The Post-Birthday World

chapter three

Spurning her few minutes’ lie-in, Irina was first out of bed the next morning. The rev and horn blare of bumper-to-bumper traffic on Trinity Street had been driving her insane. The relief of being on her own while buying a Daily Telegraph up the street was all too brief. As she ground beans and waited for the milk steamer to spit, the monotony of their morning routine grated. For a moment it had been touch-and-go as to whether she would top up the steamer with bottled water one more time, or shoot herself. At least while she ran through these paces it was unnecessary to look at Lawrence, or talk to Lawrence. Over the Telegraph at the dining table, her eyes glazed once more; sexual intoxication had turned her into an overnight illiterate. An illiterate who never ate and couldn’t work and slept little, so what did you do when you were smitten? You fucked. And that was the one thing she could not do, would not do. Even for a changeling, there were limits.

Lawrence the up-and-at-’em was dawdling. That toast was taking him forever. His coffee was getting cold. For pity’s sake, if he wanted to read The End of Welfare he would concentrate better in his office. It was nearly nine o’clock! As she turned the pages of the paper, it was hard not to slam them. When the minute hand on her watch passed twelve, her chest burst with ludicrous, hurtful, and patently unjustifiable fury. It was Lawrence’s right, was it not, to linger with his “wife” a few minutes before soldiering to an office where he laboured long hours? Had Lawrence ever sat at table enraged by her mere presence, crazed with a desperation to get her out of her own flat, she would die. She would just die.

Still, she couldn’t contain herself. “After having been gone for ten days, I guess you have a lot of work piled up at Blue Sky.” The sentiment might have come off as seminormal, save for the angry quaver in her voice.

“Some,” he allowed. Since rising, she had been convincing herself that Lawrence didn’t know her at all. A sudden vigilance suggested otherwise.

“I wonder if I feel like having another piece of toast,” he supposed.

“Well, do or don’t!” she exploded. “Have a piece, or don’t have one, but don’t faff about deciding! It’s only toast, for God’s sake!”

Numbly, he collected the dishes. “I guess I won’t, then.”

She winced at his sense of injury as if ducking an incoming boomerang. Apparently cruelty hurled at someone you love—whom you used to love until two days ago, or who at any rate didn’t deserve it—has a tendency to whip back round and thump you on the head.

Finally Lawrence gathered his briefcase. Once he stood on the threshold, Irina flooded with remorse. Now that he really was leaving, she kept him at the door with manufactured small-talk, trying to be warm, to do a creditable impression of a helpmate who will be left alone the whole day through and is reluctant to say good-bye.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I’m getting behind on the illustrations for Seeing Red, and I’m anxious to get to work.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“No, of course not. I don’t know, maybe I’m premenstrual.”

“No, you’re not.” Lawrence kept track.

“Peri-menopausal, then. Anyway, I’m sorry. That was totally uncalled for.”

“Yes it was.”

“Please don’t hang on to it!” She squeezed his arm. “I’m very, very sorry.”

His stricken mask broke into a smile. He kissed her forehead, and said he might ring later. All was forgiven. Patching over her outburst had been too easy. She couldn’t tell if Lawrence accepted her apology because he trusted her, or feared her.

She steered clear of the telephone at first, relishing the opportunity to think straight, or if not straight at least alone. Besides, Lawrence could always come back, having forgotten something, and she wouldn’t want to have to explain to whom she was speaking. By nine-thirty, her timing was poor, but Irina couldn’t be bothered with the niceties of Ramsey’s night-owl hours when her whole life was falling apart and that was his fault.

“Hallo?”

Irina deplored callers who failed to identify themselves. “Hi,” she said shyly.

The silence on the other end seemed interminable. Oh, God, maybe what was for her an exotic journey on a magic carpet was for Ramsey a casual grapple on the rug. Maybe he really was the ladies’ man the magazines made him out to be, and she should hang up before she made a bigger fool of herself than she already had.

A sigh broke, its rush oceanic. “I’m so relieved to hear your voice.”

“I was worried I’d wake you.”

“That would involve my ever having got to sleep.”

“But you didn’t get a wink the night before! You must be hallucinating.”

“Since I let you go—yeah. I been worried I am.”

“I started to worry that—that for you, it didn’t mean anything.”

“It means something,” he said heavily. “Something shite.”

“… It doesn’t feel shite.”

“It’s wrong.” What he must have intended as emphatic came out as helpless.

“Strange,” she said. “Not long ago, I’d have been able to conjure your face pretty easily. Now I can’t remember what you look like.”

“I can remember your face. But there’s two of them. A Before and After. In the After, you look like a different person. More beautiful. More 3D. More complicated.”

“I’ve been feeling that way,” she said. “Unrecognizable, to myself. It’s not all to the good. I liked looking in the mirror and having some idea who was staring back.”

Despite a nominal sexual rectitude, they had already developed the long, thick silences of lovers—those characteristic pauses whose laden dead air has to carry everything that has nothing to do with words. Lovers communicate not inside sentences, but between them. Passion lurks within interstice. It is grouting rather than bricks.

“Did you tell him?”

“I promised you that I wouldn’t.”

“I know, but did you tell him anyway?”

“I keep my word.” With every second of this phone call, she was breaking her word. How confounding, that her hasty promise to Ramsey already weighed more than a decade’s worth of implicit vows to Lawrence.

“I cannot—” He stopped, as if consulting a crib sheet. “Because of the snooker and that, you may’ve got the wrong end of the stick. But I don’t fancy anything tatty. With me, it’s all or nothing.”

“What if it were all, then?”

“You got Lawrence.” His voice was stone. “You’re happy. You got a life.”

“I thought I did.”

“You got to stop. You didn’t know what you was doing. You got too much to lose.” The lines were dull and empty.

“I can’t stop,” she said. “Something has taken hold of me. Did you ever see Dangerous Liaisons? John Malkovich keeps repeating to Glenn Close, ‘It’s beyond my control.’ He’s almost sleepwalking into a catastrophic relationship with Michelle Pfeiffer, like a zombie or a drug addict. It’s beyond my control. It’s not supposed to be an excuse. Just the truth. I feel possessed. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve always been a practical person, but I’m having visions. I wish I were exaggerating, or being melodramatic, but I’m not.”

“The film, I’ve not seen it,” he said. “Does it end well?”

“No.”

“Sure there’s a reason the film came to mind. What happens to the bird?”

“Dies,” Irina admitted.

“And her bloke?”

“Dies,” Irina admitted.

“Tidy. In real life, love, it’s messier than that, innit? I think it’s worse.”

“There is, in the movie,” she said, struggling, “a certain—lethal redemption.”

“Outside the cinema, you can forget your violins. It’ll kill you all right, but you’ll still be left standing. Trouble off-screen ain’t that you can’t survive, but that you do. Everybody survives. That’s what makes it so fucking awful.”

Ramsey had a philosophical streak.

Irina had an obstinate one. “It’s beyond my control.”

“It’s up to me, then.” The gentleness was forbidding. “I got to stop it for you.”

Irina was glad she’d skipped breakfast, because she suddenly felt sick. “I don’t need anyone looking out for my interests. Lawrence has been doing that for years, and now look. I don’t need taking care of.”

“Oh, yes you do,” he whispered. “Everyone does.”

“You can’t make me stop. It’s not even your right.”

“It is my responsibility,” he said, capturing Malkovich’s robotic tone in the movie he’d not seen. “I can see that now. I’m the only one can stop it.”

Her tears were mean and hot. This was robbery. What she had discovered in that basement snooker parlour belonged to her.

“You said—yesterday.” His temporal reference jarred. Their parting seemed months ago. “I woke something up in you. Maybe you could take what you found with me, and bring it to Lawrence. Like a present.”

“What I found with you,” she said, “was you. You are the present. In every sense. My ‘waking up’ with all three of us in bed together might feel crowded.”

“Nobody said anything about bed.”

“No one had to.”

“We’re not doing that.”

“No,” she agreed. “For the moment at least, we won’t.”

“I won’t be your bit on the side.”

“I don’t want to have an affair either.”

“Then what do you want?”

At that instant, Irina might have been spirited blindfolded in a car, then released to a neighbourhood of London that she didn’t recognize. How did she find her way home? It was an interesting area from the looks of it, so did she want to go home? She’d been kidnapped. Now Stockholm syndrome had set in, and she was fond of her captor.

“I want to see you as soon as possible.”

Another roaring sigh. “Is that smart?”

“It has nothing to do with intelligence.”

He groaned, “I’m dying to see you as well.”

“I could take the tube up. Mile End, right?”

“A lady like you got no business on the tube. I’ll call by.”

“You can’t come here. Yesterday. You shouldn’t have come here, either. You’re too recognizable from television.”

“See what this is like? It’s a horror show! Like an affair already, without the good bit.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“You know the alternative.”

“That is not an option. I have to see you.” A whole new side of herself, this wilfulness. It was heady.

“It’s a long walk from the tube.”

“I’m a sturdy creature.”

“You are a rare and delicate flower to be kept from the randy, filthy eyes of East End low-life.” He was only half-joking. “What about Lawrence?”

“He’s at work. He rings here during the day, but I could say I went shopping.”

“You’ll have nil to show for it.”

“A walk, a fruitless trip to the library? I could get my messages remotely from your house, and ring him back.”

“You ain’t very good at this.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“Most of them office phone systems give a read-out of the number what’s rung up. Your—” He was clearly about to say husband. “—Anorak Man got a memory for figures. Like my own phone number. I should get you a mobile.”

“That’s a nice offer, but Lawrence and I have already decided that they’re too expensive. He might find it. I’d have a terrible time explaining why I had one. My, there are a thousand ways to be found out, aren’t there?”

“Yeah. Even when there’s nothing to find.”

“Your birthday? You would call that nothing? If I were yours?”

“You are mine,” he said softly. “Last night. You slept with him, didn’t you?”

“Obviously I slept with him. We share the same bed.”

“That ain’t what I mean and you know it. He’s been out of town. A bloke’s been out of town and he comes home, he shags his wife.” He went ahead and used the word.

“All right, then. Yes. If I didn’t want to, he’d know something was up.”

“I don’t like it. I ain’t got no right to say that, but I don’t like it.”

“I didn’t, either,” she admitted. “I only—got anywhere by thinking about you. But it was foul, imagining another man.”

“Best you’re in his arms thinking about me than the other way round, I reckon.”

“Being in your arms and thinking about you appeals to me more.”

“So when can you get your luscious bum to Mile End?”

The pattern was probably typical: you spent the abundance of the call talking about how you shouldn’t be doing this, and its tail-end discussing the particulars of how you would. It would’ve been nice to feel special.

On the tube, people stared. Both men and women. It wasn’t her short denim skirt and skimpy yellow tee that were turning heads. She had a look. Her fellow passengers mightn’t have identified the look per se, but they recognized it all the same. People had babies all the time, coupled all the time, yet the look must have been rare. Sex was rare. You’d never know it, from the hoardings overhead in this carriage—the bared busts promoting island holidays, the come-on toothpaste smiles. But the adverts were meant to torment commuters with what they were missing.

This was not a journey that Irina McGovern had ever expected to take. However firmly resolved to keep her skirt zipped, she wasn’t fooling herself. She was taking the train to cheat.

With no explanation over the loudspeaker, the train lurched to a standstill. Sitting for fifteen minutes under a quarter-mile of rock was so commonplace on the Northern Line, the city’s worst, that none of the passengers bothered to look up from their Daily Mails. In relation to the eccentricities of Underground “service,” regular riders would have long since passed through the conventional stages of consternation, despair, and long-suffering, and graduated to an imperturbable Zen tranquillity. One could alternatively interpret the passengers’ expressions of unquestioning acceptance as sophisticated, or bovine.

Yet the train gave Irina literal pause. First Ramsey and now this very carriage was insisting, You have to stop.

Unbidden, a memory tortured from a few years before, when she and Lawrence had been sharing their traditional bowl of predinner popcorn. Recently moved into the Borough flat, they weren’t yet in the habit of grabbing blind handfuls in silence in front of the Channel 4 news.

“Obviously, there are no guarantees,” she’d mused, searching out the fluffiest kernels. “About us. So many couples seem fine, and then, bang, it’s over. But if anything happened to us? I think I’d lose faith in the whole project. It’s not that we’ll necessarily make it. But that if we don’t, maybe nobody can. Or I can’t; same difference.”

“Yeah,” Lawrence agreed, tackling the underpopped kernels that she’d warned him could damage his bridgework. “I know people say this, and then a couple of years later they’re raring to go again, but for me? This is it. We go south? I’d give up.”

The feeling had been mutually fierce. For Irina, Lawrence had always been the ultimate test case. He was bright, handsome, and funny; they were well suited. They’d made it past the major hurdles—that ever-rocky first year, Lawrence’s professional foundering before he found his feet at Blue Sky, several of Irina’s illustration projects that never sold, even moving together to a foreign country. It should be getting easier, shouldn’t it? Coming up on ten years, it should be a matter of coasting. They’d worked out the kinks, smoothed out serious sources of friction, and their relationship should be gliding along like one of those fancy Japanese trains that ride on a pillow of air. Instead, with no warning, they had jolted to a dead stop between stations, to stare out windows black as pitch. Overnight, their relationship had converted from high-tech Oriental rail to the Northern Line.

Why hadn’t anyone warned her? You couldn’t coast. Indeed, her very sense of safety had put her in peril. Ducking into that Jaguar in a spirit of reckless innocence, she wasn’t looking over her shoulder, and it was the unwary who got mugged. That was exactly how she felt, too. Mugged. Clobbered. She might as well have taken that rolling pin on Saturday afternoon and bashed her own brains in.

Unceremoniously, the train shuddered, chugged forward, and gathered speed. Her respite, the Underground’s graciously sponsored interlude for second thoughts, drew formally to a close. These other passengers had places to go, and couldn’t wait indefinitely for a lone, well-preserved woman in her early forties to get a grip.

If Lawrence was indeed the test case, and thus to go terminal with Lawrence was to “lose faith in the whole project,” she was hurtling through this tunnel toward not romance, but cynicism.

It was really rather wretched, thought Irina as she scuttled with trepidation from the Mile End tube stop up Grove Road, that you couldn’t will yourself to fall in love, for the very effort can keep feeling at bay. Nor, if last night’s baffling blankness on Lawrence’s arrival was anything to go by, could you will yourself to stay that way. Least of all could you will yourself not to fall in love, for thus far what meagre resistance she had put up to streaking towards Hackney this morning had only made the compulsion more intense. So you were perpetually tyrannized by a feeling that came and went as it pleased, like a cat with its own pet door. How much more agreeable, if love were something that you stirred up from a reliable recipe, or elected, however perversely, to pour down the drain. Still, there was nothing for it. The popular expression notwithstanding, love was not something you made. Nor could you dispose of the stuff once manifested because it was inconvenient, or even because it was wicked, and ruining your life and, by the by, someone else’s.

Even more than that kiss over the snooker table—and the proceeding eighteen hours had effectively constituted one long kiss—today she was haunted by that deathly moment when Lawrence had walked in the door and she felt nothing. Its disillusionment grew more crushing by the hour. She wasn’t disillusioned with Lawrence; it wasn’t as if the scales had fallen from her eyes and she could suddenly see him for the commonplace little man he had always seemed to others. Rather, with the turn of a house key, every romantic bone in her body had been broken. Her faithfulness and constancy with Lawrence had long formed the bedrock of her affection for her own character. This was the relationship that had been torn asunder. The weekend’s transgression had violated the fundamental terms of her contract with herself, and disillusioned her with herself. She felt smaller for that, and more fragile. She felt ordinary, and maybe for the first time believed the previously outlandish myth that like everyone else she would get old and die.

Yet as she advanced, a spell descended. Victoria Park had a fairy-tale quality, with its quaint, peaked snack-pavilion, its merry fountain splashing in the middle of the lake, the long-necked birds taking wing. Children patted the water from the shore. With every step through the park, the frailty that had hobbled her up Grove Road fell away. She felt young and nimble, the heroine of a whole new storybook, whose adventure was just beginning.

Moreover, as she drew closer to her turn onto Victoria Park Road, something alarming was happening to the landscape.

In 1919, on top of Copps Hill in Boston, a ninety-foot-wide storage vat for the production of rum burst its seams and sent 2.5 million gallons of molasses flooding onto the city. The wall of molasses rose fifteen feet high and reached a velocity of thirty-five miles per hour, drowning twenty-one Bostonians in its wake.

In much the same manner, a wave of engulfing sweetness was breaking over Victoria Park, lotus trees glistening with such a sugary gleam that she might have leaned over and licked them. The dark lake stirred deliciously, like a wide-mouthed jar of treacle. The very air had caramelized, and breathing was like sucking on candy. Without question, the vessel bursting its seams and coating the whole vicinity with syrup was that house.

Ascending the gaunt Victorian’s steep stone steps, she felt a stab of apprehension. As of her callous apathy when Lawrence walked in last night, Irina’s affections were officially unreliable. She was, after all, a shrew now, who shouted at hardworking wage-earners for wanting a piece of toast—a fickle harpy who took fancies one minute, and went cold the next. Ramsey had seemed all very fetching on Sunday, but this was Monday. There was no certainty that the countenance she confronted across this threshold would foster anything but more barbarous indifference.

Yet, today anyway, this apparently was not the case. That face: it was beautiful.

Slipping his long, dry fingers along the bare skin under her short-cut tee, he slid them round to the small of her back, where not long ago they had hovered so tantalizingly, not touching. She emitted a little groan. He swept her through the door.

She barely beat Lawrence home. The answer-phone light was blinking. Yanking a comb through her tangled hair, she pressed “Please hang up and try again. Please hang up and try again”—pleasant but insistent, the British female voice pronounced “again” to rhyme with “pain.” Through some peculiarity of Blue Sky’s phone system, this was the recording that consumed the full thirty-second limit on the machine whenever Lawrence rang up and didn’t leave a message. He seemed to have taken the woman’s advice. As “Please hang up and try again” droned in a demented nonstop singsong, she counted: he had rung five times.

Behind her, the lock rattled, sending her heart to her throat. “Irina?” It had only been a day, but he had already dropped the lilting addition of her middle name. “Hey!” He dropped his briefcase in the hall. “Where have you been all afternoon?”