A Conspiracy of Friends Read Free

If that issue was raised with the enthusiasts, as Berthea occasionally tried to do, then it was their turn to become glassy-eyed.
    Initially, Berthea had had no idea why Oedipus had invited her to this particular party. It might have been pride, she thought; to give her the chance to see the adulation which he received from some of these volunteers.
    “That nice Mr. Snark,” she had overheard one of them say, “he’s so
sensitive
.”
    She had looked wide-eyed at the maker of this comment and felt a strong urge to correct her. “But he’s far from nice,” she wanted to say. “He really isn’t.”
    She knew, though, that she could not say it, not even to herself … And yet, having
thought
the words, had she not uttered them to herself?
    But she accepted the invitation to the party, which was held in the rooms in a run-down office building that the landlord, a Liberal Democrat, made available at a reduced rent. And then, once she had accepted, Oedipus disclosed his hand.
    “Do you think you could possibly bring along a bottle or two?” Oedipus asked over the telephone.
    Berthea was accommodating. “Certainly. It’s a bring-your-own affair, is it? Would you like me to make cheese straws too?”
    “Cheese straws? If you want to. I suppose some of them might like a cheese straw or two.” He paused. “But wine would be more useful, I think. Could you manage a dozen bottles, do you think?”
    She absorbed this request in silence.
    “Mother?” asked Oedipus. “Still there?”
    She tried to keep her voice even. “Yes. How many people are you expecting?”
    “About thirty.”
    She made a mental calculation. The conventional wisdom was that one allowed one bottle of wine for every three guests. This meant that the majority who wanted, say, two glasses over the evening would get them, with a bit to spare. Now if Oedipus was inviting thirty people, and was expecting her to bring a dozen bottles, it meant that he himself would be providing no wine at all. This was tantamount, she realised, to his getting
her
to fund
his
party for
his
volunteers. The only reason he had invited her, she decided, was to get her to buy the wine. He had not asked her because he thought she might enjoy herself; he had not asked her because he wasfond of her; he had asked her because he wanted something from her. And that was the way it had been not only with her but with everyone; all the way through. Oedipus was a user of people, including his mother.
    And that was the moment when she realised that she disliked her son. At the end of the telephone conversation, having agreed to do as he asked, she went through to her bedroom and looked despairingly in the dressing-table mirror. It was a technique that she had often recommended to patients: Look at yourself, she would say. Look at yourself in the mirror and then tell yourself what you see.
    She stared into the mirror. A middle-aged woman, quite handsome, with high cheekbones and eyes around which … well, wrinkles had begun to move outwards, little folds in the flesh, tiny fault lines; an intelligent face—she had to admit that—the face of one who had been trained for years to understand others … And now the time for self-understanding and honesty had come. “I do not like Oedipus,” she said, whispering the words. “I do not like my son.”
    The effect of this admission was curious. Immediately she admitted it, she felt a weight lift from her. She was no longer in awe of him. She no longer felt guilty. She was free.
    She went to the party, and was met by Oedipus at the door. He looked at her anxiously.
    “Everyone’s here,” he said, sounding slightly peevish. He glanced behind her, as if expecting her to be accompanied by a retinue of some sort.
    “Just me,” she said. “Nobody else.”
    He frowned. “The wine?”
    She shrugged. “Oh, that. Sorry, I was a little bit short of cash and decided not to get it. You’ll have to make do with what you’ve brought along