I Am Having So Much Fun Without You (11 page)

“Mum,” I went.

“What? It's true. They always look like they're about to go
dancing around the room with a baton or something. I think it's very romantic.”

“I should be filming this,” I said, taking another biscuit. “This is very good.”

“Would you grant us some peace now?” said my dad. “The news is coming on.”

We settled into our respective seats and stared at the glowing screen. So my parents were able to supersede the things that annoyed them about each other by turning them into quirky characteristics that they found
endearing
. Anne and I had done this in the beginning, too. Exasperated that I never knew where anything was, she bought a giant golden piggy bank at a Chinese supermarket and made me put a ten-centime piece in it every time I asked her where my phone was, had she seen a certain pair of socks. And when Anne's long-standing interest in the actor Vincent Cassel grew into an obsession that saw us attending all his overbearing, around-the-world-in-ninety-minutes action films, I comforted myself by realizing that I, too, could age into sallow skin and neglected gums and she'd still love me, as long as I could drive a speedboat and do Brazilian martial arts.

What had happened to our ability to take each other lightly? Time. But look at my parents—forty
years.
Maybe there was a high somewhere in marriage, like in running. If you kept going long enough, the endorphins must kick in. Anne and I were at eight years, almost; our marital runner's high was still at least a decade off. How did married people
do it
without cheating? Sweating and grunting and drooling on their pillows nightly side by side, expected at some point to reach over and caress the person who had become as familiar and uninteresting as an extension of their own arm, and fuck?

Lisa used to tell me that I'd hate her if we married. That all the reasons I adored her—her spontaneity, her flightiness,
her love of dancing in public to any kind of music, or no music at all—were things that I would criticize her for if we actually moved in together and attempted a real life.

“If you're so down on marriage,” I'd said, “why are you marrying Dave?”

“He can go the distance,” she said. “He doesn't overanalyze things like you. He just wants to build something, you know? Start to finish. For us to have a nice life.”

I said I wanted that, too.

“But you don't, though,” she said. “You get nervous when you're happy. For you, the good things are finite. You wait for them to end.”

“But they
do
end,” I said. We were on a bench somewhere, eating a sandwich. I remember there was a pigeon that was giving me a hard time. “They do. Look at you. You're leaving.”

“But what we have isn't
good.
It's enjoyable. It's hedonistic. You're cheating on your wife.”

“You knew I was married before this even started.”

“It's true,” she said, tossing a mealy tomato to the pigeon. “I did. I won't do this again, you know. The highs are too high. It's not—it's stressful.”

“So you'd rather be bored.”

“Not bored,” she said. “Comfortable. Safe. Yeah, a little bored. I don't want to be exhausted. I want to be sure about things. I want to have a kid.”

“You want what I have,” I said. “You want what I
had.
”

“You still have it,” she said, putting her arm through mine.

“I don't, though. You fucked everything up.”

 • • •

I grabbed an orange pillow off the couch and clutched it to my chest. Nothing would be helped by my thinking back on Lisa.

“It must be tough for Samira to do these reports,” interrupted my mother, nodding at the screen.

I turned my attention to the television where the
More4 News
newscaster, Samira Ahmed, was summarizing the current situation in Iraq.

“I'm going to tell you something,” my dad said, leaning forward in his chair. “I heard that they cracked into one of these nuke shops, and you know what it was? You know what it was, really?”

I shook my head.

“It was a place that sold hot air. They just filled up balloons! So you had all these soldiers and inspectors with warrants and what have you, with nothing but balloons. I tell you.”

“Hot air,” I said. “That's good.”

“Isn't it?” he said, leaning back.

“Maybe I can steal it. I've, um, been thinking about going back to some more political stuff, actually. No more paintings for a while.”

“An intellectual challenge would be good for you,” said my father, giving me a loaded glance. “Especially right now.”

I shrank beneath his gaze. “Yeah, well, I don't even have a real idea yet. I've got to get it sorted.”

“I think it would be lovely to have an exhibit of hot air,” said my mum.

“Exactly,” I huffed. “It's obvious. Ugh. I'm going to bed.”

“But it's not even nine!”

My dad put his hand out. “Let him be.”

I kissed them both and made my way through the dining room to my bedroom. In what she must have thought passed for a whisper, I heard my mother ask my father if he thought I was all right.

 • • •

That night, I dreamed that Lisa was on the television, on
More4 News.

“So, do you own
The Blue Bear
now?” Samira asked her.

“Ugh,” Lisa responded, “I tried to. But he's doing different things now. He's moved on to Iraq.”

“I see,” said Samira, shuffling her cue cards into a tight square. “Does that make you feel lonely?”

“Lonely?” Lisa scoffed. “Hell no! He's trying to impress his wife.”

Samira swept her hair behind her shoulders with her hand.

I woke up in a fog of 3 a.m. befuddlement, my anger at Lisa and Samira's indifference to my work chastened by the sight of the wet drool spot on my pillow. They were wrong about me, the phantom newsreader and my mistress. I wasn't considering doing something political just to impress my wife; I wanted to be someone worth taking back. I wanted Anne to be proud of me again, wanted to do art worth discussing. I wanted an epitaph if the worst came to pass:
Here lies Richard Haddon, much more than hot air.
And if it was too opportunist or too flashy, frankly, my dreamed-up Lisa, I don't give a damn.

 • • •

The next morning, I was awakened by a knock on my door.

“Darling,” my mum called gently, “you've got a phone call.”

I tossed the comforter off and stumbled to the door, hiding my sleepy, boxer-wearing self from my mum.

“Who is it?” I asked, squinting.

“It's a Harold Gadfrey?” she said. “From the boat?”

I rubbed a fist across my face. “What time is it?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Eight?”

I threw on a cardigan and hopped into my trousers. Mum was waiting for me in the hallway to escort me to the phone, gesticulating excitedly that she'd already put the kettle on for tea.

I cleared my throat before grabbing the receiver. “Hello?”

“Richard? Hullo there! It's Harold! Harold Gadfrey. From the boat? I was wondering if you'd like to take up that invitation for a meal? I was thinking breakfast?”

“Breakfast?” I repeated.

“Have you already eaten, then? I had a meeting that was canceled. And now I have this time! And I just thought, well, you know!”

“Breakfast.”

“Yep! Can't work without it. My treat!”

I glanced around the kitchen. “Where would you want to go?”

“Maybe one of the outdoor places on the Marlowes, since it's nice? Could you do nine?”

My head ached for caffeination. Was this my life now? Breakfast dates with men?

“Sure,” I said, weakly. “Why not.”

 • • •

I found Harold standing outside of an atrocity called the Muffin Break, notorious for its self-serve icing bar. I blinked in the decidedly un-English sunlight glinting off the store windows. Neither of us knew how to greet the other. We went with shaking hands.

I chose an ancient-looking apple cinnamon muffin, and Harold got a tuna-and-cheese toastie. As validation that I was truly on a man-date, he paid for us both.

“So you'll be going to London, yeah?” he asked, chewing, once we were outside. “When's that?”

I was surprised by his memory. All I could remember about Harold was the Xerox connection, and that he loved his wife and kids.

“It got moved up, actually,” I said. “I've already been.”

I gave him the short version of my visit to the Continuists, how they wanted to keep in touch with me. How they were telepathic spies.

“Well, that certainly sounds like something for a new art project. Telepathy and such?”

“I'm afraid there's not much to spy on, right now, actually,” I answered. “I'm still at my parents'.”

“I thought you were off to Brittany? Family reunion and all that?”

Again, I was astonished. Did other people pay this much attention to other people's lives?

“Not exactly,” I said, picking at a suspect piece of dried apple in my muffin. “I'm a little out of sorts.”

Harold had the tact to remain silent.

“I'm . . . you know . . .” I kept picking at my pastry. “Having problems with my wife? Sorry. That makes it sound like she slipped outside a warranty of some sort.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I met his eyes, amazed to find them wide open and sincere. “Yeah, I don't know, actually. You wouldn't approve. I mean, this would definitely be our last toastie.”

“And what a toastie it is!” He knocked his pastry against my muffin in a mock “cheers.” “You'll of course correct me if I'm out of line, but I'll take it that you dallied?”

“Dallied? Uh, yeah.”

“And this other woman,” he continued, adjusting his jacket. “Are you still seeing her on the side?”

I pictured salad dressing in a little plastic cup. “I'm not. It's done.”

“Well, that's something,” he said approvingly. “That's good. And do you think your wife wants getting back? She's open to wooing and all that?”

“Wooing?” I repeated, trying not to laugh. “Like, what kind, exactly?”

“Well, I can get you a really good rate on aerial banners, for example.”

The look on my face redirected the course of his romantic advice. “Is she more of a dinner-and-flowers type, then?”

“Uh, she's more of a wish-you-hadn't-done-it-in-the-first-place type. Mostly, she wants time.”

“Yes, well, I doubt that she really means that. Women rarely do. You're an artist! Go large, Richard! Fly something through the sky!”

Harold shrugged and looked around him. I imagined the air filled with sparrows. His own harem of happy birds. And then I imagined a battery-operated toy helicopter cutting through the blueness, dragging a laminate banner behind it:
ANNE-LAURE DE BOURIGEAUD! LET ME WOO YOU BACK!

Suddenly Harold's palm was on my shoulder. Massive. Slightly damp. “I'm afraid I've got a ten o'clock on the DocuTech 60. But I want to tell you, and I know it's not the done thing, but, I like you, Richard. And I sincerely wish you the best.”

“No, thank
you
,” I said, trying to ignore the panic rising in my belly. Once he left me, I'd have nothing to do all day. “It's been good to admit all this to someone I don't know.”

“I feel badly,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Leaving you in think.”

“You got me out of the house at nine a.m. to have breakfast with a near stranger.” I smiled. “It's a start.”

He tightened his grip on my shoulder. “What do I know, really? But I think you have to fight. Personally, I'd be a bloody mess without my wife.”

As I watched Harold return in the direction of the chain shops, the singsong of his whistle echoing back, I thought how lucky he was to be able to put that statement in a conditional tense.

11

I RETURNED
home to an empty house with a visceral desire to cleanse. To purge. Starting with my childhood closet. Thanks to my mum's inability to sentimentally prioritize, my closet was filled with the remnants of a person I no longer am: yellowed essays, awkward pre-dance photos from sixth form, cross-country running medals, a punctured soccer ball.

In a storage bin underneath a stack of musty clothes, I found a bunch of VHS cassettes labeled
Football Match
,
School Play
. Beneath these lay the camcorder my mother gave me when I passed my A-levels. I used to love making mock commercials with my friends, but inside my bedroom when I was alone, I got more serious, bellowing voice-overs for atmospheric close-ups of the objects around me, along with Godard-inspired jolting cut-ins of my cat.

Surprisingly, I found the camcorder's charger beside it in the box. I plugged it in, wondering how long it would take to fuel an electronic device that hadn't been used in twenty years. I watched incredulously as the power light turned red, my spirits
lifting as it did. If my Sony Betamovie BMC-100P could power up like a phoenix, dammit, so could I.

With the camera still charging, I popped in one of the generically labeled
School Play
videos. It took several seconds for the aged tape to rev back into life, but when it did, I recognized my old friend Matthew from secondary school, all toffed out in poofy knickers and a velvet cape and tights.

The musical was
Once Upon a Mattress
, in which Matthew played Prince Dauntless, a tit-for-brains whose mother's unpassable character tests prohibit him from finding a wife. In the scene I'd stumbled onto, he was dashing about the stage, hoping to hear good news from Sir Harry, just back from the swamps.

“You have been on a long and arduous journey, sir!” Matthew said. “But say, please tell me! Have you brought me back a bride?”

I fast-forwarded until I found myself in the role of King Sextimus the Silent. Since I was playing a mute, the only stage indications I'd been given were to chase maidens through the halls. It seems that Mrs. Greenblum, the drama teacher, had a handle on my character even then.

I turned the video off so it would charge faster and lay back in my bed. A long and arduous journey, indeed. I'd catapulted off track. What I'd had with Anne had been
good.
My own parents were still married, and by some miracle, so were hers. I rewound the tape in the camcorder and decided to erase it. I wanted to erase everything. Start over. Return.

 • • •

It was raining by the time my parents came home, the perfect weather for a project I'd dreamed up inside my head.

“I just want to film you,” I said, helping my mum put canned beans up in the pantry.

“Film us doing what?”

“Arduous journeys?” I said, brandishing the old camcorder. “About how you two met?”

After assuring them that I just needed to practice in case my next art project had anything to do with film, I had them sit next to each other on the orange couch, but the lighting looked stilted. I moved them into the kitchen and put two chairs back to back so that my mum was facing the stovetop, and my father, the fridge.

“Are you holding us hostage?” asked my mother.

“I just want you to talk.”

“But I can't even
see
him.”

I got the camera rolling.

“And why do you want to see him?” I asked.

“Well, I don't want to sit here in the kitchen and talk if I can't see him. Are you there, George?”

My dad moved his arm and reached out for her thigh, hitting her in the elbow instead.

“Okay,” I said, from my perch in the hallway, the record light blinking red. “Welcome to my parents. Edna. George. When did you two meet?”

My mum burst out laughing.

“We met swimming,” my dad said, pulling back his hand. “She had on a red suit.”

“A one-piece,” said my mother.

“I offered her an ice cream.”

“A Mr. Whippy!” said Mum. “You know, from the little lorry that used to pull up outside?”

I moved in for a close-up. My mother twisted sideways to get a better look at my dad.

“Get back in your chair, Mum!” I ordered, zooming out. “Okay. And then? What'd you think of each other's families?”

My father pursed his lips.

My mother laughed. “Is he rolling his eyes back there, Richy, or what? He didn't like my father!”

“I didn't like your
brothers
.”

“Oh, they were just trying to intimidate you. I always liked his mum. She was very beautiful. And young. And she was always wearing yellow. It's a hard color to pull off.”

“So did they approve of you as a couple?”

My mother's smile widened.

“Are you kidding?” said my dad. “They approved.”

I paused the camera and sat back in a chair. I had no idea what I was doing. But there was something grounding about being with them in the kitchen, filming this place where I'd eaten countless bowls of cereal and not done enough dishes, been bandaged and given biscuits, and had my dirty nails scrubbed with a brush. There was something about them not facing each other that highlighted the disconnect between what the image looked like—two people stuck in chairs—and what they were saying: two people in love still, and happy with their lives.

“What about the first time you kissed her?” I continued.

“Richy.” My mum blushed. “Please!”

“She kissed
me
,” my dad said, moving his hand back again to try to pat her. “We were on—it was on the Larsens' doorstep, wasn't it? I'd taken her to a party and I was about to walk her home.”

“It's always so expected when someone takes you to your doorstep,” my mum said. “I didn't want to wait.”

“And Dad? Let's see, do you know her favorite color?”

“Purple.”

My mum made a clucking noise.
“Violet.”

“And Mum, do you know Dad's?”

“Easy,” she said. “Yellow. And his favorite toothpaste is Gleem.”

I ignored her non sequitur and charged ahead with my inquest.

“Dad: Mum's favorite gift you ever gave.”

“Oooh,” he said. “A tough one. You?”

“Quite.” She smiled. “Or . . . my fiftieth birthday.
Italy
.” She sighed. “Oh! I'll remember that trip all my life.”

I stayed silent for a long time, just filming their faces as they passed over their memories, my mum staring wistfully ahead of her as if the rolling Tuscan landscape were reflected in the fridge door. She took a Kleenex from the inside of her shirtsleeve and wiped it under her eye.

“And what do you love most about her?” My father looked up at the camera when I asked this.

“She's kind,” he said. “She's silly. She doesn't get wound up.”

“And what do you dislike?”

“What?”

“What do you dislike?”

“Oh, come on, Richard,” he said, frowning.

“Awww. We're being honest. You're sitting back to back.”

“Yes, go on, dear,” said my mother, folding her hands in her lap. “This should be interesting.”

“Well,” he said, adjusting his position. “She's not, you're not—she's not a good driver.”

My mother sucked her lip in. “Unfortunately, that's true.”

“Okay, Dad. One more.”

“No,” he said. “That's all.”

Mum twisted around in her chair again. “Well, that can't be
all
,
George. Personally, I have a lot of them! He's a hummer, but he's only got one tune. And he never puts the top back correctly
on the malt bottle. And you squirt dish soap onto the cutlery instead of on the sponge.”

“Well, don't hold back now.”

“But he's a good dancer. You're a great dancer, Georgie. And he makes the bed in the morning, how many people can say that? And you know, he doesn't disappoint me.”

She fell silent.

“He doesn't disappoint me, often.”

My dad looked at the floor.

“Can we stop now?” asked my mother, looking at the camera. “I want to get the beef going, for supper.”

“Sure,” I said, leaving the camera on. “Thanks for playing. Dad, you may kiss the bride.”

“Don't be filming this!” he said, turning around to reach for her.

But I did.

 • • •

Lisa's favorite toothpaste: Tom's of fucking Maine. Her favorite color? Coral. After a notable orgasm, she'd hum a little song while she washed up in the bathroom. She was all lightness and bubbles and pink.

Anne's favorite color is cream, not white. What do I love the most about her? She smiles when she's sleeping. At least, she used to. I like watching her make iced chamomile tea in the summers, with her sleeves rolled up. I like when she prepares picnics. I love the sound of her voice drifting down a hallway as she reads Camille a book. I love the way she brightens when we're in Saint-Briac, when she stares out at the sea with her hand on top of her head so her hair doesn't get tangled in the wind. I love the way she used to kiss me after a party, in the car
before we drove away, with a light bite on my lower lip. I love that she listens to classical music at full volume in the house, and I love that she's raised our daughter to swing her arms and dance in circles and enjoy it, enjoy all kinds of music. I love Anne when she's happy. I loved it when she was.

And Lisa? Who is Lisa? Four months since I'd last seen her now and it's starting to feel like she's someone I invented. If it weren't for the fact that I could still conjure up the textures and urgency of our lovemaking, I'd think she didn't exist.

Under different circumstances, it might have proved too tempting to be only an hour's drive away from my ex-lover. Six months ago, I wouldn't have been able to sit still, much less play canasta with my parents, knowing that Lisa Bishop was nearby. But this was my childhood home, and the only woman who had ever slept here and interacted with the cupboards and the closets, who knew where my mother kept the rarely used ground coffee, was my wife. Back in high school, when I had girlfriends, I always went to their houses. But Anne had slept beneath the
Dirty Harry
poster on countless visits, never once suggesting that I take it down, the two of us happily entangled in my too-small bed.

Lisa didn't know my favorite toothpaste, and she didn't know that I had a weakness for strawberry-flavored milk, nor that if I had the time for it, I would have all of our sheets ironed, just like they were at the Bourigeauds'. She'd never seen my mother place a pillbox on the counter, and stand there in the kitchen counting out vitamins in her floral robe and naked feet. She'd never pressed a Band-Aid over an open cut on Camille's kneecap. But she did know that right before coming, I liked a single finger up the bumhole and that I wasn't averse to a roaming tongue inside my ear. She knew I liked a hand cupped around my balls while she sucked me, and that I liked her to
narrate what I was doing to her during sex. But so what, actually? Anne knew this, too. My favorite places to fuck were different with Anne, because she was different, she was Anne, but my wife, also, knew about my quirks. The only difference was that I'd allowed Lisa to add things to my sexual glossary while I'd halted all such exploration with Anne.

I want to be a bigger man, a less predictable man than the kind who confuses love with sex. It's something you do in your early twenties. It's disorientating. It's weak. With Lisa out of my life now, I can't identify whether I did or didn't love her. It scares me to think that I didn't. Despite my desire to be forgiven, something in me needs to hold on to her, still.

 • • •

After dinner that night on the
More4 News
report, more news about Iraq. Samira Ahmed kicked things off:

“More confusion this evening around the meaning of ‘regime change' by and to the Americans. We'll be going live with UN weapons inspector Scott Ritter, in Michigan. Can you hear us, Scott?”

“Yes, hi, Samira. Thanks for having me.”

“So it's been about six weeks since President Bush outlined the five conditions he deemed necessary for a peaceful resolution of the conflict between the United States and Iraq, is that right?”

“That's right.”

“And if I'm not mistaken, that's the first time the phrase
regime change
came up?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Scott. “The phrase is being used somewhat haphazardly to mean any number of things. Back in April, Bush was still saying that Saddam had to go. But now that Congress has passed the Iraq Resolution, that's changed. Bush
says now that Saddam can stay in power if he complies with the five conditions in the resolution.”

“But it's a bit vague, isn't it?” continued Samira.

“The language leaves a lot of room for interpretation. And expansion. Right, I mean, the language itself is actually leaving room for future changes in the administration's policies. Personally, I think it's very naive and misguided to think that Hussein is going to comply with any of this.”

“And what does ‘regime change' signal for you?”

On the split screen, the inspector fell silent. “Well, I stick by the original definition. Hussein's gotta go.”

 • • •

From my bedroom, I heard my cell phone ring.

“If that's Camille, love,” my mum said, her eyes still on the television, “let us say hi?”

I made it into the bedroom just in time to see that I had a missed call from Julien. I shut the door and called him back.

“Haddon, where've you
been
?” he shouted. “I was really starting to think they murdered you! I even called your wife.”

“Shit, you shouldn't have done that,” I said, sitting on the bed.