The Romantic Feminist Page 1

1

April 2000

Lucy expected him to be there, she wanted him to be there, but she was not going to think about him now: she sent her acceptance for the party at the gallery, a private view of a retrospective of his father’s work.  She was determined not to dwell on the issue, not to anticipate, not to imagine.   

We have so little control over the really important things in our lives, which is why all the political rhetoric about choice is nothing but a flattering distraction from our essential powerlessness.  And when we do exercise our ‘right to choose’ it may be many years before we discover whether we made the right choice or not – and by then it will be encrusted with the barnacles of dead consequences, and it will almost certainly be too late.

The route through Oxford was circuitous.  The sun illuminated the blossom against the stone buildings with a hyper-real brilliance for her nostalgia to play against.  An insistent crowd of memories from other times jostled and distracted Lucy from the imminent meeting, but these curiously poignant thoughts were interrupted by her husband’s irritability.

“Where the hell are we? I thought you said this gallery was in North Oxford – and we’ve just passed the Poly!”

“No – it’s not, well, sort of.  I don’t know, somewhere near the canal.  Look, I just got a bit thrown by the one-way system.”

“I thought you knew Oxford!”

“There’s a difference between wandering tipsily around between parties at night, over 20 years ago, and driving around it nowadays!”

When they found a parking space, he turned to the children, Ben and Max.

“Listen guys, if you want to go to a proper museum, rather than this family thing, we can do that instead if you like.”

“It’s OK Dad” Ben said with care, “it’s nice to meet more cousins.”

They entered the gallery, Lucy first, her sons drifting shyly behind.  She hadn’t planned how to approach this event – usually she’d find and greet the host – and then move around as the situation dictated.  Instead she headed immediately towards the first people she recognised, her oldest friend Alice and her husband; she hadn’t expected to see them there.  There was an exchange of pleasantries during which Lucy performed a delicate scan of the room. 

That’s him – there; I’ve walked straight past him without noticing.  He doesn’t look how I expect him to; but I don’t really know what he looks like any more. Tall, broad, brown hair – no grey? - and grey eyes – hardly unique features.  Familiar but not unmistakable.   Would we recognise each other if we met somewhere else by chance?

There is no eye contact, so Lucy watches him for a little while: he’s standing with a rather beautiful blonde woman, chatting desultorily.  Must be a guest he’s being polite to.

Gradually it dawns on her that they are actually together, having one of those conversations that occur when you haven’t begun mingling.