The Fat Woman’s Joke

‘You are not at all open to forces, are you?’ said Susan. ‘You are an artifact. You are not swayed by passions like me. Anyway, there I was, working in this great throbbing organisation, beginning to fancy my boss, and his wife would ring up every day and ask what he wanted for dinner. He would take her so seriously, I couldn’t understand it. He would think and ponder, and sometimes he would ring her back later to give her a considered answer. It bespoke such intimacy. It drove me mad. She had such a soft, possessive voice. I wondered why he took so little notice of me. And why was there no one I could ring up, in the perfect security of knowing they would be home for dinner, come what may, and obliged to eat what I provided? William kept going back home to his wife for dinner and I found this most irritating. And why didn’t Alan’s wife ring up and ask him what did he want to do in bed that night, or something? Why was it always dinner? Poor man, I thought. Poor blind man. Here was I, young, clever and creative, with depths to plumb, able to take a constructive interest in what really interested him, sitting docile and waiting at his elbow, typing and all he’d do was let his eyes stray to my legs and back again. He was too busy telling his wife what he wanted for dinner. It was an insult to me. I wanted to ask about his novel but he seemed to want to keep it secret. He was so clever. Not just with words, but he loved painting, too. He used to be a painter before his wife got hold of him and destroyed him with boredom and responsibilities. Domesticity had him trapped. Can you imagine, he even kept family photographs on his desk!’

‘A commercial artist, do you mean?’

‘No, I do not. He went to art school. He married her very young, on impulse, and had to give up all thought of being a proper painter. She drove him into advertising, and he ended up a kind of co-ordinator of words and pictures. A man with a great deal of power over people of no consequence whatsoever, and a long title on the plate on his door. How bitter! He should never have let her do it to him. Brenda, do stop making eyes at that Siamese gentleman.’

‘He is not Siamese, I don’t think. But he is very handsome.’

‘I wonder why he seems to prefer you to me. Perhaps it’s his nationality. Do you want me to go on with this story?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then try and concentrate. The first time he actually laid hands on me was the day he started his diet, the day he heard from his agent.’

On the first morning of the diet pigeons chose to strut about the windowsill and embarrass Alan with their intimacies. There was a red carpet on the office floor; red curtains at the window. The standard lamp was grey, and so was the upholstery of the armchairs. His desk was large, sleek, new and empty, except for a list of the day’s engagements. He earned £6,000 a year and was not quite on the Board. It seemed doubtful, now, that he would ever get there. One younger, more energetic man had already used him as a footstool for a leap to Board level, and once a footstool, in Company terms, nearly always a footstool. And nothing would deter the pigeons.

Susan came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She wore a very short white skirt and a skimpy grey jersey.

‘Mr Sussman –’ said Susan, apologetically. She wore an enormous pair of spectacles. Her eyesight was normal, but the glasses combined frailty of flesh with aggression of spirit, and she enjoyed them. Alan sought for her features behind them. He was flushed after his telephone conversation with his agent.

‘I am really very sorry –’

‘Oh my God, what have you done now?’ He spoke amiably, as well may a man who has just achieved, he thinks, a lifelong ambition.

‘It’s just that I forgot about your biscuits again. I took the milk chocolate, not the plain. My gentleman friend always prefers milk, and I become confused.’

‘Your gentleman friend?’

‘How else would you have me describe him? My quasi-husband, my seducer, my lover, my fiancé? Take your pick. He is a poet.’

‘It is too unsettled a relationship that you describe,’ said Alan, ‘for my peace of mind. Secretaries, however temporary, should maintain the illusion of being either virgins or well-married. Otherwise the mind begins to envisage possibilities. The girl takes on flesh and blood. You are a bad secretary.’

‘I’m sorry about the biscuits.’

‘I was not talking about the biscuits, and well you know it. It does not matter about the biscuits. I am not eating the biscuits.’

‘Not eating the biscuits?’

‘No. And no sugar in the coffee.’

‘No sugar in the coffee?’

‘Stop playing the little girl. You are a grown woman. I am on a diet.’

‘Oh no!’

‘Why not? I’m too fat.’

‘People on diets become cross, bad-tempered. And desire fails. You are not too fat. Why do you want to be thin?’

‘I want to be young again.’

‘Why?’

‘Because when I was young I had hopes and aspirations and I liked the feeling.’

‘I think you are foolish. You don’t have to be young to achieve things. I like an older man myself.’

‘You do?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘All the same, take the biscuits away.’

‘I will keep them for William.’

‘The poet? I would rather you didn’t.’

‘Why not?’ She took off her glasses to see him better.

‘The thought confuses me. It is a relief your glasses have gone. Now I can see your face.’

‘It is just a face like any other.’

‘It is not. It is a remarkable face. I would like to paint it.’

‘I do self-portraits, sometimes.’

‘Do you paint?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not really a secretary?’

‘No.’

‘They never are,’ he said. ‘They never are. All summer in the temporary season, they never are. That’s why the typing is so bad. Get on with it.’

Routed, she sat and typed. He sat and read marketing reports and wondered whether to ring Esther and tell her his agent liked the novel. He decided against it. He feared she might prick the bubble of his self-esteem too soon.

‘I am not a foolish girl,’ said his secretary presently. ‘You lead me on in order to make me look silly, but that is easy to do. It’s rather cheap of you.’

‘Oh good heavens,’ Alan said. ‘This is an office not a –’

‘Not a what?’

‘You go too far. You talk like a wife, full of reproaches. I warn you. You are a fantastic creature but you go too far.’

‘Fantastic?’ Her eyes were bright.