Beautiful World, Where Are You Page 6

  The event featured five poets, loosely grouped together around the theme of ‘crisis’. Two of them read from work dealing with personal crises, such as loss and illness, while one addressed themes of political extremism. A young man in glasses recited poetry so abstract and prosodic that no relationship to the theme of crisis became clear, while the final reader, a woman in a long black dress, talked for ten minutes about the difficulties of finding a publisher and only had time to read one poem, which was a rhyming sonnet. Eileen typed a note on her phone reading: the moon in june falls mainly on the spoon. She showed the note to Paula, who smiled vaguely before turning her attention back to the reading. Eileen deleted the note. After the reading, she picked up another glass of wine and went to sit behind the desk again. The elderly man approached her once more and said: You should be up there yourself. Eileen nodded pleasantly. I’m convinced, he said. You have it in you. Mm, said Eileen. He went away without purchasing a magazine.

  After the event, Eileen and some of the other organisers and venue staff went for a drink in a nearby bar. Eileen and Paula sat together again, Paula drinking a gin and tonic served in an enormous fishbowl glass with a large piece of grapefruit inside, Eileen drinking whiskey on ice. They were talking about ‘worst break-ups’. Paula was describing the protracted end stage of a two-year-long relationship, during which time both she and her ex-girlfriend kept getting drunk and texting each other, inevitably resulting in ‘either a huge argument or sex’. Eileen swallowed a mouthful of her drink. That sounds bad, she said. But at the same time, at least you were still having sex. You know? The relationship wasn’t completely dead. If Aidan were to text me when he was drunk, okay, maybe we would end up fighting. But I would at least feel like he remembers who I am. Paula said she was sure he did remember, seeing as they had lived together for several years. With a kind of grimacing smile, Eileen answered: That’s what kills me. I spent half my twenties with this person, and in the end he just got sick of me. I mean, that’s what happened. I bored him. I feel like that says something about me on some level. Right? It has to. Frowning, Paula replied: No, it doesn’t. Eileen let out a strained self-conscious laugh then and squeezed Paula’s arm. I’m sorry, she said. Let me get you another drink.

  By eleven o’clock, Eileen was lying alone in bed, curled up on her side, her make-up smeared slightly under her eyes. Squinting at the screen of her phone, she tapped the icon of a social media app. The interface opened and displayed a loading symbol. Eileen moved her thumb over the screen, waiting for the page to load, and then suddenly, as if impulsively, closed the app. She navigated to her contacts, selected the contact listed as ‘Simon’, and hit the call button. After three rings, he picked up and said: Hello?

  Hello, it’s me, she said. Are you alone?

  On the other end of the line, Simon was sitting on the bed in a hotel room. To his right was a window covered by thick cream-coloured curtains, and opposite the bed was a large television set affixed to the wall. His back was propped against the headboard, his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and his laptop was open in his lap. I’m alone, he said, yeah. You know I’m in London, right? Is everything okay?

  Oh, I forgot. Is it a bad time to talk? I can hang up.

  No, it’s not a bad time. Did you have your poetry thing on tonight?

  Eileen told him about the event. She gave him the ‘moon in June’ joke and he laughed appreciatively. And we had a Trump poem, she told him. Simon said the idea made him earnestly wish for the embrace of death. She asked him about the conference he was attending in London and he described at length a ‘conversation session’ entitled ‘Beyond the EU: Britain’s International Future’. It was just four identical middle-aged guys in glasses, Simon said. I mean, they looked like photoshopped versions of each other. It was surreal. Eileen asked him what he was doing now, and he said he was finishing something for work. She rolled over onto her back, looking up at the faint pinprick pattern of mould on the ceiling.

  It’s not good for your health, working so late, she said. Where are you, in your hotel room?

  Right, he replied. Sitting on the bed.

  She pulled her knees up so her feet were flat on the mattress, her legs making a tent shape under the quilt. You know what you need, Simon? she said. You need a little wife for yourself. Don’t you? A little wife to come up to you at midnight and put her hand on your shoulder and say, okay, that’s enough now, you’re working too late. Let’s get some sleep.

  Simon switched the phone to his other ear and said: You paint a compelling picture.

  Can’t your girlfriend go on work trips with you?

  She’s not my girlfriend, he said. She’s just someone I’ve been seeing.

  I don’t get that distinction. What’s the difference between a girlfriend and someone you’re seeing?

  We’re not in an exclusive relationship.

  Eileen rubbed her eye with her free hand, smudging some dark make-up onto her hand and onto the side of her face over her cheekbone. So you’re having sex with someone else as well, are you? she said.

  I’m not, no. But I believe she is.

  Eileen dropped her hand then. She is? she said. Jesus. How attractive is the other guy?

  Sounding amused, he replied: I have no idea. Why do you ask?

  I just mean, if he’s less attractive than you, why bother? And if he’s as attractive as you are—Well, I think I’d like to meet this woman and shake her hand.

  What if he’s more attractive than I am?

  Please. Impossible.

  He settled himself back a little against the headboard. You mean because I’m so handsome? he said.

  Yes.

  I know, but say it.

  Laughing then, she said: Because you’re so handsome.

  Eileen, thank you. How kind. You’re not so bad yourself.

  She nestled her head down into the pillow. I got an email from Alice today, she said.

  That’s nice. How is she?

  She says it’s not such a big deal that Aidan broke up with me because we weren’t really that happy anyway.

  Simon paused, as if waiting for her to continue, and then asked: Did she actually say that?

  In so many words, yes.

  And what do you think?

  Eileen let out a sigh and answered: Never mind.

  It doesn’t sound like a very sensitive thing to say.

  With her eyes closed she said: You’re always defending her.

  I just said she was being insensitive.

  But you think she has a point.

  He was frowning, toying with a hotel-branded pen on the bedside table. No, he said. I think he wasn’t good enough for you, but that’s different. Did she really say it wasn’t a big deal?

  In so many words. And you know she’s going to Rome to promote her book next week, right?

  He put the pen down again. Is she? he asked. I thought she was taking a break from all that stuff.

  She was, until she got bored.

  I see. That’s funny. I’ve been trying to go and see her, but she’s always saying it’s not a good time. Are you worried about her?

  Eileen let out a harsh laugh. No, I’m not worried, she said. I’m annoyed. You can be worried.

  You could be both, he remarked.

  Whose side are you on?

  Smiling, he answered in a low soothing tone of voice: I’m on your side, princess.

  She smiled then too, wryly, reluctantly, and pushed her hair back from her forehead. Are you in bed yet? she asked.

  No, sitting up. Unless you’d like me to get in bed while we’re still on the phone?

  Yes, I would like that.

  Ah, well. That can be arranged.

  He got up and put his laptop down on a small writing desk in front of a wall mirror. Most of the floor space behind him was taken up by the bed, which was made up with white sheets pulled tightly under the mattress. He was still holding the phone while he plugged his laptop into a charging cable at the wall. />
  You know, if your wife was there now, said Eileen, she would take your tie off for you. Are you wearing a tie?

  No.

  What are you wearing?

  He glanced at himself in the mirror and looked away again, turning back toward the bed. The rest of the suit, he said. And no shoes, obviously. I take those off when I come in, like a civilised person.

  So the jacket comes off next? she said.

  Taking off his jacket, which involved switching his phone around between his hands, he said: That would be the usual order of business.

  Then the wife would take that off for you and hang it up, said Eileen.

  How nice of her.

  And she would unbutton your shirt for you. Not just procedurally, but in a loving and tender way. Does that get hung up as well?

  Simon, who was unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, said no, that would just go back in his suitcase to get washed when he went home.

  After that I don’t know what’s next, said Eileen. Are you wearing a belt of some description?

  I am, he said.

  Closing her eyes, Eileen went on: She takes that off next, and she puts that away wherever it goes. Where do you put your belt when you take it off, as it happens?

  On a hanger.

  You’re so neat, said Eileen. That’s one thing the wife loves about you.

  Why, is she a neat person herself? Or she loves it because opposites attract?

  Hm. She’s not really sloppy or anything, but she’s not as neat as you are. And she aspires. Are you undressed now?

  Not quite yet, he said. I’ve been holding the phone the whole time. Can I put it down for a second and then pick it back up again?

  With a shy self-conscious smile, Eileen replied: Of course you can, I’m not holding you hostage.

  No, but I don’t want you to get bored and hang up on me.

  Not to worry, I won’t.

  He put the phone down on the nearest corner of the bed and finished undressing. Eileen lay with her eyes closed, the phone held loosely in her right hand near her face. Wearing just a pair of dark-grey boxer shorts now, Simon picked the phone back up and lay down on the bed with his head on the pillows. I’m back, he said.

  What time do you usually finish work? said Eileen. Just out of curiosity.

  Around eight. Probably more like half eight, lately, because everyone’s busy.

  Your wife would have a job that finishes a lot earlier than that.

  Would she? said Simon. I’m jealous.

  And when you got home she would have dinner waiting.

  He smiled. Do you think I’m that old-fashioned? he asked.

  Eileen opened her eyes, as if her reverie had been interrupted. I think you’re a human being, she said. Who doesn’t want to have dinner waiting for them if they’re stuck at work until half eight? If you’d rather come home to an empty house and make your own dinner, my apologies.

  No, I don’t love coming home to an empty house, he said. And as fantasies go, I don’t really object to being waited on hand and foot. It’s just not something I would expect from a life partner.

  Oh, I’m offending your feminist principles. I’ll stop.

  Please don’t. I want to hear what the wife and I are going to do after dinner.

  Eileen closed her eyes again. Well, she’s a good wife, obviously, so she will let you do a little bit of work if you must, she said. But not until late. Then she wants to go to bed. Which is where you are now, I take it.

  Indeed I am.

  Smiling luxuriously to herself, Eileen went on: Did you have a good day at work or a bad day?

  It was alright.

  And you’re tired now.

  Not too tired to be talking to you, he said. But tired, yes.

  The wife is attuned to all these little subtleties, so she wouldn’t have to ask. If you’ve had a long day and you’re tired, I think you’d get in bed around eleven and the wife would give you head. Which she’s really good at. But not in a vulgar way, it’s all very intimate and marital and all that.

  Holding the phone in his right hand, Simon used his left hand to touch himself through the thin cotton cloth of his boxer shorts. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but why am I only getting head? he said.

  Eileen laughed. You said you were tired, she said.

  Ah, I’m not too tired to make love to my own wife.

  I wasn’t disputing your virility, I just thought you’d like it. Anyway, I can get things wrong, that’s alright. The wife would never get it wrong.

  It’s okay if she does, I’ll love her anyway.

  I honestly thought you liked oral sex.

  Grinning now, Simon replied: I like it, I do like it. But if I only had one night with a fictional wife, I think I’d like to cover more ground. You needn’t go into detail if you’re reluctant.

  On the contrary, I live for detail, said Eileen. Where were we? You undress the wife with your characteristic easy competence.

  He put his hand inside his underwear then. You’re too kind, he said.

  You can take it she’s very beautiful, but I won’t presume to describe her physique. I know men have their own little tastes and preferences.

  Thank you for the licence. I can imagine her vividly.

  Can you? said Eileen. Now I’m curious what she looks like. Is she blonde? Don’t tell me. I bet she’s blonde and like, five foot two.

  He was laughing then. No, he said.

  Okay. Well, don’t tell me. Anyway, she’s really wet, because she’s been waiting all day for you to touch her.

  He shut his eyes. Into the phone he said: And can I touch her?

  Yes.

  And what then?

  With her free hand Eileen was cradling her breast, tracing a circle around her nipple with the tip of her thumb. Well, you can see in her eyes she’s excited, she said. But nervous at the same time. She loves you very much, but sometimes she’s anxious that she doesn’t really know you. Because you can be distant. Or not distant, but you can be closed off. I’m just sketching in the background so you’ll understand the sexual dynamic better. She’s nervous because she looks up to you and she wants to make you happy, and sometimes she’s frightened that you’re not happy, and she doesn’t know what to do. Anyway, when you get on the bed she’s shaking underneath you like a little leaf. And you don’t say anything, you just start to fuck her. Or what did you say before? You make love to her. Okay?

  Mm, he said. And does she like that?

  Oh yes. I think she was pretty innocent before you married her, so she really clings to you when you’re in bed together, because it’s overwhelming. She probably wants to come the whole time. And you’re telling her that she’s such a good girl, you’re proud of her, and you love her, and she believes you. Remember how much you love her, that makes a difference. I know a lot about you, but that’s the side of you I don’t know. How you act with a woman you love. I’m digressing now, I’m sorry. The reason I said that thing about your wife giving you head, I think subconsciously I brought that up because it’s something I like to think about. Do you remember we did that in Paris? It doesn’t matter. I just remember that you liked it. It made me feel very self-confident. Anyway, I’m getting off the topic. I was describing you having sex with your wife. I bet she’s insanely pretty and younger than me. And like, maybe a little bit stupid, but in a sexy way. If I was going to be really self-indulgent, I would make it so that when you’re in bed with your wife, not every time but just this one time, you start thinking about me. It doesn’t have to be on purpose. A little idea or a memory goes through your mind, that’s all. Not me the way I am now, but when I was twenty or whatever. You really were very nice to me then, you know. So you’re having sex with your perfect wife, and she’s the most beautiful woman on earth, and you love her more than anything, but just for a second or two when you’re inside her, and she’s trembling and shivering and saying your name, you’re thinking about me, about things we did together when we were younger, like in
Paris when I let you finish in my mouth, and you’re remembering how good it felt then, to have me in that way, and you told me it was special. And maybe it was, you know. If you’re still thinking about it all these years later when you’re in bed with your wife, maybe it was special. Some things are.

  He was coming then, and his breath was hard. He shut his eyes. Eileen had stopped speaking, she was lying still, her face looked hot. He said something like: Hm. For a short time they were both quiet. Then in a low voice she asked: Can we stay on the phone for one more minute? Simon opened his eyes again, took a tissue from the box on the bedside cabinet and started to wipe his hands and body.

  As long as you want, he said. That was very nice, thank you.

  Eileen laughed, almost foolishly, as if she was relieved. Her cheeks and forehead were bright. Wow, you’re welcome, she said. I forgot you were one of the ‘thank you’ guys. It’s a great energy from you. You’re sort of ninety per cent playboy but you mix it up now and then by acting like a total virgin. I respect it, I have to say. Is it going to be awkward now when we see each other in real life?

  Dropping the used tissue on the bedside cabinet and taking another one from the box, Simon said: No, we’ll both just act like nothing happened. Right? I believe you once told me I only have one facial expression anyway.

  Did I really say that? How cold of me. Anyway, you have at least two. Laughing, and concerned.

  He was smoothing his hand down over his chest, smiling. You weren’t being cold, he said. You were just kidding.

  Your wife would never talk to you like that.

  Why, does she worship me?

  Yes, said Eileen. You’re like a father to her.

  He made a humorous groaning noise. That’s nice, he said. Eileen was grinning. I bet you think it’s nice, she said. I knew you would. Resting his hand on the flat of his stomach, Simon said: You know everything. Eileen screwed up her mouth. Not about you, I don’t, she said. His eyes were closed, he looked tired. I think the most realistic part of the fantasy was when I started thinking about you in Paris, he said. She seemed to breathe in deeply then. After a moment, she said quietly: You’re only saying that to gratify me. He was smiling to himself. Well, it would only be fair, wouldn’t it? he said. But no, I’m telling the truth. Can we see each other sometime soon? Eileen said yes. I’ll act normal, he added. Don’t worry. After they hung up, she plugged a charging cable into her phone and switched off the bedside light. The artificial orange glow of urban light pollution permeated the thin curtains of her bedroom window. With her eyes still open, she touched herself for a minute and a half, came noiselessly, and then turned over on her side to go to sleep.