The Art of Forgiveness
First published in Gentle Reader No. 29 - March 2000
It wasn't that she wanted to forgive him, but it was a case of having to or of appearing to. Every time she saw him she acted as if all was forgiven, all was forgotten. Yet underneath she was seething with pent up rage and frustration built up over years of mistreatment, years of neglect, years of watching, as he squandered his misplaced affection on 'the others'.
Before forgiveness can really begin its process of healing, there has to be a 'forgivee'; someone to acknowledge that what they have done has been wrong, caused pain and to let themselves be forgiven. Tom never thought he had done anything amiss. All men were tempted, weren't they? All men had mistresses, didn't they? All women would admit to being unfaithful (given half the chance), wouldn't they? So she couldn't let the real process of reconciliation begin and this fuelled the inner fire of her visions of vengeance. The thought of vengeance really did taste sweet and night after night, lying in bed, suffering the inevitable head-splitting bouts of insomnia, the torrid scenes re-enacted themselves on the back of her forehead, as vivid as a cinematic screen, in glorious Technicolor, glossy 3-D and super-quadraphonic stereo - all 18 certificates.
There was the 'I've got a gun and I'm going to shoot you' version, the 'ripping the chest open with a knife' version, the 'lacing the food with subtle poisons' version, the 'Kung-Fu martial arts expert finishing off an unworthy opponent' version - the list was endless.
All his other women had been intelligent, beautiful, successful and startlingly independent with names like Sonia, Tanya, Genevieve and Terri. What on earth did he marry someone like her for? She was plain, small-boned and petite but rounded with a GCSE in Home Economics and her name, Sally, conveyed no sophistication whatsoever. Neither did her line of work, a cleaning lady, cleaning everyone else's mess up, listening to everyone else's problems, viewing everyone else's success from the outside. She never minded the actual cleaning - it was a kind of practical therapy - it was the things that went with it that she minded. There was that strange attitude of the employer to the employee, the rich to the worker, the have to the have-not, which some of her employers made into a work of art.
And here she was hoovering Tom's flat, not as his wife, but as his common-or-garden char lady! That was why he thought she had forgiven him. Tom had asked Sally if she would clean his flat for him and had been surprised that she had said 'yes', but even more surprised at how pleasant she was in her manner towards him now, how amicable their divorce had been and how amenable she was, had been, all those years. He liked Sally. She was comfortable like a soft, warm armchair, like a well-worn pair of socks, like a friend, who always gave but seldom took. He thought of her like a self-filling glass of beer, which once drunk down to a certain level always replenished itself to form a sparkling, foam-topped full glass. Sally's good nature would never run dry - it was inexhaustible.
His job as a door-to-door salesman had encouraged Tom to develop his ability in using persuasion to get his own way and he was very clever with words. Words meant a great deal in his world and he was handsome in a classic, superficial sort of way, which went down so well with a certain type of woman. As he excelled at his job, so his travelling became more diverse. Eventually he was elevated to the position of Senior Sales Executive to a large, flourishing car phone sales company, which gave excellent commission and perks to the right person. A company car with a car phone (of course), radio/CD player, leather upholstery, electronically controlled windows with tinted glass and a central self-locking device and alarm system all finished off in a gold metallic gloss. He felt rather pleased with himself; the car, the luxury hotels, the fiddling extra expenses, the women and Sally to come home to. She was such a homely person. He always looked forward to coming home. The divorce had been a wrench, but there again, he could see Sally's point of view. She just hadn't changed and bettered herself, as he had done. Having a cleaning lady for a wife did not do wonders for his image.
His flat reflected his 'nouveau riche' taste, thought Sally, as she attacked the deep pile carpet with the venom of a hunter after its prey. While she hoovered, dusted, polished, washed, scrubbed, swept and wiped, the plan began to hatch in her mind with a life of its own. It became her obsession, the driving force that got her through the mundanities of her existence. Car phones, was it? The ease of communication across the miles to those women, who also owned company cars, were high-flying executives with designer underwear and a filo-fax in each bra cup. Car phones it would be. She knew his company number. She knew his car phone number. The plan was beginning to take shape like an embryo in the womb.
In the evenings Sally could be seen leaving the house at 45 Boulton Avenue with a kit bag over her arm. She had had her long, brown hair cut short like a boy's. Her petite figure had slimmed down substantially and taken on a wiry quality. A toned-up, stream-lined version of her former self left her feeling more poised and self-confident that she had ever felt. The self-defence lessons were held in town at the Health and Leisure Centre every Wednesday and Friday night. She had been thinking desperately about how she could get her own back on Tom, wreak havoc in his life, repay him for all the pain he'd inflicted in his insensitive, macho way. The cleaning had been the link, but the desire had eluded her.
A few months later she met Neil. Besides stream-lining her body, she had decided to stream-line her mind and had taken up Art classes. So had Neil. He was an investigative journalist. Art would help him with his photography. From the first time she met him, Sally felt a bond of friendship together with an almost overwhelming attraction. He was so interesting, so interested in her as a person, her thoughts, her ideas, herself. He was looking for a personal assistant to accompany him on his journeys to places she had never heard of and was amazed and flattered when he asked her if she would work with him - with him mind you, not for him.
The latest cathartic daydream of poisoning her ex-husband with cadmium - the most stable pigment for red, yellow and orange paint, which was lethal and could cause kidney failure, if administered in subtle and consistent amounts in food - now began to recede from her mind like a long-lost relative disappears from our consciousness. Something new and wonderful was taking hold of her life; the joy of living again.
Neil treated her as an equal, a person he could discuss ideas with, an intelligent woman and she felt herself begin to develop from the warmth of his personality like photographs develop in a tray with the right chemicals. Life became an adventure, planes being the usual mode of transport, beautiful hotels their temporary residence, photography her passion. She stopped cleaning for Tom. Now she had enough money to buy her own car and when Neil asked her what she wanted most for her birthday in September, she answered him with a smile - 'a car phone'.
It was exactly three weeks after her birthday. Sally was following up a lead for a story about a personal British experience of 'the new Russia'. She was driving to Heathrow and decided to phone Tom on his car phone and arrange to meet him.
The airport bar was crowded. She could see Tom resting on one of the soft sofas, legs elegantly crossed, glass of whisky in hand, eyes casually trailing any attractive female form. She walked past. His eyes followed her, but there was no hint of recognition. She passed him again. Still the interest in her figure, her face, but no recognition. Her short, dark hair was immaculately cut and softly shaded with low lights of hazel brown. Her make-up was subtle, artistic, cleverly applied and it enhanced her features to the point of extreme attractiveness. Her clothes were expensive and well cut. She wore suede trousers, a cream silk shirt, an Italian leather belt and shoes. Her genuine antique earrings and thick, chunky silver bangle complemented the outfit perfectly.
Quickly and quietly she took successive photographs of Tom as unobtrusively as possible, without causing any suspicion. It was part of her job. Then she left.
The post was early for a Saturday, as Tom staggered from his untidy, crumpled bedroom to his even untidier, uncleaned living room and through to the hall. He was still angry. Sally had never let him down before - it wasn't in her character. There was a pile of envelopes topped by a stiff, buff envelope with 'DO NOT BEND' stamped all over it. Luckily the postman had been of a breed, who did not perversely become dyslexic, when faced with important documents. He opened the buff envelope first. They were photographs - all of him, from every kind of angle - sitting on that sofa near the bar at Heathrow, waiting to meet Sally for some reason that she wouldn't specify, but which was of the utmost importance, so she said.
The last photograph was of a woman - elegant, sophisticated, well-dressed with an air of confidence around her. A Pentax camera was slung round her neck. She was laughing and the background was definitely Moscow. Who did he know who had been to Russia? He looked on the back of the photo. There in unmistakable handwriting was written
- 'From Russia, With Love, Sally xxx '. |
