| THE FADED WALLPAPER By Rachel Lawrence I don’t remember quite how I ended up in the flat - waiting impatiently for my host to finish changing the bed linen. Observant though I may be, I am also able to overlook the most glaring of repulsions in order to close a deal. It is why I am so proficient in my work and so accomplished in my sporting leisure activities. But there I was in the role of client – and the prostitute; the one I had ordered not ten minutes before; the one I could hear singing musically from the bedroom - was the one closing the deal on me. The paper, faded on one wall only, was stained by shadows that cast themselves like a black and white slide projection. The small lounge was poorly ventilated, and heavily furnished. It reminded me of an auction house in which items are located for efficiency of space and not aesthetic pleasure. The heavy damp was well-established, as was the dust that adhered, undisturbed, to every horizontal surface. But it wasn’t just the room that caused me to feel dirty that Friday afternoon, when I was supposed to be at my desk making apologetic telephone calls to my wife about why I would be home late. I considered reclining on the settee and trying to feign confidence, as though I were about to conduct a casual meeting or social event. But I knew that the fabric had once been several shades lighter: the same floral design adorned every chair in my grand mother’s annex, which in itself was alarming. And here it made the distinction between normality and fantasy even more confusing. Eventually settling for a hard-backed wooden stool placed, unusually, in the corner of the room, I wondered - if I could not bring myself to sit on this woman’ s couch, how I would ever slip between her sheets and make love to her. The carpet was thin beneath my feet, and grey – as warm and comfortable as concrete. There seemed to be a worn path across the length of the room. It was only when, unable to remain seated, I stood up and began pacing out the same track that I realised why. From my elevated position it was impossible to avoid the mirror that was positioned upon the mantle of a 1970’s tiled fire-place. And when I did look, I almost expected to see that my guilt had left a noticeable twinkle in my eye or a lipstick mark on my collar. But the image that confronted me was familiar, if the surroundings were not. I looked a little tired, a little pale, even – but I could not deny that the face was mine. I sighed emotionally. The minor relief I’d experienced as the attractive woman had opened the door was fading and draining me of every other sensation. From the telephone-box at the bottom of the hill, where unintentionally I had seen her calling card, I had stipulated only one requirement – that she have long hair. I know it sounds archaic, but I always imagine that a girl with short hair is in the midst of growing out an unfortunate cut. And I was not prepared for this thought to pre-occupy me all evening. However, there, in the flat, it was actually the though of my wife - pressing my clothes and preparing the house for my mother’s imminent visit – that was most prevalent. At first it had been a catalyst – my wife was as faded to me as the wallpaper I had noticed on my way in: clearly once bright and vibrant, it was now merely an embarrassment to friends. She had always seemed like such a good catch too - the daughter of a well-respected local MP; she brought a certain credence and authority to my reputation as a defence lawyer. She was the sort of natural beauty that needed no embellishment in the form of make-up or elaborately tailored clothing. But she had not aged well and somehow couldn’t see it, couldn’ t see that it was time to start taking an interest in what would best suit her and, perhaps, what improvements could be implemented. This was made worse by the fact that I had barely changed in appearance in ten years, still regarded as the baby of both my family and the firm. It didn’t really bother me that we didn’t have sex anymore, or that she was unable to conceive. An effort to look the part would have been sufficient. I had been approached by other women, one in particular, with some regularity – and she was no secretary fling either, she was being sited for partner. I had rejected her advances at the time under the pretext that it was unprofessional – to mix business with pleasure. The irony struck me and I laughed at my own arrogance, guessing at what age it had become my most over-riding characteristic. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? I had been on the tale end of a lengthy and tenuous engagement since before graduation, and by then already well aware of what I wanted from life. And what kind of person I would have to be to get it. But I don’t necessarily consider myself to be a bad person, and the abundance of guilt I felt that day is surely an indication of this. I imagined McDermott, my squash partner, his face more mocking than pitiful. And the pious look of my father-in-law. And the affected whimper of my wife as I carved the Sunday roast. The long haired woman disturbed my reverie. She stood, leaning against the doorframe in a surprisingly scanty negligee. “I’m ready.” She said. “Are you?” |
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