The Shallow Circle

 The girl span through the air, furniture flying past her haphazardly. He had spent a long time picking this picture out, it had a sort of Alice in the Wonderland vibe which he liked. He didn’t care for Lewis Caroll, especially in light of recent events, and certainly didn’t want to look as though he associated with him in anyway but he could help but fantasise that perhaps one of his acolytes might write a novel with as much success. He was too busy to write another successful  book at the moment, he’d established that before when he’d tried to write his eagerly awaited second novel and got tied up in plot lines and piles of post its that had been surreptitiously pulled down one by one by his daughter Grace, age two, during that wonderous phase of toddling around everywhere and using all colourful items as mashed up teething rings. He realised one weekend morning after a heavy week of work, hours spent staring at the profit margins of a multi-chain stationary store, his ‘proper job’ whose business was about to flounder, that he didn’t have the time to write. He had sat in his top floor office, wistfully watching his husband, Greg, toddle after Grace as she alternated between pocketing fistful of soils and smashing it into her mouth, that this wasn’t fair. Two years of wanting a baby, one failed surrogacy and finally another two years of the adoption process and now Grace had become like a pawn between them. Passing her back and forth as they both fought for precious moments of free time. And was this how he wanted to spend it? Cooped up in an attic room on his own? And was it fair on Greg? He knew he’d been taking more of his share of the bonus hours since he had started his work. Greg had his own hobbies that were mulched under the fist of his quest for a second novel. And beyond this, was he missing out on Grace? Would he read the book as an old man, happy in his success but sad in his loss of a daughter. He suddenly had a vision of writing a novel about that, about the price to pay for being a writer and brushed it aside. And so in a fit of rare spontaneity he pulled down the elaborate strings of plot lines and post its and watched with hedonistic abandoned as the strings connecting the elaborately developed characters in his 1940’s wartime spy thriller came twisting pathetically down. His only regret was that his first novel had been written at uni in a fit of spontaneity, where would he find time and abandon like that again? But perhaps it was a good thing, that time was more precious now, hedonistic abandon was the gift of those who had no one to care for. This writing group was also his baby now, and perhaps he might find the next Lewis Caroll, or more preferably the next Zadie Smith.

He leaned forward in his chair. ‘So, the usual rules apply. Once I’ve sent the image to the whats app group, you will all have 20 minutes to write. Remember the goal this week is to include one of the other people in our writing group in your story’. He chuckled, some of them would hate that but it  would lead to some interesting plotlines. He sent the image and then sat back on his laptop. What would he write? Which of his young acolytes would grace the pages of his story? He looked around the small circle. Perhaps Adrianna, yes she certainly had an interesting story which he would love to know more about. Perhaps this would give her a much needed opportunity to speak her true feelings, perhaps he’d really invented an opportunity for her to share her story with everyone here without fear of the censorship of right wing gammony men he thought with a smile, what a lovely liberal atmosphere I’ve helped to create.

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Adrianna shuffled uncomfortably in her chair. ‘Oh God’ she thought ‘please don’t write about me.’ She looked around the circle. Wendy, the most middle aged of the group, was already appraising her, chunky specs trembling with excitement on her much tanned nose.  She’s going to write some horrendous story about an immigrant girl, plunged into Brexit territory, forced to cope with the right wing views of her peers. Bullied for her accent and poor grasp of English, stereotyped by all those who knew her. Of course she thought all of this in Polish, but she was forced to write in English. She looked at the picture, was she that girl? In depended on the day she thought. She had come to England aged six, could barely remember her life before that though they visited home often enough. It was a quiet town called Swidnica and it was pleasantly inhabited with elderly polish women who could recall the bad old days when everyone had a job and public transport was cheap but there was no freedom and no chance to buy what you wanted!  And well young people now didn’t know they were born. In the 60s they hadn’t bolted of to brighter countries were the money was and abandoned their elder, they knew what family was like. She knew she never wanted to live there again, maybe in Krakow or Warsawawa but not Swidnica where the one attraction was an ice skating rink which wasn’t much fun when the winters dropped to - 20 degrees anyway. She was more worried by the Brexit vote than offended, what would this mean for her? Could they stay in Britain? Would they have to move one? What would itmeen for her baby? She rubbed her stomach, if the baby was born before they officially left would that make her British? Would she speak English with an accent like her mum? She suddenly had flashbacks to her first parents evening with her mum when the teacher had produced a google translate app on her phone and tried to communicate with her mum who was eager but utterly humiliated. And what would her grandma think of this picture? She would write the expected story about cultural dislocation, those objects flying through the air symbolising all the materialistic things they were denied as children in the USSR. So maybe she would write that story in honour of her grandma, even though she didn’t really want to. 

She looked over to Wendy again, I know exactly what she’s thinking and writing and its going to require me to nod along sympathetically as she smugly reads it out as though I’m lucky she understands my plight. And I have to write my story in English, fucking English, if only they knew how smart I was in my own fucking language.

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Wendy looked at the picture, god another story about sodding children. I’m sick of children she thought. Tugging at her cross chain around her neck. The point of this writing was supposed to be about escapism and now this again. Another twee story ripped from the pages of prima when what she wanted was a good story about shagging. Why couldn’t there at least be a man in the story? A man worth writing about. She looked at the Caspar, the host he was a great author, his novel had been full or hedonistic orgies and bisexual experimentation and yet week after week the same stuff came their way. Landscapes and potted flowers and the odd middle aged gardener going about his work set against a monet esque background. She had spent the whole twenty minutes fantasising about ripping of that gardeners waistcoats, pinning him to the ground, letting the soil cover them over in their ecstasy. Of course the gardened had been Jamie Fox in this dream not an old thinning red haired man with a tummy bulge. Caspar was attractive she thought, that was something. She wondered what he like in bed, she often did this when she was bored. He was gay but perhaps he had once not been, was that possible? Could people turn?

 She looked around the circle. Adrianne, was undeniably attractive, blonde hair tied back in a tight pony tail without an ounce of fat on her until recently. That was fashionable now she supposed but thought, but was it attractive? ‘If I was a lesbian I’d like a girl with more to her. A nice pair of voluptuous breasts you could bounce around with like they do in the videos.’ She’d been a stranger to porn at first, she’d only googled it on her new I pad after one of her friends had mentioned it with disgust over morning latte’s at Costas. Said it was the scourge of young people today as though buttoned up prudishness was more liberating. One google led to many more meandering hours spent on the internet, uncovering a side of her long buried after the 60s were over and her marriage seemed to loose it spontaneity and after the expectations of motherhoods seemed to make their sex life first muted and then sparse and vanilla. She had suggested spicing things up to Glen but he seemed uninterested. What a cruel twist of fate she thought that women’s sex drives got stronger as they aged whilst men’s diminished, you could tell God was a man she thought twisting her cross necklace thoughtfully in her hands. She clawed her attention back to the picture. Who would she include in her story? Maybe Rebecca? She was young, a new mum? Perhaps a story about the changes you encountered when becoming a new mum, yes that would do.

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   Rebecca looked at the picture, come on she thought desperately, focus. Three hours sleep and at that broken up into precious segments. The intrusive thoughts were bubbling in her mind. How strange was it so sit in a group of strangers and be having these weirdly contorted violent images chasing through your brain. What was it Alanis Morissette had said ‘Post Natal Depression rips though your brain like a machete, leaving a wake of violent thoughts about the people you care about.’ She had felt both strengthened and saddened by that. The time was ticking by, what would she write about. Wendy would probably want to hear some saccharine story about how mindblowing new motherhood was. Adrianna was opposite her similarly lost in thought.  Rebecca had a sense that she might be pregnant. She’d starting wearing baggy, loose tops and had been curiously absent for a few weeks around the 8 – 10 week mark. They made awkward eye contact so she looked away hurriedly. Who else might she include. Maybe Caspar? He would find that irritatingly flattering, or perhaps Tim? He had a strangely alluring vibe about him. She suddenly had an intrusive thought about lopping his head off, oh that old chest nut she thought with a sigh, wouldn’t make a very good story though. Did he have children? Perhaps she could shoe horn him in somehow to a story about a dad who had a daughter with magical power and maybe he tries to stop her because he’s concerned for her fitting into normal society. Yes that would do, she began to scribble.

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Tim could not take his eyes off of Caspar. Did Mandy, his wife, know this was why he came every week. It was not so much Caspar’s looks that had him spellbound but the fact that he was so unashamedly  gay. It had started before they got married, he’s had the odd matey, laddy kiss with male friends on a night out. He’d thought that was normal until the memory of it had made him hard and then once thing led to another and before he knew it he’d been furiously deleting his porn history back in the days before google incognito. His family wouldn’t have had a problem with it, so he didn’t have that excuse at least, but he did have a problem with it. He’d always wanted to be a dad and in the late 90’s it wasn’t easy then to be a gay dad. You couldn’t even marry. He looked at the picture, It reminded him of his youngest Gemma. He couldn’t have given her up. Not for the world even it meant being in a sexless marriage. Not loveless, he did love Mandy, just not as a wife, not in the way she deserved. She knew as well, he was sure. When Philip Schofield came out they’d been looks and Mandy had been weirdly defensive of his wife to her mum friends when they came over for their weekly book club. Said it was right that she’d stayed with him for the children. He fantasized about when their youngest would leave, she wouldn’t be eighteen for another twelve years. Could he wait that long? Seemed almost crueller to let Mandy age another twelve years before she could be set free to start again. What was the alternative? Leave her now a single mum with three children. And what about his son? The girls might forgive him but he was petrified of what his son might think. Would he let him take him to the football still? Let him put his arms around him in the same way? Today’s youth were supposed to be more liberal but could this apply to him? Perhaps they could try an open marriage, though he sensedMandy wouldn’t be keen though she’d openly flirted with other friends’ husbands in front of him and was testing the limits of his jealousy by consistently mentioning a male colleague at work. He tried to respond with the right mix of envy and interest but really he was thinking ‘please god just leave me, at least this way I’d have a chance at shared custody’.

 The clock ticked slowly in the background of the church hall, God how long had been looking at Caspar for? He drew his eyes back to the picture. Perhaps he would write a story about his eldest daughter Clara, about how proud he’d been when he found out he was to be a dad, about how he held her in his arms in the first few hours of that Wednesday morning against his bare chest and how he had wanted to protect her so much he would have pulled her inside of himself and how jealous he’d felt of Mandy that she’d had that chance to do that herself for nine months. Perhaps he would write Caspar in as a bit part, a novelist who inspired him to write a novel about his daughter, layers within layers, Caspar would like that.

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That’s time everyone.’ Caspar said ‘Now who