‘I wasn’t saying that.’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘Do you think women love more than men?’
‘More – in the sense of more often or more intensely?’
‘Only a man could ask that question.’
‘Well, that’s what I am – a poor fucking man.’
‘Not after dinner at Phil and Joanna’s, you aren’t. As we noted.’
‘Did we?’
‘Oh God, I hope you’re not going to make us all go home and try to get it on to prove -’
‘I hate “get it on” as well.’
‘I remember one of those American TV shows – you know, we solve your emotional and sexual problems by putting you in front of a studio audience and making a spectacle out of you, and sending the audience home feeling very glad they aren’t you.’
‘That’s an extremely British denunciation.’
‘Well, I remain British. Anyway, there was this woman, talking about how her marriage or relationship wasn’t working, and of course they got on to sex right away, and one of the so-called experts, some glib TV counsellor, actually asked her, “Do you have big orgasms?”’
‘Ker-pow. Straight for the G-spot.’
‘And she looked at this therapist, and said, with actually rather a fetching modesty, “Well, they seem big to me.”’
‘Bravo. And so say all of us.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying we shouldn’t necessarily feel superior to Pete.’
‘Do we? I don’t. And if he’s passed the fifty mark, I doff my cap.’
‘Do you think Pete gets off with women because he can’t get on with them?’
‘No, I just think he has a low boredom threshold.’
‘If you’re in love, you don’t have a boredom threshold.’
‘I think you can be in love and bored.’
‘Do I fear another hands-under-the-table moment?’
‘Don’t be so defensive.’
‘Well, I am. I come here to gorge myself on your delicious food and wine, not to be water-boarded like this.’
‘Sing for your supper.’
‘“And you’ll get breakfast…”’
‘What I’m saying, in defence of this Pete whom I’ve never met, is merely, perhaps he’s loved, or been in love, as much as his constitution allows, and why feel superior to him just because of that?’
‘There are some people who wouldn’t fall in love if they hadn’t read about it first.’
‘Spare us your Froggy wisdom for one night.’
‘Is it safe to take our hands out from under the table now?’
‘It’s never safe. That’s the whole point.’
‘What is the point, by the way?’
‘Let me summarise. For those unable to keep up. This house is agreed that the British use the C-word far too liberally, that men talk about sex because they can’t talk about love, that women and the Frogs understand love better than Englishmen, that love is pain, and that any man who’s had more women than me, apart from being a lucky cunt, doesn’t really understand women.’
‘Brilliant, Dick. I second the motion.’
‘You second Dick’s motion? You must be the Hub Director.’
‘Oh, shut up, boys. I thought that was a very male summary.’
‘Would you like to give us a female summary?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Are you implying that summarising is a contemptible male trait?’
‘Not especially. Though my summary might mention how passive-aggressive men get when talking about subjects which make them feel unsure of themselves.’
‘“Passive-aggressive”. I hate that word, or phrase, or whatever it is. I would guess it has a ninety to ninety-five per cent female use. I don’t even know what it means. Or rather, what it’s meant to mean.’
‘What did we say before we said “passive-aggressive”?’
‘How about “well mannered”?’
‘“Passive-aggressive” indicates a psychological condition.’
‘So does “well mannered”. And a very healthy one too.’
‘Does anyone seriously think – if we were to pass the metaphorical port at this stage and the ladies were to retire – that they’d sit around talking about love and we’d sit around talking about sex?’
‘When I was a boy, before I knew anything about girls, I used to look forward to them equally.’
‘You mean, boys and girls?’
‘Cunt. No, love and sex.’
‘Voices. Keep them down.’
‘Is there anything to match that, do you think, in the field of human emotional endeavour? The force of longing for sex and love when you haven’t had either?’
‘I remember it all too well. Life just seemed… impossible. Now that was pain.’
‘And yet it didn’t turn out so badly. We’ve all had love and sex, sometimes even at the same time.’
‘And now we’re going to put on our coats and go home and have one or the other and next time there will be a show of hands.’
‘Or a hiding of hands.’
‘Boys never stop being boys, do they?’
‘Does that qualify as passive-aggressive?’
‘I can do active-aggressive if you’d prefer.’
‘Leave it, sweetie.’
‘You know, this is one evening when I don’t want to be the first to go.’
‘Let’s all go together, then Phil and Joanna can discuss us while they clear up.’
‘Actually, we don’t do that.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, we have a ritual. Phil clears, I stack the dishwasher. We put on some music. I wash up the stuff that won’t go in the dishwasher, Phil dries. We don’t discuss you.’
‘What charming hosts. A veritable Trimalchio and Mistress Quickly.’
‘What Jo means is, we’re all talked out. We discuss you tomorrow, over breakfast. And lunch. And, in this instance, probably dinner as well.’
‘Phil, you old bastard.’
‘I trust no one’s driving.’
‘I don’t trust anyone’s driving either. Only my own.’
‘You’re not really?’
‘I’m not a complete idiot. We’re all walking or cabbing it.’
‘Actually, we’re going to stand on the pavement discussing you two for a while.’
‘Was that really tongue, by the way?’
‘Sure.’
‘But I don’t like tongue.’
After he had closed the front door, Phil put on some Madeleine Peyroux, kissed his wife on the apron string round the back of her neck, went upstairs to a darkened bedroom, cautiously approached the window, saw the others standing on the pavement, and watched them until they dispersed.
Trespass
WHEN HE AND Cath broke up, he thought about joining the Ramblers, but it seemed too obviously sad a thing to do. He imagined the conversation:
‘Hi, Geoff. Sorry to hear about you and Cath. How’re you doing?’
‘Oh, fine, thanks. I’ve joined the Ramblers.’
‘Good move.’
He could see the rest of it too: getting the magazine, studying the open-to-all invitation – meet 10.30, Saturday 12th, in car park immed. SE of Methodist Chapel – cleaning his boots the night before, cutting an extra sandwich just in case, maybe taking an extra tangerine as well, and turning up at the car park with (despite all his warnings to himself) a hopeful heart. A hopeful heart waiting to be bruised. And then it would be a case of getting through the walk, saying cheery farewells, and going home to eat the leftover sandwich and tangerine for his supper. Now that would be sad.
Of course, he carried on walking. Most weekends, in most weathers, he’d be out with his boots and pack, his water bottle and his map. Nor was he going to keep away from all the walks he’d done with Cath. They weren’t ‘their’ walks, after all; and if they were, he’d be reclaiming them by doing them by himself. She didn’t own the circuit from Calver: along the Derwent, through Froggatt Woods to Grindleford, perhaps a diversion to the Grouse Inn for lunch, then along past the Bronze Age stone circle, lost in summer months amid the bracken, all leading to the grand surprise of Curbar Edge. She didn’t own that, nobody did.