Miscellany (noun): a collection of things of various kinds || A home for: my thoughts; my essays; my memoirs; my writing
A Good Life
They have the party every year; it’s a sort of reunion. Their friends tend to disperse for the summer — they go back home to spend time with the grandchildren or else escape the blasting, enervating heat of July with a visit the north of the country — and one year, five or six years ago now, someone had suggested they have a get-together when everyone gets back. It’d been fun, and so they’d done it the following year too, and then every year since. Sometimes it’s just pizzas on the verandah, or else they might get the barbecue out and grill some burgers, with sardines for Laura and veggie sausages for Katie, and mix a few salads. It’s an excuse, more than anything. It was never meant to be a big thing.
But this year is different; Marianne and Clara have offered to host. ‘You do it every year,’ Clara had said, and when she protested that she really didn’t mind Marianne had put her hand on her arm and said, ‘Really, we’d love to. You put so much work in, every year. It’s time you had a rest! And we haven’t had anyone up to our place since we had all the work done…’They’d both smiled at her as she desperately tried to think of an excuse, but she couldn’t. ‘Well!’ she’d said. ’That’d be lovely!’
And so it was agreed, a date was set: the first Sunday in September. They’ll all drive down the coast to the villa the two women had bought the previous year, Ruby will bring the apple pie that she always bakes, Phil will be on hand with his apron and the barbecue utensils she’d bought him for Christmas. It’ll be fine, she told herself — a nice change — yet still she couldn’t help but feel resentful. It felt almost as though there wouldn’t be a party this year.
For a while it seemed like her worst fears were coming true. She’d called everyone, told them of the change of plan. Judith said straight away that she wouldn’t be going, as did Sally, though she did at least claim to have a prior engagement that day which sounded plausible at least. The others all said they’d be there, but sounded reluctant, and Ruby had a horrible feeling that one-by-one everyone would drop out.
‘I do hope it’s not just us,’ she said to Phil as they buckled themselves into the car. ‘Have you brought your tools?’
He nodded and said he had. ‘Why would it just be us?’
‘Well, you know…’
She didn’t want to say it. Some of their friends had a problem with two women sharing a home, a bed. She didn’t herself, even though she’d found it awkward at first and still found it odd when Clara referred to Marianne as her wife. They couldn’t actually get married — not yet, though it was only a matter of time — so she wondered why they bothered to pretend.
‘Some people aren’t as tolerant as us,’ she said, finally. ‘With them being… y’know? Lesbian.’
Phil said nothing and her comment evaporated into the air conditioned interior of the car they’d bought a year or so after moving over permanently. She was worried she’s got it wrong; she wasn’t sure what the correct word even was, now. It seemed to change. Jessica had told her some of them even call themselves queer, these days, as if that were something to be proud of. ‘I’m just not sure everyone’s as tolerant of it as we are,’ she said, eventually.
‘Well,’ said Phil. ‘I guess we’ll see….’
She looked at him. He was driving casually, letting the wheel slide through his open hands as the car came out of a bend. He had a weird smile on his face — almost a smirk— and for a moment she wondered if the idea turned him on. Two women together. She tried to imagine it, but found she couldn’t. She realised she had no idea what two women would even do in bed together. Two men, yes, though the thought of that repulsed her just a little. But two women? Where would they even start?
But then, Phil was a man; they were wired differently. He wouldn’t be bothered about the specifics, the details. He wouldn’t care about what women like Clara and Marianne might do in an effort to enjoy each other’s bodies; just the thought of them both naked would be enough. Two vaginas, all those breasts. Who cares what goes where? She’d seen the magazines he keeps in his filing cabinet, the pictures on his computer; it’s all surface. There’s no emotion. The pictures in them might as well be cut out of a guide to anatomy.
She thought of Andrew, of the stash of porn she’d found hidden under his bed when he was fourteen. At the time she’d naively thought it was a phase, but now she knew it wasn’t. They don’t change. Men are stuck permanently in adolescence, they only pretend to grown up. That’s why Phil now insists on the hawaiian shirts, the vests with the comedy slogans, the mirrored sunglasses. He’s finally free of the suits and ties and he’s determined to regress, to swing right back the other way. She’s given up on trying to tell him.
‘Are you planning on wearing that cap?’ she said.
‘What?’
’Your cap. Are you going to wear it all day?’
He shrugged. ‘It keeps the sun out of my eyes…’
She looked back to the road.. ‘Not when it’s on back-to-front, it doesn’t.’