Love Among the Single Classes (12 page)

‘Conce, do you honestly think he's right for you? Because
it doesn't sound like it, the way you tell it. You make it sound hell.'

‘Look, right from the beginning I was certain that he was – well, saving your presence, Paul – the one man I'd been waiting for. I stumbled on him like a well in the desert and could hardly believe my luck. He was clever and attractive and he needed me.'

‘So? What's gone wrong?'

‘I don't know … in fact I never know whether I'm imagining it all. One time we'll meet and it's just fantastic and I'm up and flying … the next time it'll be awkward and stiff with long silences and it all seems like my fault and I come away feeling a complete fool.'

‘He sounds like a sadist to me. One of those types who gets a kick out of proving his power over women because he can't actually make a go of a relationship.'

‘Darling, don't,
don't
say that! You put my nightmares into words and I can't bear it!'

‘Has he said he's in love with you? Can you talk about your feelings?'

‘Never. I don't know why but that's taboo. I've never said I love him and he of course hasn't either, and doesn't, I think, love me.'

‘But he fucks you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Earth-moving stuff?'

‘Paul that's an odd sort of question to ask!'

‘Think of us as just good friends. Is he a good fuck, or are you a
real
masochist?'

‘He's a good fuck.'

‘Now listen my dear ex-wife … no, don't look like that. I'm not being patronizing. I'm extremely fond of you and I flatter myself I still know you pretty well. Here, might as well finish the bottle. You are, if I may say so, a sexual innocent. Apart from me, and not counting the gropers in the back row who preceded me, you haven't been to bed with a great many men, I would think?'

‘Depends what you …'

‘Don't muck about, love. Have you?'

‘No.'

‘And especially not lately?'

‘Some. Well, I suppose not that many.'

‘Which makes you a pushover for any bloke with a hard-on and a passable line in intellectual chat. But apart from bed – yeah, I take your word on that – what do you have in common? Hobbies? Friends? Bird-watching? Does he like the kids? Make you laugh? Constance … whatever … sweetheart for God's sake don't cry.'

He gets up and beckons me over to the lumpy old sofa that has always sat in a corner of the breakfast room, where the children did their homework and cuddled cats and quarrelled with each other; and I get up too and fold myself into his familiar lap, and there I lay my head against his shoulder and cry and cry. I cry for us, so fond and close and irretrievably apart; I cry for me and Iwo, so much hope and love going to waste; and finally I cry for me, for the black pit of fear and loneliness and humiliation that yawns in my unwanted unmarried state. I cry for a friend, a lover, a husband.

When at last I have finished crying, Paul kisses my hot, swollen eyes and says, ‘Every instinct tells me to make it better by taking you upstairs to our room and our bed; but it isn't
our
bed any longer, and I would make that lady waiting for me back home very unhappy if I did. But Constance, listen to me. If something's right, you
know
it's right … because it's easy, not difficult; relaxed, not tense; funny, not miserable. Because you're not in awe of the guy, like some kind of superhero, you know his faults and his weaknesses and you love him for them. When something's wrong it's no good torturing yourself. And you do know, really, that this one is wrong.'

‘Paul, you don't understand. I know all that… and I love him. I just totally, helplessly, beyond my control, even against my will, love him.'

‘Now you sound like a Barbara Cartland heroine. “But sire – or papa, or my Lord, or whatever – I love this man.” “Why
then, Mistress Constance, he shall be thine!” Snap out of it, silly cow, and come back to real life; since apart from making yourself a misery, you're not doing my children a lot of good. Stop languishing in some romantic novel and start being a real, funny, liberated human being again. Next time Lulu and I have people round for dinner do you want to come along?'

‘God forbid! One advertising man is more than enough for a lifetime!'

‘Thank God for that … you sound like yourself again! Don't be rude and I'll see if lurking anywhere in my limited circle of acquaintances there might be someone quite uncontaminated by the advertising world.'

And so we kiss and part; and for a few days my sense of perspective is restored and I feel better, even quite indignant with Iwo. I hold brisk imaginary conversations with him in which I say, Stop mucking me about, Iwo and tell me what's going on! What do you actually feel for me, if anything? or, even more bravely, Who
are
all these Polish women who make such a fuss whenever you put in an appearance – Joanna and Marina and God knows who else?

Until he rings; and on the phone he is nice to me, his voice is tender and he says he's been thinking about me and needs to see me. Immediately the old addiction floods through my veins again, and my mind is clouded with the heady knowledge that I shall see him within less than forty-eight hours. Paul's sensible advice seems utterly misguided and irrelevant.

Iwo is uncanny. He knows the precise moment when he has pushed me to the edge; when I could almost bring myself to say that our relationship is making me unhappy and we had better stop … and at that moment, he will become gentle and attentive, full of little hints about what we can do together in the spring. These moments expunge all my past doubts. I reproach myself for having been foolish, self-indulgent, introspective; for failing to make allowances, expecting too much, too soon. After such a meeting my mind races away to the opposite extreme. I am
buoyant, confident, positively audacious. I may even overreach myself to the point of telephoning him. If I do, I am punished. He's out, and some strong, casual Australian voice doesn't know where he is; sometimes, not even
who
he is.

‘Iwo? Who's he? Monty? Hey you guys, anyone know a fellow called Monty? Sheila here says he's Polish … What do you want with a Pole, lady? No, don't answer that! You want to leave a message?'

But that is the lesser of the two evils. It's worse when I ring and he does come to the phone.

‘Yes, hello?'

‘Iwo, hello, yes, are you there? It's me, Constance …'

‘Yes, hello Constance.'

‘I, well, just wanted to say hello, you know, and …'

‘Yes?'

‘Oh Iwo you are hopeless on the telephone! I just wanted to chat. What've you been doing this week? Shall I see you at the weekend?'

‘This week has been much the same as all the others and yes, if you like we can meet at the weekend.'

From this cheerless conversation I retire humiliated, angry with myself and him. If I am interrupting something, why doesn't he say so? Maybe he can't. Maybe Joanna is at his elbow, blowing on his ear and smiling, centimetres away from my little pleading voice. If I'm not interrupting anything, why can't he make amiable conversation for five minutes? This man has now made love to me a dozen times, yet he still can't be civil on the telephone.

On the spur of the moment I decide to go and talk to Marina. She has known him for years and, despite having been his pupil, she manages to treat him as an equal. She's the obvious person to turn to for advice. She's practically a stranger to
me
but the important thing is that she knows
him
. If anyone can provide clues to the riddle of Iwo, she can. I grab a book, my purse, coat – so different from the preparation for meeting him – and I'm off.

I don't know the club's address, and wouldn't normally be
able to find my way there after just one visit. But I only have to recall that evening when Iwo brought me there, what I wore, where we met, and the rest follows naturally. I remember everything. I am a little abashed at entering this Polish haven without him, but this is submerged in the much greater fear that I may find him there. He is not.

As I reach the foot of the stairs Marina sees me, and a wonderful curving smile lights up her face.

‘Oh, it's Monty's friend!' she says. ‘I did so
hope
you would come back. I want to talk with you.'

‘Me too: are you busy? Can we sit and talk now? Look, you must call me Constance … and please, can we call him Iwo? Monty sounds strange.'

‘Constance: yes, of course. If more customers come I may have to leave you, but sit here and I'll get some coffee and pastries.'

Marina takes charge of the conversation, and doesn't allow me to feel embarrassed or intrusive.

‘I was so glad when I met you that Monty – sorry, I
will
remember! –
Iwo
had found a good woman to love him. It is so necessary for a man. They are bad alone. For him, he makes this big step, he leaves Poland, and for what? He is poor and bored with a stupid job and …'

‘It's not such a stupid job. You know he mends violins and things?'

‘Is that what he tells you? Well, probably I should not say different: but the truth is, he packs for a musical instrument shop. Guitars and pop music things, they sell. He packs them in paper and cardboard for being sent away. How should he mend them? He knows nothing about instruments!'

I am dumb with the poignancy of Iwo's deception. To have gone from being an economics professor to a violin mender would have been bad enough; now I find he has actually had to go lower still. No wonder he can't make small talk about his working life. How crass I've been! Clumsy, tactless – oh,
fool
.

‘It is not important. Look: I am a waitress. There is a
famous Polish writer who is often in here. He works as a postman. We all have to start right down. But Iwo: his mental state is bad, do you think?'

‘Marina, I don't know. He isn't an easy man to get to know. Is he usually more cheerful?'

‘No, not that. Professor Zaluski was never cheerful. But he used to be full of fire and beliefs, always talking about his work, having great big arguments with his students. He was very outspoken against the authorities … ever since I can remember, not just when everyone suddenly got brave. And now … he is very bitter, don't you find?'

‘I thought it was
me.'

‘You? No, Constance, I think he is better since you. I tried to help him, to make him look forward instead of back, always, always back, to Poland.'

‘Ah. Yes. I wondered about that. So you did … well, I mean, did you … sorry. I'm being rude.'

‘No. I will tell you, because if I tell you the truth then you may believe there was no more. Yes, when we first found each other here, soon after he had arrived, yes, I went back to his room with him. It was strange for me. He was my professor once, and he is the age of my father. But he had known my fiancé – I had been a classmate with his daughter: Henryka, the older one – and it was as though all the people we had left behind in Lodz were suddenly concentrated into just the two of us. So: yes, I made love with him. But it was only comfort we wanted, not sex. After that we could be just friends.'

‘How can you be sure he felt the same?'

‘I think so. Anyway, I have my boyfriend now, an
English
boyfriend, so it is no longer possible. And now he has you.'

‘But does he want me?'

‘Why not? Do you want him?'

‘Oh Marina … you've no idea how much!'

‘Well, all you must do is give him the things he needs. Comfort. Warmth. Love. Do you have children? It is nice if he is in a home sometimes. And let him have a nice time
… you know, let him enjoy. He is too serious.'

‘But does he want all that? He's so remote and … He frightens me.'

‘Yes, he frightens me too. I think he frightens himself. Iwo I think is in love with our country, only he didn't know this until he had gone. He is like many Poles: I see it here, all the time. They become such patriots when they are away from Poland! But he can't go back, he must accept that his life is here. I have a nice English boyfriend who will marry me if I want to, and that makes me feel that I can belong here. Perhaps you do the same for Iwo?'

I am intrigued, though not surprised, to learn that she has a boyfriend. He must be unusual to attract her. She has already experienced so much: no ordinary, conventional Englishman would appeal to her. I'd like to ask more about him, but my immediate curiosity is focused on Iwo. I long to know more about his earlier life – what was his wife like? Did he sleep with his students? But just then a group of people comes in wanting to have a meal, and Marina has to look after them. I smile gratefully at her, and leave my phone number on a piece of paper.

As I prepare to go she seizes my hand and says, ‘You will come back and see me again, won't you Constance?'

‘I will, I will … thank you so much!'

Outside on the cold street I realize I am only a few hundred yards away from his house. Dare I go and visit him? I walk towards his street and stand a few doors down from the house, looking at it. I walk round to the back of the square, trying to make out which is his window and whether a light burns in his room. My heart thuds with nervous anticipation. This is ridiculous, I think, either stay and offer the comfort Marina says he needs, or go back home to Kate, but don't stand gazing up at what is probably the wrong window. I walk purposefully back to the house and ring the doorbell. A blast of light and raucous laughter. The Australians are there in force. Their noisy gusto pauses as they look at me expectantly.

‘We do anything for you, lady?'

‘Is … have you seen? … well, I wondered if Iwo, or Monty, is in?'

‘I know you! The lady who's always on the telephone! Why don't you go up and take a look? Know which is his room? Yes, of course you do! Go on: give him a nice surprise!'