New York

New York, New York. Life exploding. Hot dog stands, pretzels, bagels, rocketing subways, yellow cabs, jazz twentyfourseven on the radio, Liza Minnelli advertised the length of a bus, summer thunderstorms, the ricochet of strange languages on street corners. In New York my eyes opened and I realised how insane our life had become. I felt safe there and hated the house in Dublin and hated what had happened to our life. I hated it ending, the years of compromising to make it work coming to nothing.

My first job is painting a gallery in Commerce Street in the Village. I work long hours, not just to make a good impression but to avoid going out. New York intimidates me. There are too many choices. In a foreign city everyone seems to have a purpose. And of course I work to avoid calling her. I dwell on things that I had pushed aside in more generous moments: her visible envy when I was promoted to line leader and then manager. She is incapable of enjoying success, either mine or her own. The Ambitious enjoy nothing, always one step behind the next goal. She is a somewhat successful writer now and her competitiveness baffles and disgusts me. Time magnifies faults.

*   *   *

I worry about the cats even though I know she would have been over to them in a shot. I telephone her. She thanks me for looking after the cats and for phoning Medbh. She’s glad I’m doing something to change and I bite my tongue, wanting to tell her what to do with her patronising insights. A frightening distance between us, lengthened by civility. There would be more passion if we were enemies. She tells me to hang in there and enjoy New York. Everything is fine in Soapy Avenue. Wimbledon is on and the children are playing tennis rather than football. She isn’t in the house often, she is too busy with work. She tells me a letter is in the post—one to forget. Here beats the harsh heart of truth. It is possible to lie to Ursula, and later to lie to Holfy, even possible to lie to myself that the relationship is over, but untruthful words on the page mock everything that goes before and everything that follows. The lie destroys a story as surely as it destroys trust between people. It demotes everything to fiction.

The letter to forget:

Happy Birthday. I loved the doll, loved it. You don’t miss me. You’re not with me. Not because you are there but because you are not with me in your head. It’s not my imagination. I’m losing you. Shit. I never thought I’d be coming out with this kind of nonsense. You are not thanking about us. I can feel you not thinking about us. What’s happening? Tell me. Just tell me.

My mother is still with Mulvany. I’ll have to stop calling him that or I’ll actually refer to him that way in his presence. I was dropping some cakes in the other day and I let myself into the house. Nine o’clock in the morning and the television was blaring. He was lying on the floor with the dog, licking his balls. He was licking the dog’s balls. Can you imagine what goes on in a mind that would do such a thing? What can I say to her? I love her. She’ll only—I know what you’ll say and you’re right, but it’s so complicated. She sucks solace from him. He makes her feel young and pretty. You bastard. I couldn’t say it to your face—I knew you were so thrilled to get out of here. But to go now? You know I didn’t want you to go. And you know I would never tell you not to go. Can’t you make a visit back before Christmas? Is this really going to make such a difference in money? Not really. Certainly not for us.

I’m inundated with work. Fiona wants me to do something about babies. A sweet milkybreathed piece. Maybe even a series of three. You know what’d be good, Urs, she says to me. I always know she’s taking advantage of me when she calls me that. Can you believe the woman? After four years freelancing for her she’s going to give me my first series on nappy changing. Feminism, roll over and die. I shouldn’t complain. She does seem genuinely interested in me, at least as long as I’m standing in front of her. Fuck it—At least she’s cutting me slack on deadlines.

I miss you.

Is Manhattan cold? Tell me where you eat. Let me live it with you a little. Kiss. Need a real one though.

Urs-ula

Dearest Ursula,

New York?

It’s snowing.

S.

My anger at that time, anger fueled by her instinct for knowing. Phoning her to reassure her. Angry that she sensed what I was going to do before I even did it. Women know these things, Isobela had said. Women know these things. I hate that women-power shit. But then another letter, softer, on yellow lined paper:

She was arrested. She was running down St. Kevin’s Avenue, naked except for her white tights, screaming. Where’s my pussy? Where’s my pussy? The dog was missing too. And the German silverware Gran gave her as a wedding present. No sign of her beau. She had drunk three bottles of Bailey’s. No wonder she’s putting on weight. There’s no point in telling Daddy. He’ll only gloat.

I can’t believe you still have all that snow. Even though it sounds awful, it must be fun. Anything would be a change from this rain. Cecil and his team haven’t showed up since last Tuesday. Everything they say about builders is not true. They’re much worse.

I’m doing an article on fidelity (read infidelity). About our parents’ generation. The men were so nice. They talked to me as if I was an understanding daughter. They disgusted me with their stories of love. This face of mine: Empathy personified you called it once. It’s a good article. Punchy and moving. The kind Fiona likes. Trevor liked it, she told me. Who’s Trevor, says I. Trevor owns the paper, says she, searching my face for journalistic prowess. I only know him as Mr. Plausible. It’s in Sunday’s. Veronica has an article below mine—The Irish Illiteratti. 1500 words on the new wave of publishing in this country. Between herself and myself we make for a thrilling page. You want to see her since they offered her a contract—flouncing into the office with the hair bobbing off her shoulders. If only she kept her crotch as clean as her golden locks.

Medbh’s baby is due in two weeks. Send her something nice. I don’t think Brefini wanted this right now.

Keep biting the Apple.

Ursula

PS: You shouldn’t keep buying the paper. Although you’re right—it’s worth five dollars to read me.

PPS: It’s wicked to be alone in our bed although there is a masochistic pleasure in the wait for you. I lie on my hand and imagine it’s yours. You’ve a wonderful hand. The pleasure it gives. But you know that. I can feed on the waiting. Let’s work something out. We can, I’m sure. Daisies are my favourite flowers. It’s the size of them. They understand each others tininess. Nothing, not even a daisy, is as beautiful as the love we once had. Kiss.