Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

In other words, the house was a testament to builders' delays and general domestic chaos - and possibly one of the reasons why I wasn't seeing much of Tony right now. Mind you, he was fantastically busy - he never seemed to get his pages to bed before eight most evenings - and, in this early phase of his new job, he was also having to stay out late schmoozing with his staff, or work the phones, talking with his assorted correspondents around the planet. But though I accepted his preoccupation with his job, it still bothered me that he dodged any responsibility when it came to dealing with the builders and decorators.

'But you Americans are so much better at threatening people', he said.

I didn't find this comment wildly amusing. But I decided to ignore it, instead saying, 'We should get together with some of your friends'.

'You're not suggesting having them over, are you?'Tony asked, looking at our half-finished jumble of a kitchen.

'You know, darling - I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid'.

'I'm not suggesting you are', he said lightly.

'And I certainly wasn't proposing that we bring them into this disaster area. But it would be nice to see some of the people we met when we came up from Cairo'.

Tony shrugged.

'Sure, if you want to'.

'Your enthusiasm is spectacular'.

'Listen, if you feel like ringing them up, then by all means ring them up'.

'But wouldn't it be best if the invitation came from you?'

'The invitation to what?

'To go out and do something. I mean, we live in this amazing cultural capital, right? Best theatre in the world. Best classical music. Great art. And we've both been so bound up in work and this damn house that we haven't had a chance to see any of it...'

'You really want to go to the theatre?' he asked, phrasing the question in such a way that it sounded like I had just suggested joining some whacked-out religious cult.

'Yes, I do'.

'Not my thing, actually'.

'But might it be Kate and Roger's thing?' I asked, mentioning the couple who had had us over for dinner that first time we were together in London.

'I suppose you could ask them', he said, a little undercurrent of exasperation entering his voice; an undercurrent which had started to make a regular appearance whenever I said something that... well, I suppose, exasperated him.

But I still called Kate Medford the next day. I got her voice mail, and left a pleasant message, saying how Tony and I were settled in London, how I had become a huge fan of her programme on Radio 4, and how we'd both love to see them. It took about four days for her to get back to me. But when she did, she was most friendly - in a rushed sort of way.

'How lovely to hear from you', she said, the crackly line hinting that she was talking to me on her cell phone. 'Heard you'd made the move here with Tony'.

'And maybe you also heard that we've a baby due in just over three months'.

'Yes, the bush telegraph certainly picked up that piece of news. Congratulations - I'm so pleased for you both'.

'Thank you'.

'And I suppose Tony will eventually adjust to life in Wapping'.

This stopped me short. 'You've been speaking to Tony?'

'We had lunch last week. Didn't he mention it?'

'My brain's so elsewhere these days', I lied, 'what with the job and pregnancy and trying to get the house...'

'Ah yes, the house. Putney, I hear'.

'That's right'.

'Tony Hobbs in Putney. Who would have believed it'.

'Roger well?' I asked, changing the subject.

'Desperately busy, as always. And you? Settling in?'

'Getting there. But listen... our house is still in no fit state for livestock, let alone friends...'

She laughed. I continued.

'Maybe we could all meet up one night, go to the theatre, perhaps...'

'The theatre?' she said, rolling that one around on her tongue. 'I can't remember the last time we did that...'

'It was just a suggestion', I said, hating the embarrassed tone creeping into my voice.

'And a lovely one too. It's just we're both so busy right now. But it would be lovely to see you. Perhaps we could do Sunday lunch sometime soon'.

'That would be great'.

'Well, let me have a chat with Roger and get back to you. Must fly now. So glad you're settling in. Bye'.

And our conversation was terminated.

When Tony finally got home that night - well after ten o'clock - I said, 'I didn't know you had lunch with Kate Medford last week'.

He poured himself a vodka and said, 'Yes. I had lunch with Kate last week'.

'But why didn't you tell me?'

'Am I supposed to tell you these things?' he asked mildly.

'It's just... you knew I was planning to call her to ask about the four of us going out...'

'So?'

'But when I mentioned it a few days ago, you acted like you hadn't heard from her since we'd moved to London'.

'Did I?' he said, the tone still temperate. After the merest of pauses, he smiled and asked, 'So what did Kate say to your idea of an evening at the theatre?'

'She suggested Sunday lunch', I said, my voice even, my smile fixed.

'Did she? How nice', he said.

A few days later, I did go to the theatre... with Margaret. We saw a very well acted, very well directed, and very long revival of Ibsen's Rosmersholm at the National. It was an evening performance - and had come at the end of a day that started with the arrival of plasterers at eight am, and finished with me filing two stories and just making it across the river right before the curtain went up. The production had received very flattering reviews - which is why I chose it. But about twenty minutes in, I realized I had let myself and Margaret in for an extended three-hour sojourn through some serious Scandinavian gloom. At the intermission, Margaret turned to me and said, 'Well, this really is a toe-tapper'.

Then, halfway through the second act, I fell fast asleep - only waking with a jolt when the applause came for the curtain call.

'What happened at the end?' I asked Margaret as we left the theatre.

'The husband and wife jumped off a bridge and killed themselves'.

'Really?' I said, genuinely aghast. 'Why?'

'Oh, you know - winter in Norway, nothing better to do...'

'Thank God I didn't bring Tony. He would have filed for divorce on the spot'.

'Not a big Ibsen fan, your husband?'

'Doesn't want anything at all to do with culture. Which is, in my experience, a typical journalist philistine thing. I mean, I suggested going to a play with a couple of friends of his...'

Then I recounted my conversation with Tony and my subsequent call from Kate Medford.

'I promise you, she won't get back to you for at least four months', Margaret said when I finished telling her the story. 'Then, out of the blue, you'll get this call. She'll sound all friendly, talk about how "frightfully busy" she's been, and how she'd just love to see you and Tony and the baby, and might you be free for Sunday lunch six weeks from now? And you'll think to yourself: is this how it works here?.. and is she only doing this because she feels obliged to do this? And the answer to both questions will be a big resounding yes. Because even your good friends here are, to a certain degree, standoffish. Not because they don't want to be around you... but because they think they shouldn't be disturbing you, and also because you probably don't really want to hear too much from them. And no matter how much you try to convince them otherwise, that edge of reticence will be there. Because that's how it is here. The English need a year or two to acclimatize to your presence before they decide to be friends. When they are friends, they are friends but they will still keep their distance. Everyone in this country is taught to do that from a very early age'.

'None of my neighbours have bothered to introduce themselves'.