There is one critical fact to report: Jeffrey inherited a Winnebago!
Just imagine. My summer is not yet fully booked – road trip, anyone?
Jeffrey would be the perfect housemate if I were in the market for one. I’ve happily taken up residency in the living room of his bachelor pad (featuring an almost non-stop party) and it was no burden at all to host him on my narrowboat (featuring ferocious swans peering in the windows), though he was not able to stand up straight. Who really needs to anyway? The river is more than enough compensation for cramped quarters.
I dragged Jeffrey along to a birthday “do” (as the English would say) at a pub, and hung out with lots of fab friends:
We had additional mad pub adventures with Jean and Paul and assorted posh academics, then took Jeffrey out to observe a typical English night after the pubs closed. Stepping over the drunks and puddles of vomit, avoiding the woman trying to break a store window with her handbag, skipping away from another woman who wanted to touch Jeffrey’s hat, I treated him to a midnight kabab:
One night at a pub a skinhead leered at me and asked Are you a Personality?
Then he squinted drunkenly up at Jeffrey, and inquired Are you two Personalities?
He explicitly meant, were we performers? Famous? We just stared at him, then took our drinks to another section of the room.
At some point during days of revelry and travel Jeffrey told me Boys are afraid of girls who laugh loud!
Oh, cool! I said, and laughed and laughed.
We tried to get tickets to see Verdi’s Messa da Requiem performed at the Ely Cathedral but it was sold out. I cleverly assumed practice would happen the afternoon of the show and hauled the crew out to see my prediction come true.
We had a picnic in the sunlight on a hill in the grounds next to the King’s School, foals gamboling in the field below, Jeffrey wrestling with my son, and the day was so wonderful I wanted to fall asleep and stay there forever.
The tall men toured the Octagon Tower, my kids sat and listened to the music, and I hung out in the Lady Chapel, staring once again in amazement at the smashed stonework, the Green Man presiding over it all.
Cycling out to the Orchard at Grantchester we ran into Richard on the path behind the pub.
He smiled and said I saw you in the Guardian!
I halfway fell off my bike and yelped Oh, god (feeling virtuous that I did not curse in front of his lovely child).
As we locked the bikes I asked Byron Did you hear that? My cover is blown!
He laughed and mocked me and I said See you pretend to be supportive but you aren’t at all!
He replied I am supportive. I support you in getting over your fear of success!
This is an example of how those we believe close can misunderstand important aspects of our interior lives. I’ve never been afraid of success – when my work gets recognized I am pleased. But not because I, me, myself wants the attention. I am simply the vessel for the message, and would prefer to be invisible.
Occasionally that is not possible; the nature of the world and my brand of work in particular demands a figurative representation, and I sometimes willingly sacrifice my privacy. But the whole thing feels creepy.
I grew up in a small town and have been trying to disappear in a crowd ever since.Over tea at the Orchard Jeffrey remarked You can take comfort from the fact that it was someone who already knew.
He then went on to talk about crushes (yes, this is his favorite topic) and he said I think the whole concept of people falling in love with someone because of their talent is very problematic – also very honorable and above the crushes based on looks. But talent crushes don’t translate to anything in the real world – they are the highest maintenance and the least likely to last.
This is true, but then again, you never know what people see. The other day a highly perceptive and entertaining friend called to say that he had read my book. He smothered me with compliments that slid right out of my mind and then asked Do you still have the scars?
I was baffled, and thought perhaps there was a language gap because neither of us is British, but he meant the query earnestly.
I said Of course – where would they have gone?
They are not only visible, but often on display – my lacerated neck is rarely covered even in the deepest gloom of winter. I said You can see them if you look!
When I told Jeffrey this story he shrugged and remarked Well, you don’t wear damage like an ornament.
