Alexandra Leaving

Alexandra Leaving

Crimson wine mixes with shattered glass, staining the new carpet.
The hostess laughs, openly acknowledging her clumsiness, her eyes a thousand miles away from her guests.
New house, new life.
‘Oh, Christ, I’m sorry Jane, none of that hit you did it? It fell up, that’s all, I hope it hasn’t ruined your dress – it’s so beautiful.’
Jane is graceful in her reply, assuring the hostess that no, her dress is fine. The fake anxiety on her face is alleviated, glances still being stolen to the stairs, body language anticipating the crash of her husband’s feet on the landing.
It was the same every time – too much beer, too little appreciation, and a wife desperate with embarassment. No respect for his elders.
No respect for his betters.
A guest she barely knows is fighting a losing battle against the staining wine, his hands moving in a scrubbing motion, while his female friend cautiously picks up broken glass and places it in a carrier bag.
‘Marie, come now, let me do that, you’ll cut yourself. Can’t have the blood going the carpet as well!’
There is a muted chuckle to the joke, all the guests’ eyes dropping their focus to the floor, avoiding the main attraction that nobody wanted to see.
‘We can’t go, darling, can you imagine what it’ll be like...’
‘Well, I hope this one will be better than the last time, I mean, the husband....’
The battle with the stain has been lost, and the man has returned to link arms with his lady. Groups of eyes move away with relief towards anywhere, thankful for the excuse to hide. The guests bury themselves in conversation with the nearest: to the hostess’s eyes, it is almost as if they were back at school, choosing partners for themselves in whatever activity would come next.
Banal talk fills the air: the price of employing a nanny in the inner city, what’s the most effective razor? How can Liverpool solve the inconsistency problems and reclaim the title? Does London really need the Olympics? Debates interupted whenever the hostess tries to join one, guests trying to intergrate her as best they can.
‘Well, we’ve never had to employ a nanny before...’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever quite seen the big deal with football...’
‘Oh, I just buy those cheap ones, the disposable type...’
‘Olympics? Oh, it’s all greek to me.’
One great big, cliche of inability: she remembers the time when she’d have everyone in tears, wiping their eyes in hilarity. The days when the broken glass would still be there, hours after the guests had gone home, stumbling drunkenly over each other on their way out of the door. The days of drunken fumbles in the upstairs bedroom: no names, no shame. The days before those pounding feet on the landing.
And yet, there they are. Making a mess of her head: the guests all seem to share a knowing look with each other, acknowledging the thudding with everyone but her. She’s seen the look, time and time again: that sick combination of embarassment and anticipation. She saw it mirrored in her husband’s face whenever he sat down to watch The Office: that strange desire for akwardness, to cringe in horror at other people’s misfortune.
The footsteps are coming down the stairs now. The guests have abandoned any form of pretence, their eyes now taking in the doorframe. She wishes she could disappear, just vanish and re-appear somewhere different, somewhere free of the shame, as the door opens, the thudding footsteps of her husband disturbing the peace once again.
There is a flash in her head, and all she sees is the dark ceiling above her head. Her arm instinctively falls across to her left hand side, grasping for his. It finds only the linen of the bedsheet, and the padding of the duvet.
Somewhere across town, her husband’s arm finds the same, stubborness relishing the role that affection should play.