He sighs. She walks up and down then says, “You’d better hurry, you’ll be late for the office.”
“What office?” he asks, astonished.
“Wherever you work between nine and five.”
“You know nothing about my life,” he tells her sharply, “Or have you been reading my letters?”
“Nobody writes to you.”
“Good! When I go through that door each morning I become a mystery. Maybe I don’t need to work. Maybe each morning I go to see my mistress. My other mistress!”
“Then you’d better hurry or you’ll be late for your other mistress.”
But he does not move.
She sits, tries to read her book, fails and puts it down.
“Listen,” she says in a softer voice, “I know men hate clever women. I’ve known it since I was twelve. But we’ve got on well together. Forget I’m clever. I won’t remind you.”
“I’m not depressed because you’re clever. I saw you were deep from the moment we met. I’m depressed because now I know what happens in your head. Next time you frown I’ll think, ‘Damn! She’s worrying about her thesis.’”
“Why damn? Why will it upset you?”
“Because I’ll feel obliged to say something cheerful and reassuring.”
“Do you really resent making ordinary, friendly little remarks?”
“Yes.”
“What a selfish attitude! Anyway, you couldn’t reassure me on my thesis. You’re too ignorant.”
He stares at her. She blushes and says, “Sorry. You’ve no books and I take books too seriously. You’re probably as clever in your own way as I am, what do you do for a living?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“If you get to know me well you’ll despise me.”
“Why? Are you in advertising?”
“Certainly not. But familiarity breeds contempt.”
“Not always.”
“Yes always!”
She rises and walks about saying, “Our friendship has taken a steep turn for the worse in the last five minutes and it’s not my fault.”
He sighs then asks, “Were you ever married? Or (because it comes to the same thing) did you ever live long with someone?”
“No. But men have lived with me.”
“Long?”
She thinks for a moment. Her last lover was an exciting young man whose work and opinions, good looks and quick speech sometimes got him asked onto television shows. He needed a lot of admiration and support. She had easily supplied these until she found he was also the lover of her close friend and flat-mate, then she noticed he was an emotional leech who had stopped her investigating Chaucer’s debt to Langland for over a month. She says grimly, “Far too long.”
“Then you know about lack of privacy. We start sharing a bed and some rooms and meals which is fun at first, even convenient. Then we start sharing our thoughts and feelings and end in the shit. Have you noticed how cheerful I am in the morning?”
“I hear you singing in the lavatory.”
“Does it annoy you?”
“A bit, but I can ignore it.”
“You couldn’t ignore it if you knew me well. My wife couldn’t ignore it. If I sang or whistled or hummed she said I gave her a headache, so I crushed the melody in my bosom and became as miserable as she was. She was always very quiet in the morning. She got brighter in the evening, but not the early evening. I would come home from work and find her brooding. It was very strange. I knew that if I left her alone she would brighten eventually, but I couldn’t. I found her black moods as much a pain as she found my cheerful ones. I would try nagging her into happiness: ask what was wrong then explain it was unimportant. Whenever we weren’t equally bright or equally dull we nagged each other till we were equally miserable. All our conversations became wrestling bouts, like this one.”
“This one?”
“This is our first real conversation and you’ve already called me selfish and ignorant. That nearly floored me.”
“You started it.”
“Yes guilty! Guilty! I’m like an alcoholic who can keep off his poison for weeks but after one sip can’t stop till he’s flat on his back. I’ve moaned to you about my marriage, I’ve started telling you about my bad habits, if you don’t shut me up you’ll soon know about my childhood, schooling, how I make my money…”
“Are you a hit-man for the Mafia?”
“Don’t be silly. When I’ve cut myself into small pieces and handed them to you on a tray I’ll get you to start talking.”
She says shortly, “I don’t like talking about myself.”
“I know, but talk is the most infectious disease in the world. In a week or month or year we’ll know each other thoroughly. You’ll no longer be the lovely stranger who approached me in the singles bar, the mysterious she who shares my bed and breakfast. I’ll have turned you into what we all are, basically — a pain in the arse with a case history behind it.”
She laughs at that. Despite his words he is excited, almost cheerful, and watches her closely.
She sits down beside him, elbow on knee, chin on clenched fist. He lays an arm carefully round her shoulder but a slight shrug tells him she doesn’t want that so he withdraws the arm. She is thinking that the trouble with his wife was probably sexual. In bed he leaves most of the initiatives to her. She does not mind this because though her last lover was more exciting he wanted applause for his performances and she found this exhausting. Does the man beside her think the last fortnight (the most restful and productive fortnight of her life) has been romantic adventure? Someone who can say I crushed the melody in my bosom without irony is almost certainly romantic. In a low voice she asks, “Do you really think me what you said? Lovely — mysterious?”
“I’ve managed it so far. You’ve been the greatest thing in my life since wee Moody.”
“Wee Moody?”
“She visited me when I’d done too many things in too short a time. The doctor ordered a week of complete rest so I sent the wife and kids away for a holiday, unplugged the phone and stayed in bed doing nothing but doze, watch the box and eat food out of tins. The privacy was wonderful. On the second day a cat ran in when I opened the door for the milk. She was a neat little thing with a smooth black coat but hungry, so I fed her. When I returned to bed she came and curled in the hollow behind my knees. I liked to stroke and pat her, she was so graceful and … suave. When she wanted out she patted the door with her paw and I let her out, but she came in again next morning with the milk. We kept company for nearly a week without nagging or bullying each other. That was the happiest time of my life, before I met you.”
“Thank you. What became of her?”
“When the kids came home they adopted her — they saw more of her than I did when I returned to work. When the family left me they took her with them.”
“A pity. You wouldn’t need me if she had stayed.”
“Nonsense! You’re a woman with arms, legs et cetera, the whole female works. You’re much nicer to me than wee Moody ever was.”
She gets up and walks away. Strong feelings stop her speaking: amusement, pity, despair and anger. Anger is uppermost. She forces it down, hearing him say, “Our friendship is entering a new phase, isn’t it?”
“No!” she tells him, turning, “It had better not. I agree with you about talk. Words do more harm than good if they aren’t in a poem or play, and even plays have caused riots. Let’s switch on the silence again. We came together because like most mammals we can’t bear sleeping alone. You find me fascinating because you don’t know me. I like living here because you’re clean, gentle, undemanding, and don’t interest me at all. Have I floored you?”