Wise Follies (32 page)

‘He’s an architect,’ I answer protectively. ‘And he’s very, very good at it.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ says James with an enigmatic smile.

‘Yes he took it up after Trinity. He’s worked on some lovely places. Even Prince Charles wouldn’t disapprove.’ I look at Matt hopefully. When dinner guests don’t speak up for themselves I feel impelled to do it for them. Surely my eulogy will have warmed him up a bit. Surely he’s going to say something. He doesn’t.

‘I need a bit of architectural advice about the pottery studio, actually,’ says James. ‘I want to extend it. Maybe Matt might help me with it.’

Matt shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I’m rather busy at the moment,’ he mumbles after what seems a very long and cumbersome pause. ‘I wouldn’t be able to get round to it for quite some time.’

‘There’s no hurry,’ James says slowly. ‘I just thought I’d mention it.’

‘And how kind of you to mention it, James,’ I think. ‘After all, you hardly know this man. It’s typical of you. Typical of your generous, trusting nature.’ I give Matt a reproachful look, but he won’t meet my gaze.

The conversation meanders on in a not very riveting fashion. I begin to wish I’d come clean about my articles. They might have spiced things up a bit. Intimacy is not as easy to rustle up as Chicken Louisiana. Maybe I should have had this dinner with James alone. The candlelight is making him look even more delicious. I wonder if I could get Mira and Matt to go off somewhere so I could feed him the Häagen-Dazs dessert we are currently eating. Slowly. And on a silver spoon.

As Mira goes into the kitchen to make the coffee, Matt moves in a rather dejected manner to the sofa, and James does too.

‘Oh dear,’ I think. ‘Please sofa, behave yourself just this once.’ I sit on the leather armchair.

‘Mira says these paintings are yours.’ James is pointing to some of my landscapes. ‘I was admiring them earlier. They’re very good.’

‘Do you really think so!’ My toes are curling with happiness.

‘Yes, indeed. You should have an exhibition.’

‘Perhaps she could have one at your studio,’ Mira comments, as she returns with the coffee. She’s been trying to encourage me to paint more for some time now, but she shouldn’t have said that to James. It’s far too pushy. I give her a reproachful glance.

‘Thank you, James,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m so glad you like me – I mean my – paintings. They’re just a hobby really.’ I smile, loath to tell him about the short, blunt ‘Thank you, but…’ letters I have received from numerous galleries. ‘Morale is ninety per cent of every victory’ – Tony Benn said once. When it comes to having my paintings ‘taken on’ by a gallery I frequently have to remind myself of this fact. James Mitchel has morale in EU proportions. He’s got piles of it. Almost a surplus. I lean towards him, hoping some of it will drift towards me. ‘I can’t wait to see the pottery samples you’ve brought,’ I add. ‘Shall we look at them now?’

They’re lovely. Each carefully wrapped item that James removes from his Nike sports bag is more beautiful than the last. The colours are gorgeous, and somehow unexpected. They’re light and wonderfully crafted. He’s been showing them to various shops. He already has orders.

‘Do you have any photographs of these?’ I ask. ‘They’d look great in the magazine.’

James reaches into his bag again and takes out a hard-backed envelope, which he hands to me. It contains colour transparencies of his pottery range, and a comprehensive press release.

‘Gosh, you are organized, James!’ I exclaim. I’m pleased, but also slightly disappointed. If I’d had to get photographs done I would have had an excuse to phone him. Arrange for the return of the samples. Ask him questions I see he has already answered in the press release. Still, he has been friendly this evening. We do know each other a little better now. It takes time to know people. I often forget that. It’s like painting a picture of something – you have to look at it. Really look. Be as aware of the shape of the spaces where it isn’t, as of the shape itself.

I look over at James warmly and then I notice something. The space between him and Matt on the sofa seems to have diminished. The sofa cushions don’t normally sag in the middle, but they obviously have thought up a new ruse. And the funny thing is, neither James nor Matt seem uncomfortable with this proximity. They are helping themselves very liberally to more wine. Matt’s been drinking a great deal of wine this evening and it seems to have loosened him up considerably. In fact, he is almost coquettish. Maybe I should go over to him with some Aqua Libra. James is leaning towards him, talking animatedly about something. James has never talked to me like that. His face radiant. Excited. At one point he places a hand on Matt’s arm in an extremely familiar, almost intimate, manner. Their knees are touching. Mira, who has also been following the proceedings, looks over at me. Eyebrows raised.

‘Oh fuck,’ I moan, very softly. The cheery scatter on the dining table now seems like the detritus of some dream. For I now suspect something. In fact I know it. I know that it is Matt who is going to lick mayonnaise off James Mitchel’s inner thigh area.

Even coleslaw – if that’s what he’d prefer.

Chapter
26

Maybe I should just
become a hermit. Move into a shack halfway up a mountain. I could have BBC Radio 4 humming in the background. That would be company, of sorts. There’d be no people to invite to dinner parties. No mayonnaise and no James Mitchel.

I could probably just about support this exile by writing articles for the magazine. Oscillating between features that benefit from a certain distance from the subject matter, such as ‘Why Men are Marvellous’, to more autobiographical offerings: ‘I’ve Tried Celibacy and it Works!’ Or ‘Feeling Sheepish? Then Keep One’.

Becoming an eccentric spinster like Mira also seems quite attractive at the moment. If I am to be an eccentric spinster I’d prefer to do it somewhere warm. A gradual development of, say, strong unfashionable views might be quite bracing. Of course, one doesn’t have to be eccentric to be single. Some of the most sensible women I know are living on their own. It’s just that Mira and I like to do things with a certain dash. We have the cat already, but we’ll need at least another ten to do spinsterhood in style. I’d like to paint wonderful landscapes. I’d have a straw hat too. I’d potter around my garden a lot. My garden
 full of bougainvillea and frangipani and oleander and lavender – and other words you can almost smell. I’d listen to the World Service and fire off letters to its management correcting the announcers’ pronunciations. I’d have a bee in my bonnet about certain words. I might have real bees too. A virile lad from the local village would help me with them, and Mira and I would admire his firm and beautiful young body as he stooped before the hives. Afterwards we’d share tea under the loggia and his dear young face would frown as he talked about his complicated love life. We’d just smile and listen, as if hearing a half-forgotten melody. Sweet but not insistent. Something from long ago.

Another possibility, of course, is following the religious inclinations of Gilbert – my mother’s first love. He became a monk…maybe I should become a nun. I could forget about Eamon’s proposal and become a spiritual bride of Jesus. That would simplify things enormously.

I’m thinking about all this as I sit at my desk. Then I see Gerry. ‘What date is it, Gerry?’ I ask. He stares at me as though I’m talking Swahili. ‘What date is it?’ I repeat. He starts to rummage around his desk for his diary.

‘It’s – it’s the fourth,’ he announces eventually.

‘Thank you.’ I give him a small tight smile.

I hear the steady pad of Humphrey’s Hush Puppies approaching. ‘Can I borrow your stapler for a minute?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘No, you can’t borrow my stapler, Humphrey. Here, I’ve got you one of your own. It’s the same model. I’ve tried it and it works.’ I hand it to him. He seems somewhat startled.

‘Thank you. Thank you, Alice,’ he says. ‘There really was no need.’

‘Yes, there was,’ I think, as he sprints away. Humphrey has been borrowing my stapler for four years. He doesn’t even bring it back. I have to retrieve it.

When Cindi appears she takes one look at me and decides not to comment. ‘Oh shit, I didn’t buy any milk,’ I hear myself say to her.

‘I’ve got some,’ she says. ‘Would you like me to make you a cuppa?’

‘Yes, I would actually,’ I reply, handing her the new mug I’ve bought. It’s got small pink rosebuds on it. Then I yell ‘no sugar’ after her as she scurries away.

Sarah senses something is up almost immediately. I have the kind of face that doesn’t hide things too well. However much I smile my dolphin’s smile, it doesn’t fool people. Not that I am smiling, actually. As I sit down in Sarah’s office I clear my throat, and she asks me if I’m growling.

‘You’ve got your “difficult man” face on today, Alice,’ she says. ‘Would you like to talk about Ea… I mean, it?’

I look at her sharply. She was about to say Eamon, wasn’t she? How does she know about Eamon? I’ve never told her about him. Annie must have told her about my proposal. I guessed as much.

‘What did you want to see me about, Sarah?’ I ask briskly. I just can’t confide in her right now about Eamon or anyone else. I just can’t tell her that any day now Matt will be in West Cork helping James to erect his extension… in more ways than one I’m sure. Matt has found his Wonderful Man. The one I thought was mine. Well, they can both bugger off now as far as I’m concerned.

It happened almost the moment they met, apparently. That vibe I felt between them wasn’t jealousy, it was attraction. An attraction Matt was desperate to hide because he didn’t want to upset me. Well, he has upset me. He rang to apologize, profusely. He said he was determined to be very cool with James, but not talking made him drink far too much and his resolve slipped. He wants to take me out for a meal at a marvellous restaurant. He says he’ll scour the country for a wonderful man for me if I let him. Well, I’m not going to let him. If either James or Matt ever has the cheek to visit me again I’m going to have my new ‘All Men Are Bastards’ diary on prominent display. James Mitchel isn’t even entirely gay – he’s bisexual. He chose Matt over me – despite my new silk blouse.

Anytime I go into Sarah’s office the phone rings almost immediately. As I wait for her to finish her call the headline ‘When the Man You Love is Gay’ flashes in front of me and I realize that if Sarah ever manages to wheedle the whole James Mitchel saga out of me she’ll think it is a great angle for an article. ‘My Man Made Me a Lesbian.’ Yes, that would certainly have loads of oomph too. ‘Can Mr Mediocre be Mr Right?’ Dear God, where are all these headlines coming from? Maybe Sarah is right to use articles that are wildly contradictory. Whatever you write about romance, it will be true for someone.

As soon as Sarah finishes her phone call she looks at me with a slight glint. Her earlier softness seems to have left her.

‘Look, I can’t talk for long,’ she says briskly, as though I’d suggested this meeting in the first place. ‘But I have to have a word with you about your singles dances and personal ads article.’

‘Oh, yes.’ I stare at her nervously. ‘I meant to get that back from you to revise it a bit.’