Anne and Martin re-seated themselves in the smoking section of the
restaurant. They gave their order to the waiter and Anne lit up, using a
match from a book which had been lying in the ashtray. She took a drag and
Martin noticed a faint “pop” as she withdrew the cigarette from her mouth.
“So,” he inquired warily, watching her exhale a long stream of smoke, “are
you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“It’s quite simple, really,” Anne replied. She held up her cigarette. “I’m
just rather more attached to these than I may have led you to believe. To be
honest, today was the longest I’ve gone without a cigarette for years, and I
didn’t handle it very well.”
Martin was relieved that the quarrel was over, but concerned at the
implications of what Anne had just said.
“In that case- er- how many of these do you really smoke each day?”
“It varies.” She watched him, gauging his reaction. “Some days I only smoke
about twenty.”
Martin’s eyes widened. He tried to conceal his surprise and said instead: “I
think that if I’m going to understand this you’d better tell me all about it.
From the beginning.”
Anne shrugged. “Okay, if that’s what you really want. As I told you before,
I started smoking when I was fourteen because I wanted to be like the other
girls. I didn’t smoke much, though – only four or five a day. I was keen on
sports and I was in the high school athletics team. In fact, I was the
girls’ 100 metres champion. Don’t look so shocked. Smoking a few cigarettes
doesn’t affect your sprinting ability the way it would affect you if you were
a long distance runner. Do you remember reading about that hurdler in the
British Olympic team who was a 20-a-day smoker – Shirley something or other?”
She tapped the ash from her cigarette and took another drag. “I enjoyed
athletics, but I also enjoyed dating boys, and smoking made me feel cool.
After I went to university I carried on smoking, but still only about five a
day. A pack would last me most of the week. And I joined the university
athletics team and went on with my training.”
“But what did the athletics coach have to say about you smoking?” asked
Martin. “Didn’t he nag you to stop?”
“Yes, of course he did. He told me I was a promising athlete and that with a
little improvement I could be in the team for the inter-university
championships later that year. Eventually he persuaded me that I could
achieve that improvement if I stopped smoking.”
Their starter course arrived at the table. Anne took a deep drag on her
cigarette and then crushed it out.
“So I quit,” she said. “Physically, that wasn’t too hard because I didn’t
smoke much anyway. But I enjoyed my cigarettes and, psychologically, I
missed them a lot. As a substitute for them I threw myself one hundred per
cent into the training routine. I was in the gym for hours and I was out
there on the track all winter in the wind and the rain, working at my sprint.
I really tried hard. I even managed to reduce my personal best by almost
half a second.”
She hesitated and looked away. “But it wasn’t enough. I didn’t make the
team. If I’m being totally honest with myself, I was never quite up to the
national standard required.
Martin looked at her sympathetically. “How did you react to that?”
Anne gave a dry laugh. “Badly”, she said. “I was devastated. That night I
went out to a bar and drank vodka until I passed out. At some point during
the evening I must have bummed some cigarettes from someone, though I can’t
remember much about it. I woke up in the morning with a raging headache and
a taste of last night’s smoke in my mouth. I never wanted to touch alcohol
again, but for some reason the taste in my mouth made me desperate for a
cigarette. I rushed out there and then and bought a pack of Marlboro.
Within a couple of weeks I was smoking ten a day.”
She put down her knife and fork, reached for her cigarettes and paused to
light one. “I suppose I had lost my incentive to keep it down. By the time
I left university I was up to about a pack a day. That’s what tends to
happen with cigarettes, as you probably know.”
“Didn’t that worry you?”
“No, not at all,” Anne said, exhaling a large cloud of smoke. “I suppose I
knew by then that I was pretty well addicted, but it didn’t bother me. I
wasn’t smoking because I was addicted: I had become addicted because I
enjoyed smoking. There’s a big difference. If you don’t want to stop, what
does it matter if you’re addicted? I still kept running too, at least for a
while, but I never took it so seriously again.”
In spite of his anti-smoking conviction – or perhaps because of it – Martin
was fascinated. “And after that you just continued to smoke more and more?”
“Not exactly. There was a time a few years ago when it became fashionable in
London for young women to smoke Marlboro Lights instead of the ones in the
red packs, which some people regarded as men’s cigarettes. I was working in
the public relations department of my office at the time and I thought it was
more in keeping with my company’s image for me to smoke the fashionable
brand, so I switched. But I soon discovered that they didn’t satisfy me
unless I smoked a lot more of them. For example I used to smoke one or two
cigarettes before leaving for work in the morning. With the Lights I found
that I needed three or four just to get me going.”
Anne examined the tip of her cigarette for a moment, before placing it
between her lips again. She released it and made a “V” with her index and
middle fingers while dragging on it. Again Martin heard the “pop” as she
took it out of her mouth.
“I stuck with the Lights for nearly two years. Then late one Saturday night
I was running low on cigarettes and went out to the local garage to stock up.
They had sold out of Lights and so I bought three packs of the red ones to
keep me going for the rest of the weekend. Once I had smoked the first pack
I knew I couldn’t return to the weaker ones. But by now I had also become
set in my smoking habits and there was no way I was going back to less than
twenty a day. Not that I wanted to cut down anyway.”
She looked up at Martin and smiled self-consciously. “So now you know it
all. I’ve been smoking between one and two packs a day ever since.
Personally, I don’t regard that as a problem. I smoke because I enjoy it and
not just because I have to keep smoking to feed an addiction. I know I ought
to have told you the truth straight away. I’m sorry I didn’t. The question
is – now that you’ve heard it, do you still want me as I really am?”
Martin contemplated the smiling, vibrant woman sitting opposite him. His
glance strayed briefly to the half-smoked cigarette which she was holding in
her hand. He transferred his gaze back to her dark brown eyes and grinned
broadly.
* * *
Later that night, having eaten well in the restaurant and drunk too much wine
in the bar next door, they walked away in search of a taxi home, leaving
behind an empty cigarette pack and a full ashtray. A fresh pack of strong
Spanish cigarettes nestled safely in Anne’s bag. She hoped Martin’s parents
would have gone to bed before their return, but unfortunately they were still
up watching a film on cable TV. As Martin and Anne said their goodnights,
Martin’s mother fixed Anne with a look of disapproval, but in which Anne
could swear she detected a glint of amusement.
Chapter 4
After their return from Spain, Anne no longer made any attempt to conceal
from Martin how much she smoked. It was a great relief to her to be open
about it and not to have to search for opportunities to smoke behind his
back. She saw her honesty as a new and promising development in their
relationship, and hoped that Martin saw it this way too.
Martin, however, was privately appalled to discover the true extent of Anne’s
habit. To a man who spent his life doing everything possible to maximise his
physical fitness, her heavy smoking seemed to be little short of self-abuse.
He tried to tell himself that this was the same girl he had been dating for
the last two months, but he found himself seeing her through new eyes.
Sometimes he would covertly observe as she sat smoking while she read a book
or a newspaper. Her cheeks would hollow as she drew on her cigarette, and
then, after what seemed a long time to him, she would allow the smoke to
escape gradually through her nose and mouth, more wisps continuing to appear
with each breath until she was ready to take another of her deep drags.
Martin could not stop himself thinking about the damage which he imagined
each of these drags doing to Anne’s slim body. He reminded himself how
perfect she was in every other way, and did his best to ignore her smoking.
But the more he tried to ignore it, the more he seemed to notice. He would
lie in bed in the morning after she got up, listening for the click of her
lighter as she lit her first cigarette of the day. By the time he had
showered and shaved and made his way to the kitchen for breakfast, the air
would be thick with smoke as she lit her third or fourth cigarette of the
morning. In the evenings, he noticed that when she was putting on her
make-up to go out she would sit and smoke one cigarette after another, and he
wondered how she had acquired that particular habit. The hint of huskiness
in her voice which he had found so alluring now took on a more sinister
overtone. At night he would usually go to bed before her and then lie
waiting for her to finish her final cigarette of the day before she came to
join him, the smell of smoke strong in her dark hair and the taste of the
cigarette’s last, tar-concentrated half inch on her lips.
One night Martin and Anne had been making love in typically boisterous
fashion in Martin’s bedroom. Anne lay for a while, out of breath, and then
got up and walked through to the kitchen. She re-appeared holding a
cigarette and sat down on the edge of the bed. Martin lay watching her as
she sat smoking, naked, her cigarette in one hand and the dish which she used
as an ashtray in the other. Anne became aware of his gaze.
“Sorry,” she said. “Do you want me to take this back to the kitchen?”
“No, there’s no need,” replied Martin. “It’s not that. I-”
“Is something wrong?” Anne inquired.
“It’s – well, it’s difficult to explain. It’s all to do with how I feel
about you. I watch you smoking cigarettes and I can’t help imagining the
effect they’re having on you inside. I just hate the thought of you hurting
yourself so badly with them. It’s almost as if- this may sound crazy, but
it’s as if every time you put one in your mouth I feel a physical pain, like
it’s hurting me too. When I see you reaching for them and opening the pack I
have this sudden surge of anger. I want to rush over and grab them and crush
them and save you from them somehow. Does any of that make sense?”
Anne laughed. “Don’t be silly,” she said, tapping ash into the dish.
“You’ve been reading too much anti-smoking propaganda. It’s all exaggerated.
Not everyone who smokes dies of it, you know. People smoke for years without
doing themselves any harm. The fact is that only a small minority get lung
cancer. There’s no reason why I should be one of those. Stop worrying about
it – the statistics are on my side.”
“Are they?” replied Martin. “What do the statistics tell us about someone
who smokes forty cigarettes a day, and inhales every one of them right down
to her toes, the way you’re doing just now? If you ask me, I think you’re
fooling yourself. I hear the way you cough in the bathroom in the morning.
And not only in the morning, either. It’s started, Anne. You’re only
twenty-nine, but it’s affecting you already.”
Anne did not reply immediately, but sat looking down at the cigarette burning
between her polished fingernails. There was admittedly some truth in what
Martin said. She didn’t like her cough, which seemed to have got worse in
the last year or two. But in all other respects, she reckoned that she was
about as fit as could be expected, considering that she did not have time to
take as much exercise as she ought to.
“So what are you suggesting?” she said at last. “I hope you’re not going to
nag me to quit. I’ve told you I don’t want to.”
“No,” Martin agreed, “I can see that that would be pointless. But I did
wonder about something else. Tell me, how do you decide when to smoke
another cigarette?”
Anne thought about this. “It’s not a question of deciding,” she replied.
“You don’t decide to be hungry or thirsty, do you? My body tells me when
it’s time for a cigarette.”
“Yes, but I guess there must be times when you enjoy it more than others. I
mean, aren’t there some which you really look forward to, and others which
you just smoke out of habit?”
“I suppose so,” said Anne, taking a last drag from her cigarette and putting
it out in the dish. “Why?”
“Well, say you were to choose the ones you enjoy the most – let’s say the
best five each day – and cut out the rest, you’d still get a lot of the
enjoyment but at a fraction of the health risk. How about that?”
Anne pulled on a t-shirt and went through to the kitchen, where she sat down
at the table to drink a glass of water and to think over what Martin had
said. It was true that there were certain cigarettes each day which she
particularly enjoyed. The one with her morning coffee, for example. The one
after lunch. The one with a drink when she came home from work. The ones in
her car before and after her dance class. The last one at night. Above all,
the first one in the morning. It was also true, she supposed, that there
were others which were less important to her. She opened the pack which was
lying on the table and discovered that it had just one cigarette left in it.
She tried to remember what she had been doing while she smoked each of the
other nineteen, but could recall only about five of them. Maybe Martin was
right: maybe the truth was that some of the time she was just smoking out of
habit and could cut out those cigarettes without missing too much enjoyment.
There was little to lose by giving it a try. And there might be something to
be gained. Her relationship with Martin was getting quite serious: this
could be a good way to demonstrate her long term commitment to making things
work out between them.
Anne took the cigarette out of the pack, lit it and walked back through to
the bedroom. Martin looked up at her expectantly.
“Only five a day is out of the question,” she said. “Could you live with
ten?”
Martin grinned. “It’s not my life we’re discussing. Do you think you can do
it?”
“Why not?” replied Anne, as she exhaled a plume of smoke. She laid her
cigarette down on the dish and took off her t-shirt. “Now, are we going to
talk about my smoking all night, or do you want to do something more
interesting instead?”