Alone
"I don't like Picasso,” Jane confesses to her husband. The secret is too great, the loneliness grown too large. He looks up from his copy of The Wasteland, annotated in red ink since he was a child. He says, “I knew something was up since that retrospective last September.” Evening sun slants through the conservatory windows onto her lap, the tapestry she’s working on, the grief in her hands. She says, “I’ve kept it hidden for longer than that.”
A week goes by. They pass each other in hallways and across the bathroom mirror. On Friday he says, “You need to get help.” His tone reflects her shame. She sees the pamphlet he leaves on the dining room table. It takes her six weeks to pick it up.
“My name is Jane and I am a Philistine.” The circle of faces want more. “My husband sent me here.” She regrets that last remark. It sounds so weak. “I knew my life was unmanageable.” Nobody applauds or says well done. Like her they are all in pain. A man in tweed says, “My name is Richard and I am a Philistine. I'm going to The Globe with my wife next Saturday.” He smiles, a broad survivors grin that cannot last. A slouched, freckled female snaps, “they’re doing A S Byatt at my book club,” then looks away. A ragged girl in a sweat top lounges aggressively. The handsome boy next to her says, “My boyfriend wants a jazz wedding.” There are tears from a woman in black. “I’ve pretended to like Carol Ann Duffy for years.” She blows her nose into a pink handkerchief. “I’m supposed to teach them DH Lawrence next term.” The ragged girl stands suddenly, interrupting with a shout, “Bob Marley gets on my nerves,” and sits abruptly as if the effort has collapsed her. Styrofoam cups, shoulders hunched, hands clamped, a slouched exhaustion; one after another, they pour out their confessions to the room. At the hot water urn Jane overhears a hurried battering of Dali. She's relieved and frightened. She's not alone. She's not alone.
She's been sober six months. With the help of her sponsor she practices degrees of appreciation and avoids the verb to like. She tells her husband, “I think I’m getting better.” He sets the table for supper. “I hope so.” He’s been pale and uncommunicative. She doesn’t blame him.
The gala dinner at the Royal Academy is her benchmark for recovery. He's been writing his speech for weeks. He reads it to her twice; once as they’re leaving, their coats shrugged on in the hall, the sheets swapped from right hand to left, and again in the cab, his voice jolting and Jane nauseous. In her head she repeats, one day at a time. To him she says, “well done. It’s marvellous. Succinct.” Happy with her choice of word, she pats his knee.
The Members Room glistens with taffeta and jewellery. Jane moves in the dragnet of her husband, greeting his friends, saying all the right things though her throat is tight and she sweats beneath her shawl. They move from drinks to dinner. To her left, over deconstructed prawn cocktail with an avocado foam, the director of a famous gallery holds an art historian rapt with his plans for a vineyard at his chateau in the Languedoc. To Jane’s right, a renowned art critic argues the failure of Hockney to achieve the heights of Monet. Jane smiles beatifically. Champagne floats her brain. She’s coping. She can relax. The critic asks her opinion and it isn’t frightening. She’s ready. She means to reply with an equally fascinating question of her own but instead she says, “Monet’s lilies are overrated.” The critic looks ready for a good meal, the way he touches his fork, turns more fully to face her, picks up then re-lays his napkin. It’s too late to say she didn’t mean it. They’ve all heard the rumours. She can see it in his eyes. He says, “You think they’re a failure?” She replies, “It depends on your sense of humour.” This isn’t her. This is the addict she’s put away. She’s an academic, an intellectual, for Christ’s sake. She’s married to him; she looks at her husband, absorbed and absorbing at the other end. But she said it all the same. She laughs and drops her gaze to her plate.
The first course is replaced by salmon en croute. She concentrates on cutting pastry. The Languedoc conversation moves on to the anniversary edition of Ulysses. The art historian turns to Jane. Jane says, “Unreadable.” The art historian waits, eyebrows arched, so she delves for something clever to pour into the warm shallows of his comprehension that will cloud and comfort him and make it all right. But solicitude eludes her. She’s flushed, tired. She can’t do it anymore. “It would never be published now, not because it’s difficult but because it’s shit. It’s the ramblings of a drunk man dressed up as something clever. The reason why academics argue over its comprehension is that it’s incomprehensible.” The thrill is almost too much to bear.
Pudding arrives. She asks for coffee. Chinking quiet descends as her husband stands and clears his throat but she's an addict. She can't stop. On her feet, she opens her mouth before he does. “Shakespeare bores the tits off me, Henry Moore is a thief and I don’t like Picasso.” The hush is complete. Her husband gets her out.
“I can’t go on like this.” He has his back to her, he undoes his tie, he sits on the edge of their bed. She says, “I tried.” Her dress is ruined from the scuffle. A shoulder strap is torn and a line of beads drifts towards the floor on a piece of thread. He replies, “I won’t let you ruin my life too,” and shuts himself in the bathroom. She hears the tap running, the hurried, efficient brushing of his teeth. By the time his pace across the floor creaks the boards above her head, she’s at the front door, an overnight bag in her grip. She'll return for the rest of her belongings later. The marriage house is emptied of feeling, the false identity stepped out of like an ill-fitting skin. The company she once sought does not chase after.