Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘The guy who wears fishnet tights?’
‘Yes. They’ve moved in together, so I suppose she’s accepted that the marriage is over, but she still wants to talk to Nathaniel.
She’s a very strange woman. I don’t think she knows about
Eloise.’ Greta looks at me sadly. ‘I’ve told him over and over again, you can hurt people by being too soft-hearted.’
‘What do you mean?’ I’m sitting on the edge of my seat. The cushion tassel has come off in my hand and I’m weaving the threads through my fingers.
‘He hates people to feel rejected. Surely you’ve noticed?’
I just look at her.
‘Even when Ziggy tried to start a
ménage à trois
with Richard,
I don’t think Nathaniel really told her how much it upset him. He
put up with so much in that marriage – but that’s Nathaniel for you. He’s amazingly tolerant.’
‘And Eloise?’ I prompt bleakly.
‘Oh,
Eloise
,’
Greta says meaningfully. ‘She’s beautiful, of
course, and her cabinets are
excellent
,
and she was sweet to him
at first; but now she seems to think she can boss him into loving
her. She’s forever trying to change him, smarten him up. Eloise is
so used to men adoring her that she thinks, if she says, “Jump,”
Nathaniel should say, “How high?” But he just listens and takes
no notice of her. It’s really beginning to irritate him, actually. That’s probably why he’s gone off with this other woman. He’s
told Eloise he just wants to be friends with her, because he can’t
change himself to suit her, but she won’t accept it.’ Greta studies
her nails, which are long and shiny and painted dark red. ‘And then, of course, there’s Sarah.’
‘
Sarah?
’
‘Yes, she’s a psychologist friend from New York. She keeps w
anting to come and stay. I think she’s in love with him too. She
says he’s the only man she can really talk to. Women just seem to
love Nathaniel.’
Oh, stop rubbing it in!
I want to scream. Greta seems to have absolutely no suspicions about my feelings for her cousin. She isn’t to know, of course, that I find these revelations dismaying because they have turned my quiet adoration into something
almost comically predictable. I knew Nathaniel was popular, but
I didn’t realise he was a minor love celebrity. For a weird moment
I imagine me and a bunch of other Nathaniel devotees chasing him down Grafton Street waving our knickers.
‘I think he should take a break from the whole thing, frankly.’
‘What do you mean?’ I don’t know why I ask – or why on earth
she is telling me all this. The Greta I thought I knew only shares
personal details with a tiny circle of trusted confidantes. And then
I suddenly know why she is telling me these things. She
does
know my feelings for Nathaniel. She must have seen me gazing at
him longingly at that reception; and last time I visited his flat –
which is, after all, in her house – I saw her curtains twitching. He
may even have told her that he was worried that I was becoming
a little too fond of him. And now she’s trying to warn me off him
because she knows I have already made a total arse of myself with
my marriage. She arrived just in time. Oh, God, I was just about
to phone him!
‘He just seems to go from one woman to another,’ Greta says.
‘There’s always one waiting in the wings, as far as I can tell. If only he could meet the right person – someone who could help him get over Ziggy. He feels so betrayed by her… He needs
someone who can be loyal to him and love him for who he is.’ She
gazes at me earnestly.
There is a long silence. I stare at my rubber plant. It’s grown
very big lately; in fact, it’s too big for this room, but I’m fond of
it. It’s so enthusiastic, somehow. I really should re-pot it.
‘Sometimes he comes into the kitchen and steals my dinner,’ Greta suddenly adds. ‘Then he runs off with it and eats it in the sitting room.’
I think this is rather thoughtless of Nathaniel, but the details just wash over me distantly. I’m too numb to take them in.
‘Of course I try to forgive him, considering the circumstances.
But I don’t know why he needs to go out so late at night and wander round the garden.’
I just nod. Very little about Nathaniel could surprise me now.
‘And I really wish he hadn’t developed this awful habit of burying my jewellery in the middle of the hydrangeas. I have to lock it away now.’
The words land with an improbable thud. Nathaniel may be daft enough to fly off with Fabrice, but he is not daft enough to
bury Greta’s jewellery. She must have switched the conversation
to Fred.
Confirming this, Greta adds, ‘And his paws get so muddy. I’m
going to have to get the carpets cleaned.’ She peers at me. ‘Are you all right, Sally? You look a little…’
‘I’m – I’m just a little tired,’ I mumble quickly. Then I sit up straighter and say, ‘Actually, Diarmuid has moved in with
another woman. Our marriage is over.’ I know what I’ve done –
telling Greta is a bit like taking out an ad in
The Irish Times
–
but people have to know sometime.
‘Oh, I see.’ She studies me solemnly, but she doesn’t seem the
least bit surprised. ‘To be honest, I never felt you were that
suited.’
Greta has only met Diarmuid once. Was it that obvious? How
on earth wasn’t it obvious to me?
‘Marriage is a strange old business,’ Greta continues. ‘I think
some people just aren’t cut out for it. That’s why Nigel and I have
stayed single. He stays with me at the weekends, but by Monday
I can’t wait for him to leave so I can clean the house and put things where they’re meant to be. He moves things around.’
In normal circumstances I would be itching to hear more about
Nigel, who is Greta’s mysterious boyfriend. He has been sighted
waiting for her in his car outside receptions; he appears to be
about her age and is portly and distinguished-looking, though his
clothes are crumpled. On this occasion, however, I have absolutely
no wish to hear about Nigel. I just want Greta to leave. I want to
be on my own so I can rearrange my views on Nathaniel.
When Erika asked me what kind of biscuit Nathaniel would be, I didn’t answer. I said it was because I had no right to think of him as a biscuit because I wouldn’t ever be allowed to taste
him; but, deep down, I know it was because I was thinking of him
more as a house – the kind of house we had in California, with its quirks and its crannies, its idiosyncratic beauty. I thought I
knew him in the way love reveals a person to you – a one-off way,
not mass-market. I was wrong. Nathaniel’s golden intimacy is lightly given, and even more lightly prized.
‘What on earth are you doing with your column these days?’
Greta suddenly enquires. Her eyes are glinting. Maybe she’s a bit miffed that I haven’t asked for more fascinating revelations about
Nigel. ‘The last one seemed to advise people to live in squalor,’ she adds with an indignant sniff. This is the Greta I am used to.
‘Of course it didn’t,’ I snap. ‘You obviously didn’t read it properly.’
‘I was talking to your editor, and he was very disappointed with it too.’
I feel a twist of fear in my stomach.
‘He said the advertisers were appalled. You’re supposed to
drum up business for them, Sally, not tell people that their houses
are just fine as they are. This business thrives on discontent and aspiration. What’s happened to you? You used to know that.’
‘Maybe I just want to be a bit more truthful, Greta.’ I glare at
her. She can be extraordinarily insensitive sometimes – but, since t
he world she inhabits is tough and somewhat ruthless and
liberally laced with cynicism, this is probably an advantage. ‘Maybe I’ve decided the most important things in life are not
things
.’
I think of the beautiful dark curve of Nathaniel’s
eyelashes. I suppose all his women feel the same way about them.
‘I’m not saying
things
are the only things that matter!’ Greta
splutters indignantly. ‘But they make people happy. Many people
lead very boring lives. The thought of a new sitting-room suite is
genuinely uplifting.’
‘We buy all this stuff, and then we have to pay for it.’ I’m
thinking of the small fortune I spent on my marital home. ‘We get into debt, and that leaves us with fewer choices. We can even feel
trapped in jobs we loathe, because of – of some daft notion that we have to replace our fitted kitchens every few years!’
Greta looks at me as though I’ve just said no one should wash
because after a few weeks one doesn’t really notice the smell. I
suddenly realise we could have a frightful argument. Greta must
sense this too, because she says gently, ‘You’re just a bit upset at
the moment because of Diarmuid. I know you don’t really mean
these things. It’s not like you at all.’
I decide not to protest.
‘Anyway,’ she says softly, ‘will you do this article for me? There’s no rush; it’s not needed for two weeks. They want two and a half thousand words.’
‘What article?’
‘Oh, didn’t I mention it?’ She sounds genuinely surprised. She’s
sobered up somewhat, but she still looks a bit droopy. ‘The ad feature about hotel accessories. It’s for a new client.’
Two and a half thousand words on hotel fucking accessories. I
feel like screaming. But I need the money. I need to pay off my mortgage and take some interest in my overdraft limit. It would also be nice to eat occasionally. Diarmuid and I spent a fortune
doing up our home, and now I don’t even want the furniture. Any
p
rofit we make on the sale will mainly go towards paying for all
the cabinets and the tables and the chairs and the armchairs and the… I can’t even list them any more. I don’t know how I got so
carried away. I must have thought that, if the house was just right,
our marriage would be right too. And then, of course, there are
the lawyers who will charge big bucks to separate us. This cottage
also needs some refurbishment. On top of the other defects, it
turns out that the ants are getting in through a mysterious hole in
the kitchen wall.
‘That… that sounds great, Greta.’ I manage a smile. ‘Who do
you want me to contact?’
‘It’s all down here.’ Greta puts a neatly typed memo on my
coffee table. Then she sighs, and her rather severe face suddenly
looks lost. ‘Maybe I should cook some mince for him. He
probably needs some coaxing.’
It takes me a moment to realise she has returned to the subject
of Fred. Poor Fred; I feel just like him.