Gillyflower Read online

  And so life settled down to a pleasing normal. Rick and I were getting along well, we were healthy, our jobs were satisfactory, we had no real worries. In bed, my mind and body had fully returned to Rick. That statement might be misleading; the truth is that at no time, before seeing The Lion’s Share or after, had I ever fantasized about Hugh as an actual lover. But it was also true that in those first weeks following the play, I was but a distant partner for Rick. I think he must have noticed, but when you’ve been with someone a very long time you get used to variations in passion—it’s something that waxes and wanes. My feelings for Rick never changed, and I did not compare him to Hugh, but I was a mass of distractions. I dreamed of Hugh a good deal in those days, and though the one dream I desperately wanted to experience again, the dream of him falling from the roof, never returned, I would go to bed at night hoping for at least a glimpse of him, or even a conversation with him, in some dream meeting. The power of auto-suggestion being strong in me, I was able on many occasions to actually hold these tête-à-têtes with a Hugh who had become familiar and dear to me, a Hugh largely of my own creation. My imaginary friend. I was fully conscious of this element of fantasy, and it seemed no more harmful to me than novel reading or other forms of escape.

  No one knew the extent of my dabbling in this little hobby, which made it all the more precious. Realizing that my intense enthusiasm would make me look a little foolish, upon my return from New York I had told people how much I’d enjoyed the play, and seeing Hugh in person, but had toned down my elation to a more-or-less dignified degree. If the occasional day did go by when I was too busy to have a moment’s reflection on Hugh, I’d later think, I’ve been away from you too long, and greet my next thought or dream of him with the joyous salute of one coming home after an enforced absence. Was it obsession? I think of the word as a pejorative term—for a mysterious fascination, in this case—but I suppose there are people who would call it that. There’s another psychological term, the “ghostly lover” syndrome, or fixation on an imaginary relationship with an ideal romantic counterpart, but that didn’t fit perfectly either. I knew enough about Hugh to know he was far from the ideal partner, and to realize that even were circumstances outlandish enough to bring us together, we would never have “gotten along.” My connection with him was an affinity based on something outside psychology, and while I didn’t place it distinctly in the realm of the psychic, I suppose it was closer to that than to anything else—or anything we have a label for. Call it “spiritual,” perhaps. Ever since I’d first seen him, he’d been undeniably there—not chosen or elected from any gallery of possible soulmates, but simply. . . recognized.

  After I mailed the drawing, I thought the circle was complete. In a way I wished that I’d taken a photograph of it so it would not be so irrevocably gone from my life, but in another way its absence made the sacrifice sweeter. I would never try to draw the same picture again.

  13. Rick

  Of course I knew she still loved me, but my Nora had gone away. She wasn’t always there for me behind those funny eyes, and although she did all the things she always did, and was as cheerful as I could want her to be, she moved in a kind of private world that began to shut me out more and more.

  I’m speaking about the weeks after she went to see that play. It was the only event I could pin these changes on, and it seemed, in ways I found hard to define, the only possible explanation. I knew, too, that the missing drawing was in some way involved, but strange as it may now seem, it did not occur to me for quite a while that the drawing was connected to the play.

  When it finally hit me I felt like the stupidest of fools. The tall man, of course, was her idol, Hugh Sheenan. But what was it all about—that shaft of light, for instance? I had no idea.

  Once, when Nora wasn’t home, and her mother called to chat, I asked her casually about the play. She was eager to describe what a fine time they’d had, what a lovely dinner afterwards, and what good seats they’d been lucky enough to obtain. I then remembered Nora saying (she’d probably told me a hundred times in fact) that they’d been sitting in the front row, and how magical it had all seemed to her, being up so close.

  So I decided that Nora had drawn the picture of Hugh Sheenan looking down into the first row of the audience. . . at her. This put me a little at ease, and took some of the sinister mystery out of the picture; it made it seem a harmless fantasy, an innocent schoolgirl daydream. And sometimes, when Nora’s spaciness was really starting to annoy me and I was thinking about criticizing her for something, I’d remember how dear she was to me, and how imperfect I was, and how she rarely complained about my smoking, my lateness, my sloppiness around the house. And I’d think of that drawing, and I wouldn’t say a thing. I wished I could see it again, and then again I didn’t. I was comfortable with my analysis of the drawing and of Nora’s state of mind, and I think I knew that if I saw that picture again it would so disturb me that I wouldn’t feel so comfortable anymore.

  Anyway, after a couple of weeks, Nora started changing back into her old self. The only remnant of her preoccupied air was that she was slightly absent-minded about things, which was most unusual for her. Once she lost her keys, the ones she kept on a silver ring with a little crystal dangling from it, and when, the next day, I found them in a kitchen drawer, I teased her about hiding them there unconsciously, and began to call her Magpie. She was happy with that—she seemed even happy that she’d misplaced the keys, that she’d been capable of such forgetfulness—and we made love that afternoon twice, a thing we hadn’t done for years and years.

  14. Hugh

  I used to read a lot more than I do now. I used to remember a lot more too. But one quote I do remember, or misremember, possibly from Guy de Maupassant, is this: “Often the truth is sometimes not probable.” It’s the kind of quote one likes without really knowing why, until one day its significance bashes one smack in the solar plexus. When Leon showed me the drawing that arrived in the post that day, I knew in my heart of hearts what that funny quote meant.

  It was that fucking, bloody, brazen woman from the play, of course. I knew it before Leon read me her quaint little letter. A picture is worth a thousand words indeed. Poor Leon. He didn’t know what the hell was going on; probably never did really find out. But how could I tell him? What would I say? “Oh Leon, dear boy, it’s the woman from the dream. You know, old chap, the woman from the first row, the one who almost made me fall on my arse in the third act. Lovely drawing, don’t you think? Let’s have another look at it over dessert.” He might have tried to make me see a shrink (he did try, now and then, but so far had not succeeded; I protected my anomalies from all outside interference—I was quite fond of them). True, I had told Leon about the dream, and about what had happened to me that night onstage, but I think (luckily for me) he had taken it all as the ravings of a man with too little sleep and too much imagination. He is far too practical a bloke to believe that I believed what I had told him.

  When I began to trundle that picture around with me in its terrible frame (all Leon’s taste, as they say, is in his mouth; one can pass as a successful autodidact and still never develop any aesthetic sensibility to speak of), I suppose he thought it was just another eccentricity of mine; I sincerely doubt that he made any connection with the dream or the theatre incident, and I was just as happy to keep it that way. I know he disapproved of my making a luncheon date with a stranger, but in long-ago years I had done such a thing once or twice, so it was not an act entirely without precedent.

  But of course, it really was that, to me. I was already frightened of this woman, and horribly angry with her. I envisioned myself at lunch, smiling seductively at Miss Nora F., waiting until she’d become comfortable with me, then upending an entire steaming luncheon onto her small and dreadful yellow bosom. All I wanted was to ask her why she wouldn’t leave me alone, but I lacked the courage to do so on the phone. I thought if I saw her in person I’d have my balls about me, and that I’d be able to red
uce her, in a matter of minutes, to a quivering wreck. I wanted to hurt her. I knew I could tear her apart with my tongue. I could do that to anyone; it was the one talent I’d never had to work on. She’d begin to cry over my insults at some early point during the meal, I imagined, and I would be free to, disgustedly, leave.

  The trouble was, I still believed she must be a witch. How had she gotten from the dream to the audience, how had she beguiled me to look at her from the stage, and how had she managed to render the scene so (I had to admit it) beautifully on paper? I felt so mixed up, so utterly fouled by my puzzlement, that I had trouble with the play all week—oh, not so anyone would notice, but enough to give me one headache after another. Also, I could not sleep, and I remembered to worry about my heart.

  I looked forward to the Monday the way one looks forward to a tooth extraction: it would be highly unpleasant, but later, I hoped, the pain would be gone.

  15. Nora

  It was awfully late at night for the phone to ring. I was in the kitchen, straightening up. Rick had stayed late at the office, then gone out with one of his friends. I considered not answering it, then decided it must be either a wrong number or something very important. It was the latter.

  “Miss Forrest?” said a low-pitched voice with a British accent. Not exactly an upper-class accent, but pleasing.

  “Yes,” I said, intrigued.

  “Excuse me, please, for bothering you at this hour. My name is Graves, and I am Mr. Hugh Sheenan’s personal secretary. I have a message for you from Mr. Sheenan.”

  My heart and lungs flew out from my chest and splattered all over my shoes. The floor was thick with gore. I had nothing to breathe with, so I did not say a word.

  “Mr. Sheenan,” the voice continued, sounding very formal, “having received your letter and gift, requests the honor of your presence at luncheon at the Boston Ritz-Carlton this coming Monday at one o’clock. May I send a car ’round to fetch you?”

  I could not think or speak; I believe I came close to fainting. I remember looking at the lamp on the kitchen table, seeing some dust around its base, and saying to myself, You’ll have to clean that. I had a death grip on the phone, and only when the cramp in my hand woke me from my stupor was I able to answer Mr. Graves.

  “Thank you,” I said, in a small voice, but calmly. “I will meet Mr. Sheenan at the hotel dining room. I won’t need a car.”

  “As you wish, Miss Forrest. And may I ask how we shall know you, since you and Mr. Sheenan have not met?”

  “Not met” indeed, I thought. Mr. Sheenan will know me. But to the man on the phone I said, “Oh. I’ll be wearing a yellow dress. And my hair is light and sort of long.” I sounded all of fifteen.

  “Thank you, Miss Forrest. Until Monday, then.” And he hung up.

  I hung up too, then went to the sink, moistened a paper towel, cleaned the base of the lamp, and put on some water to boil.

  I sat down. Then I got up and made tea. This is awful, was my first conscious thought. This is awful, I have to work Monday. How did this happen? This was not supposed to happen. I knew I shouldn’t have put a return address on the envelope, but it seemed so tacky not to, and anyway I never, never, never expected a response. Especially a response like this—a form letter maybe, an autographed photo maybe—but never anything ever like this. This was awful. And I had accepted, accepted without batting an eye. I must be crazy, I thought. My head must really hold a whole cartload of loose screws.

  I had to get to bed before Rick came home and found me sitting there looking goofy; I had no desire to answer any questions. So I took myself off to try and sleep, though of course it was hopeless. When Rick came in I feigned unconsciousness, and he kissed me lightly on the head and fell asleep instantly himself. I cuddled into him, and took his hand and held it to my heart for a while, but I could not still my mind. No useful thoughts were forming there, but all sorts of things were circling madly, making my closed eyes ache. My one ray of hope was that the call had been a hoax—but how could it have been? Maybe Rick had found someone with an accent and convinced him to call. But Rick would never try to make a fool of me, I knew that, and anyway it wasn’t the kind of “joke” that would ever cross his mind. It wasn’t funny enough, for one thing. And who else would do it?

  I knew the caller had been real. His name was Graves, and he had given me a message from Hugh Sheenan, who wanted me to have “luncheon” with him at the Ritz. Oh God, it was awful, and I had said yes. I wished I would just wake up and realize the whole thing had been a nightmare designed to teach me a lesson. You know how people say, “Be careful what you ask for”? Had I begged for this without realizing what I was doing? It was all my fault. I still had a few days of reprieve. Maybe I would die before I had to face him.

  But I did not die. And I did not tell anyone about the phone call. I came very close to telling my best friend, Mellie, and I thought very seriously about telling Rick, but in the end I just couldn’t. Even if they believed me, they would want to know exactly how the man had come to call. And I couldn’t tell anyone about the letter and the drawing; it was too personal. Also, I was too embarrassed.

  Instead of wanting to tell the world that I was going to have lunch with a famous movie star, I wanted to bury the fact as deeply as possible underground. I considered not going, but I couldn’t do that either; I felt as if I were caught up in some kind of scripted plot that absolutely had to be followed.

  So I arranged to take the day off from work, and to cover all bases I told Rick I was taking a vacation day to go up to Gloucester and visit Mellie. I told Mellie that if Rick called (which I doubted he would), she should say I had taken her children to the beach, and that she was just fixing some food to bring there too.

  Mellie was surprised, but agreed to do it. “Nora,” she said. “You’re not having an affair?”

  I think I convinced her that was ridiculous, though I couldn’t blame her for asking. I did not feel guilty about all this deception; I felt I was protecting Rick from knowing what an incredible dimwit he had married.

  And then I began to worry about how I would look, what I would say, and other such potentially planet-changing things. I realized I’d have to wear the yellow dress, because I’d told Mr. Graves that I would, and anyway it was my best outfit. I was, hour by hour, growing more apprehensive. I still did not understand why this singular invitation had come my way, but it was clear that I would have to honor my acceptance of it. There was no way out. I clung to the hope that there would be a number of other fans there and that I could get lost among them—maybe Hugh Sheenan was in the habit of flying to Boston once a week just to entertain his admirers? Fat chance; what I knew about him made that idea absurd.

  I was so scared I felt nauseous almost all the time, and I wondered how, even if I managed to get to the hotel, I would ever be able to eat anything. How could I possibly even speak to Hugh Sheenan? He was older, he was a creative genius, he wasn’t even American, and, worst of all by far, he must already think I’m a terrible fool. I remembered the anger and confusion in his eyes that afternoon in the theater and I wondered if there would be some kind of dues to pay for that. But maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t connected that afternoon in the theater with the drawing; maybe it was all in my mind, and this was just some freak occurrence; perhaps he had simply liked the drawing and was just a kind soul who happened to have a spare luncheon hour to spend with a struggling artist. I didn’t believe that, but I tried to. Oh why had I done it, done any of it?

  But there was nothing to do but to go. The week passed somehow. On Monday morning, after Rick left for work, I took a long shower, fixed myself up as best I could, put on the yellow dress, and sat down, wretched, for three hours. I smoked so many of Rick’s cigarettes, and made my throat so sore, I doubted I would be able to speak to Hugh Sheenan even if I could think of anything to say. I drank about four cups of strong tea as well; I coughed and ran to the bathroom repeatedly. I envisioned the coming unraveling of my life’s most humiliat
ing moments.

  The whole thing was impossible, and I was completely on my own. I had neglected even to ask Mr. Graves where to go when I got to the Ritz. How was I supposed to find the right dining room? (Never having been inside the place, I pictured it as labyrinthine, mysterious.) And then, how was I to announce myself? I should have taken him up on his offer of the car, which would have at least provided me with some sort of protection from complete awkwardness, but then I would have had to explain its presence to any of my neighbors who might have seen it.

  What worried me most, I suppose, even more than the fear that I was in for a terrible tongue-lashing by one of the world’s most excoriating wits, was that I would be struck dumb as a piece of shingle and come off as a pitiful dolt in his dark and brilliant eyes. It never, in my selfish agonies, occurred to me to think of what Hugh Sheenan might be feeling; I felt my significance too small to merit much importance in his thoughts. His reasons for inviting me to lunch were puzzling, but he was entitled to any eccentricity, as far as I was concerned. It was all my fault, not Hugh’s.

  Then it was time to leave. I checked the mirror about five hundred times, but all I could see there was that strange, pale-mouthed, ageless woman again, the one I’d first seen in the bathroom of the bar across from the theater. Whoever she was, she was in serious trouble now.

  16. Leon

  Hugh had pulled some odd ones in his time, but this luncheon in Boston was one of the oddest in my memory. I didn’t understand a thing about it. Oh, I knew it had something to do with the drawing and the theater and the dream Hugh had described to me, but I couldn’t fit it all together—he was keeping the key to the puzzle just out of my reach. But as I observed him in those days between the extension of his invitation to Miss Forrest and the luncheon itself, I realized that he was not ignoring me on purpose; he had simply become so wound up in all the mysterious goings-on that he had forgotten about me altogether.