A Crowd

"A crowd"

The sun had only stumbled into the room, pausing just beneath the
windows as if unsure that it was permitted to come any further. It was
the habit of Anthony to eat lunch at this time of day, but he was not
particularly looking forward to what would be served. Events in the
house had led to a deterioration, a result of hasty words selected by
him. As usual, Anthony was reading as he waited for his lunch to be
served and did not look up from his book until he heard the plate being
placed down.

"What is this ? " he asked Eve, who had placed herself in her chair and
taken a firm hold on her cutlery.

"Chicken alfredo, " she told him.

For the previous week, Anthony's eleven o'clock lunches had been plain
fare, on one occasion some buttered bread and some mis-cut cheese. This
was something altogether different. He eyed up the shapely pieces of
chicken, tender and browned by cooking in butter, the pasta which
seemed al dente and wrapped in ways that were pleasing to the eye. He
could smell that this had been well-cooked.

"Has Alice forgiven me ? " he asked, barely daring to.

"We've come to... an accommodation, " said his wife, "My friend is
still quite hurt at your comments, but we can't punish you forever.
"

Alice was the cook in the house and Anthony had been very grateful when
she had arrived, two months earlier. He hadn't realised that she had
arrived, he had assumed that Eve had simply made use of the many cook
books he had purchased and laid in the kitchen, pages open at
appropriate recipes for Eve's attention. There had barely been a
surface in the kitchen for cooking, the surfaces were just a gloss of
meats and desserts, a banquet of paper.

When he had finally remarked on the improvement in her cooking skills,
Eve had made her lips go tight, something Anthony had noticed that only
women could really achieve. Men just looked like they were blowing up
balloons if they tried.

"Alice is doing the cooking now, " she said, "I've given her the third
bedroom upstairs. "

It was a two-bedroomed house and the second bedroom filled with books
and scrapbooks into which Anthony had pasted articles of interest.
There was little that did not interest Anthony - genetics, criminology,
politics in faraway countries, developments in medical techniques,
Argentinian sporting events. Even if it did not hold his interest at
the time of reading, he might snip a segment and keep it for a later
period, when it might form some connection and be of use.

From the beginning then, Anthony was aware that Alice was not living in
the house. He was not initially clear as to whether his wife was
deceiving him, or herself.

After the first week of Alice, Eve had begun to bring out three plates
and set three places at the table. She had been into the town and
bought an additional chair - they had never needed three chairs before.
It did not match the others, not only in style and period, but the wood
was different. The married couple sat on cherry, the new arrival on
pine.

Anthony tolerated this, as he tolerated Eve having conversations with
Alice at the dinner table. Eve would tell him what Alice was saying, as
he was unable to hear it for himself. She seemed a bright thing, much
more intelligent than his wife and her conversation, as relayed through
Eve, enlivened many days in the house.

He began to talk to his wife merely as a conduit to speak with Alice;
they had become much like teenagers squabbling politely for effect.
"Eve, would you tell Alice that her opinion of quantum mechanics is
interesting but misguided ? " "Anthony, Eve says that she prefers
Nabokov to Chekov."

Anthony had been mistaken when he had received the household bills for
the month. The food bills had gone up, partially to his satisfaction as
it reflected the quality, but also he realised the quantity of food had
gone up by a third. They were paying good money for Alice to sit at the
table and never touch her food. He told his wife that Alice was not to
cook for the three of them anymore.

Alice stopped speaking to him. Eve would simply say, when asked of her,
"Alice doesn't want to talk to you Anthony. She's simply too hungry to
talk. And she is too hungry to spend time cooking good food for you
that she is only able to look at. "

He had assumed that this mood would pass in a day or two and that Eve
would resume cooking and reintroduce her imaginary friend to the
conversation; without her life was a chore. He did wonder idly, what
Eve actually got out of the friendship. The two of them seemed to have
hardly anything in common, whereas he and Alice got on so well.

So Anthony was delighted when Alice cooked him chicken alfredo. He had
been lost without her, the time seemed to grind at him, the days
turning slowly like a white plastic carousel of books in a
library.

"I could fetch another plate, " he offered, though he had no idea where
these were kept in the kitchen. Eve went instead, she was much more
practical.

"There was enough for three, " she said meekly, "Alice says she must
have cooked too much. "

"There's plenty for three, " he said, reaching across the table to
squeeze a hand affectionately, although whose he had in mind he would
not have been able to say.

He knew, though felt ashamed to know it, that he had fallen in love
with his wife's imaginary friend. As the weeks passed, he spent more
and more time talking with Alice and less with Eve. He barely said a
word to her that was not about Alice. Even when he wasn't talking to
Alice through her, he was asking her about Alice, to fill in her
background. What was she like, what did the two of them talk about when
he wasn't there ?

Anthony had no interest in Eve at all anymore. He felt no love for her,
only envy that she was able to access Alice directly. On her account,
Eve saw and heard Alice exactly as she saw and heard him. How Anthony
wished he could have the same experience - this diluted Alice, this
Alice through-a-glass-darkly was intoxicating; how wonderful might the
pure experience be ?

The envy was turning ever so slowly to resentment. He needed to talk to
someone about this, but only had one person to talk to. He began
talking to Alice behind Eve's back. She didn't respond, but he could
tell that she knew what he was saying. He pledged his love, told her
how he wished she would break her ties to Eve and come directly to him.
He lay awake, wishing there was something he could do with his ears
that was the equivalent of opening his eyes, something that would let
her voice come into his life.

One morning, he sat at his table, reading a short book on alchemy. He
finished the book at the table before his lunch arrived. That was
unusual. He would ordinarily have to hastily finish off a paragraph and
set the book down once the plates had arrived. Eve had not brought in
the lunch which Alice had cooked. There was no smell of food from the
kitchen.

He stood up with some gingerness and walked into the kitchen. It was
not a room he found welcoming. The cookery books were sprawled over the
surfaces at precisely the pages he had marked those months ago. Nothing
had changed since he had last entered. There was no pot of bubbling
sauce, no light on in the oven. No Eve and no Alice.

Anthony went round the house, searching for a note, a scrap of paper,
any indication of where Eve could have gone. For wherever she had gone,
she had taken Alice with her. It was ruined.

There was nothing. Not even a toothbrush or piece of clothing. She had
taken the wedding photographs and every other photograph of them
together. In the next week, Anthony realised that she had contacted the
post office to ensure that her name did not arrive on any letters. He
telephoned the police who seemed interested at first, but were curt and
dismissive when he next rang them.

Anthony sat with his scrapbooks and pressed his hands to his face,
covering his eyes with his bare fingers.