Joseph O'Neill - This is the Life

While Donovan talked to Rodney I thought, Why should Donovan divulge the details of his new book to me? My opinion did not matter. Doing up the buttons of my coat, I thought about how little Donovan revealed about his private self to me. His feelings about Arabella, his ambitions, his political views, I knew nothing about these things. Indeed, I received the impression that he would positively obstruct any inquiries that I might make in these areas. I did not resent this — how could I? What grounds would I have for such feelings? — but nor did I find it entirely to my liking. I would have liked a closer involvement with him … Not friendship, no — nothing so intimate, one had to face facts! — but maybe something else; maybe a fellowship of sorts.

Donovan continued to talk to Rodney and I waited, buttoned up and ready to go. Still he talked. Then he was put through to someone else. A fresh dialogue began and again I waited where I was, standing by his desk in my done-up coat, my case in my hand. After a few minutes he was still talking so I walked to the door, attracting his attention with a wave and a mimed Goodbye. As he waved back, a kindly expression on his face, I saw that his cup still held a full pool of coffee.

I walked straight back to the office, reproaching myself a little for the unsatisfactory episode in Donovan’s room. It had not gone well, and I did not feel that I had done myself justice. An opportunity had slipped through my fingers. (The question which I ask myself now is this: Opportunity? What opportunity? Opportunity for what?) Then, as I stepped along the engine-loud pavements, something dawned on me, something which should have sunk in years ago: Donovan was a poor conversationalist. He had no small talk or chit-chat in him at all. It was ironic, because he was one of the most fluent speakers I knew. I could think of no one more articulate.

I stopped at my sandwich bar for prawn and mayonnaise and tuna and mozzarella sandwiches and another coffee. I sat down at a table and contemplated my recent insight into Donovan. As I have said, I am unused to making discoveries of this kind for myself; usually it takes someone else to point these things out to me. I decided that it went down against him as a minus point — a weakness. It was a forgivable weakness, of course, an understandable one, but it was a weakness nevertheless. And then I thought about it a little more and began backtracking. Why should he be a great conversationalist? I thought. He did not make any claims in that direction. He set out his stall as a lawyer, not a patterer. No, I had momentarily fallen into the same trap as Arabella; I had entertained mundane expectations of the man.

Arabella. I slurped at my coffee and considered my first glimpse of her that morning. Somehow the name had lost its lustre and its magical ring. I could no longer imagine it belonging to a little mermaid, to one who might love her prince so much as to give up her fishtail for tender, excruciating feet. No, she was not as I had imagined her at all. As far as I could recollect, she had worn a practical, brownish suit — not a suit, actually, so much as an ensemble. Her short hair was dark, wiry in texture and greying. She gave a capable, sturdy impression, which was why I had mistaken her for a solicitor. Her figure was trim but unremarkable. She looked like a perfectly ordinary woman in her mid-thirties — the sort of woman, dare I say it, with whom even someone like myself might hope to succeed.

What did Donovan see in her?

I signalled to the waiter to bring me some more coffee. He knows my face, that waiter, from my innumerable visits, so I receive fairly prompt service from him. It was not a minute before I had my drink and a complimentary biscuit in front of me while others vainly waved their hands. I do not set great store by receiving preferential treatment, but sometimes it can be nice.

Yes, I thought again, Arabella. Then I thought, perhaps a little cruelly, If I were a rich and famous barrister I would hope to do better than Arabella.

I hasten to add that in thinking this I was not seeking to denigrate Arabella. Most certainly not. There was no doubt in my mind that she was an estimable woman, a woman of many valuable qualities, and doubtless, too, she possessed many attributes of personality which made her an acceptable, and indeed desirable, spouse. No, what I had in mind was something else. It simply occurred to me that, in Donovan’s shoes, I would seek out someone truly exceptional; I would not settle, if that is not too harsh an expression, for a woman of straightforward and widely available charms: I would try to scoop up the best there was. In other words (I shall be blunt), I would go for a beauty. Arabella, whatever else could be said for her, was no beauty.

It is not difficult to imagine certain responses to what I have just said. Pig! or Brute! might well be among them, and it would not surprise me to hear Sexist! ring out. But can I help my sentiments? And even if I could, can I be blamed? For a start, there are my personal circumstances. Look at me: look at my bald head, at my upside-down face and my small, plump figure: I am not an attractive man. There is very little about me to arouse the interest of a woman full stop, let alone that of a beautiful woman. That is a disheartening state of affairs, because I find beautiful women as attractive as the next man. I hanker after them just like everybody else; my head, too, has turned to lovely strollers during these last, heatwavy, weeks. The difficulty is, I am never going to be in a position to do something about this hankering. My face will always be pressed steaming against the window. Can I be blamed, therefore, for making beauty a particular priority if I suddenly found myself with Donovan’s options?

I returned to the office. It was not long before I received a call that I had expected. It was from Fergus Donovan. He wanted to know how it had gone.

‘How what has gone?’ I said.

‘The pre-trial hearing,’ he said. ‘How did it go? Tell me.’

I sighed. Mr Donovan tired me out. ‘Why don’t you ask Michael,’ I said. ‘He’ll know all there is to know. It’s not for me to tell you what happened this morning.’

It was all right, Mr Donovan said. He had checked it with his son, and he had said that it was all right for us to talk.

‘Nothing much happened, Mr Donovan,’ I said. I tersely described the morning’s events.

Mr Donovan said accusingly, ‘You didn’t speak to Arab? Jim, I told you to speak to her.’ Before I had the chance to reply he was off on another tack. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘it can’t be helped now. Jim, how would you feel about a game of golf?’

I said, ‘Golf?’

‘Saturday morning, at Highgate. How about it? I’ve booked a tee,’ he said. ‘Eight-thirty, Saturday morning.’

It had been a long time since I had played, I told him. I doubted very much that I would be any good, I said.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘You just bring a set of clubs and we’ll take it from there. I’ll give you shots,’ he said generously. ‘You can have a shot a hole if you like.’

I did not want to play golf with Mr Donovan. That was the truth.

‘All right, Mr Donovan,’ I said.

The night before the golf game I was attacked by nerves. It was three years since I had last played and, as I tramped around my living-room, I saw with great vividness the disasters that awaited me the following day, and actually tasted the humiliation that would follow: the chagrin and mortification shuddered through me as if I were already on the fairway, not at home, in front of the fire. And there was not just the golf to worry about: Mr Donovan’s company for four hours would be no breeze, either.