Sedating Elaine, page 22
Frances stood, dumbstruck, for several moments, with her back to the restaurant, feeling like she might pass out. She remembered this feeling when she was at school, like she wanted to make herself as small as possible, then people might not see her, and she might be left alone. She could stay there being small and invisible all night, if needs be. Beside her, a telephone rang. She stared at it, then looked around, silently pleading for help. The girl who had just taken drinks dashed over to it and began a very fast, half-shouted conversation about a wrong booking, then slammed it down, turned to Frances, and said sarcastically, “I’m sorry, do you have a reservation? Or are you waiting for a fucking invite?”
Frances picked up a pad and a pen, feeling like she’d just been handed a rifle and told to go and shoot someone. Then, she heard it.
The laugh. It stood out not because it was louder than any other, but because she knew it so well. It immediately reawakened a hundred memories, a hundred occasions, a hundred emotions. Frances’ eyes followed it and found her there, across the restaurant.
Her hair was different—cut into a harsh bob—but it was the sameness, the lack of change, that surprised Frances, as if time should have changed her more. Same red lipstick, same Celtic earrings, same military boots, same composure, resting her chin on her fist as the woman opposite her talked. Same supple face, same engaging smile. She picked up a menu and began to fan herself with it, laughing again, wafting it back and forth casually, carelessly, chattering away. The restaurant did not stop for her, the scene did not pause, but she might as well have been the only woman in there, such was the precision of focus from Frances’ eyes. It created a mixture of repulsion and desire, horror and self-preservation, the urge to sprint from her and yet also run into her arms. Their time apart had left no visible negative signs, had not aged her at all, had not hardened her expression or hollowed her eyes. Frances suddenly thought of each time she had stepped on the scales, each pound lost through grief, each sleepless night, each crease on her skin. Each drink, each tear, each nightmare. They had not suffered together, it seemed. If anything, sitting there, sipping her wine and flicking her hair, she looked more beautiful than ever. Frances looked at herself in the mirror behind the bar, saw her sallow face, her scraggly hair, her extreme visible weariness, and the ludicrous dress, all beyond help. She looked over at the others round the table. Beside her sat a dapper, moustachioed man of about thirty, wearing a waistcoat and cravat, his sleeves rolled up and his hair swept aside as he examined himself in the back of a spoon. The woman opposite her was roughly the same age and seemed to be out to impress, talking uncontrollably, running her hand up the back of her neck as she spoke, occasionally twizzling a curl of hair. Next to her was a much older man, grey hair and grey suit, who looked around uncomfortably, as if he’d sat at the wrong table. It occurred to her that she could refuse to do it; all she needed to do was walk back downstairs. This was a restaurant, not the army. But then she discovered she was moving forwards as if on a conveyor belt; all the other servers seemed to twist and dart around her in a blur. She arrived by the table and they all looked up—all except her, because she was by now scrolling through her phone, bored. Frances recognised the behaviour and expression; she had seen it many times before. She did not notice Frances until Frances said, “Hello, Adrienne.”
Frances had often imagined this moment. In the fantasy, she approached Adrienne as a model of smooth, chic sophistication: immaculate hair, businesslike yet subtly sexual clothing, creating such a picture of success and carefree happiness it took Adrienne a moment to recognise her and, when she did, she stumbled back a little, gasping, saying something like “Frances? Is that you? Wow, you look incredible.” Much flirtation followed. It was painfully apparent, even to Frances, that reality was unlikely to meet expectation, but still she couldn’t help hoping—just a tiny bit—that something wonderful might be about to happen. As it was, Adrienne just slowly looked up, frowned, and laughed. “Holy fuck, is that Frances?” Frances’ arms instantly twitched forwards as if to offer an embrace but Adrienne did not stand up, she barely even moved, just looked as if she had bumped into a person she’d almost forgotten about. The little hope was extinguished like thumb and forefinger to a flame, and Frances felt the coldness of shame sink inside her again, compounded now by Adrienne’s wandering eyes taking in boots, dress, apron, hair. She wanted to be smashed to pieces like a dropped bottle and sink into the floorboards.
“Hello, Adrienne,” she repeated quietly. She didn’t know what to do with her face, how to look, to smile or snarl or frown. She wished more than anything that she might appear light-hearted, even dismissive, but she was too overwhelmed and far too daft-looking. The coldness had almost filled her entire body; one teardrop and she’d turn into an ice sculpture. The other three at the table looked back and forth between them, trying to understand, waiting for the necessary introductions or, for this person, if she wasn’t a waitress—and they weren’t entirely sure—to leave.
“Wow!” Adrienne said. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here. I’ve worked here for ten years.”
There was a pause between them and the looks kept darting back and forth, up and down. Frances tugged at the tassels around the hem of her dress.
“Yes.” Adrienne tossed her head. “But only ever downstairs, doing the dirty dishes, never upstairs. You always said you wouldn’t. Well, I think you actually said you couldn’t. But I see you’ve been promoted because here you are!”
“Here I am.”
Then she sighed, that easy breezy sigh. “Oh, my goodness, what a world,” and leant back in her chair, chuckling. Frances felt so exposed and stupid. She could not tell if Adrienne was happy to see her or not. That laugh of hers could be joy, shock, or sarcasm. It was always difficult to know, especially when you were the target. Adrienne tucked her hair behind her ear and stared at Frances for several seconds, then wafted her hand and said, “Everyone, this is my old friend Frances.”
It was the sort of casual cutting comment Frances would previously have defended, saying, “She didn’t want to make it awkward for everyone,” or, “Well, everyone is Adrienne’s friend, after all,” but now she found it angered her. Adrienne introduced the table: “This is Ralph, Freddie, and Amy.” Freddie—the moustache—grinned up at her and poured himself some more wine, as if the entertainment had arrived.
“More friends?” Frances said.
Adrienne put her elbow over the back of her chair and paused there a moment before smirking. “Yes, darling. More friends.”
Frances pulled her pad and pen out. Her hands were trembling, and Adrienne looked at them.
“How have you been?” she said.
“Fine.” Frances scribbled on the pad.
“Are you still living at the same place, your adorable little flat?”
Frances wanted to say it wasn’t any of her business. For some reason, the thought that Adrienne knew where she lived made her suddenly feel uncomfortable, not because she might turn up there, but because it struck her as unfair; she hadn’t a clue where Adrienne was living. And she wanted to ask why, out of all the restaurants in London, she had to come here, tonight. Was it for a meal, or for sport? She could imagine Adrienne saying to her friends later, “I mean, can it really be coincidence that I arrive and suddenly she appears? She must have seen me. There’s no other explanation for it—she was always terrified of being a server. She’s too awkward for it, in an adorable way, of course.”
“What have you been up to? You must fill me in—it’s been ages,” Adrienne said, and leant in on her elbows as if to listen to a story. Then, when there came no reply, she said, “We should meet for a drink, darling. It would be lovely to catch up properly.”
Frances stood still for several moments, barely realising she was holding in an urgent panicked reaction, an outburst or scream. The feeling of being reeled in, of being toyed with, of being teased, of feeling foolish, and not knowing which parts were serious and which were not, was all too much, and too familiar. She realised, standing there, pen in hand, that she could not trust Adrienne. It seemed obvious now. She could never trust her, not even in the beginning. Her feelings were not safe with her, so nothing was. The doctor’s words tried to barge in: perspective, forgiveness, want, want, want. She saw him sitting there like a fat Buddha with jam on his tie and tried to hear his voice. Just show me the way. All four of them looked at her. “Are you ready to order?” she said as flatly as possible. Adrienne turned back to her menu and sipped her wine, leaning her body towards the moustache.
“I’ll have the carbonara,” Amy said.
“Lasagne,” said first the moustache and then the grey suit.
“And I’ll have fillet steak. Rare,” Adrienne said without looking up.
“That isn’t on the set menu,” said Frances.
“I don’t care. Let’s be crazy.” Her friends laughed. Adrienne finished her glass and swung around boldly to face her. “Wow, it is so nice to see you,” she said.
Frances juddered internally. How can you say that? she wanted to scream. You’ve always known where I am, you’ve always known you could come to me, at any time, I loved you. Seeing you here is like seeing every dream of every time we were together, every time I looked at you and wanted you and gave myself up to you. You have blasted back into my vision, internally, externally, and drained me of every other feeling, other than reminding me how much I loved and wanted you, and how much pain you left me in. Not just by leaving me, but the days and months together when you made me feel small and unworthy of you, and I accepted it because I thought it was true. I longed for you. I adored you. You were every missing part of me come to life, my mother, my friend, my lover. You encouraged me to create a nest in you and made me feel at home, but it was all a lie, all untrue, just to love me and leave me to die. And now you sit there and say it’s nice to see me, just like you’d say to anyone else, a placatory statement, an emotionless fact. It is not nice to see you. Wonderful, awful, and a thousand other feelings, but nice? Never a word I could associate with you.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she said.
Adrienne’s face dropped to an expression not unlike sorrow. “Doing what to you?” she said. “I’m sorry—it’s been a long time. I assumed we could be friends. If you want to. I mean, I don’t mind.”
“You don’t have friends,” Frances said.
“Excuse me?”
This, on top of everything else—it was all too much. She did the only thing she could: She turned and hurried away.
Just gotta get out.
She hadn’t written anything down and immediately forgot their orders. By the bar, she stood with her hands flat out before her and tried to breathe. In the reflection of the glassware and the mirror behind it she could see her there, pouring wine into their glasses and laughing as if nothing unusual had happened. They all seemed to be having a party. Wound up in the pain of seeing her was the old uncomforted six-year-old who never got invited and tried to act like she didn’t care whilst the kids had a fabulous time without her. She wrapped her arms around herself and bowed her head. The servers whizzed, customers rushed to the bar or outside to smoke, a man with a bottle of Barolo barged past her, and no one seemed to see her there. She had succeeded: She was so small, she was invisible. If she could just hide there like that until the end of service, perhaps she could slip out under the door.
“Nice dress.”
She looked up, and in the reflection of the mirror saw the grey suit standing there, behind her. She turned around.
He was very nearly smiling, very nearly offering gentle sympathy, but his face could not resist the opportunity to sneer, as many people do when they’ve finally found someone slightly less fortunate than themselves. He had a podgy neck which blobbed out above his shirt collar, and his eyes sat in hammocks of fat that hung down his face. His suit was typically dull, but obviously expensive. A big fat gold ring glittered on his little finger, like a slug wearing a diamond collar. Frances said, “Can I help you?”
“So, you’re Funny Frances,” he said, and he stuck his hand out.
“What?”
“Oh”—he waved the ignored hand nonchalantly—“that’s just what she called you sometimes. I’m sure she meant it as a term of endearment.”
“Sure. Everyone does. Can I get you something?”
“I just wanted to say hi. We’ve a lot in common, you and I.”
Frances looked him up and down.
“Maybe not outwardly,” he laughed, “but believe me, we do. That little social butterfly over there, we both know her, don’t we? Both know her well. Both know the sting in her tail. And I’d bet good money that you’d still give anything for another night with her, wouldn’t you?” He bore a Chelsea smile of red wine either side of his mouth.
“It wasn’t like that between us,” Frances said, “and I don’t want to talk about it with you. I don’t know you, and there is nothing between me and her now. Now, can I get you any more drinks?”
“Do you know what she describes you as? Oliver Twist with tits. When I heard that I was impressed, of course, a Dickens reference, a bit of humour—that’s how she grabs us, isn’t it, so smart and bold and unique and quick. None of us want to be on the wrong side of her, but it’s not our choice, is it. She decides when she wants us and when she doesn’t, she decides when we’re fun, when we amuse her. That’s all it is. She’s been fucking the dude with the moustache for seven years. No, no, don’t look like that—I hate that prick, do you know that? I hate him, let me just say that, right now, he’s no friend of mine, so calm down, missy. I’m just telling you the facts. She used to let him know when the two of you would be in the shops late at night and he’d come in, pretending to buy milk or something, watching you grope each other. The night she ditched you, he was at the next table. They’re as bad as each other, really. Tonight’s a double whammy, though. I thought it would be just me and her—I didn’t know that cunt was coming and I didn’t know you worked here, I swear I didn’t know. But here I am and here we are, because it’s better to have a piece of her than have nothing at all, isn’t it? Because she’s…well…she’s special. You know what I mean. The other woman is new. I haven’t seen her before, but I think she’s here to stay for a while because they keep laughing and joking and, well, two minutes alone together and I think we both know what would be happening. Unlike me. I think she’s bored of me. But seeing us talk here for a few minutes might have bought me some renewed interest.” He looked over his shoulder hopefully.
“She said she loved me,” Frances whispered.
“That’s the problem with words, isn’t it—absolutely anyone can say absolutely anything. You never know, she might have even meant it at the time.” He held his hands up in a shrug.
And then she recognised him, the man at the table with the moustache. Back when she used to wait across the street and stare up at the flat, this was the man Adrienne shared cigarettes and lemonade with. She didn’t remember him anywhere else, though, but she never noticed anything when Adrienne was around; he might have been there the whole time, he might have been everywhere.
“This is the problem when a person makes everyone feel special; it means none of them are special. She has a free heart, but we all want to be the one to pin her down. I’ve never flattered myself that it might be me. I see exactly how it is, almost a transaction between us. I love her, and she loves my money. I could be fine with it if it weren’t for all the others. But like I said, it’s not our choice, is it. And I know she’s tiring of me because you can’t buy someone’s interest, not if what they’re interested in is new people and different personalities.”
And she remembered the night she had called, when Adrienne had been clubbing with her friends, saying how she’d grown bored of them. She was forever growing bored. It wasn’t enough to be with Adrienne; you had to entertain her. It was an unspoken part of the deal. Don’t be dull or she’ll be gone.
“I thought I was different,” Frances said.
The man smirked. “Don’t kid yourself. I mean, from what I’ve heard, yeah, she liked you. She thought you were, y’know, cute. Quirky. Odd. She liked that you were all over her, until it got annoying. It’s a fine balance with her, isn’t it? Doting just enough to keep her happy but not so much she wants to punch you. Anyway, I’d better be getting back. I think she’s looking over.”
This was said with such a pathetic tone of hope Frances almost felt sorry for him. He checked himself in the bar mirror, then said, “Chin up. You’re free again. She can’t hurt you anymore,” and stumbled back to the table. As he sat down, Adrienne held her hand out for him to take, then asked him some questions, looking concerned and inquisitive. She glanced at Frances several times, refilled his glass, and blew him a succession of kisses, then talked as they all listened like kittens sucking dreamily at her delectable teats.
Frances watched her in the mirror and could not stop trembling. She looked at the woman she had cried for and longed for and missed and got sick and shrunken away for. She thought of all the efforts to forget her. All the time spent in the café, wondering if she might appear. All the time imagining her, and how it used to be, how it could be again. All the guilt and self-hatred at having smothered her, pushed her away, made her lose herself. And she watched now as she leant over to the man beside her and tongued his mouth open until he grabbed her face and kissed her. Maybe she didn’t know Frances was watching, but the point was, she didn’t care. Is she fucking someone? What a stupid question it seemed now. Just gotta get right out of here. Frances turned, and fled down the stairs.
