. You
are
frugal. Don’t shoot your wad. You could blow your savings on some fancy, shiny gadget. Then when it jams, you’ll be stuck with this glorified paperweight in your bed, and you’ll be broke.”
It wasn’t nice, but Irina was no longer paying attention, and she asked for the bill. That’s what happens when people give you advice that you don’t care to take: their voices go tinny and mincing, like a radio playing in another room.
Betsy folded her arms. “Doesn’t Ramsey live a few blocks from here?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Irina stirred her pocketbook for her wallet.
“Next question.” Betsy’s eyes were flinty. “Are you or are you not walking back with me to the Mile End tube?”
“I might—take a cab.”
“Swell. We can
share
one.”
“Borough’s not on your way.”
“I don’t mind the ride.”
“Oh, stop it! Yes, if you must know, I am. We hardly ever get to see each other in the evening. I won’t have long, either.”
“Did you really want to see me? Or am I just a beard?”
“Yes, I
really
wanted to see you. Can’t you tell? Two birds, one stone is all.”
“So you drag me all the way out to the East End—”
“I’m sorry about that. I have warm associations with this place. We— well, the management isn’t into snooker, so they don’t know who he is. And I do like the food.”
“That’s funny. You didn’t eat any.”
“I told you, my appetite is crap.”
“If Lawrence asks me when we wrapped things up here, I’ll have to tell him.”
“He won’t ask.” This was true, but there was something sad about that.
Irina tried to treat her friend, but Betsy was having none of it, as if refusing to be bought off. They split the bill. Walking down Roman Road, they said nothing.
At Grove, where Betsy would turn left and Irina right, Betsy faced her. “I don’t like to be
used,
Irina.”
“I’m sorry.” She was fighting tears. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“You’ve got to talk to Lawrence.”
“I know. But lately we can’t seem to talk about anything.”