Elegance and Innocence: 2-Book Collection

She’s looking at me again with that look I can’t quite get and then she says, ‘No. I don’t think I would.’

The light has drained from the sky. My face is wet and my eyes stinging. ‘Try it,’ I mumble, dabbing my eyes with one of the recycled tissues. ‘It’s hysterical.’

‘What makes you think your husband is gay?’ she asks.

I’m tired. I want to go home.

‘He told me. He said he thought he was gay, or at best bisexual when we met.’

I’m leaving here and going straight to the off-licence.

‘But that does not mean he’s gay.’

I’ve got mascara in my eyes and it’s burning. Am I deaf? ‘Pardon?’

‘I said,’ she repeats, ‘that it doesn’t mean he’s gay.’

Oh.

‘What does it mean then?’

‘Well.’ She’s the one crossing her legs now. ‘It means that he’s questioning his sexuality, what it means to be a man. It does not mean he’s gay.’

Wait a minute.

‘I’m just telling you what he told me. Don’t you think he knows if he’s gay or not? Also, we didn’t fuck. Don’t you think that’s significant?’

‘There are many reasons why sexual relations cease in married couples.’ She adjusts her glasses and cocks her head to one side. ‘Why do you think they stopped?’

‘Well.’ I cock my head too. ‘I think they stopped because my husband is gay and because he’s not interested. Let’s face it, if you want to do something, you usually find a way of doing it. We didn’t fuck because we didn’t want to; it’s as simple as that.’

She arches an eyebrow. ‘So you didn’t want to fuck either.’

‘Being rejected twenty-four hours a day is not an aphrodisiac. It’s humiliating.’ And then I add, somewhat defensively, ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

She cocks her head the other way, like a parrot. ‘And yet you claim to have married a gay man.’

‘Yeah, well, apart from that.’ What is it with her? This isn’t at all what I expected. I feel like I’ve fallen into an episode of Perry Mason. ‘And I’m not claiming, I’m telling you what I know to be true.’

She’s looking at me over her glasses again.

‘Look,’ I continue, ‘he doesn’t want to be gay, it’s damned inconvenient for him – he’s a very conservative guy, from a very conservative family. And I come along and we fuck and he tells me this thing and I’m so crazy with fear of being alone and I say, “No, you’re not. Look, I’ve fixed you.” And he loves that because that’s his problem solved and we get married and someone’s got to be crazy because you can’t marry a straight woman to a gay man without someone going mad, so it gets to be me. Get it?’

She says nothing.

I hate her.

‘Well, I do. And that’s something.’

‘You seem angry,’ she observes.

I’m clutching handfuls of chenille throw in both fists. ‘Angry? Yeah, just slightly. Just slightly pissed off.’

She removes a piece of lint from her skirt. ‘And why do you think that is?’

I can’t believe her. I want to throw things, to rip those lousy pictures off the wall and smash them into her face. ‘Why? Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said? I’m married to a gay man!’

She considers this. ‘That’s your perception of the situation.’

I can’t stand it. ‘What does that mean, “my perception”? You know what, it’s a lot more than my perception, it’s my experience – my hard-earned experience of the situation, whether you believe it or not. I’m not crazy! My experiences are real. I don’t need you or anyone else to verify them for me. If ever I was crazy, it was when I believed that someone like you, with your … your incredible mediocrity, could help me!’

I’m on my feet.

‘Anger can be very healthy,’ she says.

‘Fuck you,’ I say, putting on my coat.

Her kids’ university fees are walking out the door. She stands too. ‘I think we’re making real progress, Louise. But you may be feeling a little unsupported at the moment and we should think about increasing your sessions.’

I turn and take her hand in mine. We’ve never touched before; I feel her recoil but don’t care. ‘Thank you for all your help. Extra sessions won’t be necessary. You’ve taught me that my biggest mistake is giving my power away to people who haven’t got a fucking clue.’

I let go of her hand and it drops limply by her side.

She’s speechless. Only she manages to talk anyway. ‘Louise, what are you doing? You can’t finish your therapy just like that! We should discuss this over a series of sessions … we need to resolve the relationship.’

I feel sorry for her; she’s pathetic.

‘No, no we don’t. We don’t need to talk, we don’t need to discuss, or resolve. Send me a bill. Buy yourself a decent pair of shoes. Do something for a change. Talk is cheap.’

I open the door.

And walk through it.

Why is it easier to walk away in high heels?

L Lingerie (#ulink_77a6604c-609e-52a9-810c-4f6b87a37e18)

The number of articles worn by a fashionable woman has considerably diminished since the beginning of the century. However, even though a woman’s lingerie may be reduced to two pieces, they should at least be matching. It is the height of negligence to wear a white brassiere with a black girdle, or the reverse. Bright-coloured undergarments are charming, but of course can only be worn under dresses which are opaque or dark. In the summer, it is preferable to stick to white. If you are extremely refined and rich, your underclothes might match the colour of your outer ensemble.

Women are making a mistake in neglecting this potential added attraction to their charms. In short: when you dress, think always that later on you will be undressing and in front of whom. After all, nothing betrays a woman more than her lingerie; it is infinitely more revealing than a thousand hours spent on a psychiatrist’s couch.

One final word: this is not an area in which you throw discretion to the wind. Do not confuse beautiful lingerie, the kind that supports well and remains fresh, with the cheap, vulgar stuff of men’s magazines. Fascinating? I’m certain. But elegant it is NOT. A man likes to think that his wife is attractive and discerning even when he is not looking, and surely, that is the image you want him to have at all times and the one that will excite his deepest admiration.

One day, after I’d hung out my washing on the kitchen drying rack, Ria takes me aside.

‘Louise, what are these?’ She points to a pair of ancient Sloggi briefs that are clinging in grey, exhausted resignation to the line. (No matter how many I toss out, The Curse of The Dingy Knicker haunts me, mysteriously refilling my drawers with shabby pants.)

Not since my early childhood, when I was young enough to wet my pants, has anyone called such dramatic attention to my knickers. I look them over closely.