Lionel Shriver - The Post-Birthday World

THE POSTBIRTHDAY WORLD

LIONEL SHRIVER

Nobodys perfect. kno wn f act

Contents

Epigraph iv
WHAT BEGAN AS COINCIDENCE had crystallized into tradition: on the 1
AT THE RATTLE of the key in the lock, Irina 42
TO IRINAS MIND, it was the most underrated of symphonies: 61
SPURNING HER FEW MINUTES lie-in, Irina was first out of 79
THE BEDCLOTHES WERE SEDUCTIVE, but, with Lawrence up, the swaddling 93
ON ONE MORE EXASPERATING afternoon in August, Irina
thumbed through 101
THROUGH THE BUCOLIC AFTERNOONS of August, Irina
labored diligently in 140
BY THE TIME SHE got to the corner of what 164
By the time Lawrence would be getting to the corner, 193
FANTASIES WERE ONE THING. But throughout months of
frustration and 225
AFTER RETURNING WITH LAWRENCE from the Grand Prix in Bournemouth, 245
THE BRITISH OPEN WAS played in Plymouth across the Easter 256

ONCE THE GOOD FRIDAY Agreement was signed, Lawrence was called 287
FOR RAMSEY, PLAYING WAS work. Summers, he worked
at playing. 302 THIS YEAR, IT WAS Irina who reminded Lawrence of Ramseys 342
IF IN THE PREVIOUS year Irina had gloriously overthrown the 369
THE NIGGLING SENSATION OF something being wrong or
changed that 383
IRINA TOLD HERSELF SHE could use the constitutional,
but her 394
IT WAS AT IRINAS urging that she and Lawrence watched 431
AFTER SHE AND RAMSEY had gone at it hammer-and 455
IN THE PENUMBRA OF 9/11, everything seemed stupid.
Dinner seemed 485
I JUST MET RAMSEYS parents for the first time, said 512

About the Author

Other Books by Lionel Shriver Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher

What began as coincidence had crystallized into tradition: on the sixth of July, they would have dinner with Ramsey Acton on his birthday.

Five years earlier, Irina had been collaborating with Ramseys thenwife, Jude Hartford, on a childrens book. Jude had made social overtures. Abjuring the airy we-really-must-get-together-sometime feints common to London, which can carry on indefinitely without threatening to clutter your diary with a real time and place, Jude had seemed driven to nail down a foursome so that her illustrator could meet her husband, Ramsey. Or, noshed said, My husband, Ramsey Acton. The locution had stood out. Irina assumed that Jude was prideful in that wearing feminist way about the fact that shed not taken her husbands surname.

But then, it is always difficult to impress the ignorant. When negotiating with Lawrence over the prospective dinner back in 1992, Irina didnt know enough to mention, Believe it or not, Judes married to

Ramsey Acton. For once Lawrence might have bolted for his Economist day-planner, instead of grumbling that if she had to schmooze for professional reasons, could she at least schedule an early dinner so that he could get back in time for NYPD Blue. Not realizing that she had been bequeathed two magic words that would vanquish Lawrences broad hostility to social engagements, Irina had said instead, Jude wants me to meet her husband, Raymond or something.

Yet when the date she proposed turned out to be Raymond or somethings birthday, Jude insisted that more would be merrier. Once returned to bachelorhood, Ramsey let slip enough details about his marriage for Irina to reconstruct: after a couple of years, they could not carry a conversation for longer than five minutes. Jude had leapt at the chance to avoid a sullen, silent dinner just the two of them.

Which Irina found baffling. Ramsey always seemed pleasant enough company, and the strange unease he always engendered in Irina herself would surely abate if you were married to the man. Maybe Jude had loved dragging Ramsey out to impress colleagues but was not sufficiently impressed on her own behalf. One-on-one he had bored her silly.

Besides, Judes exhausting gaiety had a funny edge of hysteria about it, and simply wouldnt flywould slide inevitably to the despair that lay beneath itwithout that quorum of four. When you cocked only half an ear to her uproarious discourse, it was hard to tell if she was laughing or crying. Though she did laugh a great deal, including through most of her sentences, her voice rising in pitch as she drove herself into ever accelerating hilarity when nothing she had said was funny. It was a compulsive, deflective laughter, born of nerves more than humor, a masking device and therefore a little dishonest. Yet her impulse to put a brave, bearable face on what must have been a profound unhappiness was sympathetic. Her breathless mirth pushed Irina in the opposite directionto speak soberly, to keep her voice deep and quiet, if only to demonstrate that it was acceptable to be serious. Thus if Irina was sometimes put off by Judes manner, in the womans presence she at least liked herself.

Irina hadnt been familiar with the name of Judes husband, consciously. Nevertheless, that first birthday, when Jude had bounced into the Savoy Grill with Ramsey gliding beside herit was already late enough in a marriage that was really just a big, well-meaning mistake that her clasp of his hand could only have been for showIrina met the tall mans gray-blue eyes with a jolt, a tiny touching of live wires that she subsequently interpreted as visual recognition, and latermuch lateras recognition of another kind.

Lawrence Trainer was not a pretentious man. He may have accepted a research fellowship at a prestigious London think tank, but he was raised in Las Vegas, and remained unapologetically American. He said

con troversy, not con tro versy; he never elided the K-sound in schedule. So he hadnt rushed to buy a white cable sweater and joined his local cricket league. Still, his father was a golf instructor; he inherited an interest in sports. He was a culturally curious person, despite a misanthropic streak that resisted having dinner with strangers when he could be watching reruns of American cop shows on Channel 4.

Thus early in the couples expatriation to London, Lawrence conceived a fascination with snooker. While Irina had supposed this British pastime to be an arcane variation on pool, Lawrence took pains to apprise her that it was

much more difficult, and much more elegant, than dumpy old eightball. At six feet by twelve, a snooker table made an American billiards table look like a childs toy. It was a game not only of dexterity but of intricate premeditation, requiring its past masters to think up to a dozen shots ahead, and to develop a spatial and geometric sophistication that any mathematician would esteem.

Irina hadnt discouraged Lawrences enthusiasm for snooker tournaments on the BBC, for the games ambiance was one of repose. The vitreous click-click of balls and civilized patter of polite applause were far more soothing than the gunshots and sirens of cop shows. The commentators spoke just above a whisper in soft, regional accents. Their vocabulary was suggestive, although not downright smutty:

in amongst the balls, deep screw, double-kiss, loose red; the black was available. Though by custom a working-class sport, snooker was conducted in a spirit of decency and refinement more associated with aristocracy. The players wore waistcoats, and bow ties. They never swore; displays of temper were not only frowned upon but could cost a reduction of ones score. Unlike the hooligan audiences for football, or even tennisonce the redoubt of snobs but lately as low-rent as demolition derbysnooker crowds were pin-drop silent during play. Fans had sturdy bladders, for even tip-toeing to the loo invited public censure from the referee, an austere presence of few words who wore short, spotless white gloves.

Moreover, on an island whose shores were battered by cultural backwash from the States, snooker was still profoundly British. The UKs late-night TV may have been riddled with reruns of