The Accidental Woman Part 5

'Twenty-five pounds is nothing,' said Bobby. 'I paid forty-two pounds for a meal last Friday and it never even came! Two and a half hours I waited at the table and they didn't even bring me a starter. And even if they had, it wouldn't have been as good as this because this couldn't be better. Happy any man,' he concluded, 'whose wife could cook him such a beautiful meal.'

'Hear hear,' said Ronny.

'Rather,' said William.

'When are you going to get married then, Robert?' Dorothy asked, shortly after the arrival of the second course. It comprised sauteed veal scaloppine with marsala, and two side dishes, namely zucchini fried in flour and water batter and, which was a special treat, gratineed Jerusalem artichokes. They accompanied it with a rather expensive Soave.

'I'm not sure that I ever want to get married,' said Bobby. 'After all, I think it would be true to say, that everybody seated around this table has serious reservations about marriage, of one sort or another, yes?'

'Yes,' said Dorothy.

'Reservations,' said Bobby, 'based on close observation and rational thinking.'

'Or personal experience,' said Dorothy, with a sidelong glance to her left. Subtlety was not one of her virtues.

'"Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures,'" quoted Sarah, coming to her friend's defence. 'Isn't there something in that?'

'Johnson lived in a less enlightened age,' somebody said.

'How ironic, then,' said somebody else, 'that it should have been called the Age of Enlightenment.'

'I wonder what age we are living in now.'

'This is the age of consent.'

Everybody laughed, including the speaker, but they had after all been drinking for nearly an hour. Dorothy, who had her mouth full at the time, spilled food all over the tablecloth. Sophistication, like subtlety was not one of her virtues.

Maria now served a large bowl of fruit, apples, pears, bananas, grapes, nectarines, mango, cantaloupe and apricots, soaked overnight in orange and lemon juice and flavoured with maraschino liqueur. There was enough for everyone to have two helpings. Silence gradually took the place of conversation, as it began to dawn on them all that they had consumed an amount of food that was, to be honest, grotesque. Each, independently, was seized with a sudden desire never to get out of their chairs again for the rest of their lives.

'That's the lot,' said Ronny, emptying the last droplets of wine into Maria's gla.s.s.

'No more wine?' said Sarah sleepily, her head lolling against William's shoulder.

Maria happened to know that Dorothy had another bottle of red in her bedroom, but didn't ask her to get it, for she also knew that generosity, like sophistication and subtlety, was not one of her virtues.

Bobby and Maria went into the kitchen to make coffee. They sat at the table and talked while waiting for the kettle to boil.

'Well, Bobby, it sounds as though you are doing all right at last.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, you must be earning a penny or two to be able to afford restaurants which charge forty-two pounds.'

'Oh, that. Yes.' But finally he confessed, 'Maria, I'm in trouble again. I've run out of money, and the bank are starting to lean hard on me.'

Maria tutted.

'I'm not lending you any more money. I have enough trouble keeping this place up without giving it all away to my brother. And you know that you never pay it back.'

'Is that your last word, then?' Bobby asked.

'Yes.'

They relapsed into a sullen silence, which was soon interrupted by the entrance of Dorothy.

'Come to do the washing up?' Maria asked.

'Bog off,' said Dorothy. (Delicacy, like generosity, sophistication and subtlety, was not one of her virtues.) 'I want a gla.s.s of water.'

'Maria,' said Bobby, when she had gone, 'do you remember that night in Oxford, when I was staying with you? And I went out at night, and didn't come back till four in the morning?'

'Of course I remember.'

'Did you ever wonder where I'd been?'

'Of course I wondered. You know I did. Why?'

'Well, if you were to lend me a little money just fifty pounds, that's all then I might tell you what happened.'

Maria wrote her brother a cheque, but as soon as he had folded it and put it away in a pocket, she knew that she had been tricked.

'I'll tell you when I've cashed it,' he said. 'Honestly. I promise.'

He left the kitchen just as Ronny was coming in. He had come to slip in a quick proposal of marriage before going home. Maria refused, more kindly than she had used to do, and when she showed him out, she kissed him goodbye.

Bobby and William left together, since they lived in the same part of London. There was more kissing, both formal and tender. Dorothy was not in on this, having fallen into a drunken stupor on her bed, after making successive and fruitless pa.s.ses at all three men, on the pretext of asking them into her bedroom to mend her alarm clock. Virtue was not one of her virtues.

That left Maria and Sarah, alone in front of the fire, as so often before.

'What a lovely evening,' said Sarah.

Maria had no grounds for disagreement.

'What a beautiful day it's been.'

This, on the other hand, seemed slightly too rhapsodic. All she would concede was, 'Yes, I quite enjoyed it.'

'Today' said Sarah slowly, 'has been the happiest day of my life so far.'

Maria looked at her in surprise. 'Really?'

'Yes.' She smiled at her friend's astonishment. 'Can you not guess why?'

Maria said nothing.

'While you were in the kitchen, with Robert, and while Dorothy was in her bedroom, with Ronny, I was in here, with William. He proposed to me.' She stood up. 'We're going to be married.'

8. A Great Day for Ronny.

Spring that year was rainy. Maria rarely had the inclination so much as to step outside, whether to go for walks or to visit friends or to see plays or films. Instead she would sit on her bed, staring blankly at the drizzle and waiting for the time to pa.s.s. Many, many weekends were spent like this. She could hear Dorothy, occupying herself in the other rooms, busy with guests, or records, or the television, or some other form of amus.e.m.e.nt. Very occasionally Maria would join her, and they would exchange broken sentences, but more often she would wait until Dorothy had gone out before venturing into another part of the flat, for it no longer made sense to pretend that they liked each other very much. To be fair to Dorothy Maria was not a very likeable person under these circ.u.mstances, and to be fair to Maria, Maria realized this full well, but found herself for weeks unable to break out of a state of cold languor, a mood of wearied acceptance of whatever garbage life elected to throw at her. In the office they stopped using the nickname Moody Mary, as betokening too much affection, and instead began to consider ways of getting rid of her.

There was, in fact, another reason, besides Maria's general disagreeableness, for the deterioration of her relations with her flatmate. This was that Dorothy, tired, I suppose, of going to bed with a succession of different men, and charmed, no doubt, by Maria's physical attractions which, in case I didn't mention it before, have, throughout this book, been considerable, although I won't go into details, impressed, I repeat, desperately trying to pull the threads together, coming to the point at last, by these, she attempted to seduce her.

The mouths of my male readers have perhaps begun to water at the imminent prospect of a t.i.tillating tableau. I'm sorry, for their sakes, to have to say that this will not be forthcoming. Dorothy's approach was extremely direct (sophistication, subtlety etc., not being, etc., as explained in the previous chapter), and, so much the better for me, exclusively verbal. She introduced the subject one evening in early April, a bright, wet evening on which for some reason or other Maria chose not to retire to her bedroom immediately after dinner, but to sit quietly on the sofa, gazing with tired eyes in the general direction of her own feet. Dorothy was reading a magazine, but her heart obviously wasn't in it, for she laid it down after flicking through its pages for a few minutes in an att.i.tude of signalled carelessness.

'Heigh ho,' she said (and if you believe that then you will, I rejoice to think, believe anything), 'time pa.s.ses slowly sometimes, doesn't it?'

Maria nodded, faintly.

'Do you miss Sarah, Maria?'

'Yes, I do, sometimes.'

'Poor Maria,' said Dorothy, with a pitying smile, and sounding more like Charlotte every minute. 'I feel for you. Life is so empty for you now. I wish there were more sparkle in your life.'

'I'm all right,' said Maria, contemplating retreat.

'You don't have a lover, do you, Maria?'

'No.'

'Not even someone whom you would like to love? Not even a glint in your eye?'

Maria apparently did not consider this question worth answering.

'I have a glint in my eye, though.'

Maria looked up, and found that this was indeed true. She began to feel slightly uncomfortable.

'I'm surprised you don't have a boy friend, Maria. You're very beautiful.' The preliminaries were over, and Dorothy came straight to the point. 'Maria, let's go to bed now, and make love.'

Maria raised an eyebrow.

'Are you serious?'

'Of course I'm serious. Let's explore each other's bodies, there's nothing on the television.'

'Thank you, I'd rather not.'

Appalled as she was by the proposition, Maria did not yet move. She was interested to hear the explanation for this new development in Dorothy's behaviour.

'But why not?' said Dorothy.

'Because I'm not attracted to you. You're a woman.'

'Oh Maria, how can you be so narrow-minded! Where's your sense of adventure? I'm asking you to travel with me, to reaches of physical pleasure where no man can take us. I'm asking you to demonstrate the independence of our s.e.x. We might achieve an ecstasy we've never felt before, and at the very worst we'll have made a valid political statement. Where's your self-respect? I want to lead you down a s.e.xual avenue which it's every woman's duty to explore. Why won't you come with me?'

Maria had been about to say, 'Because it's a cul-de-sac', but changed it to, 'Because of the No Entry signs', which I think you will agree is wittier and is, in fact, the only recorded instance of her ever having made a humorous remark. It annoyed Dorothy no end. She took the magazine and threw it across the room in a gesture of disgust.

'It's no wonder you're lonely, Maria. It's no wonder everybody hates you.'

With that she ran into her bedroom and slammed the door. Maria sat pondering her last words.

One consequence of this incident was that Maria took a resolution which had long been brewing. She decided that it was time to find a third person to share the flat. She and Dorothy had agreed, when Sarah had first moved out to live with her husband, that they should only attempt to find a new tenant if it should become financially imperative. That time, Maria felt, was fast approaching, but she now also felt a need simply for further companionship. Why I say 'simply' I don't know, because such needs, common to all but a happy few, are far from simple, and the possible ways of satisfying them are even less so. But Maria seems to have a.s.sumed, with flaccid and, it must be said, entirely uncharacteristic optimism, that it would be feasible to find a replacement with whom friendly or at least pleasant relations might be enjoyed. She had perhaps in mind a woman of about her own age (Maria is now twenty-nine). However, Dorothy had other ideas.

'Well, I don't see why we shouldn't try to find someone,' she conceded, when Maria suggested it to her over breakfast the next morning. 'But I don't think we should advertise. We don't want to take anybody who might happen to come in off the streets. Did you have anyone in mind?'

'No.'

'None of your friends? But I forgot, you have so few friends. Well, you'll just have to let me think about it, and we'll see what can be done.'

That evening Dorothy returned from work in a mood of excitement.

'I've found just the person, Maria,' she said.

'Who is she?'

'His name's Albert. You wouldn't mind that he's a man, would you?'

'Not if he's nice. How did you meet him?'

'At work.'

'Is he a new colleague?'

'No, he's a patient.'

Dorothy, I should inform you, worked at a hospice for recovering alcoholics.

'A patient? What makes you think he'd be suitable?'

'Maria, he told me his whole story today. It's pitiful. The tears were streaming from my eyes, you never heard anything so tragic. He's absolutely homeless and hasn't got a friend in the world. He only ever to took to drink because he had n.o.body to love him or care for him. You've never seen such a poor lonely old man.'

'Old? How old?'

'He's seventy-four.'

'Dorothy, this isn't a hospital. It's not a geriatric unit. It's a flat. It's a home.'

'Maria, don't be so heartless. A home is exactly, what he needs.'

'Well, I think it sounds a horrible idea. I'm sorry I even suggested finding someone. I warn you, I shall be furious if you try to bring that man in here.'

The words came with difficulty to her lips, for fury was in fact an emotion of which she was no longer capable, and to compound the problem she was a poor actress. Nevertheless, she believed that she had made her position clear, and that Dorothy would respect it. In this she was mistaken. For, arriving home rather late from work the next day, she was immediately struck, upon opening the front door, by a peculiar smell. It was hard to define exactly but years later, searching for words in which to describe it, Maria said that it was almost as if a small herd of cattle had arrived, reeking of whiskey, and used the sitting room as a latrine. A grizzled old man, dressed awkwardly in new, ill-fitting clothes, was sitting on the sofa drinking from a mug of tea. He stood up when she entered, introduced himself as Albert, told Maria that she must be Maria, and said how much he liked his new room. Maria went to find Dorothy and they had a short, inconclusive argument. Maria then lay on her bed for the rest of the evening. She felt a slow chill steal over her.