Free Wise Follies by Grace Wynne-Jones Page B

it. ‘James,’ I say, softly, tremulously, as he passes. ‘James, I’d like to buy you a drink after class. You’ve been such a good teacher.’
    ‘Oh, Alice.’ James gives me his gorgeous smile. ‘That is really very kind of you, but I’ve arranged to meet someone later.’
    ‘Oh.’ I try not to look too disappointed. ‘Oh, well, maybe another time then.’
    ‘Yes.’ James looks at me most kindly. ‘Yes, maybe another time.’
    ‘Why don’t you suggest another time?’ I think. ‘Oh, James, please do.’
    But he doesn’t. Instead he says, ‘These are very nice,’ as he gives my pottery an end-of-term inspection.
    I stare at the pottery too. Eventually I manage to speak. ‘It’s kind of you to say that, James,’ I mumble dejectedly. ‘But Mildred’s jug is far nicer. Look, my ashtray’s got hardly any sides to it, the mugs don’t have proper handles. The dish is too heavy. And the vase doesn’t look like a vase at all. It’s a kind of humiliated bowl.’ And as I say this I realize I sound a bit like Laren used to when she enumerated her perceived deficiencies.
    ‘But what about your coil bowl?’ James asks.
    ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s OK,’ I mumble.
    James smiles. ‘You set yourself rather high standards, don’t you, Alice? Perfectionism and happiness don’t sit too comfortably together. Be easier on yourself. These things take time.’
    I look up at him adoringly. These are precisely the kinds of words I need to hear. James Mitchel is perfect for me. He can’t go now. He can’t. I look deep into his beautiful eyes hoping to see some loneliness. Some longing. I don’t.
    But as he moves away he touches my shoulder. Gently but, it seems to me, with a definite poignancy.
     
    I had a very strange dream last night. I dreamt that Eamon and James Mitchel got married. I was at the wedding. Eamon’s dress was a big billowy satin job with a long train and lace veil. James was wearing a morning suit and a wide smile.
    ‘You can’t marry Eamon,’ I told him. ‘I love you. You must marry me.’ He just laughed. A long and hollow laugh.
    ‘What about your proposal?’ I then hissed at Eamon, who was fiddling around with a bow.
    ‘You spent too long prevaricating about it,’ he replied sharply. ‘And anyway, James knows how to do massage.’
    ‘I could learn massage.’ The organ music had now started and I was running up the aisle after them both. ‘I could. I really could. Let’s make it a threesome. A ménage à trois.’
    They ignored me. I slunk into a pew and sat down rebelliously. And when the vicar appeared he looked remarkably like Laren Brassière.
    I’ve been having a number of strange dreams lately, since James announced his departure. Occasionally I am a Los Angeles-based ‘romance guru’. From the vantage of my high podium I urge women to only date men who give them organic vegetables as love tokens. ‘On the first date he should give you a parsnip,’ I tell them authoritatively. ‘On the second, broccoli, and on the third, lettuce. The fourth date is the big one. If he brings a cauliflower I would strongly advise marriage.’
    Sometimes I dream that I am resitting an important exam – one I know I’ve already taken. ‘Look, I did this years ago. I don’t even know the current curriculum,’ I tell the stern scrutineer.
    ‘Go to your desk, Miss Evans,’ I am told, which I do, most despondently.
    I am despondent these days. ‘James Mitchel would have had that drink with me if he really cared,’ I think. ‘It was all so one-sided. I’ve been such a fool.’ When I get home from work I slop around the house in ancient clothes and haven’t even bothered to mow the lawn. I’ve been eating far too many take-aways and have let the washing-up pile high in the kitchen. I have known for some days that I should wash my hair. It’s as though something shiny has gone, leaving just a slight, shimmery marking in its wake. In fact if James Mitchel wasn’t a