A Day in the Life of a Smiling Woman (15 page)

He paused, as they reached the bar, having shaken off their pursuer.

‘You’re not alone, are you?’ he then said, turning to her
with an amazing predictable heavy old-world gallantry. ‘It’s not possible that the best-looking and most intelligent woman in the room could have come here alone, is it?’

‘Yes, I’m alone,’ said Kathie.

‘Where’s your man, then?’

‘He’s in Hungary,’ said Kathie.

‘I’ve had enough of this party,’ said Howard Jago. ‘Let’s get out of it, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I don’t know …’ said Kathie. ‘I should say goodbye …’

‘There’s no need to say goodbye,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s get out.’

She hesitated.

He took her arm.

She went.

They went downstairs and looked for a taxi: they found one easily, as it was that kind of district. They got into it. Then he said, again as though in a play or a film written by some playwright infinitely inferior to either of them, ‘Where shall we go, to my place or yours?’

‘Yours,’ she said. ‘But only for a little while. I have to get home. I’ve a script conference in the morning.’ She was lying.

‘Jesus,’ he said, looking at her legs, actually moving the skirt of her dress so that he could look at her legs, ‘you’ve got a beautiful pair of legs.’

‘They’re nothing special,’ she said, which was true.

They arrived at his hotel, just off Bond Street. They got out, and went into the hotel, and up to his room. He asked the night porter to bring them a drink.

The room was large and expensive. Kathie sat in a chair. So did he. They drank the drink, and talked about the party, and about the people at it – their host, and Georgina, and various other playwrights, and the actress he had made so unhappy in New York the year before. Kathie knew exactly what she
was doing: nothing on earth would induce her to get into that bed. She made it clear, as one does make it clear. They laughed a lot, and rang for some more drinks and a sandwich, and talked a lot of nonsense. She felt him move away. He had sense, after all. And when she said she ought to go, he looked at her, and said, ‘Ah, I’m too old for you, you know.’

But he can’t have said this with much conviction, or she wouldn’t have responded with the awful line she then delivered (which she had said, years before, to an Italian actor in Rome) – ‘You shouldn’t try,’ she said, smiling falsely, ‘to seduce innocent girls from the country.’

He laughed, also falsely. She kissed him: they parted.

She went down and got a taxi and was in bed and asleep in half an hour.

And that is the end of the story. They were to meet again, over the years, at similar parties, and he was to remark again upon her legs and her looks. They never had any serious conversation. But that isn’t part of the story.

The point is: what did she think about this episode? She emerges not too badly from it, anyone would agree. She behaved coolly but not censoriously: she said some silly things, but who doesn’t in such a silly situation? She had no regrets on her own behalf, though a few on behalf of that sixteen-year-old girl who had somehow just missed the opportunity of a lifetime. She had grown up so differently from what she had imagined. And she had some regrets about her image of the man. It was spoiled, she had to admit it (not quite forever, because oddly enough some years later she went to see one of his early plays and felt such waves of admiration flowing through her, drowning her resentments, as though his old self were still speaking, and she listening, in some other world without ages). But for years and years, she thought she was never going to be able to take his work seriously again,
and when she described the evening to Dan, she was so rude about him and his boorish chauvinist masculine behaviour that Dan, who usually sided with her and was as indignant as she was about such matters, actually began to feel quite sorry for Howard Jago, and to take his part.
Poor
Mr Jago, he would say, fondly, whenever his name came up,
poor
Mr Jago, he would say, lying safely between Kathie’s legs,
what
a disappointing evening, I feel quite sorry for him, picking you, my love.

But that isn’t all. It ought to be all, but it isn’t. For Kathie, when she told the story to Dan, was lying. She tried to lie when she told it to herself, but she didn’t quite succeed. She was an honest woman, and she knew perfectly well that she had received more of a thrill through being picked up by Howard Jago at a party, even picked up as she had been, casually, to annoy another woman – she had received more of a thrill from this than she would have got from any discussion, however profound, of his work and hers. She would trade the whole of his work, willingly, and all the lasting pleasure it had given, for that silly remark he had made about her legs. She would rather he fancied her, however casually, than talked to her. She would rather he liked her face than her plays.

It’s an awful thing to say, but she thought of his face, looking at her, heavy, drunk, sexy, battered, knowing, and wanting her, however idly: and it gave her a permanent satisfaction, that she’d been able to do that to him, that she’d been able to make a man like him look at her in that way. It was better than words, better than friendship.

It’s an awful thing to say, but that’s how some women are. Even nice, sensible, fulfilled, happy women like Kathie Jones. She would try to excuse herself, sometimes: she would say, I’m only like this because I was a plain child, I need reassurance. But she couldn’t fool herself. Really, she knew that she
was just a woman, and that’s how some women are.

Some people are like that. Some men are like that, too. Howard Jago was exactly like that. People like admiration more than anything. Whatever can one do about it? Perhaps one shouldn’t say this kind of thing. One ought not to have said such things, even five years ago, about a woman like Kathie Jones. The opposite case, for political reasons, had to be stated. (This is only a story, and Howard Jago didn’t really hate women, any more than Kathie hated men.) But Kathie Jones is all right now. The situation is different, the case is made. We can say what we like about her now, because she’s all right. I think.

(1972)

8

A Day in the Life of a Smiling Woman

There was once this woman. She was in her thirties. She was quite famous, in a way. She hadn’t really meant to be famous: it had just happened to her, without very much effort on her part. Sometimes she thought about it, a little bewildered, and said to herself, This is me, Jenny Jamieson, and everybody knows it’s me.

Her husband was quite famous, too, but only to people who knew what he was doing. He was famous in his own world. He was the editor of a weekly, and so he had quite a pull with certain kinds of people. It was through his pull, really, that Jenny had got her job. She was getting bored, the little child was at nursery school and the big ones at big school, so he had looked about for her and asked a few friends and found her a nice little job at a television station. But he hadn’t quite bargained for how she would catch on. Everybody had always thought Jenny was pretty – in fact, she’d been a very recognizable type for years, had Jenny: pretty, a little restless, driven into the odd moment of malice by boredom, loving her children, cooking dinners, flirting a little (or possibly more) with her husband’s friends and old lovers. She deserved a little job. But when she got going, when she got on the screen, she was transformed. She became, very quickly, beautiful. It took a few weeks, while she experimented with hairstyles and clothes and facial expressions.
And suddenly, she was a beauty, and total strangers talked of her with yearning. And that wasn’t all, either. She was also extremely efficient. Now, she always had been efficient; she’d always been able to get all the courses of a four-course meal onto the table, perfectly cooked, at the right moment. She was never late to collect children from school, she never forgot their dinner money or their swimming things, she never ran out of sugar or lavatory paper or sellotape. So people shouldn’t have been surprised at the way she settled down to work.

She was never late. She never forgot appointments. She never forgot her briefing. She began quietly, interviewing people about cultural events in a spot in an arts programme, and she always managed to say the right things to everyone; she never offended and yet never made people dull. She was intelligent and quick, she had sympathy for everyone she talked to, and all the time she looked so splendid, sitting there shining and twinkling. Everyone admired her, nobody disliked her. In no time at all, she had her own programme, and she was able to do whatever she fancied on it. She used to invite the strangest people to be interviewed, and she would chat to them, seriously, earnestly, cheerfully. She told everybody that she loved her job, that she was so lucky, that it fitted in so well with the children and her husband, that she didn’t have to be out too much. It’s a perfect compromise, she would say, smiling. She didn’t take herself very seriously – it’s just an entertainment, she would say. I’ve been lucky, she would say. All I do is have the chats I’d love to have at home, and I get paid to do it. Lovely!

Her husband did not like this state of affairs at all. He became extremely bad-tempered, never came home if he could avoid it and yet would never commit himself to being out, because he did not want to make Jenny’s life any easier. He
wanted to make it as difficult as possible. So he would arrive unexpectedly and depart unexpectedly. He stopped bringing his friends home. He made endless unpleasant remarks and innuendoes about Jenny’s colleagues in the television world, as though he had forgotten that he had introduced her to them in the first place. Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night and hit her. He would accuse her of neglecting him and the children. She was not quite sure how this had all happened. It didn’t seem to have much to do with her, and yet she supposed it must be her fault. At night, when it was dark, she used to think it was her fault, but in the morning she would get up and go on smiling.

Then, one night, she came back from work, as she usually did on Wednesday evenings, late, tired. She noticed, as she parked the car outside the house, that the downstairs lights were still on, and she was sorry, because she did not feel like talking. She was too tired. She would have quite liked to talk about her programme, because it had been interesting – she had been talking to a South African banned politician about the problems of political education – but her husband never watched the programme these days. She found her key, opened the front door. Her head ached. She was upset, she had to admit it, about South Africa. Sometimes she thought she ought to go and do something about these things that upset her. But what? She pushed open the living-room door, and there was her husband, lying on the settee. He was listening to a record and reading.

She smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said.

He did not answer. She took off her coat and hung it over the back of a chair. She was going to make herself a milk drink, as she usually did, and go straight to bed. But just for the moment, she was too tired to move. She had had a long day, so she stood there, resting, thinking of the walk to the kitchen
and how comfortable it would be to get into bed. She was just about to ask her husband if he would like a drink too – though he never did, he didn’t like milk and coffee kept him awake – when a strange thing happened. Her husband put down his book and looked up at her, with an expression of real hatred, and said, ‘I suppose you’re standing there waiting for me to offer to make you a drink, aren’t you?’

Now, the truth was that he had hardly ever made her a drink, in the evening after work, so she could not possibly have been expecting such a thing. He had done so perhaps three times in the last six months. The thought of his offering to get up and make her a drink had never crossed her mind. So she answered, politely. ‘No, I was just going to ask you if you would like one.’ And then an even stranger thing happened. For no sooner were the words out of her mouth than a rage so violent possessed her, as though an electric current had been driven through her, that she began to shake and scream. She screamed at him for some time, and he lay there morosely, watching her, as though satisfied that he had by accident pressed the right button.

Then she calmed down and went and made her drink and went to bed. But as she lay down, she felt as though she had had some kind of shock treatment, that she had suffered brain damage and that she would never be the same again. Let us not exaggerate. This was not the first time that this kind of thing had nearly happened to her. But this time it had happened, and the difference between its nearly happening and its happening was enormous. She was a different woman. She went to bed a different woman.

In the morning, she woke up, as usual, at about half-past seven, and thought of the day ahead. Every day, she got up regularly at a quarter to eight, and gave the children their breakfast. Various people, including her husband, suggested
from time to time that she should engage somebody to help her with these things, but she always said that she preferred to do them herself, she liked to be with the children and she did not like other people to see her at that hour in the morning. Also, she would say, smiling disbelievingly, I’m afraid I might get lazy. If I give myself half an excuse, I might get lazy and stay in bed.

On this particular morning, it did cross her mind that she might stay in bed all day. I really do not see the point of carrying on, she thought, as she lay there and remembered what had happened to her the night before. I cannot possibly win, she thought. Whatever I do, I will lose, that is certain. I might as well stay in bed.

But no, she thought, it is more honourable to fight to the death.

So she got out of bed.

She had not often thought in these terms before. Rather, she used to say to herself, If death were announced, I would continue, like a saint, to sweep the floor. She had not thought, much, of winning or losing or battlefields.