Read Online The Edible Woman by Margaret Atwood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Atwood
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mother bore: he’s going to be shocked when finds me with my shirt off and a capital-G girl in the room.”
There was a brown-paper crunkle of grocery bags being set down in the kitchen, and a deep voice said, “Christ, it’s hot out there!”
“I think I’d better go now,” I said. If the others were at all like this one I didn’t think I would be able to cope. I gathered my questionnaires together and stood up, at the same time as the voice said “Hey Duncan, want a beer?” and a furry bearded head appeared in the doorway.
I gasped. “So you do drink beer after all!”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Sorry. I didn’t want to finish, that’s all. The rest of it sounded like a drag, and I’d said all I wanted to say about it anyway. Fish,” he said to the beard, “this is Goldilocks.” I smiled rigidly. I am not a blonde.
Another head now appeared above the first: a white-skinned face with receding lightish hair, sky-blue eyes, and an admirably chiselled nose. His jaw dropped when he saw me.
It was time to leave. “Thank you,” I said coolly but graciously to the one on the bed. “You’ve been most helpful.”
He actually grinned as I marched to the doorway and as the heads retreated in alarm to let me pass he called, “Hey, why do you have a crummy job like this? I thought only fat sloppy housewives did that sort of thing.”
“Oh,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster, and not intending to justify myself by explaining the high – well, higher –status of my real job, “we all have to eat. Besides, what else can you do with a B.A . these days?”
When I was outside I looked at the questionnaire. The notes I had made of his answers were almost indecipherable in the glare of the sunlight; all I could see on the page was a blur of grey scribbling.
7
T echnically I was still one and a half interviews short, but I had enough for the necessary report and the questionnaire changes. Besides, I wanted to have a bath and change before going to Peter’s and the interviewing had taken longer than I expected.
I got back to the apartment and threw the questionnaires on the bed. Then I looked around for Ainsley, but she was out. I gathered together my washcloth, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, put on my dressing gown, and went downstairs. Our apartment has no bathroom of its own, which helps to account for the low rent. Perhaps the house was built before they had them, or perhaps it was felt that servants didn’t need bathrooms; at any rate, we have to use the second-floor bathroom, which makes life difficult at times. Ainsley is always leaving rings, which the lady down below regards as a violation of her shrine. She leaves deodorants and cleansers and brushes and sponges in conspicuous places, which has no effect on Ainsley but makes me feel uneasy. Sometimes I go downstairs after Ainsley has taken a bath and clean out the tub.
I had wanted to soak for a while, but I had barely scrubbed away the afternoon’s film of dust and bus fumes when the lady down below began making rustling and throat-clearing noises outside the door. This is her way of suggesting that she wants to get in: she never knocks and asks. I clambered upstairs again, dressed, had a cup of tea, and set out for Peter’s. The ancestors watched me with their fading daguerrotyped eyes as I went down the stairs, their mouths bleak above their stiff collars.
Usually we went out for dinner, but when we didn’t the pattern was that I would walk over to Peter’s and get something to cook at a store on the way – one of those small grubby stores you sometimes find in the older residential districts. Of course he could have picked me up at the house in his Volkswagen, but he is made irritable by errands; also I don’t like to give the lady down below too much food for speculation. I didn’t know whether we were going out for dinner or not – Peter had said nothing about it – so I dropped in at the store just to be on the safe
There was a brown-paper crunkle of grocery bags being set down in the kitchen, and a deep voice said, “Christ, it’s hot out there!”
“I think I’d better go now,” I said. If the others were at all like this one I didn’t think I would be able to cope. I gathered my questionnaires together and stood up, at the same time as the voice said “Hey Duncan, want a beer?” and a furry bearded head appeared in the doorway.
I gasped. “So you do drink beer after all!”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Sorry. I didn’t want to finish, that’s all. The rest of it sounded like a drag, and I’d said all I wanted to say about it anyway. Fish,” he said to the beard, “this is Goldilocks.” I smiled rigidly. I am not a blonde.
Another head now appeared above the first: a white-skinned face with receding lightish hair, sky-blue eyes, and an admirably chiselled nose. His jaw dropped when he saw me.
It was time to leave. “Thank you,” I said coolly but graciously to the one on the bed. “You’ve been most helpful.”
He actually grinned as I marched to the doorway and as the heads retreated in alarm to let me pass he called, “Hey, why do you have a crummy job like this? I thought only fat sloppy housewives did that sort of thing.”
“Oh,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster, and not intending to justify myself by explaining the high – well, higher –status of my real job, “we all have to eat. Besides, what else can you do with a B.A . these days?”
When I was outside I looked at the questionnaire. The notes I had made of his answers were almost indecipherable in the glare of the sunlight; all I could see on the page was a blur of grey scribbling.
7
T echnically I was still one and a half interviews short, but I had enough for the necessary report and the questionnaire changes. Besides, I wanted to have a bath and change before going to Peter’s and the interviewing had taken longer than I expected.
I got back to the apartment and threw the questionnaires on the bed. Then I looked around for Ainsley, but she was out. I gathered together my washcloth, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, put on my dressing gown, and went downstairs. Our apartment has no bathroom of its own, which helps to account for the low rent. Perhaps the house was built before they had them, or perhaps it was felt that servants didn’t need bathrooms; at any rate, we have to use the second-floor bathroom, which makes life difficult at times. Ainsley is always leaving rings, which the lady down below regards as a violation of her shrine. She leaves deodorants and cleansers and brushes and sponges in conspicuous places, which has no effect on Ainsley but makes me feel uneasy. Sometimes I go downstairs after Ainsley has taken a bath and clean out the tub.
I had wanted to soak for a while, but I had barely scrubbed away the afternoon’s film of dust and bus fumes when the lady down below began making rustling and throat-clearing noises outside the door. This is her way of suggesting that she wants to get in: she never knocks and asks. I clambered upstairs again, dressed, had a cup of tea, and set out for Peter’s. The ancestors watched me with their fading daguerrotyped eyes as I went down the stairs, their mouths bleak above their stiff collars.
Usually we went out for dinner, but when we didn’t the pattern was that I would walk over to Peter’s and get something to cook at a store on the way – one of those small grubby stores you sometimes find in the older residential districts. Of course he could have picked me up at the house in his Volkswagen, but he is made irritable by errands; also I don’t like to give the lady down below too much food for speculation. I didn’t know whether we were going out for dinner or not – Peter had said nothing about it – so I dropped in at the store just to be on the safe
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