Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [234]
“She walks in beauty, like the blight,” says Boyce with sympathy. “Byron.”
“Exactly,” says Roz. “She was smart, as well, but if she was a guy you’d have to call her a prick. I mean, there is no female name for it, because bitch doesn’t even begin to cover it! She tells some story about being a half-Jewish war orphan rescued from the Nazis, and our heroine, who is all heart, falls for it and gets her a job; and Ms. Dirigible-chest pretends to be our pal’s grateful buddy, and gives the husband the cold shoulder, implying by her body language that she finds him less attractive than a lawn dwarf, which turned out to be the ultimate truth, in the end.
“Meanwhile our two girl chums have a lot of cosy networking lunches together, discussing world affairs and the state of the business. Then the lady starts having it off with Mr. Susceptible, behind Ms. Numskull’s back. For Ms. Lollapalooza it’s just a thing – worse, a tactic – but for him it’s the real item, the grand passion at last. I don’t know how she did it, but she did. Considering it was him, and thousands before her had failed, she was nothing short of brilliant.”
“Genius is an infinite capacity for causing pain,” says Boyce sombrely.
“Right,” says Roz. “So she cons everyone into putting her in charge of the business in question, which is a medium-hefty enterprise, and before you know it she’s moved in with Mr. Sticky Fingers, and they’re living together in the Designer Love-nest of the Year, leaving the wee missus to gnaw her stricken little heart out, which she does. But passion wanes, on Vampira’s part, not his, when he finds out she’s been having nooners with some stud on a motorcycle and fusses up about it. So she forges a few cheques – using his signature, copied no doubt from countless drool-covered mash notes – and disappears with the cash. Does that cool his ardour? Do chickens have tits? He goes raving off after her as if his pants were plugged into the light socket.”
“I know the plot,” says Boyce. “Happens in all walks of life.”
“Ms. Lightfingers disappears,” says Roz, “but next thing you know, she turns up in a metal soup can. Seems she’s met with a nasty accident, and now she’s cat food. She gets planted in the cemetery, not that I – not that my friend shed any tears – and Mr. Sorrowful comes creeping back to wee wifey, who stands on her hind legs and refuses to take him in. Well, can you blame her? I mean, enough is enough. So, instead of getting his head shrunk, which was long overdue, or picking up some new little sex gadget, as he has done many times before, what does he do? He’s dying of love, not for Mrs. Domestic but for Ms. Fiery Loins. So he goes out on his boat in a hurricane and gets himself drowned. Maybe he even jumped. Who knows?”
“A waste,” says Boyce. “Bodies are so much nicer alive.”
“There’s more,” says Roz. “It turns out this woman wasn’t dead after all. She was just fooling. She turns up again, and this time she gets her hooks into the only son – the one and only well-beloved son – I mean, can you imagine? She must be fifty! She gets her hooks into the son of the woman she ripped off and the man she as good as killed!”
“This is turgid,” Boyce murmurs.
“Listen, I didn’t write the plot,” says Roz. “I’m just telling you, and a literary criticism I don’t need. What I want to know is – what would you do?”
“You’re asking me?” Boyce says. “What would I do? First, I’d make sure she was really a woman. It could be a man in a dress.”
“Boyce, this is serious,” says Roz.
“I am serious,” says Boyce. “But what you really mean is, what should you do. Right?”
“In a word,” says Roz.
“Obsession is the better part of valour,” says Boyce. “Shakespeare.”
“Meaning?”
“You’ll have to go and see her,” Boyce sighs. “Have it out. Oh Roz, thou art sick. Have a scene. Shout and yell. Tell her