The Birdcage

As soon as Piers turned to search for Tilda, Lizzie moved away. For the first time since the party had begun she felt herself a stranger. All these people shared common memories: a history that locked them into a pattern of school, work, love, in which she had no part. She looked instinctively for Felix, saw that his chair was empty and felt even more alone. A few steps backwards took her into the angle of the west wing and the high garth wall and, lowering herself on to the small bench seat in the shadows, she drew a cloak of silence and immobility about her, hoping she would not be missed.

Everyone wanted to see the puppy, to touch him and exclaim over him: everyone except Alison. Even in this moment of isolation, Lizzie couldn’t resist the rueful smile that involuntarily touched her lips. Alison stood to one side, torn between openly showing her fury or pretending that she’d been in on the secret. Studying her, Lizzie felt that ‘fury’ was not too strong a word for Alison’s expression. It was evident that Piers’ reaction to – and acceptance of – Tilda’s gift showed that not only was Alison’s opinion unimportant to him but that he was ready to say so publicly. Lizzie guessed that Alison saw this as a victory for Tilda and Felix as well as any other guests to whom she’d made known her feelings about Piers having another puppy.

What was even more interesting was that Piers was showing no sense of embarrassment or awkwardness. He was too intelligent to imagine that Alison would be indifferent yet he had no hesitation in demonstrating his delight. He held the puppy in his arms, stroking the soft head, examining him eagerly, and Lizzie caught the name ‘Joker’ several times as the breeder pointed out a resemblance and recounted the shared ancestry. Tilda’s face was bright with tenderness as she leaned to kiss the puppy on the nose and touch his floppy ears and, when Teresa joined the little group closest to Piers, she grinned at her mother, who smiled back with an expression of triumphant complicity.

For the moment Lizzie was forgotten: the puppy held the centre stage. She made herself more comfortable, wishing she’d brought her drink with her, glad to be in this quiet corner and out of the limelight. She never had a problem with making a fool of herself if it helped things along, broke the ice or made someone feel better, but she was always content to be an onlooker. She liked to observe body language, gestures, expressions: to the actor the equivalent of the writer’s copy. For instance, Tilda was now fluid and supple with relief; she embraced Saul as – his chefs duties abrogated – he came to see the puppy, her arm lightly about his shoulder as she leaned happily against him. Saul admired the puppy with a particular, grateful pleasure, since it had indirectly brought him this warm, loving gesture, and, as Piers stooped to share a joking remark with him, he looked up with a charming, smiling humility that touched Lizzie’s heart. She saw that Teresa also watched the younger couple, her rather sharply pretty face softened by a kind of hopeful anxiety. When she looked at Piers, however, Teresa’s expression grew more calculating and, seeing through her eyes, Lizzie recognized the attraction that drew women to him: that ease with his own body, the quick, narrow, assessing glance, the humorous twist of his mouth.

It would be easy, Lizzie decided, to be tempted to make the mistake of feeling sorry for Piers. His difficult childhood aside, it was always a natural reaction to feel sympathy for someone who had been deserted. The empowering must always go with the one who leaves: the abandoned one, stranded flat-footed and humiliated amongst the wreck of the relationship, watches the still-beloved one starting a new exciting journey, whilst the unloved one faces into each grey, featureless day and cold, endless night with all the pain of betrayal and despair. Was this how Piers had really reacted to Sue’s departure: how much did he suffer? There were none of those tell-tale signs that marked out the lonely ones: nothing subdued or empty-eyed about him: no lack of inner confidence. She suspected that the grief he could not always hide sprang from the death of his son: of course, death was terrible too, but at least you were allowed to cling to the love you’d shared and could relive the tenderness; you could mentally flip through your happy memories, tiny scenes of intimacy neither spoiled by bitterness nor denied by those who need to trash the past so as to justify a new shiny future with someone else.

Lizzie wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. Crazy, she decided, potty, doolally: sitting on her own in a corner, watching people she’d known at the longest for four days and the shortest for three hours, crying into her drink – except that she’d left it on the table . . . She took several deep breaths, concentrating on that trick of taking stock of her surroundings in an attempt to control herself. Several tables, each with a selection of chairs, were set at intervals about the garth, their wooden legs slightly unsteady on the cobbles, but most of the guests were still standing in groups or choosing some delicacy from the two long trestle tables, which flanked the barbecue. White damask cloths covered these unsightly boards and one table was weighted down with bottles, glasses and plates and silver. On the other, the plates of rolls and tiny sandwiches, vol-au-vents and quiche, had been severely depleted and, before too long, Tilda would carry out the delicious puddings that Jenny Coleman had made earlier.

She saw that Alison stood a little apart with a fair, florid woman: Margaret Hooper. ‘Margaret and Geoffrey, Alison’s brother, moved down fairly recently,’ Tilda had told her. ‘Geoffrey has been having an affair and Margaret decided to be drastic. I’m not too sure that Alison is utterly thrilled to have them quite so near . . .’ They’d been introduced with a whole flurry of other guests and Lizzie had hardly taken in their names but now, as the two women drew slightly closer together, Lizzie guessed that Alison was sharing her irritation with her sister-in-law. The fair woman pulled in her chin, shrugging her solid shoulders slightly, and Lizzie, hidden in her shadowy corner, saw Alison’s face set into sullen lines. A tall man moved just behind them, putting his hand on the fair woman’s shoulder, and she glanced back at him with a little jerk of the chin and a grimace that invited him to share in their displeasure at the spectacle.

Lizzie wondered how Margaret Hooper had managed to subsume her husband’s infidelity into her daily life; how it had been contained and beaten down so that it could be ignored – or forgiven. ‘He did time,’ Tilda had said. ‘Presents, holidays, crawling . . .’ Looking at that fair, high-coloured face, Lizzie could believe that Margaret Hooper had taken her pound of flesh and now, she suspected, her husband was grappled to her with bands of steel: bands forged by complicity, of lying and subservience on his part and a series of demands and whims on hers. Was it possible for a relationship to retain its dignity, its wholeness, once lying and cheating clouded its trust? How had Marina behaved once Felix had broken with Angel? Had she punished him in the same way?

Staring at the Hoopers Lizzie realized that, however illogical it was, she couldn’t put Felix in the same category. She closed her eyes, frowning, as if debating with herself: it was almost impossible to judge other people’s relationships. Things looked so different when you were on the inside.

‘The utter boredom of the young, darling,’ he’d say, rolling his eyes with weary impatience. ‘They take themselves so seriously. But it’s coming . . .’ and his face would change, his eyes drifting past her towards the vision he had of each new production. Yet, as the years passed, there seemed to be something missing: the excitement, the passion.

‘You shouldn’t have left the theatre,’ she’d tell him. ‘Remember Centre Stage?’ and he’d look at her properly, with a kind of painful regret, and reach out to hold her closely. She could smell him now, nicotine and coffee and his own, particular Sam-smell . . .

‘Isn’t it awful?’ she said, almost conversationally. ‘This terrible weeping comes with no warning, doesn’t it? I’ve felt it several times this evening; missing David, I mean, and then bursting into tears. I know I can say it to you because you can understand what it’s like never to see the person you loved more than the whole world ever again in your life. Come on inside and help me with the puddings. It’s quiet in the kitchen and it’ll give us a moment to get a grip.’