An Honest Woman Read online

  “Believed in?”

  “Cherished, maybe. So I got a few people irritated, but a bloke can only do what he can do, and the flu defense was airtight and I figured that the world would probably go on today without another wise and witty encounter with The Author. Now, finding your first book has posed a larger challenge, I’m afraid — ”

  “Publisher sold, distributor broke.”

  “But I’m on track and expect to have it in my hands for the flight home tomorrow.”

  Home. Tomorrow.

  “Recognized, perhaps,” she muses.

  “Or: beheld.”

  “Beheld. I like that. Munro uses that word in ‘White Dump’.”

  “Can I get you folks another round?”

  Home. Tomorrow. “I don’t want you to leave. Oh fuck, did I say that out loud?”

  “Yes, I believe you did. Yes, same again, thanks.”

  4.

  It’s after midnight, and Leland and Jay are walking back to the hotel. The wind is vicious, icy, and he has tucked her arm through his. He wants to tell her why, to explain his silence last night, his withdrawal, but he guesses she already knows. What he does say though is, “You were so honest with me last night, but I could tell when you backed off, when you did not speak the truth.”

  Jay says nothing.

  “And once I’d had the chance to — well, I’d got the pip, certainly — but past that, I suspected that you hadn’t finished the book because it lacked precisely those qualities that ‘stuck’ (to use your quaint, rather ignorant colonial expression) — ”

  “Screw you, ponce.”

  “How the things that you remember have, for lack of a better word, a heart — something human, something recognizable. And what I have suspected for some time now is that that is precisely my own misgiving about that particular book; I fear that it is mere technique. I didn’t love it with all my heart the way I did the others. I see it now as an . . . exercise. I did it to see if I could.”

  “I didn’t mean — ”

  “Shut up. I’m being truthful and disarmingly, dare I say Canadianly, ‘open and honest.’ Disgusting phrase, makes me think of Nixon and encounter groups at the same time, god help me. Besides, what you meant does not matter a whit, because what I received from your completely incompetent prevarication was a treasure, really. Of having to face this feeling of being . . . emptied out. It is my greatest fear, always has been. Of using it up, you know.”

  They walk on in silence, then she mutters, “So I’ve mindfucked the greatest living novelist to the point of despair? Dandy.”

  “You give me far too much credit. Women always do — ”

  She grabs his arm, stops him, makes him face her. “Don’t call me ‘women’!”

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t lump me with ‘women.’ I hate that.”

  “You’re a woman, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’m sure as hell not ‘women.’ Especially said like that.”

  “Fine. All right. Shut the hell up and let me thank you, most seriously and sincerely and with a bloody big lump in my throat, for telling me something so blindingly obvious about myself that only the biggest twit in the world, namely me, could fail to notice it.”

  “You’re welcome. And you know why I hate ‘women’? My husband used to send me postcards from all over the world, before we were married and after. And he’d always begin them with ‘women.’ As in, “Hi women, miss you like crazy, having a wonderful time, the weather is great!’ Really. Every letter or postcard I ever got from the guy, he misspelled ‘woman’ and wrote ‘women.’ And, in the end, I discovered that it was a spelling mistake that really signified, if you know what I mean.”

  They’re in the elevator now. “Speaking of linguistic freight, Jay, I am hoping very much that you’ll invite me in. To your room, I mean. I am speaking quite literally here. No touch of figuration whatsoever, I assure you.”

  “Well, it’s too late for me to say I don’t care whether you leave or not.”

  “I believe it is.”

  “So I’d better invite you in so that we can continue the conversation. Of course bearing in mind that we are both mature and sensible adults.”

  “Practically senile — ”

  “No Hollywood scenes.”

  “Agreed. D’you think we could still order room service?” he says. “I’m a little peckish.”

  5.

  Jay shrugs off her coat and stands paging through the hotel directory at the desk. She sees him, in the mirror, come up behind her, looking over her shoulder. “Just chips and popcorn at this hour, I think. But I did see a pizza menu somewhere, here — ”

  Leland has moved close; she can feel his whiskey breath on her cheek. He hasn’t touched her yet — oh god — he places his hands, palms really, on her hips. There could not be a more accurate place to begin — well, except for, oh, right there — his lips brush the skin of her neck just below the hairline, lightly at first then more assuredly. Jay, goddamn her, swoons; a shudder shakes her shoulders and a small exhalation escapes her lips. He murmurs, “Hmm, that’s a good spot.” Pulls her against him, still touching that exquisitely hungry spot inside each hip and she can’t, she just —

  “Hey.” She spins around to face him, drapes her arms over his shoulders and kisses him on the mouth, fervently, with a simultaneous rip of terror. Just as he responds, she pulls away —

  “Okay. Look. Umm. I have to — Oh shit. I can’t do this.”

  She finds herself hiding in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, head in hands. Cowers, shakes, tries to gulp air into her lungs. She doesn’t know how long it takes for the sound of her heart pounding in her ears to ebb, so that she can hear the expectant silence in the room out there. And then his voice. His lovely voice. Propelled by her body, not her thought, she flings open the bathroom door to confront him, sees him standing by the desk.

  “Leland, I haven’t been with a man for . . . a long time and I’m — ”

  He looks at her, the phone in his hand. “How long is long? Yes, 9 — what’s the room number?”

  “934. Years. And you must understand — ”

  “934. Do you mean to tell me you haven’t had sex for years? No, not you. Or do you mean, just not with a man. No, definitely not you. Of course not. I’m so glad to hear that. Double pepperoni, yes, thanks. 934, yes.” And hangs up. “May I ask why?”

  Jay fidgets, can’t meet his eyes. “It’s kind of an accident.”

  He doesn’t laugh, or smile. He just stands completely still, asks softly, “What do you want me to do?”

  She spreads her hands in front of her, as if breaking up a fight between two toddlers and says, “Okay. Listen. Don’t leave. I need to . . . go back in there for a minute. But I don’t want you to leave. Okay?”

  “Don’t. Leave. All right, I think I’ve got that.”

  “I want you to stay.”

  “Yes.”

  She crosses the threshold into the bathroom, but pops back out again, peering around the door. “Take off, oh let’s see, no more than . . . five items of clothing. That includes shoes. And wait for me right there in that chair.” She points to the easy chair next to the bed.

  “Is five a maximum?”

  “For now.”

  “One more question.”

  “What, for god’s sake?”

  “Two shoes make one pair, right?”

  “No! Two shoes is two items. Remember not to leave.”

  Safe inside. Thank god she has left her nightie and robe on the bathroom hook. It’s the customary flannel tent, Bay bargain basement, thick fluffy cotton, chin to wrists to ankles.

  She is trembling all over. She pees, washes her hands, fluffs her hair, brushes her teeth, uses mouthwash, washes the makeup off her skin, briefly considers then rejects the notion of reapplying it, and instead (what if he leaves?) performs her usual routine of Lancome eye cream and Renaud wrinkle defense. A sprinkle of baby powder under the arms . . . how long has sh
e been in here? Perhaps he’s still out there. There’s nothing else she can do. She must open the door, she must. She can’t.

  6.

  Leland watches her emerge from the bathroom, swaddled in layers of cotton and velour, already talking, explaining, “It was an accident, okay? Maybe an evil witch put a spell on me. Maybe I just kind of forgot to be attracted to men for a few years.” She is near tears.

  He knows that he must not approach her, must not touch her. Not yet. “Okay,” he says. “It’s okay.”

  “I want you to stay here with me tonight.”

  “I will.”

  “It’s a crazy idea — ”

  “No it isn’t. Look, why don’t you hop in and I’ll just sit here — ”

  Trembling, she nods and, keeping her distance, crawls over from the far side, scrambling under the covers. Once she is in the bed, he moves to the chair, draws it close and puts his feet up on the edge of the bed, not touching her outstretched legs, but close to them.

  “Here’s a question,” he says. “Worst Hollywood bedroom scene ever?”

  “Glenn Close and Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction. The kitchen sink thing. And the stewed rabbit. Oh take the other sock off, for Christ’s sake.”

  “So six is okay.”

  “Socks count as one. A pair of socks.”

  “Inconsistent. And dead wrong. Kathleen Turner and William Hurt in Body Heat.”

  “Are you crazy? That was so hot. How about Jessica Lange and Jack Nicholson in The Postman Always Rings Twice?”

  “‘Rip me, Frank!’ The original was better.”

  “Not available in the provinces. Blockbuster had a lock on entertainment where I come from.”

  “Lana Turner and . . . I forget who else. Never mind, what about best love scenes? Susan Sarandon cleaning off the clam juice with lemons in Atlantic City?”

  “Oh yes. And Bull Durham? I recommended that movie to a friend going on a first date. She didn’t speak to me for a month.”

  “All time, though? Miranda Richardson and Rupert Everett against a wall in Dance With a Stranger.”

  Jay closes her eyes, then — “Oh yeah. Yes, I remember that one. You could very well be right. For once.”

  The pizza arrives, and Leland carries it to the bed, flopping down beside her, and opening the box on his lap. “I hope you like pepperoni and mushroom.”

  “I hate mushrooms, but I can pick them off.”

  “My elder daughter, Katie, used to do that too. Pick off the mushrooms, but then she’d arrange them in a neat little pyramid and eat them after the pizza. Dessert I guess. That’s when she still ate.”

  “Oh. Oh dear.”

  “Yes, the affliction, like your sister. Well. We’ve managed to get her into a good treatment program, though. Making progress now.”

  “I’m glad. How long?”

  “Six months now? Oh, the anorexia? Set in at about fifteen, which is the norm, I guess. A refusal. The willful blindness, it’s maddening.”

  Jay says, “I once forced my sister to pose for a photo beside me. The two of us in bikinis. See? This is normal, on the right. And on the left — ”

  “Greyish skin stretched over bones, spinal column exposed. The intent is control, and the effect is so dreadfully . . . vulnerable.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this, Leland. It must make your heart ache.”

  He carefully takes away the pizza carton and napkins, sets them on the coffee table, says over his shoulder, “You should get some sleep. Scrunch down.”

  “Oh lord, that’s what a gynecologist says before a pelvic. Or maybe it’s scoot down.”

  “Then lie down, for Christ’s sake.” He crosses the room. “Here, lift up,” and lies down beside her, on top of the blankets, sliding an arm underneath her neck.

  “Mm. Did I mention I don’t want you to leave?”

  “I won’t. Sleep.”

  “And you won’t leave.”

  “No. I won’t.”

  To his surprise, and probably hers too, he feels her body relax, hears her breathing slow. He leans over and whispers, “Remember how that feels, when the children were little, this little body growing heavier in your arms.”

  “Yes. I loved that.”

  He watches her drift deeper then gets up to remove the rest of his clothes. As he crawls back into the bed, she reacts sleepily but vaguely.

  She murmurs, “You know, Carol Shields has a scene like this in Happenstance.”

  “I know her work, but I don’t believe I’ve read that one.”

  “Just like this, a chaste embrace. Way more polite though. No swearing. And the man is wearing pajamas.”

  He thinks about that for a moment, then whispers, “Fuck that shit” in her ear. She laughs and snuggles back against him. He pulls her close. Lets his thigh graze the back of her leg, his mouth brushing her neck, hand resting close to her chest. She finds the hand and brings it to her lips, then lets it go again. Hours, minutes? He feels himself growing hard against her, but doesn’t want to move away. Eventually, the problem is obvious, and he mutters, “Er . . . um. Just ignore that.”

  She is still. He waits. A full beat.

  She says, “Ignore what?” Laughs, then, and wriggles back to meet him.

  7.

  “Injury accident on the 401, the Gardiner very slow as well,” crackles from the clock radio next to the bed. A nudge. “Hey, look who’s back.”

  6:45. Jay arches away. “No way, I don’t do mornings. A morning hard-on is pure mechanics anyway, seventy percent blood flow, thirty percent needing a leak. I could be a loaf of Wonder Bread and you’d be just as turned on. Besides, we both stink.” She throws open the covers and jumps out of bed.

  When she emerges from the bathroom, he’s ready in line, looking disreputable and rather sly. She’s back in bed when he returns to the room.

  “I have to go. An interview.”

  “It’s tough to be famous. Don’t you still have the imaginary flu?”

  “Can’t get out of this; it’s by phone, to London. Go back to sleep,” a kiss, “and I’ll order us some breakfast.”

  “Up there, where the suites are? Are the unfamous even allowed on that floor?”

  He pulls away, and she is bereft. The lonely years, touch-starved eternities of endless nights, seem pallid and small compared to this; she keeps her back turned as he gathers his clothing. “Go ahead, turn the light on,” she says, but stays where she is, resisting the urge to snuggle back into the place still warm from his body.

  She says, not looking at him, “You know what’s really amazing about all this? I slept with you. I mean, as in sleeping. I thought I could never do that again. I mean, even before, I nearly fell asleep. That really tells you something, don’t you think?”

  “That I’m incredibly soporific?”

  “No! My last affair before this long . . . um, drought, was with a man I met in a coffee shop. He was a salesman for an office supply company. We arranged a dirty weekend together, at a hotel in the mountains. And as usual, the sex was great; this man had a growth at the base of his penis that looked hideous, like a squashed pink prune, but it worked just like a French tickler.”

  “Jay, it is entirely obvious to me that you haven’t been getting out much in recent years or you’d recall the basic etiquette that a lady doesn’t discuss previous paramours while her man is still trying to find his bloody socks — ”

  “So that he can get the hell out of here.”

  He stops, belt in hand. “I must. But I’ll call room service, order us breakfast in, oh, two hours or so? What do you usually have for breakfast?”

  “Two prunes and a banana.” His grin prompts her to add, “I am being completely literal here.”

  “Right. And tea?”

  “Coffee. Intravenously if possible. When do you want me?”

  “Around nine, I think. You really are lovely, you know?” Grabs his jacket and tie and strides out the door as she curls up around her naked self between the sheets and ju
st smiles.

  8.

  “So this is how the other half lives. My god, flat screen TV. And a balcony. Cream no sugar. Thanks. So,” she takes the cup from him, and sinks into an easy chair, “you’ve made your calls then?”

  “Yes. Now tell me please, in excruciating detail, about all the other men you’ve ever slept with.”

  “As in sleeping, not screwing?”

  “As in the man with the prune — ”

  She looks at him, a question hanging in the air between them, but shrugs it off.

  “Okay. The man with the prune. Afterwards, we lay there in this hotel room bed, all night; I listened for his every move, his every breath, prayed he’d fall asleep so I could get out of bed and just, I don’t know, go to the bathroom, fart, just be away from him for a minute. And oh, every rustle of the sheets, and this dreadful tinkly new-age dreck and the glow of the screen — we had left the TV on for a soundtrack — I swear it was the longest night of my life. Anyway, an hour or so into the ordeal, I realized that he was wide awake too, tensed, waiting for me to fall asleep, probably for exactly the same reason. And I decided then and there that I would never again share a bed with someone I didn’t love.”

  They both let that comment settle a moment, but she holds his gaze, resolute.

  He asks, “That was the last time?”

  “Yes. But listen, the weird thing is that, oh twenty years before, the best sleep I ever had was with a man I didn’t love. He was Dutch, an artist. Not a lover. A painter. Long story. Communal living arrangement in the early 70s . . . nuff said?”

  “Sure.”

  “So one night, I was alone in my room in the Dorm. This was the building where encounter group participants were housed, but we were between groups at that point.”

  “You mean the you do your thing and I do my thing sort of — ”

  “Yes, Fritz Perls and Jung, eastern mysticism, all that. So this man, Theo, was the lover of the wife of the man who founded the centre. Oh hell, everybody was sleeping with everybody else and I guess there’d been a big blowup in the main house that night, because Theo got really drunk. He drank a lot less than the rest of us, usually, because he wanted to be able to paint. I knew squat about art then — ”