Just before the reading began, an elderly man leaned over the table to tell her she had the ‘eyes of a poet’. Eileen smiled self-effacingly and, perhaps pretending she had not heard him, said she thought the event was about to start inside. Once the reading did begin, she locked her cash box, took a glass of wine from the table at the back and entered the main hall. Twenty or twenty-five people were seated inside, leaving the first two rows entirely empty. The magazine editor was standing at the lectern introducing the first reader. A woman about Eileen’s age, who worked at the venue and whose name was Paula, moved in from the aisle to allow Eileen to sit beside her. Sell many copies?
she whispered. Two, said Eileen. I thought we might snag a third when I saw a little old man approaching, but it turned out he just wanted to compliment my eyes. Paula sniggered. Weekday evening well spent, she said. At least now I know I have nice eyes, said Eileen.
The event featured five poets, loosely grouped together around the theme of ‘crisis’.
Two of them read from work dealing with personal crises, such as loss and illness, while one addressed themes of political extremism. A young man in glasses recited poetry so abstract and prosodic that no relationship to the theme of crisis became clear, while the final reader, a woman in a long black dress, talked for ten minutes about the
difficulties of finding a publisher and only had time to read one poem, which was a rhyming sonnet. Eileen typed a note on her phone reading: the moon in june falls mainly on the spoon. She showed the note to Paula, who smiled vaguely before turning her attention back to the reading. Eileen deleted the note. After the reading, she picked up another glass of wine and went to sit behind the desk again. The elderly man approached her once more and said: You should be up there yourself. Eileen nodded pleasantly. I’m convinced, he said. You have it in you. Mm, said Eileen. He went away without purchasing a magazine.
After the event, Eileen and some of the other organisers and venue staff went for a drink in a nearby bar. Eileen and Paula sat together again, Paula drinking a gin and tonic served in an enormous fishbowl glass with a large piece of grapefruit inside, Eileen drinking whiskey on ice. They were talking about ‘worst break-ups’. Paula was describing the protracted end stage of a two-year-long relationship, during which time both she and her ex-girlfriend kept getting drunk and texting each other, inevitably resulting in ‘either a huge argument or sex’. Eileen swallowed a mouthful of her drink.
That sounds bad, she said. But at the same time, at least you were still having sex. You know? The relationship wasn’t completely dead. If Aidan were to text me when he was drunk, okay, maybe we would end up fighting. But I would at least feel like he remembers who I am. Paula said she was sure he did remember, seeing as they had lived together for several years. With a kind of grimacing smile, Eileen answered: That’s what kills me. I spent half my twenties with this person, and in the end he just got sick of me. I mean, that’s what happened. I bored him. I feel like that says something about me on some level. Right? It has to. Frowning, Paula replied: No, it
doesn’t. Eileen let out a strained selfconscious laugh then and squeezed Paula’s arm.
I’m sorry, she said. Let me get you another drink.
By eleven o’clock, Eileen was lying alone in bed, curled up on her side, her make-up smeared slightly under her eyes. Squinting at the screen of her phone, she tapped the icon of a social media app. The interface opened and displayed a loading symbol. Eileen moved her thumb over the screen, waiting for the page to load, and then suddenly, as if impulsively, closed the app. She navigated to her contacts, selected the contact listed as
‘Simon’, and hit the call button. After three rings, he picked up and said: Hello?
Hello, it’s me, she said. Are you alone?
On the other end of the line, Simon was sitting on the bed in a hotel room. To his right was a window covered by thick cream-coloured curtains, and opposite the bed was a large television set affixed to the wall. His back was propped against the headboard, his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and his laptop was open in his lap. I’m alone, he said, yeah. You know I’m in London, right? Is everything okay?
Oh, I forgot. Is it a bad time to talk? I can hang up.
No, it’s not a bad time. Did you have your poetry thing on tonight?
Eileen told him about the event. She gave him the ‘moon in June’ joke and he laughed appreciatively. And we had a Trump poem, she told him. Simon said the idea made him earnestly wish for the embrace of death. She asked him about the conference he was attending in London and he described at length a ‘conversation session’ entitled
‘Beyond the EU: Britain’s International Future’. It was just four identical middle-aged guys in glasses, Simon said. I mean, they looked like photoshopped versions of each
other. It was surreal. Eileen asked him what he was doing now, and he said he was finishing something for work. She rolled over onto her back, looking up at the faint pinprick pattern of mould on the ceiling.
It’s not good for your health, working so late, she said. Where are you, in your hotel room?
Right, he replied. Sitting on the bed.
She pulled her knees up so her feet were flat on the mattress, her legs making a tent shape under the quilt. You know what you need, Simon? she said. You need a little wife for yourself. Don’t you? A little wife to come up to you at midnight and put her hand on your shoulder and say, okay, that’s enough now, you’re working too late. Let’s get some sleep.
Simon switched the phone to his other ear and said: You paint a compelling picture.
Can’t your girlfriend go on work trips with you?
She’s not my girlfriend, he said. She’s just someone I’ve been seeing.
I don’t get that distinction. What’s the difference between a girlfriend and someone you’re seeing?
We’re not in an exclusive relationship.
Eileen rubbed her eye with her free hand, smudging some dark make-up onto her hand and onto the side of her face over her cheekbone. So you’re having sex with someone else as well, are you? she said.
I’m not, no. But I believe she is.
Eileen dropped her hand then. She is? she said. Jesus. How attractive is the other guy?
Sounding amused, he replied: I have no idea. Why do you ask?
I just mean, if he’s less attractive than you, why bother? And if he’s as attractive as you are— Well, I think I’d like to meet this woman and shake her hand.
What if he’s more attractive than I am?