Dead Darling (Fragment of WIP)

Yes, I am being a bit lazy here. Too much corporate work, worries about administrative matters and physical exhaustion to write anything new. Instead, I am offering you a ‘reject’: something I prepared earlier, but which didn’t quite make the grade.

You know the expression: kill your darlings (when it comes to writing). Here are some bits and pieces which have been trimmed away from the WIP. Melinda is the main protagonist; Graham is her husband. Below are pictures of how I imagine them in my head.

Graham got home at around nine every evening. He didn’t want any supper; he was careful to keep his figure trim, aware of his beer belly getting ready to pounce.  So she would eat the remains of the children’s meal herself, while he set up his laptop on the dining table. Still some work to catch up on, a few emails to send, a call or two to make. It was all she could to do get a ‘Hmmm, really, I see…’ out of him when she told him about her day.

Sometimes they wouldn’t talk for days. She’d droop off well before ten and go to bed. She was fast asleep when he slipped in beside her. She always fell asleep before she could read 2-3 pages, no matter how exciting the novel might be. Meanwhile, he needed time to decompress, he said, so he watched some satellite TV. In English of course, so everything was an hour behind.

When she woke up at 4 a.m., as she often did, and started worrying about the forms, the To Do lists, her own inadequacies, he was always lying on his back, his arms up beside him with fists clenched, like a baby. A clear conscience, obviously. Sometimes a little snore or occupying more than his half of the bed. She would sigh and creep to the very edge. Or get up and go to the children’s rooms, listen to their soft, sweet breathing and tell herself it was all worth it for them.

In the morning, she struggled to come out of that brief tangle of sleep to which she had finally succumbed. The early start was always far too early, getting the children ready for school, while Graham slept on. And so, with no fuss or awkward rejection on either side, their sex life had dwindled to nothing. Melinda suspected it wasn’t just her who was secretly relieved.

Other things too began to slip. The lazy Sundays in bed, with the children piling in with them. Graham was too tired now, needed to sleep longer, so she would be forever shushing them when they got too excited in their games of make-believe or else take them downstairs and plonk them in front of the TV. Their weekly ritual of ‘lunch at Daddy’s office’ also disappeared, because Daddy had more and more meetings on a Wednesday, the only day when they didn’t have school and had sufficient time to go to the centre of Geneva. After a while, it was no longer much of a day out for them anyway, the food was always bland and they had seen all of the museums that were suitable for children.

Even the family days out that had been the highlight of their week tailed off to nothing. Graham said he was too exhausted from his constant travels. He just wanted to stay at home and relax at the weekend, and she could understand that, she really could.

In the end, Melinda reflected, very little communication is required to keep a household running smoothly. Appointments were made and kept, bills paid with few delays, children picked up and dropped off with the right equipment in the right place at the right time. Food was prepared and ingurgitated, or not. The house was cleaned with the help of a Brazilian woman who came for two hours every week, spoke neither English nor French, and ignored Melinda’s sign language instructions, cleaning whatever she most felt like, rather than what needed doing. Melinda had to pick her up from the bus stop at the Val Thoiry shopping centre, but at least she didn’t demand the exorbitant rates of more professional, car-driving, trilingual cleaners who paid their taxes.

So it went on. Melinda clung to each thread of a routine, grateful that it gave her a reason to get up in the morning. Often, after dropping the children off, she would return to the house with a sinking heart, knowing that Graham would still be around. With shower and breakfast to negotiate, and perhaps an email or two to check, he was never very chatty in the morning.
When he finally left the house, after issuing her with a pile of instructions on what he needed done that day or later that week, she could breathe a huge sigh of relief and make herself a cup of coffee. But it was downhill from there.

No matter how sunny the day, no matter how magnificent the view of Mont Blanc and its Alpine sisters, Melinda felt a dull despondency settling on her. She might crawl back into bed, sobbing for no reason, and find herself at school pick-up time with not much to show at all for her day. At other times she would be lickety-split quick about cooking, wiping kitchen surfaces, doing the laundry in the morning, only to collapse in the afternoon and find herself staring into nothingness, repeating: ‘I can’t take it anymore! I can’t take it anymore!’

But she had to.Melinda

Graham

Flee the Fire

So no, if you scratch me, I will not bleed. If you stab my heart, your knife will splinter on sheer flint. The calamine-soaked bandages sticking to the pus of my burn wounds neither hurt nor soothe me. I’ve been burning since the night I forgot to check on Freddie. Hell is the only place for me and I dare not leave it any time soon.

The forest fires in Canada may no longer be in the news, but they are still raging (although some rain is making the firefighters’ work slightly easier). That will be a post for another day, about the shortlasting visbility of news stories…

Humpty Dumpty Redux

A dodgy or non-existent internet connection, a lot of admin problems and numerous children’s events coming up… so not the most conducive time for subtle analysis of books I’ve recently read. Or even not so subtle. Instead, here is a quick workshop exercise we did recently with the lovely Isabel Huggan: retelling the story of Humpty Dumpty from a different perspective.

 

No time to enjoy one’s oats around here. The siren shrieks again. And again my rider rushes into the stall without so much as a ‘by your leave’ or ‘pardon’. Bridle twitching, he advances cautiously: he knows nothing puts me in a bad mood as much as an unfinished lunch. But I am a well-brought up thoroughbred. He fills me in on the details as he tightens the girth of the saddle around my tummy, still half-empty.

‘It’s that fool Humpty again. He’s been climbing in places where he’s got no business going. With the usual disastrous consequences.’

I neigh sympathetically as we get ready to gallop to the site of the shameful event, but I feel weak with hunger. There’s no one else to send, though, not since they cut right down on the King’s human and equine resources department. Will that egg never learn?

Flash Fiction: Understatement

A fun little Sunday read for you. I’m thinking of starting a once-a-month Lazy Sunday read series with flash fiction. Just for the sake of writing something different.

A great crime writer had once shared tips for the perfect murder at a conference.  All Camille had done was tweak a few details. There were no coastal walks in her area, so she had to improvise with glaciers. He was too vain to use hardcore winter gear, not vain enough to never go out on winter walks. She had carefully drained the batteries of both his mobile phones.  He never checked. No hardship disabling the avalanche tracker on his ski-jacket – he had never given her sufficient credit for a scientific mind.

It was not science she detested, only his relentless droning about it.

‘With his height and weight, you were very lucky not to get pulled in after him, Madame.’ The Salvamont rescue team told her.

Luck had nothing to do with it, but Camille nodded, gulping the hot, sweet liquid gratefully.

‘He always told me I was hopeless at knots… little did I think…’

Glacier crevice, from camping.de
Glacier crevice, from camping.de

 

Fragment from WIP: The Older Woman

Today I would like to share with you an excerpt from my WIP. I am enjoying myself almost far too much with this bitchy character (tentatively named: Betty-Sue) who contributes quite significantly to the story, but from the shadows. The person she addresses is the main protagonist, who also has chapters from her point of view.

What a skittish colt you were! How impossible to tame and befriend! But those who think it’s men who enjoy the chase have got it completely wrong. They can’t have had much experience of the stamina of women pursuing their prey, over months, years, even decades. The prey is usually a man, often a man with another partner, or, as in this case, a woman’s friendship. Us women, we think long-term.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to entice you with invitations to charity balls or ladies’ lunches. You hated those events, obviously felt sartorially challenged (quite rightly so!), unable to keep up financially, or perhaps you considered yourself so vastly superior to us intellectually?

I tell you now: underestimate the Trophy Expat Wives’ Brigade at your own peril. Many of them are second wives who’ve spent years plotting the demise of their predecessors. Or first wives who’ve swapped career ambitions and a frazzled lifestyle of never quite living up to expectations (as a mother, wife, worker bee, PTA stalwart) for an enviable pampered existence. Both of these categories now have a single role: keeping husbands happy and eternally grateful. They focus their formidable intellect, energy and ambition on staying trim, up-to-date and making sure no one gets to play the same nasty tricks on them that they played on the first wives.

For whatever misguided reason or childish prejudice, you let me know that this wasn’t your scene. I’d have to play the ‘intellectual game’ with you, while also appealing to your heartstrings. You East Europeans can sometimes be so heavy and sentimental! But that was fine by me. It would give me something to amuse myself over the winter months, when Geneva turns into a ghost town, while everybody migrates to the mountains and pretends to enjoy themselves doing strenuous sports (and après-skis).

I started calling you for short catch-up conversations, offering my help or advice on the practicalities of expat life.  You proved to be a harder nut to crack than I’d expected. Your replies were so gruff and curt, they bordered on the rude. I mentioned pet insurance (you didn’t have any pets, thank you), holiday clubs for the children (you preferred to take them skiing with you), season tickets for concerts or theatres (you couldn’t find a regular babysitter).

‘I don’t have any recent experience of babysitters. As you know, my children are all grown up now. But I could help you find an au-pair…’

‘Oh, no, thank you. I don’t fancy having a stranger live in my house,’ you said quickly, as if you’d been debating it internally for ages. ‘Anyway, I’m not working at the moment, so I can look perfectly well after the children myself.’

I thought perhaps you were secretly afraid that your husband might succumb to the temptation of a nubile foreign girl, darting half-naked in and out of shared bathrooms. I’ve never known a man so susceptible to feminine charms as your Graham, nor one so blind to women’s deliberate use of flattery as a weapon of mass seduction.

I could have told you, however, that you needn’t fear the oldest cliché in the book: master and servant relationship – or, translated into modern speak, father and nanny relationships. I could have told you that he was already busy getting entangled with a far more formidable adversary. But you were behaving so much like a sulky teenager, for whom I could do nothing right, that I didn’t feel like warning you. Besides, I usually have a strict policy of non-interference. True, I like to set things in motion. Rather like a puppeteer: setting the stage, preparing the props… But then I allow the puppets to take on a life of their own and get their strings snarled and knotted. Which, oh, they are so good at doing all by themselves!

And here is the image I have in front of me on the moodboard for this character: poor Jessica Lange, if only she knew what evil plans I have for her…

jessicalange

 

 

Nostalgia: The One That Got Away

Sacha Black has a ‘Writespiration‘ this week themed around a nostalgia that hurts in less than 200 words. I’ll give you first the flash fiction, then the back story.

When you are thirteen, your cousin’s best friend is the knight from fairy tales: tall, dark, handsome, blue-eyed. How could he walk, talk, breathe amongst us mere mortals? And yet he looked at you, kissed you,  so you wrote to each other for two years. You lived for your brief meetings. No cross word ever passed between you.

You parted as good friends, moved on to other lives, other people, marriage, children, divorce, remarriage. You studied and worked in different countries, met again on LinkedIn. Grey hair, little paunch, wrinkles – and that’s just the flattering pictures. Older yet not much wiser, you knew he had been The One, but you were both too young to understand or to need each other all those years ago. No going back, no proof of discontent with your present life, but you wanted to let him know how you felt about him back then.

You let him in through a gap in your armour. You held out the shivering pulp of raw heart. You try to be fair, not see disgust or hasty retreat where none was intended. But the silence was thunderous.

flowerfade

He was my cousin’s neighbour and best friend. He was like something out of fairy-tales: tall, dark and handsome, with the most amazing blue eyes. I couldn’t believe someone as beautiful as that could walk and talk and do all the normal (i.e. silly) things that my cousin and I were doing.

Whenever I passed through the town where my aunt and uncle lived, we would go out in a large group of friends for walks, go rowing on the lake, get lost in the forest, linger through cemeteries. The usual teenager stuff. We laughed, we talked, and I dared not hope that he would ever think of me as more than Bobby’s little cousin.

And then one day our fingers brushed against each other. A silence fell between the two of us, as our hands found each other. The others continued to walk and joke, but we felt set apart. Our eyes were drinking each other in.

We never lived in the same town, so for a couple of years after that we lived on letters and phone calls. There was one public phone at the post office in the village where he went to boarding school and he was only allowed to use it once a week. I would try to plan my weekends around that call, never quite knowing at what time it would come.

But life went on and others entered our lives. We parted as good friends. We both married young, divorced, formed new relationships, had children. We found each other again online, with careers taking us all over the world, with a few extra kilos and greying hair.

The moment has passed. Our courage and idealism have withered, even if a small seed beneath remains unchanged. There is no use asking: ‘What if…?’ We were too young then to know that we had already found the perfect partner all those years ago.

So we beat on, boats against the current….

This was one of the very first stories I wrote for Cowbird on the 14th of February, 2012 for the Valentine’s Day collection. The theme was ‘First Love’. I felt the story would be incomplete if the above-mentioned first love did not get a chance to read it. We had recently got in touch again after decades of not hearing much about each other (he had found me on Linked In). We had parted on good terms, we had moved on, had rich and fulfilling lives, so there was nothing desperate or stalkerish about my email to him with the link to the story.

I just wanted him to know how much he had meant to me at the time. Because I was too young and foolish back then to express it.

It’s been four years since I sent that email. I have not heard from him at all since. Not on Linked In or email or anything else.

I know emails can get stuck in spam folders or deleted. People can get busy or forgetful. The heartbreak is minor, negligible, easy to laugh at wryly, easy to explain away. It was, after all, so long ago. Spring has come and new life is budding forth. I am full of energy and plans, I do not look back.

But beyond all the excuses and shrugs… there is a younger, more tremulous heart within this hardened crust which does now have scars. And the memory of that first love is no longer quite so serene.

 

Quotes are not always inspirational…

For every inspirational quote, there is another that yanks us down to the bottom of the murky river bed. For every kind thought from a stranger, there is an sharp thrust of unkindness from a near one, all for your very own good, of course.

Vintage housewife, from blog4yourlife.com
Vintage housewife, from blog4yourlife.com

The way to hell is paved, crenellated, wallpapered and sandblasted with good intentions couched in cruel terminology. There is often no subtlety involved (‘obese’, ‘bags of fat on two legs’, ‘heart attack waiting to happen’), while at other times a theatrical sigh will underline that another poison arrow is striving to reach its mark: ‘I’ll only stop praying for you when you finally have found a decent job.’

Good old Dobbin, you work horse, you clothes horse. Keep on plodding and don’t take your nose out of your snuffle-bag or wardrobe until you find the right job, that makes them proud rather than you happy, the perfect dress that covers your stumps, denies your belly, turns your liabilities into assets and doesn’t cost a fortune either, into the bargain (bin)!

Then there are all of those black-and-white world views, all tinged with horrific fatality. All children of divorced parents end up drug addicts or lunatics or worse. All men cheat, all women suffer. Women punish by cutting off their noses to spite their faces. They imprison the man into vengeful marriage, piercing snide remarks, alimony payments, guilt, guilt, guilt. No matter how much men might pressure you into having babies, you will end up with the precious bundles and all their messes – they will only take the glory and successes. A boast at the office and nothing too tangly to weigh yourself down.

Meantime, princess, you’re too old, your pink too soiled, far too busy doing the things you should be doing, to waste time on creative nonsense. Life is to be endured, not to be enjoyed. We have no right to expect happiness. To be selfish. To scratch meaningless little words in short lines and call them poetry. Exchange your heels for flip-flops and wait out the ice-cube tinkling cocktail hour. Jump in and drown in the pool of your perfectly content disapproval.

We have every right to expect happiness. We were the apple, the peach, the light of our mother’s eyes. She did all she could to make us happy and was expecting you, quite frankly, to do more of the same. We cannot be happy with someone who is unhappy. What on earth do you think we should do when that happens — we’re not equipped, not trained, not interested… We twiddle our thumbs defensively. We look down, shuffle our feet, speed out the door, no longer want to be seen with this person in public. We do not want to rock the boat… unless it’s us doing the rocking. We’re worth it, but she isn’t because she wants too much, she wants the impossible. Because she is illogical, irrational, all emoting gushingness – so like a woman!

Pipe down, you shrew, your ranting is giving us all headaches! Who wants or needs feminism now anyway, when it’s proven women can have everything they want, but they don’t know how to choose wisely?

Why should we help when she ends up doing it alone anyway? How else can we prove our independence, our maturity, our love for our father, or that she is needed? These moments pass so fast, we grow up so quickly, she’ll cry later, when we leave home. She already feels the loneliness whenever we leave the house for a day, for a week, for a lifetime. She talks too much, she repeats incessantly and what she has to say we have long since stopped believing. What would each member of our family be if we were animals? A koala, a panda, a giraffe – the cuddliest and tallest all sorted. Mother? A bookworm.

Does the worm ever turn?

Virginie Despentes from www.grazia.fr. Her second volume of Vernon Subutex came out this week in France.
Virginie Despentes from http://www.grazia.fr. Her second volume of Vernon Subutex came out this week in France.

This piece of prose above has its origin in some family history, the great voices of feminism and the quote below from French writer Virginie Despentes.

Parce que l’idéal de la femme blanche, séduisante mais pas pute, bien mariée mais pas effacée, travaillant mais sans trop réussir, pour ne pas écraser son homme, mince mais pas névrosée par la nourriture, restant indéfiniment jeune sans se faire défigurer par les chirurgiens de l’esthétique, maman épanouie mais pas accaparée par les couches et les devoirs d’école, bonne maîtresse de maison mais pas bonniche traditionnelle, cultivée mais moins qu’un homme, cette femme blanche heureuse qu’on nous brandit tout le temps sous le nez, celle à laquelle on devrait faire l’effort de ressembler, à part qu’elle a l’air de beaucoup s’emmerder pour pas grand-chose, de toutes façons je ne l’ai jamais croisée, nulle part. Je crois bien qu’elle n’existe pas. (Virginie Despentes)

[The ideal of the white woman, seductive but not a slut, well married but not faded, working but without being too successful so as not to crush her husband, slender without becoming obsessed about food, forever young without having to resort to cosmetic surgery, a mother in bloom without being too overcome by nappies and homework, good housekeeper without becoming a traditional housewife, well-read but not quite as much as a man, this happy white woman that they keep brandishing under our noses, that we’re supposed to try and resemble (except when she goes ape-shit about insignificant things), well, I’ve never met her anywhere. I do believe she doesn’t exist.] (my translation, with apologies to the original)