be horrible to Isabella
.
Isabella did not simply enter the surgery, she floated in like a dream, a star demanding modest acknowledgement, flashing
a smile that was supposed to make them faint, and had roughly the desired effect. They became like hotel staff with a celebrity,
Let me take your coat, madam, please
, the faithful greeting a guruof no known faith. Her entrance was, in all senses, ridiculous, but charming since she never could or would forget a name.
‘Hallo, Tina, how nice you look. What a lovely day outside.’ Her musical voice flowed on with a stream of social burble punctuated
by sallies of laughter. There was a cry of indignation when she saw the colour of the walls, but remarks on any changes over
the last two months were not criticism as such, simply an implication of sartorial superiority. William’s estranged wife always
told them where she had come from, where she was going next, enveloped the girls in an infective intimacy that seemed to subsist
between visits, until William appeared. In that few minutes’ interval, she would have asked about his welfare, shared a sweet
little joke or two at his expense, united them against him, made them wonder how he could live without her shrewd beauty,
shake their heads at the very idea of this failed marriage, which could never have been, by any stretch of the imagination,
the fault of Isabella. Nothing was ever Isabella’s fault, and yet he could not prevent that treacherous leap of heart when
he saw her, or that racing-pulse guilt, which was related to nothing he could define. Not jealousy and no longer quite the
same as desire, but a feeling of powerlessness all the same. She reduced him to a state of juvenile dependency; he became
a person, suddenly, with no real will of his own. A look from her had always been able to dictate his mood. Isabella had made
him what he was, driven him on with a whip, revealed him as inadequate and dull. She was the princess: he the lucky courtier.
These kind of nerves, subtly different from any other kind, made him falsely jovial, shouting an avuncular hello!, accompanying
it with a swift peck on the cheek, just to show how amicable, natural, friendly and civilized a relationship with one’s ex-wife
could be, three years down the line; everything still hunkydory and bitterness a dirty word. Never a mention of how she had
rendered him so completely … impotent, then and now; the very smell of her enough to make him shrivel with the shame of failure.
At least she knew he was a good dentist; everyone said so.
He led her round the corner to the chair; she settled herself with the ease of familiarity and laced her fingers together
over her flat stomach, her legs crossed at the ankle, while she winked at Tina to her left. William adjusted his mask, reached
the light to the right angle.
‘Do you
have
to wear that thing, darling? I’m not infectious, you know.’
‘Of course not, but I might be.’ He laughed immoderately.
Tina looked at him strangely. ‘Do you need me?’
‘No.’ She left the room, slightly miffed. William hummed as he began to examine Isabella’s teeth. It was the one point in
time when the balance of power was reversed and he could feel this perverse, guilty enjoyment. In this context alone, she
trusted him: she had given herself no choice and, in this moment, all her vanity was revealed. Her eyes stared upwards vacantly,
the interlaced fingers were more tightly interwoven and one foot moved slightly, as ifremembering a long-forgotten dance. He could see the lines around the eyes and the mouth, wonder at which stage in her life
she would try plastic surgery. She wouldn’t, because it hurt and because Isabella’s mirror would always be allowed to tell
her lies. She would not accept age: she would simply fail to see it. And on the back of that stray thought came another vexed
question to self: How on earth could he be, or ever have been, in the
.
Isabella did not simply enter the surgery, she floated in like a dream, a star demanding modest acknowledgement, flashing
a smile that was supposed to make them faint, and had roughly the desired effect. They became like hotel staff with a celebrity,
Let me take your coat, madam, please
, the faithful greeting a guruof no known faith. Her entrance was, in all senses, ridiculous, but charming since she never could or would forget a name.
‘Hallo, Tina, how nice you look. What a lovely day outside.’ Her musical voice flowed on with a stream of social burble punctuated
by sallies of laughter. There was a cry of indignation when she saw the colour of the walls, but remarks on any changes over
the last two months were not criticism as such, simply an implication of sartorial superiority. William’s estranged wife always
told them where she had come from, where she was going next, enveloped the girls in an infective intimacy that seemed to subsist
between visits, until William appeared. In that few minutes’ interval, she would have asked about his welfare, shared a sweet
little joke or two at his expense, united them against him, made them wonder how he could live without her shrewd beauty,
shake their heads at the very idea of this failed marriage, which could never have been, by any stretch of the imagination,
the fault of Isabella. Nothing was ever Isabella’s fault, and yet he could not prevent that treacherous leap of heart when
he saw her, or that racing-pulse guilt, which was related to nothing he could define. Not jealousy and no longer quite the
same as desire, but a feeling of powerlessness all the same. She reduced him to a state of juvenile dependency; he became
a person, suddenly, with no real will of his own. A look from her had always been able to dictate his mood. Isabella had made
him what he was, driven him on with a whip, revealed him as inadequate and dull. She was the princess: he the lucky courtier.
These kind of nerves, subtly different from any other kind, made him falsely jovial, shouting an avuncular hello!, accompanying
it with a swift peck on the cheek, just to show how amicable, natural, friendly and civilized a relationship with one’s ex-wife
could be, three years down the line; everything still hunkydory and bitterness a dirty word. Never a mention of how she had
rendered him so completely … impotent, then and now; the very smell of her enough to make him shrivel with the shame of failure.
At least she knew he was a good dentist; everyone said so.
He led her round the corner to the chair; she settled herself with the ease of familiarity and laced her fingers together
over her flat stomach, her legs crossed at the ankle, while she winked at Tina to her left. William adjusted his mask, reached
the light to the right angle.
‘Do you
have
to wear that thing, darling? I’m not infectious, you know.’
‘Of course not, but I might be.’ He laughed immoderately.
Tina looked at him strangely. ‘Do you need me?’
‘No.’ She left the room, slightly miffed. William hummed as he began to examine Isabella’s teeth. It was the one point in
time when the balance of power was reversed and he could feel this perverse, guilty enjoyment. In this context alone, she
trusted him: she had given herself no choice and, in this moment, all her vanity was revealed. Her eyes stared upwards vacantly,
the interlaced fingers were more tightly interwoven and one foot moved slightly, as ifremembering a long-forgotten dance. He could see the lines around the eyes and the mouth, wonder at which stage in her life
she would try plastic surgery. She wouldn’t, because it hurt and because Isabella’s mirror would always be allowed to tell
her lies. She would not accept age: she would simply fail to see it. And on the back of that stray thought came another vexed
question to self: How on earth could he be, or ever have been, in the
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