Wise Follies (30 page)

This is ridiculous. I sidle over to a sculpture of a naked man. There’s a lot of nudity in James’s sculptures. They are mostly of men and are very well done. Almost embarrassingly detailed in fact. The sculptures of women, many of them in abandoned poses, are also hard to stare at in my present state. James Mitchel knows a lot about the human body, that is becoming very clear. He’s studied its crevices and corners, its curves and conduits. How I wish he’d study mine.

Out of the corner of my eye I see that James is moving towards this side of the room. I head for the table with wine bottles on it. I fill up my glass, a little unsteadily. I’m beginning to experience a distinct sensation of floating.

How many glasses have I had – four – five? I take a fistful of peanuts from a bowl.

‘Is that you, Alice?’

Oh, my God, that’s his voice. I stand very still for a moment, steadying my face. Then I try to turn around, nonchalantly, only I seem to tip a bit to one side.

‘Hello, James! Great exhibition.’ I gesture rather too wildly and spill some of my wine.

‘So, how are you?’ James is smiling his calm, sweet smile. I find myself staring at him, drinking in his features. If he was wine he’d be vintage Bordeaux. ‘Done any pottery recently?’ he continues. He seems slightly perplexed by my silence.

‘No. No, I haven’t actually. Your sculptures are wonderful, James. I didn’t know you did this kind of thing.’

‘Ah well, Alice. I’m sure there are a lot of things we don’t know about each other.’ James gives me one of his wry, knowing looks. ‘I’m so glad that you came.’

‘So am I.’

‘Have you bumped into Mildred yet? She’s over there.’

‘Oh, is she?’ There’s a pause. A pause in which James might decide to wander off. A rotund lady in a chiffon dress is studying him purposefully. She looks as if she’s about to grab him away from me at any moment. Other people are touching his arm and saying, ‘Well done.’

‘So, how is the pottery studio in West Cork going?’ I ask. He mustn’t get away from me, not just yet.

‘I haven’t done much with it, but I hope to soon. I’ve been getting ready for this exhibition.’ James is looking around a bit, probably aware that there are a number of other people he should be talking to. I wish he’d show more signs of lust. Lust would do to start with. We could get round to the other stuff later. I’m not usually this superficial but even meaningless sex with James would be wonderful. He’ll be gone in a moment. If I want to see him again I’ll have to act now. I take a deep breath and try to summon up the lines I’ve been rehearsing.

‘James – regarding your pottery studio – I may be able to help you with a bit of publicity for it.’

‘Really. How?’ James is looking most interested.

‘You’ll be making some household ceramics, won’t you? You know, like tableware?’

‘Yes, along with other things.’

‘Well, there’s a “Style” section in the magazine I work for, and I might be able to get them to include a write-up about your range.’

‘Really! That would be great.’

I can’t believe what I’m about to say. But I must. I must. It should sound spontaneous. I’ve been practising it all day. ‘Tell you what, James,’ I smile gaily, ‘why don’t you come to dinner the next time you’re in Dublin. Bring some samples and photographs of your pottery with you. We could have a proper chat about it all then.’ I take a deep swig from my glass of wine and brace myself for his answer. Dear God, my bra strap is showing! I tuck it back into place.

‘Thanks, Alice. What a kind offer.’ James seems genuinely grateful. ‘Give me your number again, will you?’

I hand him my card and then the rotund lady in the chiffon dress grabs him and pulls him away from me. I don’t mind. A quiet, grateful smile has settled on my features. One does have to take the romantic initiative sometimes, one really does. And I just have! Me, Alice Evans.

And then I realize something. I should have said I would phone him to make the dinner arrangements. This way James Mitchel has to phone me. But what if he doesn’t? He didn’t last time. I lean dejectedly against a wall and am about to leave when I see Mildred. I go over to her. She’s gazing longingly at a particularly nubile male nude.

‘Quite an exhibition, isn’t it Alice?’ She eyes me meaningfully.

‘Yes, it is,’ I agree.

‘In fact, if these sculptures were paintings,’ Mildred begins to chortle delightedly, ‘I’d say they were extremely well hung.’

Chapter
Twenty-Five

James Mitchel phoned yesterday
. He’s coming to dinner tonight! The thought had me bolting out of bed at a ridiculously early hour this Saturday morning.

I can’t believe how unkempt this cottage seems. Even though Mira and I clean it quite regularly, we seem to have overlooked innumerable domestic details. At first glance anyone could see that it’s the home of a woman with a tidemark around her bath, and life. A woman with tea-stained mugs and ancient grey bras. This gross generalization acquires the purity of higher calculus when I feel it, and I’m feeling it right now. At least it’s the weekend, so I have time to clean the place up. But I’m still in a terrible tizz.

‘Oh, Tarquin,’ I say, ‘how am I going to get this place ready in time?’ He just looks up at me longingly, with deeply resigned eyes. He hopes we’re discussing food. He begins to rub himself against the leg of a chair. He now shows his affection for me by caressing inanimate objects but still hasn’t summoned up the courage to let me pat him.

I rush out to the corner shop and buy Cif, bleach, lavender Ajax, lemon floor cleaner and a box of J-cloths. When I get home I arrange them in a row on the kitchen sideboard and vow to keep them there because they look so impressive. Then I squat beside the cooker, trying to reach the globs of muck that have gathered slyly between it and the washing machine.

‘Hello.’ Mira pads into the kitchen with a yawn and reaches for the tin of Earl Grey tea. She’s about to spoon some into the teapot with the cracked spout when I shriek with alarm.

‘You can’t use that!’

‘What?’

‘The teapot. It’s got bleach in it. It was all brown and stained inside.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Alice,’ Mira sighs wearily. ‘James Mitchel is hardly going to go around inspecting the insides of our teapots.’

‘It just makes me feel better to know it’s clean,’ I announce defensively. ‘We’ve become sluttish, Mira. We’ve let things slide. Even our underwear isn’t white any more.’

‘How were we to know that the blue bedspread would run like that?’ Mira counters. ‘You’re getting into a state, Alice. I wish Eamon was back from Peru. He wouldn’t stand any of this nonsense.’

‘How can I attract a Wonderful Man if I don’t even have a decent sofa?’ I wail. The state of this cottage has suddenly become synonymous with my entire life. Things spilling out of cupboards, unsorted. Murky corners I am somehow going to have to steel myself to face.

‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Mira says sharply. ‘The kind of man you need wouldn’t care about that stuff – he’d be far less high-maintenance. He’d want you for yourself.’

I stare at her glumly. She is, of course, right. A pristine sideboard would, in a way, be so much easier. And how desperately politically incorrect it is of me to want to lure a man in this manner. I really must start rereading Gloria Steinem. My feminism definitely seems to need a bit of dusting.

‘You’ll be here tonight, won’t you?’ I look at Mira anxiously.

‘Yes. I said I would.’

‘I’ve invited Matt too.’

Mira studies me quizzically. ‘I’m surprised you want company. I thought you’d want James all to yourself.’

‘I – I do really. It just seemed better to do it this way.’ As Mira puts her orange juice, tea and toast on a tray and heads back towards her bedroom, I recommence my scrubbing. She’s right. I’d love to have James here, alone. I’d love to stare at him tenderly over a candlelit meal. The thing is, attraction and anxiety can make me blab a bit, especially if there’s wine involved. I’d probably tell him all sorts of things he’d be better off not knowing yet. I’d frighten him off. After all, he does think he’s coming here simply to discuss a write-up in the magazine.

With Mira and Matt here I’ll be prevented from love lunging. This way I’ll get to know James gradually, which is something I haven’t managed to do with many men in the past. If I really like a man I tend to want him right in my life, immediately. Having probably gone without romantic intimacy for ages, once I think I’ve found it I go on a bit of a binge. I guzzle it. I luxuriate in the feeling that I somehow know all the things that we haven’t, as yet, said. I paint my passion canvas carefully. It sets me alight inside just to look at it. What a wonderful person this man must be to evoke all these blissful feelings. I feel I know him so well. And then one day he says something like ‘Wildlife TV programmes are so boring’ – and I realize I don’t. I realize I should have waited for him to paint his own picture, but I’ve been so needy I haven’t even given him time to reach for a brush.

Nat King Cole singing ‘When I Fall In Love’ is drifting out of Mira’s bedroom as I give the final rub to the lino directly opposite the toilet seat. Sitting on that seat I have, for some time now, noticed that some dust has been gathering where the lino meets the wall. I have watched it accumulating with a vague lack of interest. Now I have to use a cloth to extricate the more persistent bits. As soon as I have done this I realize that, when James Mitchel uses the loo, he will probably be facing the opposite direction. So more cleaning is required, including under the loo seat itself. Dust there would be a dead giveaway. Evidence of the current marked absence of men in my life.

I’m about to go into the kitchen to make myself a cuppa, when I notice the sofa. The cheap sofa that doesn’t know how to behave itself. Mira and I have been meaning to get a new one for ages. I go over to it purposefully and start to tussle with its cushions, bashing them into some kind of shape while reprimanding them sternly.

‘You are not to slide and sag gradually until you reach the floor this evening,’ I tell them. ‘I know it’s a little game you like, but you’ve done it once too often.’

‘Is someone there? Who are you talking to?’ Mira calls out.

‘No – no – I was just – just…’ I decide to come clean. ‘I was just telling the sofa to behave itself.’

Mira lets out a low groan, but says nothing.

Having dealt with the sofa I sit on it and take stock.

Oh dear – I should have asked if there is anything James doesn’t eat. I’ve seen him eating a chicken sandwich in the college canteen, so he can’t be vegetarian. I know, I’ll buy some ‘Chicken Louisiana’ from the deli in the supermarket. It’s all prepared and you just have to cook it. It should be OK with boil-in-the-bag basmati rice and salad. And garlic bread. I mustn’t forget the garlic bread.

And ice-cream. And my vase. I mustn’t forget some freesias for my vase. And I must remember to take my personal  growth books into my bedroom – especially
Chronically Single
. The litany of ‘must dos’ starts to drone on in my head like the BBC Radio 4 shipping forecast.

James Mitchel is late. As I wait for him I wander edgily around the sitting-room. I’m trying to pretend that I am a visitor and seeing it for the first time. Lots of people say this cottage has a kind of country charm, but I’m never quite sure if they mean it. There’s lots of pine and plants and colourful cushions, and Mira is very good at finding pretty hand-crafted accessories and nice lampshades. I tend to be drawn towards objects that are bright and playful – like that antique tin toy motorbike and luridly coloured collection of Disney pencil sharpeners. Mira calls them my ‘Kitsch Collection’. Sarah says they’re presents for my ‘inner child’. I have ‘a lot of the inner child about me’ she says, which is perhaps just  as well, because I’m not at all sure if I’ll ever have an outer one.