Isabel Wolff - Behaving Badly

‘I’m not feeling romantic,’ I pointed out matter-of-factly.

‘Not now. But you will be. One day.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘You will get over this, Miranda. You’re only thirty-two.’

‘I feel fifty-two. It’s the stress.’ And not simply the stress of Alexander, though I didn’t say that to Daisy. As I say, I’ve always bottled things up.

‘Thank God the wedding plans weren’t very far advanced,’ she breathed as she peered into the wardrobe. That was true. Our engagement was so recent that we hadn’t got round to putting in the announcement. All we’d done was chosen the ring. Daisy looked in the tiny en-suite bathroom.

‘I must say your builder’s done a great job. It’s enough to destroy all one’s prejudices about them.’

‘I know. He did it to budget, and on time. He also did loads of extra things, just to help. He assembled my bed, and the desk; he even installed my computer. He obviously felt sorry for me.’

‘Did he know what you’d been…?’ Daisy’s voice trailed away.

‘Well…he was too tactful to comment, but I think he could tell.’

‘And how are you…feeling?’ she added as she sat on the bed.

I heaved a painful sigh. ‘Much better than I was.’

She picked up my bottle of sleeping pills. ‘Are you still taking these?’ I nodded. ‘Well, try not to. And you must eat more, you’re much too thin.’

‘Mmm.’ I’m about seven stone at the moment, though I ought to be eight. Interestingly, my size was one of the things that first attracted Alexander to me because he’s six foot one, and well built. He loved the fact that I was so small and boyish—he said it made him feel ‘manly’. He loved the fact that I came up to his chin. He liked to pull me into him then tuck me right under. I felt as though I were sheltering beneath a huge rock.

‘It was…incredible,’ I heard Daisy murmur as we went downstairs. ‘And what a let-down,’ she added indignantly. I shrugged. Men have let me down all my life. ‘Anyway, I’ve brought you some eggs and bread and some tomatoes, and I’m going to make you eat. ’

As she opened one of the packing crates and found a bowl and a fork, I wondered, as I often do—I simply can’t help it—what Alexander was doing now. Just because it’s over doesn’t mean I don’t miss him; and I knew that he’d be missing me. We’d become great friends apart from anything else; we’d had such an easy, almost effortless, rapport.

I’d met him just over a year ago, not far from here, at the open-air theatre in Regent’s Park. I went with Daisy and her boyfriend, Nigel, to see The Tempest , a play I love. It was one of those magical summer evenings we sometimes get, with a clear sky, and a sliver of moon; and, as dusk descended, the lamps at the edge of the stage began to glimmer and shine. And when Alexander first appeared, as Ferdinand, a slight frisson went through the crowd. He looked just so, well, beautiful, I suppose—he has a beautiful face, with full, curving lips that you want to trace with your fingertip, fine cheekbones, dark hair, and blue eyes. I remember the actress playing Miranda declaring him to be a thing divine. And he called her Admired Miranda! Indeed the top of admiration , as though she were some rare work of art. And, although I hadn’t seen the play for years, so many lines from it still stay in my mind. Ariel singing Full Fathom Five so hauntingly, Miranda’s ecstatic O brave new world ; then, finally, the wonderful moment when Prospero is redeemed. For instead of taking revenge on his wicked brother, as he’d vowed, he forgave him, because that was the courageous thing to do.

The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance , he said simply. That made the hairs on my neck stand up. Then he broke his staff, stepped forward, spread wide his hands and asked for forgiveness himself:

As you from crimes would pardoned be, Let your indulgence set me free.

We were all so spellbound that there was a silence of about ten seconds before the applause began; then, as it finally died away after at least three curtain calls, Daisy said that she wanted to go and congratulate the director, John, who she knew. So we went down to the stage door, and Daisy and Nigel were chatting to John, and I was standing nearby, clutching my programme slightly self-consciously when, to my surprise, I found myself talking to ‘Ferdinand’. Or, to be more precise, he began talking to me. And I couldn’t understand why he was bothering, because, being so short, I never assume that anyone’s even noticed me let alone that they’re interested; so I just said how much I’d enjoyed his performance, which of course I had.

‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling at me in a way which made my face heat up. ‘You’d have been a lovely Ariel,’ he added suddenly. ‘You’re so elfin.’

‘Oh.’ I felt myself blush again. ‘It’s a…wonderful play…isn’t it?’ I murmured, trying to cover my discomfiture.

‘And what do you think it’s about?’ He took a pack of Gitanes out of his pocket, and offered me one. I shook my head. What was the play about? And why did my opinion matter? Again, I felt taken aback.

‘Well,’ I began carefully as he tapped the cigarette on the side of the box. ‘It’s about penance and reconciliation, isn’t it? It’s about the search for forgiveness. It’s about the hope we all have that we’ll be redeemed.’ He nodded slowly at that.

The next thing I knew we were all going for a drink—I remember the delicious scent of his cigarette as we strolled through the park; and although there were quite a lot of us I somehow found myself sitting next to Alexander in the pub. We talked about the play some more, and he told me that Shakespeare actually invented the name ‘Miranda’ specifically for The Tempest , something I’d never known. I’d always known what it means—‘admirable’ from the Latin mirare , to wonder at—but that piece of information was new. And as Alexander and I sipped our beer, oblivious by now to the rest of the party, he asked me lots of other things about my work and my family and he told me a bit about his; that his parents were both doctors, semi-retired, and that his grandfather, like me, had been a vet. By the time we left, an hour and a half later, I felt as though I’d been talking to Alexander for days. And as he walked me to the tube—I lived in Stockwell then—he asked me for my card.

‘He’ll never ring,’ I told myself sternly as I rattled southwards. ‘Forget it. He was just being friendly.’ But he did. Two days later he rang to ask me if I’d like to have dinner with him that Sunday, at Joe Allen’s, and, to my amazement, things went on from there.

And yes, of course I was physically attracted to Alexander, and yes, flattered by his attention, but the truth is I really liked him as well. He was so easy to be with, and so intelligent, and, more importantly, he made me laugh. He was thirty-five, he’d read history at Oxford, then he’d done a postgraduate year at drama school. He’d started out spear-carrying at Stratford, then he’d done ten years in rep, as well as a number of small roles on TV.

‘But I’ve never hit the big time,’ he said modestly. ‘Unlike some of my contemporaries, like James Purefoy—he’s done brilliantly. So has Paul Rhys. They never stop working, while I’m still paddling in the shallows of fame.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do very well too.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who knows…?’

‘All you need is one really good break.’

‘That’s true. Have you ever been married, Miranda?’ he asked suddenly. A small jolt ran the length of my spine.

‘Er…No. Not yet. I mean, not ever. I mean, never. ’ He smiled. ‘Have you?’