Elegance and Innocence (18 page)

I recoil violently. ‘Don’t touch it!’ I snap. ‘Just leave it alone.’

But he won’t. ‘No, Ouise, there’s just this little dark mark,’ and he licks his finger, the way your mother used to do when you were a kid, and begins to rub even harder. ‘Hold still, I’ve almost got it.’

But I know what he’s after and it isn’t a mark, it’s a suppurating boil that’s taken a good ten minutes and two different products to hide and now he’s only making it worse.

I push him off. ‘Just leave it I said! Can’t you understand English? Get off me!’

The bus lurches up to our stop and I race down the aisle ahead of him, while he struggles, laden with shopping, behind me. ‘What’s got into you, anyway?’ he says, as we clamber off. ‘Why are you so touchy?’

‘I’m not touchy. I just don’t want to be touched,’ I retort, walking, or rather running as quickly as I can down the street away from him.

‘Fine! If you want to walk around with a big, black mark on your face, then great. I was only trying to help. God, Louise, you are really getting to be hard work, do you know that?’

‘Who cares,’ I hiss, suddenly irritable beyond all reason. I turn the key in the front door and stomp upstairs.

He catches the door as it swings closed with his foot. ‘I care!’ But by then I’m in the flat and halfway to my room. I make it just as he reaches the landing, and slam the door behind me. But he follows me, bursting in with all his shopping before I can stop him. ‘I care!’ he shouts again.

And then stops.

And looks around.

Everywhere, on the mirror, on the wall, are little yellow Post-its.

Reminding me of what is elegant.

And what is not.

‘Jesus, Louise, what’s all this about?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, suddenly quiet. ‘It has to do with a book I’m reading.’

‘What book?’ He puts his shopping down. ‘Honey, this ain’t normal.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m not normal, not normal at all. There’s something wrong with me.’ I lift up my hair and show him my cheek. ‘See that? That isn’t a mark, it’s a spot. Loads of them. If Oliver Wendt should see me like this …’

‘Oliver Wendt? What’s he got to do with anything?’

‘Nothing.’

I’ve gone too far.

Oh, fuck it.

‘Only I met him for a drink and he said he’d take me out, so I left him this note, and I haven’t heard anything. Nothing. He’s obviously avoiding me. He probably saw me and thought, “What am I doing with this loser?”’

Colin sits carefully on the edge of the bed. ‘He’s in Australia, Ouise. He was sent to direct
Gale Force
in Australia.’

‘Oh,’ I say, stupidly. It never occurred to me that he might be away.

‘What’s all this?’ He gestures to the yellow Post-its. And before I can stop him, he reaches out and plucks one off the wall. ‘“Beauty is no guarantee of happiness,”’ he reads aloud, ‘“strive instead for elegance, style, and grace.” What is that supposed to mean? Louise?’

He’s talking to me but his voice seems far away. I’ve been here, exactly here, before.

‘Ouise?’

But the only thing I can say is, ‘It isn’t working. No matter what I do, it isn’t working. I’ll never be elegant. Never get it right. It’s all gone terribly, terribly wrong.’

‘Honey, sit down.’ Colin yanks my hand and my knees bend forward, landing me abruptly on the bed. ‘Tell me, what’s this all about?’

I hand him the book, my bible, from where I keep it, in pride of place, on my bedside table. And then, almost immediately, I regret it.

‘
Elegance
,’ he reads out loud, flicking the pages open. ‘What is this? Some sort of ancient self-help book?’ He riffles through it, as if it were nothing more than an amusing oddity.

‘Never mind.’ I try to take the book back but he holds it aloft, just beyond my reach.

‘Not so fast! Are you honestly telling me you think this woman, this, what’s her knickers, Madame Dariaux, knows what it means to be elegant? That she’s got something you lack? By the way, she has Margaret Thatcher hair.’

‘Does not!’ I punch his shoulder, a little harder than I’d intended.

He swats me back. ‘Does too! Listen, Ouise, that book is just one woman’s opinion. And by the looks of it, one woman’s opinion from a completely different age! What
does she know anyway? Has she ever had to go through what you’re going through? Has she ever left her husband and had to build her life from scratch? Why are you torturing yourself? Because that’s what all this is; torture. Don’t you have any confidence to trust your own instincts? So what if you make mistakes or have a few spots! Jesus, if I’d just left my husband I’d have a whole lot more than just a few spots!’

‘You don’t understand! None of you! It isn’t about a few spots! Or about taking the rough with the smooth! Or any of that crap! Now give it back to me!’ Again, I grab for the book and again, he holds it just out of my reach.

‘No. First tell me, why is being elegant so important anyway?’

‘Because … because …’ My mind goes blank, folding in on itself, collapsing with frustration. ‘Jesus! Why don’t you just fuck off, Colin!’ I explode. ‘Stop being so fucking self-righteous and leave me alone!’

He stares at me a moment. Then he thrusts the book back at me and stands up, gathering his shopping together. ‘Fine.’ His voice is cold. ‘Have it your way.’

He strides out of the room and the door slams behind him. And I’m alone, with my book, my Post-its, my spots and my faux Harrods fish pin.

I’ve never been so rude to anyone in my life. Clutching the book, my hands shaking, I try to grasp what just happened. Why am I overreacting this way? Why can’t I answer
his question like a reasonable person? And, why, after all that, is it so important to me to be elegant?

And then it comes, emerging slowly out of the darkness of my mind. Perhaps if only I’d been more of a woman, maybe he would’ve been more of a man.

When I finally dare to step out of my room, I find Colin making a shepherd’s pie and listening to the football on the radio in the kitchen. I stand in the doorway a while, watching him mash potatoes and he ignores me. So I move into the centre of the kitchen, where I become a real obstacle and refuse to budge.

‘Forgive me. I was wrong. And rude. And a bitch.’

He stops what he’s doing for a moment, and stares at the floor.

‘I was wrong and rude and a bitch,’ I repeat.

He looks up. ‘It’s not just that. I’m worried about you. You’re acting crazy.’

‘I know. I
am
crazy. Please, Col. Don’t hate me. I’ll get rid of the Post-its, put the book away. Only, please, forgive me! Say we’re still friends.’

‘Come here.’ He steps forward and wraps his arms around me. ‘Listen, Ouise, no matter what happens between you and me, no matter what we say or do, there’s one thing I can promise you. We will
always
make up.’

He held me for a very long time.

A week later, my husband and I decide to file for divorce.

And shortly afterwards, my face begins to clear.

N
Négligées

One of the most baffling points of inconsistency in many otherwise elegant women is the way they completely neglect their appearance during the hours of intimacy in their own homes – which is the very time and place where they ought to be at their most attractive
.

For every woman who, at the end of the day, removes her make-up and replaces it with a lighter one, ties a ribbon in her well-brushed hair and slips into a pretty, long dressing-gown or housecoat with matching slippers, how many dress for an evening at home in a shabby dressing-gown, their heads bristling with curlers, cream spread over their faces (when it isn’t a green or black masque), and with huge shapeless mules on their feet? It makes you wonder whom the result of all this beauty care is meant to impress – undoubtedly the trades-people they will see when doing their shopping the next morning. In the mean-time
,
the poor husband learns to avoid looking at his scarecrow-wife and fixes his gaze instead on the sports page of the newspaper or in contemplation of the television screen
.

After all, isn’t this really what beauty parlours were created for – so your poor, dear husband might be spared the horror of having to see everything?

I’m thirty-two and for the first time in my adult life I’m living with people I’m not sleeping with, commonly referred to as flatmates. We share the kitchen, bathroom and living room.

Communal living doesn’t come easily for me. At first I make a few
faux pas
. I don’t understand how to shop for myself, or how to sit in the living room with the others and watch TV. I am, however, very good at doing the washing up and taking out the garbage. Every day is a learning experience. I learn from Colin how to organize three people’s shopping in a single fridge, (‘Stack from large to small, sweetie. Think upwards, upwards!’) And Ria teaches me how to take a bath, with candles, special soap, bath salts, and loofa scrubs. ‘You’re communing with yourself,’ she instructs. ‘The water is your emotional life. If you’re in and out, your relationships will never succeed.’

Oh. OK.

The one thing they both do is chip in and buy me a new
robe, under the guise of an extremely belated Christmas gift.

‘We have something for you,’ Colin says one evening, when we’re all making dinner together. And he presents me with a bulky, wrapped package. Ria’s smiling and looking at her shoes.

‘Oh, my God! Guys! You shouldn’t have!’ I’m thrilled to bits, giggling and tearing the paper like a kid. When I open it up, it appears to be a giant towel.

‘Wow,’ I say, wondering why they’ve bought me a towel. ‘This is great. You shouldn’t have.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ Colin says, looking at Ria, who’s trying so hard not to laugh, she has to turn away. ‘By the way, Louise, it’s a robe.’

‘Ahh! Yeah, I can see that now! It’s great,’ I say, noticing how enormous it seems. And blue. And shapeless. ‘Yeah, fantastic but, you guys, I already have a robe. My little white one. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?’ I look at both of them, but they’re not looking at me. All of a sudden the floor is deeply intriguing.

This is weird.

‘You have seen my robe, Col? Haven’t you?’

Colin clears his throat. ‘Yes, darling, we’ve all seen it. As a matter of fact, when Mick was over the other night and you were coming out of the bathroom, he saw it too. And he’s straight. The thing about that robe, is that it’s fine if you’re trying to seduce someone …’

‘But,’ Ria finishes his sentence, ‘not really appropriate for communal living.’

I can feel my face burning, my hands tingling. ‘What are you saying? What’s wrong with it? Is it see-through? What?’

‘What we’re saying,’ continues Ria, ‘and maybe we’re not you doing it terribly tactfully is …’

‘We can see your tits,’ Colin concludes.

‘Absolutely,’ Ria says.

‘Oh my God!’ I curl up into a little ball of shame on the floor, clutching the enormous, thick, terry cloth robe. ‘Oh God! I’m so sorry! How … how embarrassing!’

‘Calm down, sweetie.’ Colin strokes my hair and laughs. ‘They’re lovely, really. Just a bit distracting when you’re having your tea in the morning.’

I look up sheepishly. ‘I’m so sorry, really, I had no idea. All these years I’ve been wearing it, no one’s said anything … nothing’s ever … I mean …’ I drift off not sure how to continue.

Apparently, I’d been strolling around in a see-through garment for months, but like a modern-day, sexual version of the Emperor’s New Clothes, I’d been oblivious to my nakedness. After years of living with a man who’s completely immune to me physically, I’ve apparently concluded that everyone is. In the absence of any response, I’ve pretended to be clothed, but in fact, I’ve been just begging for some kind of reaction.

And here it is.

Thing is, it isn’t the first time. When I go out dancing with Colin and his friends, he shimmies around me, pulling up the straps on my Morgan halter neck. And Ria has met me by the door a few times, brandishing a cardigan and refusing to let me leave until I cover up. Until now, I’ve managed to ignore these unrelated incidents, but suddenly the focus has been pulled in, sharply, and I can see clearly. It’s like my radar’s broken. After so many years of hiding, the pendulum’s swung completely the other way and I’m an overnight exhibitionist, shouting, ‘Look at me! Notice me! I’m alive! Here are my tits to prove it!’ How pathetic and degrading. And yet I’ve done it again and again.

And now I’m the subject of some bizarre flatmate intervention.

I bury my head underneath the mountain of terry cloth Colin’s calling a robe. I want to hide here forever – to pass out from embarrassment and never come to.

There’s just one thing I want to know before I do. ‘Are they really lovely?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Colin asks.

I clear my throat. I shouldn’t need to know this, but I do. ‘I said, are they really lovely?’

‘Are what?’ Ria and Col look at each other, confused.

I’m staring intently at the blue swirl that separates the red rectangle on the Oriental rug. The pattern repeats itself again and again, all along the edge of the design.

‘My breasts.’ My voice is suddenly choked, just barely above a whisper. ‘You said … you said they were lovely.’

There’s a long, astonished silence. And I find that I’m crying – the blue swirl is melting into the red rectangle. I blink and they separate again.

It’s Ria who says, ‘They are lovely and you’re lovely. Lovely enough to put your clothes back on, Louise.’

O
Occasions

There are numerous occasions in life when even the most unassuming, least clothes-conscious woman realizes that it can be of real importance socially for her to be well dressed. Suddenly seized with panic at the idea that she will be the centre of attention, she wonders in anguish, ‘Whatever shall I wear?’ and rushes out to buy any kind of new dress she can find
.

Whatever the ceremony at which you or your husband may be required to play a leading role – such as godparent at a christening, committee member of a charity ball, or merely as a guest at the Christmas office party – you should always adopt simplicity as the best policy and not try to radically transform your appearance for this special event. It would only astonish everyone, and on this particular occasion you do not want to cause a sensation, but simply to present a pleasing and attractive appearance
.