You mean generally or right now? she said. Generally it’s a bad time, but right now is fine.
Why did you send Bobbi my story?
I don’t know, Frances. Why did you fuck my husband?
Is that supposed to shock me? I said. You’re the shocking person who uses bad language, okay. Now that we’ve established that, why did you send Bobbi my story?
She went quiet. I ran the tip of the spoon over the cake icing and licked it. It tasted sugary and flavourless.
You really do have these sudden bursts of aggression, don’t you? she said. Like with Valerie. Are you threatened by other women?
I have a question for you, if you don’t want to answer it then hang up.
What entitles you to an explanation of my behaviour?
You hated me, I said. Didn’t you?
She sighed. I don’t even know what that means, she said. I dug the spoon down into the cake, into the sponge part, and ate a mouthful.
You treated me with total contempt, said Melissa. And I don’t mean because of Nick. The first time you came to our house you just looked around like: here’s something bourgeois and embarrassing that I’m going to destroy. And I mean, you took such enjoyment in destroying it. Suddenly I’m looking around my own fucking house, thinking: is this sofa ugly? Is it kitsch to drink wine? And things I felt good about before started to make me feel pathetic. Having a husband instead of just fucking someone else’s husband. Having a book deal instead of writing nasty short stories about people I know and selling them to prestigious magazines. I mean, you came into my house with your fucking nose piercing like: oh, I’ll really enjoy eviscerating this whole set-up. She’s so establishment.
I wedged the spoon into the cake so that it stood upright on its own. I then used my hand to massage my face.
I don’t have a nose piercing, I said. That’s Bobbi.
Okay. My deepest apologies.
I didn’t realise you found me so subversive. In real life I didn’t feel any contempt for your house. I wanted it to be my house. I wanted your whole life. Maybe I did shitty things to try and get it, but I’m poor and you’re rich. I wasn’t trying to trash your life, I was trying to steal it.
She made a kind of snorting noise, but I didn’t believe she was really dismissing what I’d said. It was more a performance than a reaction.
You had an affair with my husband because you liked me so much, said Melissa.
No, I’m not saying I liked you.
Okay. I didn’t like you either. But you weren’t a very nice person.
We both paused then, like we had just raced each other up a set of stairs and we were out of breath and thinking about how foolish it was.
I regret that, I said. I regret not being nicer. I should have tried harder to be your friend. I’m sorry.
What?
I’m sorry, Melissa. I’m sorry for this aggressive phone call, it was stupid. I don’t really know what I’m doing at the moment. I’m having a hard time maybe. I’m sorry I called you. And look, I’m sorry for everything.
Jesus, she said. What’s wrong, are you okay?
I’m fine. I just feel like I haven’t been the person that I should have been. I don’t know what I’m saying now. I wish I had gotten to know you better and treated you with more kindness, I want to apologise for that. I’ll hang up.
I hung up before she could say anything. I ate some cake, fast and hungrily, then wiped my mouth, opened up my laptop and wrote an email.
Dear Bobbi,
Tonight I fainted in a church, you would have found it pretty funny. I’m sorry my story hurt your feelings. I think the reason it hurt is because it showed I could be honest with someone else even when I wasn’t honest with you. I hope that’s the reason. I called Melissa on the phone tonight asking her why she sent the story to you. It took me some time to realise that what I was really asking was: why did I write the story? It was a very embarrassing and garbled phone call. Maybe I think of her as my mother. The truth is that I love you and I always have. Do I mean that Platonically? I don’t object when you kiss me. The idea of us sleeping together again has always been exciting. When you broke up with me I felt you beat me at a game we were playing together, and I wanted to come back and beat you. Now I think I just want to sleep with you, without metaphors. That doesn’t mean I don’t have other desires. Right now for example, I’m eating chocolate cake out of the box with a teaspoon. To love someone under capitalism you have to love everyone. Is that theory or just theology? When I read the Bible I picture you as Jesus, so maybe fainting in a church was a metaphor after all. But I’m not trying to be intelligent now. I can’t say sorry for writing that story or for taking the money. I can say sorry that it shocked you, when I should have told you before. You’re not just an idea to me. If I’ve ever treated you like that I’m sorry. The night when you talked about monogamy I loved your intellect. I didn’t understand what you were trying to tell me. Maybe I’m a lot more stupid than either of us thought. When there were four of us I always thought in terms of couples anyway, which threatened me, since all the possible couples that didn’t involve me seemed so much more interesting than the ones that did. You and Nick, you and Melissa, even Nick and Melissa in their own way. But now I see that nothing consists of two people, or even three. My relationship with you is also produced by your relationship with Melissa, and with Nick, and with your childhood self, etc., etc. I wanted things for myself because I thought I existed. You’re going to write back and explain what Lacan really meant. Or you might not write back at all. I did faint, if you object to my prose style. That wasn’t a lie and I’m still shivering. Is it possible we could develop an alternative model of loving each other? I’m not drunk. Please write back. I love you.