The politics of the bedroom

GIVE ME A BREAK:I HAVE IT ON good authority from a source in the hotel industry that when Bill and Hillary Clinton travelled, the instructions were to place their pillows one metre apart, and Bill brought his own pillow. Michelle and Barack, Nicolas and Carla . . . wouldn't you love to know their bedroom arrangements?

Closer to your own pillow, you might find yourself speculating on the sleeping habits of your friends – how often do they have sex and how does that compare to your own bedroom entente; and would you ever dare ask? No, you wouldn’t. That’s why you don’t know.

Seeing Michelle and Carla standing together in their lookalike, 1980s-nouveau-Thatcher neckbows, I imagined a conversation between them, being the snoop that I am.

Carla (thinking, “Michele, cherie, your bow-necked dress looks like a shower curtain snatched from the Bed Bath Beyond sale bin. It clashes with the red carpet.”): “It is so boring, no? Standing around in couture waiting for our men.”

Michelle (thinking, “Carla, your dress is an awful babysick beige and you look like an expectant boarder waiting to be collected for the once-a-month lunch with your father.”): “Tell me about your work as first lady of France.”

Carla: “Work? Is that what you call it in Washington? Cherie, this is not about work. It is about something so much more important.”

Michelle (thinking, “Does the sexiest woman in Europe see me as a threat?”): “Tell me about your important work, then.”

Carla loses her train of thought. Their men have arrived and Carla shakes Barack’s hand, while in the corner of her eye she sees Nicolas’s attempted tongue-kiss disarmed by Michelle’s rather French closed-mouth cheek-touch. At lunch, Carla eats little as she observes her rival’s talent for warm personal engagement. The two first ladies meet by chance in the loo.

Carla: “A dog is important. Even a hairless non-allergenic dog that runs on a battery. You’ll need the company.”

Michelle (thinking, “I must find a point of contact. Even the Queen of England let me hug her.”): “Are you lonely?”

Carla: “Not lonely, independent. I have my own home. Nicky loves my home.”

Michelle: “You live apart?”

Carla: “He snores. I need my own bed. I sleep alone most nights, apart from the dog. When are you getting the dog? You saw me with my dog in Vogue?”

Michelle (thinking, “I was in Vogue too, cherie.”): “Let me tell you about my organic garden at the White House. I have such cute little school children doing the weeding.”

Carla: “I would rather cure cancer.”

Michelle (thinking, “This woman is so uptight. Has she had sex lately?”): “Barack and I share everything. The White House is a home. We play basketball. And he cooks dinner every Friday night. I couldn’t live in a separate house.”

Carla (thinking, “How naive.”): “How charming. Have you made use of Airforce One?”

People come to all sorts of mutual accommodations in marriage and when that marriage is on a public power-stage it must be more difficult. A friend of mine who is no stranger to politics was begging recently for a separate bedroom so she could get a good night’s sleep. Like most other people, there are nights when she wants to curl up in a ball in a dark room to sleep without interruption.

I don’t know what her personal interruptions are. Snoring? Restless legs? Texts at 1am? Night terrors? Too much cuddling? Many years ago, I strolled into Clerys to purchase a bed. I was aged about 20 and determined to buy something king or queen or otherwise royalty-sized. In those days, the salespeople in Clerys were true professionals who knew their products and their customers’ lifestyles. My salesman was a fellow of about 80, it seemed to me then, wearing grey (hair, suit, knitted vest, socks), though he was probably shy of 30. Those were the days.

He tried to dissuade me from purchasing the largest bed in the shop (about the price of a second-hand car then at £600). “Twins is what you need. You might find yourself in a different situation. You may become ‘ill’.” My impression at that time, in 1982, on the bedfloor of Clerys, when there was no birth control nor divorce allowed in Ireland, was that “no way am I getting pregnant with twins” and “ill” was a euphemism for the rhythm method.

I would have none of this nonsense. I bought the biggest bed. Later, I left it behind to the guy I had shared it with.

All these years later, I hate to say it, but the man in Clerys was right. The more hard-working the couple, with their individual careers and bank accounts (you never know when he/she will empty the account and leave), the more prone they are to snoring, flatulence, late-night reading, early-morning waking and emergency phone messages. It’s not twin beds you need – it’s separate bedrooms. I quite like a private little bed these days, when I get the chance. And judging by the neckbows and forced smiles of the first ladies of the US and France, mutual success minus sex might be the new trend.

kholmquist@irishtimes.com