Elegance and Innocence: 2-Book Collection

The idea of comfort has invaded every domain; it is one of the categorical imperatives of modern life. We can no longer bear the thought of the slightest restriction, physical or moral, and many of the details which were considered to be a mark of elegance some years ago are condemned today for reasons of comfort. Down with stiff collars, starched shirts, cumbersome hats, and heavy chignons! Practically the only die-hards to resist are women’s shoes.

However, if women continue to seek comfort above all twenty-four hours a day, twelve months a year, they may eventually find that they have allowed themselves to become slaves to the crêpe-rubber sole, nylon from head to toe, pre-digested meals, organized travel, functional uniformity, and general stultification. When comfort becomes an end in itself, it is the Public Enemy Number One of elegance.

It’s 7:15 on Friday morning and I’m getting ready for work. Although part of me still clings to the dream of being an actress, I earn my real money selling tickets in the box office of a small, self-producing playhouse in Charing Cross.

My husband is asleep on the other side of the bed and I get dressed in the dark. There’s not a lot left in my wardrobe to choose from so I put on the navy pinafore dress and the pink Oxford shirt. The dress is figure hugging and very tight, which is why I haven’t worn it in years. As I zip it up, my spine becomes erect, encased in the rigidly tailored bodice. I try to revert to my normal, semi-slouched posture and nearly asphyxiate myself. Next, I slip into a pair of dark brown stilettos I wore at my wedding. They’re the only pair of high heels left after the Great Cull, and suddenly I’m tottering around the flat like a little Marilyn Monroe. After so many days in cheap plimsolls and baggy chinos, it feels very unusual. I comb my hair into a side-parting, pin it back with a rhinestone clip and then apply a soft red lipstick. Leaving the flat, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the hall mirror.

Who is this woman?

I’m going to be late. But what I fail to take on board is the tremendous restriction of movement created by pairing a long, straight skirt with a pair of high, strappy heels. This ensemble is fine for staggering around the flat but obviously not meant for long-haul journeys. The faster I try to walk, the more I look like a wind up doll. The only way to move forward at all is to transfer my weight in a slow, rolling motion from one hip to the next. The dress is now in control; it dictates when I arrive at work and how. So, I sashay forth precariously, swaying gently as I go.

There’s something about a slow moving female in the middle of rush hour traffic. Everyone, everything changes. And I discover that moving slowly is one of the most powerful things you can do. It’s different from being infirm or depressed. The dress makes sure I’m bolt upright, imbuing me with a look of haughty dignity, as if I’m above petty concerns like being at work on time. I appear to be walking because it amuses me, not because I have to. And in the sea of darting pedestrians around me, I have become majestic.

If you’re going to walk that slowly, you might as well smile. And here’s where it gets really interesting. Cab drivers slow down, even though their light is green, just to let me cross the road. The policemen in front of the Houses of Parliament say, ‘Good morning’ and tip their hats. And the tourists who cluster so frustratingly in front of Big Ben with their cameras step aside politely, as if they’ve suddenly found themselves in the middle of a great big living room and they’ve only just discovered it belongs to me.

Yes, the world is my living room and I’m a gracious hostess passing through, checking to see if everyone’s all right.

I have a look around. That’s another advantage of moving slowly, plenty of time for browsing. The air is delicate and sharp, the sunlight crisp and wholly benevolent. Breathing deeply, or rather, as deeply as the dress permits, a strange, unfamiliar awareness descends upon me.

Everything’s all right. Everything really is all right.

As I saunter into the theatre foyer, my heart’s pounding and my cheeks are flushed. I notice my hand as it pushes against the brass plate of the box office door; it seems small and delicate and pretty. For a moment, I’m not quite sure it’s mine. But it is mine. And it is small and delicate and pretty.

Colin’s there, waiting for me. I have the keys to the box office door.

‘Well, look at you!’ he says, kissing me on each cheek.

I smile archly. ‘Whatever can you be referring to, Mr Riley?’ I unlock the door and switch on the lights.

‘Whatever, indeed! Let’s put the kettle on and then I want to hear all about it!’

Something amazing has happened. I’m no longer invisible.

Colin’s my best friend. He doesn’t know it, but he is. He’s always chiding me about how unapproachable and distant I am, but in fact, he knows more about me than my therapist and husband combined. A reformed ‘West End Wendy’, he used to be a dancer in Cats until a tendon injury put his spandex unitard days firmly behind him. He can still do an impressive pirouette when he wants to but now he contents himself with teaching seated aerobics to the over-sixties in his local community centre (he loves it because they all call him ‘The Young Man’) and working part-time in the box office with me. We share not only a love of dance and theatre, but also a very similar Catholic upbringing, with what sounds like exactly the same sadistic nuns (or their relations) rapping our knuckles on different sides of the Atlantic.

‘So you got dressed today! What’s this all about? Having an affair?’ He automatically examines the inside of the kettle for encroaching lime scale. The office kettle is de-scaled twice weekly and the mugs sanitized with bleach when Colin’s bored. We’re used to coffee that both fizzes and removes the stains from your teeth.

‘Hardly!’ I switch on my computer.

He takes a small plastic bag out of his rucksack, removes two well-wrapped plastic containers and pops them in the fridge.

‘What’s for lunch today, Col?’

That’s another one of his passions; he can’t resist food that’s been marked down in supermarkets because the sell-by date has nearly gone. Consequently, his lunches consist of daring taste sensations, dictated by the contents of Tesco’s reduced section.

‘Today we have a fantastic piece of roasted lamb that’s only just slipped by its expiry date but smelled fine this morning, and a small salad of roast peppers, rocket, and new potatoes – although the rocket’s not as lively as I’d like it to be. But then you can’t have everything.’

Colin’s a good cook but you have to have a cast-iron stomach to dine at his house.

‘So,’ he looks me up and down, ‘what’s the story? You look amazing. Coffee or tea?’

‘Coffee, please, easy on the bleach. There’s nothing to tell, really. I cleaned out my closet, and this is what I had left. You like?’

‘Very much so, Ouise.’ (He always calls me Ouise, pronounced ‘weez-y’, the name Louise being too long and complicated to say in its entirety.) ‘And it’s about time. I was beginning to fear for your sex life. What does Himself think?’

‘He hasn’t seen me today, he was asleep. And you know I have no sex life. I’m married.’

‘Well, I’d buy yourself some extra condoms, darling, and be prepared to walk bow-legged for a few days. He’s going to think it’s Christmas!’

‘Colin Riley! Don’t be wicked!’ I laugh. ‘Remember, the Baby Jesus can hear you!’ But inside I feel strange, almost sick. I don’t know if I want to go there again.

But that’s another dangerous thing about being Catholic; we believe in miracles.

When I get home that evening, I decide to give it a go. After all, it’s been a long time. The flat is empty, but I spot my husband poking about in the back garden, wearing a pair of rubber gloves. Sneaking into the bathroom, I fix my hair and adjust my make-up. It’s so rare that I do this. It’s so rare that I even try to be interesting to him any more. I’m not quite sure what to do with myself or how to begin, so I go into the living room and perch on the edge of the sofa.

It’s like waiting in a doctor’s surgery.

My husband and I puzzle over this room; obsess about it. We spend endless hours trying to rearrange it so that it feels warm, comfortable and inviting. We make drawings, sketch plans, cut out little paper models to scale and move them around on pieces of paper with all the intensity of two world-class chess masters. But the result is the same. Wind howls around the sofa. An ocean of parquet stretches between the green armchair and the coffee table. (I’ve seen guests land on their stomachs reaching for a cup of tea.) And the dining room table lurks in the corner like an instrument of torture rescued from the Spanish Inquisition. (Dinner parties confirm this to be true.)

I pick up a magazine and am flicking through the pages when he comes in.

‘Hello!’ he calls.

‘Hey, I’m in here!’ My throat is tight so it comes out a bit higher than normal.

He pokes his head round the corner. Still wearing the rubber gloves, he’s now got the bedroom waste-bin in his hands.

‘Louise,’ he begins.

‘Yes?’ I rise slowly so he can see the full glory of my form-fitting dress, smiling in a playful, naughty way. It’s a risk. Either I look like a complete sex goddess or Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

My husband stands immobilized. He looks cute and confused in his faded, baggy sweatpants. I giggle and take a step forward. ‘Yes,’ I say again, only softer this time, like I’m answering a question, not asking one.

We’re standing quite close now; there’s only the waste-bin between us. I can smell the damp warmth of his hair and the clean, fresh perfume of the clothing softener we use on his sweatshirt. I gaze into his eyes and for a moment everything shifts and melts. I’m smiling for real now, with my whole being and I know I don’t look like Jack Nicholson. Raising my hand, my pretty, delicate hand, I move forward to caress the gentle slope of his cheek, when suddenly I see something that stops me.

As my hand draws closer, his body tenses. He’s standing just there in front of me, but somehow, without ever moving, he begins to recede. A look sweeps across his face, hardening his features into a façade of detachment. It’s the look of every child who has been forced to endure an unpleasant but unavoidable physical punishment; a spontaneous expression of utter resignation.

I step back in amazement, my hand poised in the air like a Sindy doll. My husband looks up in surprise and our eyes meet. The air around us condenses into a vacuum, thick with shame and humiliation, impossible to endure.

My husband is the first to recover, his face a mask of indignation.

He holds up the waste-bin. ‘Louise, what is this?’

I look at the contents of the bin. I’m staring at it but I seem to have a hard time seeing it. ‘Garbage.’ That’s the best I can come up with.

He reaches in, pulls out a printer paper box and wields it aloft. ‘And this?’

He’s really got me now. ‘More garbage?’