What Was She Thinking? Notes on a Scandal by Zoë Heller

Author:Zoë Heller [Heller, Zoë]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature
ISBN: 9781429932875
Publisher: Picador; Henry Holt and Company
Published: 2003-01-02T07:00:00+00:00

8

It’s Saturday morning, and I have the house to myself. If I’m disciplined and don’t go out to buy the papers, I should be able to put in a good three or four hours on the book before Sheba comes back. Today is her day for seeing Ben. For the last couple of weeks, Richard has insisted that she conduct her visitations, as he calls them, at the Hampstead home of the Beckwiths—old friends of Sheba’s parents. The official reason for this arrangement is that it’s more convenient for Richard to drop Ben off there, but the real reason, I suspect, is that it spares Richard unpleasant confrontations with Sheba. He always makes sure to be long gone from the Beckwiths’ by the time that Sheba arrives.

Now, to work. I should have started long ago, but I had to call Sheba’s mother to ask for money, and that little chore ended up taking forty-five minutes. Since Sheba stopped living with Richard and stopped working, the monthly sum she receives from the Taylor family trust has become her sole source of income. It’s a pittance: barely enough to cover the grocery bill, let alone extras. Sheba badly needs a new pair of shoes at the moment. And, sooner or later, she’s also going to have to buy some clothes for court. She can hardly be wafting in before a magistrate in one of her transparent, hippie getups.

But Mrs. Taylor isn’t too bothered about any of this. When I had finished explaining the reason for my call, she gave a nasty laugh. “Does Sheba know you’re calling me?” she asked. “Because she’ll tell you, dear, I’m not in the habit of subsidising her wardrobe.”

“Look,” I replied, “Sheba is walking around with holes in her shoes. It’s not as if I’m asking for frivolities. You’re still her mother, you know.”

“Oh,” she said, tittering. “Thank you for reminding me. So, let me get this straight. You’re handling Sheba’s budget, now? That’s handy. Will you be wanting me to buy you a new pair of shoes also?”

“Mrs. Taylor,” I said, “I am perfectly capable of supporting myself, thank you very much. I have worked for thirty-five years as a teacher, and I can assure you that my retirement pension, while by no means generous, is perfectly adequate for my needs.”

That shut her up a bit. After a lot of hemming and hawing, she said she’d put a cheque in the post next week.

It’s hard to believe that it’s come to this. Sheba going about like a bag lady, her mother and Richard treating her like Typhoid Mary. Back when I was first getting to know her, Sheba seemed to me invincibly happy, a modern wonder of contentment. Her life with Richard—the dinner parties, the French holidays, the house buzzing with colleagues and children and ex-wives and family friends—was the stuff of newspaper Living sections. There was always a noisy group excursion in the offing: a picnic in Regent’s Park, a walk through Highgate Cemetery, a trip to the Bethnal Green Children’s Museum.

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