what would you know about Sunday school meeting rooms?’ I parry lightly. ‘Anyway, when you close the wardrobe door you can’t even see them.’
‘Still,’ he persists, slipping his feet into a pair of ancient loafers, ‘I think that’s enough. I don’t want to dress in the morning faced with a thousand slogans declaring “I am enough” and “This too shall pass” or whatever pop self-help jargon is being bounced around these days.’
‘Fine,’ I say, more to end the conversation than anything. ‘I’ll keep them to myself.’
And it occurs to me that if he’s going to be out all day, it’s a perfect opportunity to renew my membership at our local gym. Bending down, I search underneath the bed until I locate my old gym bag, covered in dust, complete with a pair of twisted old trainers still lurking inside.
Perfect.
But my husband hasn’t finished yet. He removes the most recent Post-it and examines it more closely. ‘“Beauty is no guarantee of happiness – strive instead for elegance, grace and style.” What’s all this about, Louie? You’re not going all funny, are you? How are things going with your therapist?’
I’m certain I still own a pair of sweatpants somewhere and there must be a matching sock for this one. I rummage through the laundry basket.
‘No, I’m not going funny,’ I assure him, as I sift through piles of dirty clothes, ‘and things are fine with my therapist. I’m just trying to make the most of myself, that’s all. It’s something I’m doing for me.’
He looks unconvinced, so I change my tack. ‘What I mean to say is, I just want you to be proud of me.’
His face softens. ‘But, Pumpkin, I’m already proud of you. You’re a very good girl,’ he says, kissing my forehead and patting me lightly on the head. ‘You’re a very good girl and a very good Pumpkin.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, smiling back at him. ‘Only, would you mind terribly not calling me Pumpkin?’
He looks at me as if I’d just slapped him across the face. ‘Not call you Pumpkin? What’s wrong with Pumpkin?’
‘Well, I know you mean it as a term of endearment but it’s just so fat sounding. So round and heavy. Couldn’t we have another name? What if you called me something like Sweetheart, or Angel or … or, I don’t know, what about Beauty?’
He frowns at me.
‘OK, well, what about Pretty? My Pretty? That’s nice, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve always called you Pumpkin. You are my Pumpkin,’ he says firmly.
‘Yes, I know, but we’re allowed to change a nickname, aren’t we?’ I try to pacify him by wrapping my arms around him but he sidesteps me and reaches over to pull his jacket from the back of the bedroom chair.
‘You can’t just make up a new nickname because you feel like it. After all, I’m the one who has to say it. And “My Pretty” sounds like a pantomime pirate.’
‘Yes, fine. But all I’m asking is that perhaps I could have a more attractive nickname … I don’t know … if it has to be a food then what about Sweet Pea? A pea is a lot smaller than a pumpkin.’
‘I am not some ageing Southern belle, Louise.’ And he sighs, pressing his fingers to his forehead and closing his eyes to concentrate. ‘Right,’ he says at last, ‘what about Sausage? It’s my final offer.’
‘Sausage!’
‘I’m English. You knew that when you married me. I cannot call my wife Sweet Pea or Sugar or My Little Dumpling or any of the other gourmet, internationally recognized terms of endearment.’
‘But you can call me Sausage?’
‘Well, not just Sausage. My Little Sausage.’ He smiles. ‘I think it’s sweet.’
Now it’s my turn to look unconvinced.
He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Besides which, I really don’t have time for this right now. I must be going.’ He strides into the hallway and grabs his script from the small round table by the door. Leaning forward, he plants a quick kiss on my forehead. ‘I’ll see you when I get back tonight, Sausage.’
The door slams shut.
I walk back into the bedroom and stare at the dusty gym bag and curly old trainers. What’s the point of going to all this effort if at the end of it, I’m still not beautiful and the most flattering thing my husband can think to call me is Sausage?
The siren song of the duvet begins to call me, luring me back into bed, away from the gym and this pointless pursuit of self-improvement. After all, I have only a few precious hours on my own to spend in a state of complete oblivion before he returns. My breathing begins to slow and my eyelids droop.
And then I see it, the little yellow Post-it my husband was examining earlier, floating like a butterfly near my pillow. ‘Beauty is no guarantee of happiness – strive instead for elegance, grace and style.’ I pick it up and paste it back on the mirror.
‘I am not a pumpkin,’ I say to my reflection. ‘Or a sausage.’
And I pick up my gym bag and leave the bedroom as quickly as possible.
While I still can.
The idea of comfort has invaded every domain; it is one of the categorical imperatives of modern life. We can no longer bear the thought of the slightest restriction, physical or moral, and many of the details which were considered to be a mark of elegance some years ago are condemned today for reasons of comfort. Down with stiff collars, starched shirts, cumbersome hats, and heavy chignons! Practically the only die-hards to resist are women’s shoes.
However, if women continue to seek comfort above all twenty-four hours a day, twelve months a year, they may eventually find that they have allowed themselves to become slaves to the crêpe-rubber sole, nylon from head to toe, pre-digested meals, organized travel, functional uniformity, and general stultification. When comfort becomes an end in itself, it is the Public Enemy Number One of elegance.
It’s 7:15 on Friday morning and I’m getting ready for work. Although part of me still clings to the dream of being an actress, I earn my real money selling tickets in the box office of a small, self-producing playhouse in Charing Cross.
My husband is asleep on the other side of the bed and I get dressed in the dark. There’s not a lot left in my wardrobe to choose from so I put on the navy pinafore dress and the pink Oxford shirt. The dress is figure hugging and very tight, which is why I haven’t worn it in years. As I zip it up, my spine becomes erect, encased in the rigidly tailored bodice. I try to revert to my normal, semi-slouched posture and nearly asphyxiate myself. Next, I slip into a pair of dark brown stilettos I wore at my wedding. They’re the only pair of high heels left after the Great Cull, and suddenly I’m tottering around the flat like a little Marilyn Monroe. After so many days in cheap plimsolls and baggy chinos, it feels
