On Beauty by Zadie Smith Page B

chastising, but Murdoch was moving purposefully towards a toddler who was waddling along with a stuffed frog, held high above his head like a standard. Murdoch cornered the boy between his mother’s legs. The child wept. The woman knelt down by the child and hugged him to her, glaring at Murdoch and his handlers.
    â€˜That’s my husband’s fault – sorry about that,’ said Claire, without enough contrition to satisfy. ‘My husband’s not used to dogs. It’s not actually his dog.’
    â€˜It’s a dachshund , it’s not going to kill anybody,’ said Kiki crossly, as the woman marched off. Kiki crouched to pet Murdoch on his flat head. She looked up again to find Claire and Warren squabbling, using only their eyes, each trying to impel the other to speak. Claire lost.
    â€˜Kiki . . .’ she began, her face as demure as can be managed at fifty-four, ‘the term isn’t figurative, you know. Not any more. When I said husband just then.’
    â€˜What are you talking about?’ said Kiki at the same moment that she realized the answer.
    â€˜Husband. Warren is my husband. I said it earlier but you didn’t pick up. We got married. Isn’t it fabulous ?’ Claire’s tensile features pulled themselves tight with glee.
    â€˜I thought something was going on with you – you seemed nervy. Married!’
    â€˜Completely and absolutely,’ confirmed Warren.
    â€˜But you didn’t invite anybody or anything? When was this?’
    â€˜Two months ago! We just did it. You know what? I didn’t want anybody rolling their eyes about a couple of old birds like us getting hitched, so we didn’t invite anybody and there was no goddamn eye-rolling. Except Warren. He rolled his eyes because I dressed up as Salomé. Now is that something to roll your eyes about?’
    Just before an oncoming lamp-post their little chain of three dissolved itself, and Claire and Warren merged into each other again.
    â€˜ Claire , I wouldn’t have rolled my eyes, honey – you should have said something.’
    â€˜It was utterly last minute, Keeks, really it was,’ said Warren. ‘You think I would have married this woman if I’d had time to think about it? She called me up and said it’s the birthday of St John the Baptist, let’s do it, and we did it.’
    â€˜Again, please,’ said Kiki, although this aspect of the couple, their locally celebrated ‘eccentricity’, was not really attractive to her.
    â€˜So I have this Salomé dress – red, sequinned, I knew when I saw it that it was my Salomé dress, I bought it in Montreal. I wanted to get married in my Salomé dress and take a man’s head with me. And, goddamn it, I did. And it’s such a sweet head,’ said Claire, pulling it gently towards her.
    â€˜So full of facts,’ said Kiki. She wondered how many times this exact routine would be repeated to well-wishers in the coming weeks. She and Howard were just the same, especially when they had news. Each couple is its own vaudeville act.
    â€˜ Yes ,’ said Claire, ‘so full of genuine facts . And I never had that before, someone who knew anything real at all . Apart from “art is truth” – you can’t move for people in this town who know that. Or think they know it.’
    â€˜Mom.’
    Jerome, in all his gloomy Jeromeity, had joined them. The ill-pitched greetings that compassionate age sings to mysterious youth rang out; hair was almost tousled and then wisely not, the eternal unanswerable question was met with a new and horrible answer (‘I’m dropping out.’ ‘He means he’s taking a little time out.’). For a moment it seemed that the world had drained itself of all possible subjects that might be gently discussed on a hot day in a pretty town. Then the glorious news of matrimony was recalled and joyfully repeated only to be