Rachel Cusk - Saving Agnes

‘Sorry. God, Merlin, you’re in love with your boss. How did it happen? Did it just sort of creep up on you?’

‘She did sort of creep up on me, yes. You could say that.’ He pursed his lips into a grim smile and dug his hands in his pockets. ‘But just for the record, I’m not in love with her. She’s in love with me.’

‘What?’

He laughed.

‘Do I have to be pretty and submissive, et cetera, et cetera—’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Well, surely it’s not that hard to believe, is it?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Agnes, wondering if he might just be imagining it. ‘But what form exactly does this — ah — love take?’

‘A good question,’ said Merlin. ‘She’s using it as a power thing, actually. That’s why I’ve been working so late recently. She invents all this work for me, really stupid stuff. She makes me run errands for her just as I’m about to go home. It’s not my job, but it’s all legitimate work, so there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘But mightn’t she just be a slave driver?’

‘You mean, am I just flattering myself? Give me some credit, Agnes. You’ll be asking me if I dress provocatively to go to work next.’

‘I was only trying to help! I just thought it might not be as serious as you think.’

‘It’s bloody sexual harassment is what it is. She puts her hand on my leg every time I go near her desk, for God’s sake.’

‘Well, in that case you can take her to court.’

‘Who’d believe me? You hardly do. Anyway, I’d lose my job, and I can’t afford to right now. God, it’s such bloody poetic justice that this should happen to me!’ He looked up at the darkening sky, blinking and gasping like a fish. ‘Why me? I’m a feminist!’

‘Maybe it’s a sign,’ said Agnes, attempting levity. ‘Maybe your tribe are calling you back.’

‘Maybe.’ He laughed. ‘I shall cultivate the wild man within. Do you know, I could buy an Oriental wife if I wanted one? The perfect wild man accessory.’

‘Where from?’

‘An agency. I saw it in the personals, it’s called “Thai the Knot”. Isn’t that sick?’

‘That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting, in fact, for looking in the personals.’

‘Boys are meant to be disgusting. Girls, on the other hand, must be innocent and pure. I do it all the time, actually. I saw one today which said “Emma Woodhouse desperately seeks Mr Knightley”.’

‘And were you tempted?’

‘No. In fact, it really annoyed me. People are so illiterately romantic these days. Mr Knightley wouldn’t look in the personal columns, for heaven’s sake. The whole point of him is that he’s already there. Women have got some very peculiar ideas. They want to get laid, but they want it to look like Jane Austen.’

Agnes stared at him. They continued walking and she shook her head. Merlin certainly was behaving rather oddly, although this often happened to people, in her experience. One brush with the rudiments of love and they became card-carrying experts on the opposite sex.

‘Where are the proofs for the restaurant section?’ asked Agnes.

‘Sorry, dear,’ said Jean after a lengthy hiatus. ‘I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?’

Greta came into the office and sat down leadenly at her desk. Her eyes were wide and filmy, like a sleepwalker’s.

‘Proofs,’ repeated Agnes. ‘Restaurant section. This week’s issue. Remember?’

‘Someone called,’ interjected Greta, appearing to wake up. ‘There was a call for you earlier, Jean. Some guy.’

‘Who?’ Jean suddenly became mysteriously alert. ‘Who was it? A man, you say?’

‘Yup.’ Greta grinned slyly. ‘He did mention his name, but I forget what it was.’

‘Well, how did he sound?’

‘He sounded kind of — dignified.’

‘Was it a deep voice?’ persisted Jean. ‘Deep and well-spoken, with a slight lisp? A very charming lisp, actually. You’d hardly notice it.’

‘Yup.’ Greta nodded. ‘Sounds like ole Dignified.’

‘I’ll be back shortly,’ said Jean, dashing for the door. ‘I’m just going to my office.’

‘That woman kills me,’ said Greta, yawning. ‘She’s such a card.’

Agnes slammed into the house in a state of considerable distemper. She had been forced by the nonchalance with which the editorial department was approaching its deadline to stay late in the office, working alone while the cleaners emptied bins and vacuumed floors around her. Watching them sanitise the unsavoury detritus of her day she had been besieged by feelings of shame and guilt, and had attempted to engage them in pleasantries. Not beguiled by her condescension, however, they had roundly rebuffed her overtures and left her feeling that a mysterious exchange of power had taken place, the precise manoeuvres of which she was not able to fathom.

She went into the sitting-room and found Nina and Merlin huddled on the sofa like two conspirators.

‘We have great news!’ Merlin exclaimed, seeing her. He nudged Nina. ‘Go on, tell her.’

Agnes sat down on the edge of an armchair. She didn’t like news these days.

‘What?’ she said suspiciously.

‘We’re not telling you until you look more excited,’ said Merlin obstinately.

Agnes felt her backbone sag with frustration. She restrained herself from informing them that, had she been able to manufacture such pleasant emotions at will, her life would undoubtedly today be very different.

‘I got the job,’ said Nina abruptly. ‘I’m quite pleased, actually.’

Agnes had not known she was applying for one. She looked from one to the other of them in bewilderment.

‘Just think,’ said Merlin, coming to her rescue. ‘Our girl on the pages of a national newspaper! Elwood Street at the whirling vortex of the mass media!’

‘That’s great,’ said Agnes, more confused than enlightened by Merlin’s rather baroque explanation. ‘Great.’

Nina looked at her closely and then shrugged.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ she retorted. ‘You might actually sound as if you meant it.’

She got up and left the room. Merlin watched her go and drummed his fingers anxiously on the arm of the sofa.

‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Agnes protested. ‘I didn’t know about her job.’

‘I know,’ sighed Merlin. ‘But couldn’t you — well, couldn’t you at least have pretended to be pleased?’

Agnes had many memories of doing things against her will, but one occasion had always stuck particularly prominently in her mind.

It had happened when she and John had gone back to his house one night after a party. Sometimes they went back to her house, but more often these days they each went home alone. On this particular night, however, although comforted by the acceptance his invitation implied, Agnes had not felt much in the mood for the rites which were its usual conclusion. She was tired and had drunk too much, and had broadcast these symptoms several times on the way home in the hope that he would not press her into further denials once ensconced there.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ he had said as soon as they arrived; and Agnes did, snuggling up against the far wall so that their bodies would not touch, with as much of the aspect of an ailing child as she could muster.

He switched off the lights and got in beside her at a respectable distance, but scarcely five minutes had passed before his hand reached over and began caressing her. She sighed and attempted to feign sleep. His hand continued its wanderings undeterred. Suddenly, with one jerk of his body, he was pressed up behind her.

‘I–I don’t really feel like it,’ she said, troubled more by her own aversion than his persistence.

He hadn’t replied, appearing for a moment to desist, but seconds later she felt his hands on her again. He sat up in the darkness and turned her reluctant body on to its back.