redecorated and were steadily filling with books and videos instead of children.
Another of those decisions that Tyrell had talked her into with his usual mixture of enthusiasm and dodgy rationalisation. She had, Susan knew, allowed it to happen too often, agreed to far too much for too long and in 96 favour of what? A quiet life, contentment? When most of their friends were already into their second divorce or separation, what was she trying to prove? That she was a survivor? That, despite all the odds, she and David still loved one another, that they had found a way of making it work?
The first time she had spoken to him, really spoken, had been after a seminar at the University of Warwick, where they were both doing Media Studies. The only one of the group not majoring in Film, Susan had sat there for eight weeks, listening, contributing very little.
Finally, she had plucked up her courage and launched into a mild attack on the film they had been watching, a fifties musical called It's Always Fair Weather. Pretty enough, she had said, but pretty vacant. Fun, but why all the fuss? David had told her in no uncertain terms and after twenty minutes she had bowed her head and agreed with him and a pattern had been set.
On the way out of the seminar, he had invited her for coffee; in the coffee bar he had invited her to a movie. The movie turned out to be two, an Elvis Presley double bill, and David had made them sit on the front row. King Creole was okay, he pronounced, but the really interesting one was Change of Habit, Presley's last feature, 1969.
And Susan had kept her thoughts to her popcorn, watching Dr Elvis falling sanctimoniously in love with a speech therapist she had only later identified as Mary Tyler Moore.
"Didn't you think it was great," Tyrell had enthused later, 'the way our sense of Presley as star bifurcates the diegesis of the narrative? "
"Um," Susan had said.
"Yes. Absolutely."
She looked up now from the pile of books she was marking, hearing the front door open and Tyrell's voice calling her name from the hall.
"Susan, you there?"
She would, he thought, be in the long kitchen which doubled as dining room, marking another thirty-three pastiches of EastEnders, ever ready to pop another frozen pizza into the microwave.
"My God! You won't believe what happened, in the middle of the day, broad daylight. Must have been like that scene in Carrie, the one with the pig's blood, you know."
Susan was on her feet, filling the kettle.
"I heard about it on the car radio."
National? "
"No, Radio Nottingham."
"Oh," Tyrell sounded disappointed, ferreting in the cupboard for what was left of the packet of custard creams.
"I thought at least we might've got some good publicity out of it."
"I wonder if she felt the same? The woman what's her name?"
"Come on, Susan. Cathy Jordan, how many more times? You'll meet her tonight at Sonny's."
"I'm not sure if I'm going."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, of course you're going."
"I don't know, I think I'm getting a headache. I've got all this work to do."
Tyrell swore as the last biscuit crumbled between his fingers and fell to the floor.
"Susan, it's all booked. Arranged. Besides, you want to meet everybody, don't you?"
"Do I?"
"Of course you do. You'll have a great time once you're there, you always do."
Susan reached for the tea bags.
"Earl Grey or ordinary?"
"Ordinary."
What Susan could remember was sitting at one end of the table, drinking glass after glass of Perrier while the conversation spun around her.
Tyrell smiled. He had found a cache of plain chocolate 98 digestives.
"I don't want to go without you, you know that Still, if you've really got your mind made up..."
When she looked at him, what Susan saw was relief in his eyes; he would be so much happier not having to bother about her.
"Yes," she said, pouring boiling water into the pot, 'you go on your own. "
Tyrell shrugged and sat down at the pine table, reaching for the Guardian. First
Another of those decisions that Tyrell had talked her into with his usual mixture of enthusiasm and dodgy rationalisation. She had, Susan knew, allowed it to happen too often, agreed to far too much for too long and in 96 favour of what? A quiet life, contentment? When most of their friends were already into their second divorce or separation, what was she trying to prove? That she was a survivor? That, despite all the odds, she and David still loved one another, that they had found a way of making it work?
The first time she had spoken to him, really spoken, had been after a seminar at the University of Warwick, where they were both doing Media Studies. The only one of the group not majoring in Film, Susan had sat there for eight weeks, listening, contributing very little.
Finally, she had plucked up her courage and launched into a mild attack on the film they had been watching, a fifties musical called It's Always Fair Weather. Pretty enough, she had said, but pretty vacant. Fun, but why all the fuss? David had told her in no uncertain terms and after twenty minutes she had bowed her head and agreed with him and a pattern had been set.
On the way out of the seminar, he had invited her for coffee; in the coffee bar he had invited her to a movie. The movie turned out to be two, an Elvis Presley double bill, and David had made them sit on the front row. King Creole was okay, he pronounced, but the really interesting one was Change of Habit, Presley's last feature, 1969.
And Susan had kept her thoughts to her popcorn, watching Dr Elvis falling sanctimoniously in love with a speech therapist she had only later identified as Mary Tyler Moore.
"Didn't you think it was great," Tyrell had enthused later, 'the way our sense of Presley as star bifurcates the diegesis of the narrative? "
"Um," Susan had said.
"Yes. Absolutely."
She looked up now from the pile of books she was marking, hearing the front door open and Tyrell's voice calling her name from the hall.
"Susan, you there?"
She would, he thought, be in the long kitchen which doubled as dining room, marking another thirty-three pastiches of EastEnders, ever ready to pop another frozen pizza into the microwave.
"My God! You won't believe what happened, in the middle of the day, broad daylight. Must have been like that scene in Carrie, the one with the pig's blood, you know."
Susan was on her feet, filling the kettle.
"I heard about it on the car radio."
National? "
"No, Radio Nottingham."
"Oh," Tyrell sounded disappointed, ferreting in the cupboard for what was left of the packet of custard creams.
"I thought at least we might've got some good publicity out of it."
"I wonder if she felt the same? The woman what's her name?"
"Come on, Susan. Cathy Jordan, how many more times? You'll meet her tonight at Sonny's."
"I'm not sure if I'm going."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, of course you're going."
"I don't know, I think I'm getting a headache. I've got all this work to do."
Tyrell swore as the last biscuit crumbled between his fingers and fell to the floor.
"Susan, it's all booked. Arranged. Besides, you want to meet everybody, don't you?"
"Do I?"
"Of course you do. You'll have a great time once you're there, you always do."
Susan reached for the tea bags.
"Earl Grey or ordinary?"
"Ordinary."
What Susan could remember was sitting at one end of the table, drinking glass after glass of Perrier while the conversation spun around her.
Tyrell smiled. He had found a cache of plain chocolate 98 digestives.
"I don't want to go without you, you know that Still, if you've really got your mind made up..."
When she looked at him, what Susan saw was relief in his eyes; he would be so much happier not having to bother about her.
"Yes," she said, pouring boiling water into the pot, 'you go on your own. "
Tyrell shrugged and sat down at the pine table, reaching for the Guardian. First
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