Dinner with Ruby

I'm in our house in Spain on my own for a couple of months. One week, I arrange to have dinner with my British friend Ruby at my place on Saturday night. She'll bring a starter and I'll supply the rest. Spending time with Ruby, who drinks and smokes heavily and has a wealth of personal problems, including an exploitative grown-up son, is always stimulating. She is piercingly frank in her relations with people. I have stopped going to restaurants with her because she invariably upsets the waiters within the first few minutes (Has the paëlla man been changed? Because the last time I was here the rice was hard). Then she goes on to float happily on top of the underlying tensions for the rest of the evening, while I cringe. But she's refreshing. She has a great sense of humour and an infectious laugh.

On Saturday afternoon, I notice a text message from her: “Annabella has turned up. If i bring more starters, can u stretch the main course to 3?” I think she's mentioned Annabella once or twice but I've really no idea who she is. They arrive just before 10. You can never tell when Ruby will arrive. Annabella is a large, heavily sunburned Norwegian woman with short dark hair on top of an oversized round head, who looks around the same age as Ruby, sixtyish, and speaks English fluently with a strong accent and the occasional unusual expression. We sit down for a drink and slowly get into the meal, slowly in part because although my contribution has been ready since 7, Ruby's starters arrived raw so we had to prepare the garlic shrimp and steamed mussels after our initial drinky-poos.

As Annabella gets to the bottom of her first bottle of white (Ruby and I are drinking red), she begins to proffer all sorts of information about herself without being asked. She's 69 years old, yes 69, and she doesn't need a man, she doesn't need a man, only sometimes. She looks accusingly at Ruby, who we both know is desperate for a man. Annabella's husband died. She was swept off her feet by him, a man of the world in Oslo with a Mercedes convertible, thirteen or fourteen years older than her, what could she do? The men her age couldn't compete. You know? And he was a very handsome man, very handsome. Do you know what it is, a Mercedes convertible in Oslo in the fifties? Her father said if she went off with him she could never go home again. But they got married, went off to Africa.

Did I love him? She looks at me intently and sips her wine as if waiting for me to answer. I don't know, she says finally. Did I love him? Anyway, they divorced. He was a woman killer, lots, lots of women. You know? You understand? Did she have children? I ask. She holds one hand up with all her fingers open as if about to grasp a bunch of something and says grandly “Two”. The first when she was 33, in Liberia. That was a lovely hospital! And now they blame her for everything. After her divorce she had to bring them up by herself and she knows she made a lot of mistakes. But it's difficut being a lonely mother. You know? A lonely mother? She draws a square in the air with her two index fingers and says “Life is a circle. You know? A circle.” Her daughter told her she'd ruined her life. Was it my fault she found the wrong man and got pregnant? Was it my fault? She's quite upset now, and we try to reassure her. Having finished the white wine, she begins on the second bottle of red which we've just opened, and lights another cigarette. She's already on her second pack.

She doesn't like this part of Spain, too many Brits, too many tourists. She lives in a tiny village in the interior. She came here for the sea, because she's from the sea, Norway is the sea, and now she lives in the interior. She laughs to herself. She lives in a cave, she says. A real cave? (I have a friend here who used to live in a village of cave-houses so it's not that unusual...) No, explains Ruby, it's not a cave, it's an old house, falling to pieces, basically a whole block, 400 square metres, that she bought to share with her daughter and her American son-in-law, but only a small part is liveable and there's no natural light, so it's like a cave.

“I love my urine” Annabella says, unexpectedly, smiling at me. “I love my urine.” I look at Ruby for clarification, but Ruby's concentrating on opening her second pack of cigarettes, her fingers fumbling with it, trembling. It seems Annabella's daughter and son-in-law have now split up, so they won't be sharing the house, and she's looking to sell it. With no warning, as if she were voluteering some new item of information, she begins to sing, powerfully and with a heavier accent. Looking around, I worry about our Dutch neighbours, very nice people, with whom I have so far had very good relations. It's now way past midnight and we're sitting outside on the front terrace, in the intense quiet of the summer night. She loves to sing, says Ruby, with a big smile, puffing contentedly on her latest cigarette. Encouraged, Annabella begins another song. Then another. All sad English or American love songs, sung with great feeling, though because of the amazing accent I have an uncontrollable desire to laugh (and I do, can't help myself). No, no, stop, says Ruby. I don't want to hear any more. I'm temporarily relieved. The decibel level was really very high, the deep voice seemed to penetrate everthing.

But now it's Ruby's turn to talk about herself, her problems finding a man. She's subscribed to an internet dating service where she described herself straightforwardly as a 59 year-old who likes to discuss literature, indulge in nude sunbathing, and the like. But who do they suggest as compatible? A 72 year-old dentist who dies his hair and has false teeth. He says he likes to swim in the nude but he lives in an apartment. I asked him “Where do you swim in the nude, in the communal pool?” She throws her head back and laughs uproariously. I suggest he might be an interesting guy. She gets angry. But I don't want just an interesting guy. I want sex! She shouts this out loudly and I look again towards the neighbour's house, all dark and silent. I need to have sex, she shouts, articulating the words very clearly. Annabella serves herself her third or fourth glass of red and nods her head. Ruby repeats very loudly. I want sex. I'm at my peak. I need sex. I don't want an old dentist with false teeth. She laughs again. Annabella asks soothingly if we'd like her to sing in Norwegian, and without waiting for a response begins another sad ditty. After three or four lines, she apparently forgets the words and apologizes. She finishes the bottle of red. But I love my urine, she says. Ruby laughs. Ruin, she says, ruin, it's pronounced ruin.