Margaret Atwood - The Edible Woman

Annoyed with herself for slipping back towards her earlier panic, she opened the cupboard door to turn the mirror to the wall and found herself staring at Peter’s clothes. She had seen them often enough before, so there was no particular reason why she should stand, one hand on the edge of the door, gazing into the dark cupboard… The clothes were hanging neatly in a row. She recognized all the costumes she had ever seen Peter wearing, except of course the dark winter suit he had on at the moment: there was his midsummer aspect, beside it his tweedy casual jacket that went with his grey flannels, and then the series of his other phases from late summer through fall. The matching shoes were lined up on the floor, each with its own personal shoe-tree inside. She realized that she was regarding the clothes with an emotion close to something like resentment. How could they hang there smugly asserting so much invisible silent authority? But on second thought it was more like fear. She reached out a hand to touch them, and drew it back: she was almost afraid they would be warm.

“Darling, where are you?” Peter called from the kitchen.

“Coming, darling,” she called back. She shut the cupboard door hastily, glanced into the mirror and patted one of her fronds back into place, and went to join him, walking carefully inside her finely adjusted veneers.

The kitchen table was covered with glassware. Some of it was new: he must have bought it especially for the party. Well, they would always be able to use it after they were married. The counters held rows of bottles in different colours and sizes: scotch, rye, gin. Peter seemed to have everything well under control. He was giving some of the glasses a final polish with a clean tea towel.

“Anything I can do to help?” she asked.

“Yes darling, why don’t you fix up some of these things on some dishes? Here, I’ve poured you a drink, scotch and water, we might as well get a head start.” He himself had wasted no time; his own glass was standing half empty on the counter.

She sipped at her drink, smiling at him over the rim. It was far too strong for her; it burnt as it went down her throat. “I think you’re trying to get me drunk,” she said. “Could I have another ice cube?” She noticed with distaste that her mouth had left a greasy print on the rim of the glass.

“There’s lots of ice in the fridge,” he said, sounding pleased that she felt in need of dilution.

The ice was in a large bowl. There was more in reserve, two polyethylene bags. The rest of the space was taken up by bottles, bottles of beer stacked on the bottom shelf, tall green bottles of ginger ale and short colourless bottles of tonic water and soda on the shelves beside the freezing compartment. His refrigerator was so white and spotless and arranged; she thought with guilt of her own.

She busied herself with the potato chips and peanuts and olives and cocktail mushrooms, filling the bowls and platters that Peter had indicated, handling the foods with the very ends of her fingers so as not to get her nail polish dirty. When she had almost finished Peter came up behind her. He put one arm around her waist. With the other hand he half-undid the zipper of her dress; then he did it back up again. She could feel him breathing down the back of her neck.

“Too bad we don’t have time to hop into bed,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want to get you all mussed up. Oh well, plenty of time for that later.” He put his other arm around her waist.

“Peter,” she said, “do you love me?” She had asked him that before as a kind of joke, not doubting the answer. But this time she waited, not moving, to hear what he would say.

He kissed her lightly on the earring. “Of course I love you, don’t be silly,” he said in a fond tone that indicated he thought he was humouring her. “I’m going to marry you, aren’t I? And I love you especially in that red dress. You should wear red more often.” He let go of her, and she transferred the last of the pickled mushrooms from the bottle to the plate.

“Come in here a minute, darling,” his voice called. He was in the bedroom. She rinsed off her hands, dried them, and went to join him. He had switched on his desk lamp and was sitting at the desk adjusting one of his cameras. He looked up at her, smiling. “Thought I’d get some pictures of the party, just for the record,” he said. “They’ll be fun to have later, to look back on. This is our first real party together, you know; quite an occasion. By the way, have you got a photographer for the wedding yet?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “I think they have.”

“I’d like to do it myself, but of course that’s impossible,” he said with a laugh. He began doing things to his light meter.

She leaned affectionately against his shoulder, glancing over it at the objects on the desk, the blue flashbulbs, the concave silver circle of the flash gun. He was consulting the open magazine; he had marked the article entitled, “Indoors Flash Lighting.” Beside the column of print there was an advertisement: a little girl with pigtails on a beach, clutching a spaniel. “Treasure It Forever,” the caption read.

She walked over to the window and looked down. Below was the white city, its narrow streets and its cold winter lights. She was holding her drink in one of her hands; she sipped at it. The ice tinkled against the glass.

“Darling,” Peter said, “it’s almost zero hour, but before they come I’d like to get a couple of shots of you alone, if you don’t mind. There are only a few exposures left on this roll and I want to put a new one in for the party. That red ought to show up well on a slide, and I’ll get some black-and-whites too while I’m at it.”

“Peter,” she said hesitantly, “I don’t think…” The suggestion had made her unreasonably anxious.

“Now don’t be modest,” he said. “Could you just stand over there by the guns and lean back a little against the wall?” He turned the desk lamp around so that the light was on her face and held the small black light meter out towards her. She backed against the wall.

He raised the camera and squinted through the tiny glass window at the top; he was adjusting the lens, getting her in focus. “Now,” he said. “Could you stand a little less stiffly? Relax. And don’t hunch your shoulders together like that, come on, stick out your chest, and don’t look so worried darling, look natural, come on, smile …”

Her body had frozen, gone rigid. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t even move the muscles of her face as she stood and stared into the round glass lens pointing towards her, she wanted to tell him not to touch the shutter release but she couldn’t move…

There was a knock at the door.

“Oh damn,” Peter said. He set the camera on the desk. “Here they come. Well, later then, darling.” He went out of the room.

Marian came slowly from the corner. She was breathing quickly. She reached out one hand, forcing herself to touch it.

“What’s the matter with me?” she said to herself. “It’s only a camera.”

The first to arrive were the three office virgins, Lucy alone, Emmy and Millie almost simultaneously five minutes later. They were evidently not expecting to see each other there: each seemed annoyed that the others had been invited. Marian performed the introductions and led them to the bedroom, where their coats joined hers on the bed. Each of them said in a peculiar tone of voice that Marian should wear red more often. Each glanced at herself in the mirror, preening and straightening, before going out to the living room. Lucy refrosted her mouth and Emmy scratched hurriedly at her scalp.

They lowered themselves carefully onto the Danish Modern furniture and Peter got them drinks. Lucy was in purple velvet, with silver eyelids and false lashes; Emmy was in pink chiffon, faintly suggestive of high-school formals. Her hair had been sprayed into stiff wisps and her slip was showing. Millie was encased in pale-blue satin which bulged in odd places; she had a tiny sequin-covered evening-bag, and sounded the most nervous of the three.