Colouring In Page 13

  I asked her if she would make up the spare room bed, explained about Bert. ‘The green sheets, it’ll be,’ she said, nodding.

  I couldn’t read her look. It was a combination of acceptance, puzzlement, reluctance. But perhaps it just conveyed the same sort of irritation I’d so recently felt. Happily engaged in polishing the kitchen table, she would now have to leave that job to prepare the spare room. I couldn’t tell her I understood. I simply told her there was no hurry, and apologised for this extra job.

  CARLOTTA

  At lunchtime I rang Isabel. I had to talk to someone about Bert.

  ‘I hear he’s chosen to come and stay with you,’ I said … nicely, calmly, I thought.

  Isabel agreed that was so. She, too, then suggested it would be ‘easier.’

  ‘Easier than what?’ I snapped, irritation blasting all my good intentions to stay calm.

  Isabel, sounding a touch weary, suggested it might be a bore for me, having a man around the house who hasn’t got a job. I pointed out that I was at work all day and in fact it would be rather agreeable, coming home and finding someone there each evening.

  I could hear Isabel’s sigh, her effort to find the right thing to comfort me. In the end she said she was sorry but there was nothing she could do. It was Bert’s choice, though she herself was wary of a third presence in the house. ‘You must come round often,’ she added. ‘We can all go to the theatre, films.’

  Huh! Some consolation.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘And meantime things have got to such a bad state between Bert and me, I’m nervous of ringing him even to talk about the business I’m doing for him – getting him to agree to a slight change in my budget and so on.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him,’ Isabel assured me – so damn soothingly I could have strangled her.

  Then, in my outrage at the unfairness of it all, I went too far.

  ‘Well, it’ll be nice for you and Dan having Bert there,’ I said. ‘But if I were you I’d try to remain … you know, on the alert.’ I said this jokily, I thought.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Single man under same roof as beautiful sympathetic woman. Single man with no woman in his life. You can never be sure’, I said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Isabel snapped back – angry, now, I think. ‘Bert’s Dan’s oldest friend. Never in a million years …’

  ‘Don’t you be too sure,’ I heard myself saying – out of control by now, the words rushing ahead of me. ‘You know what men are, all men.’

  The utter stupidity of this remark further enraged Isabel. But I went on: ‘I wouldn’t put it past Bert …’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Isabel asked very quietly.

  There was a long furious silence between us.

  ‘Intuition,’ I said at last.

  Isabel snorted. ‘Intuition? You’re a pathetic judge of character, and your powers of intuition are absolutely nil. You’re a devious mischief-maker, and I can’t think … why you’re my friend,’ she petered out.

  In all the years we’d been friends, I’d never known Isabel so angry. I felt a surge of tears again. Wondered how to make amends.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Is,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me. I’ll ring you later.’

  Isabel didn’t apologise for the foul things she’d said. I stayed on the bench in Hyde Park (where I’d been eating my lunchtime sandwich) wiping my eyes, regretting the whole conversation. Then some nefarious spirit came to my rescue. Tears disappeared suddenly as they’d come. I knew what I’d do. When the time was right, I’d make a move that Bert would be unable to resist, and also find a moment alone with Dan.

  Isabel deserved her bloody smooth life to be shaken a bit.

  GWEN

  When I came out of number 18 I looked up and down the street. No one there. No sign of Gary. My heart was still beating: thump, thump. I knew I hadn’t much in the fridge but I couldn’t face Tesco’s. Gary could well be waiting for me just by the organic sliced bread, where he knows I always go – organic being my own extravagance in life. I didn’t feel safe till I’d shut my door behind me. Locked it, bolted it. Then I sat down in my usual chair, no appetite for lunch. I turned on the radio to try to take my mind off things.

  Once, once long ago in Blackpool – I must have been nineteen or twenty, long before I knew the children’s’ father – I met a boy who I think really loved me. Barry. He was nothing special – I’d be the first to admit that. Not much more than a lad. He worked as a porter up at the posh hotel where they had the political conferences. Sometimes he would get big tips from Conservative MPs, just for carrying a suitcase a few yards. ‘I’ll never vote Labour,’ he said. ‘Socialists don’t believe in tipping.’ When he’d saved a few bob he’d treat me to fish and chips and a couple of lagers. We’d have them on a bench opposite where the sun goes down over the sea. Sometimes there was a brass band playing, and seagulls circling over our heads. ‘Like confetti,’ I said once jokingly – not that he took the hint. One day he said ‘Gwen, you’re a wonderful girl. A girl after my own heart, I’ve never met such a girl.’ And he held my hand. But there was no hanky panky between us. Never. He was a shy one, Barry. I don’t think he’d ever tried that sort of thing and I never pressed him (I hadn’t gone all the way in those days, either. Looking back, I do wish my first time could have been with Barry). What I cared about was the love that came from him, and I gave him in return. He was so kind and thoughtful, one of nature’s gentlemen. I really imagined that one day we could be together: a small flat in Blackpool and I’d proudly watch him rise up through the ranks of hotel staff. End up in some senior position, I was sure.

  The holiday came to an end. I had to go home with mother. She said Barry was no more than a holiday romance, and nothing would come of it. I said it was much more than that, we loved each other. Barry said he’d write. He did, once or twice. And I wrote back, pouring out my love for him. I’ve never been good with words but they just flew from my heart. Then came a letter saying he’d been sacked from the hotel. Sacked? Barry? I couldn’t believe it. Him, always so conscientious. He said it had been a nasty business. He’d been falsely accused, but he didn’t say what of. It haunted me, that, for years. Still does. But even in the best people there’s something dark, I suppose. Then he sent a card saying he was off to Canada and a new life. But he’d come and fetch me one day and we’d have a family.

  That was thirty years ago.

  I suppose it was Barry who warned me to be suspicious of men, and I was to discover there was something about me that attracted the bad ones. I never met a good man after Barry. But at least for a few weeks I knew what it was like to love and be loved, so I’m lucky there … and still hopeful.

  I expected this morning to see Mrs. G. with a bit more colour in her cheeks after her two days in Dorset. She was quite pale, but then I know she has a lot of work on. I didn’t say anything, of course. Not my place. She seemed pleased to be home, filled the house with flowers from her parents’ garden. She told me Mr. Bailey was coming to stay for a few weeks and would I mind doing the spare room?

  I didn’t mind at all. I finished my polishing quickly and went up there with a pile of sheets and towels. It’s a lovely room for visitors, though we don’t have many. Overlooks the garden. White walls and white curtains covered in little blue pictures – shepherds and that. Rural scenes. You can get quite lost in them if you look at them for a long time. It’s special French material, Mrs. G. told me. I didn’t catch the name.

  I thought how good it would be for one night, just one night, to sleep in that room. When the Grants are away on holiday, of course, I could do that. I could take the chance and they’d never know. But I’d never do it. Never, never. I shall probably die never knowing what it’s like to sleep in a lovely bed, linen sheets, overlooking a garden. Perhaps if Barry had come and fetched me we might have gone back to Canada and had a big bed with nice sheets. But there again, it might not have worked out.

&nb
sp; The funny thing about my mobile telephone is that it’ll never ring because no one in the world knows my number. I don’t even know how to find it out myself. Still, I’ll leave it on from time to time. Just in case.

  And also it’d be ready to dial the police if Gary gives me any more bother.

  BERT

  I think I’ve made a great mistake. It’s going to be intolerable.

  I arrived yesterday evening. Isabel was flurrying about the kitchen, Dan took me up to my very agreeable room. It has a large desk in the window, and the overflow of books from downstairs are in shelves all along one wall. I certainly shan’t be short of reading matter.

  I went back to the car to collect half a dozen bottles of Mouton Rothschild ’82, which I thought would please Dan. Dumped it on the kitchen table. Isabel thanked me with a kiss on the cheek. She smelt strongly of mint, which she had been chopping. She said she hoped I had everything I wanted…

  At supper – the three of us and Sylvie – all was outwardly easy, normal. Dan was teasing me about my current lack of direction. Sylvie giggled a lot, friendly. Earlier I’d slipped her a fiver – it was plain I was going to have to pay my way to her heart. I looked mostly at Isabel’s hands, pale as skimmed milk, a tracing of pretty blue veins round the knuckles. She wore a very obvious engagement ring, an aquamarine surrounded by sapphires. What wouldn’t I do to give her endless aquamarines. I thought of her and Dan in some shadowed jewellers’ shop with its padlocked glass cases, choosing it together. Young faces lit with anticipation of the married life to come. Young postures – that slightly bent way of standing that youthful couples employ. Or perhaps Dan brought it home in a leather and velvet box and surprised her. There were so many things I would never know about their past. I could feel my heart racing … yes, racing. Luckily I wore a jacket or it might have been visible.

  After supper Dan went up to read to Sylvie. I helped Isabel clear the table and stack the dishwasher. We didn’t speak for a while. Avoided each other’s eyes. Or at least I avoided hers. Then she asked again if I had everything I wanted (innocent, I suppose, of the irony of this question) and said I must help myself to anything. I assured her I’d be out most days at interviews for jobs I had no intention of taking – though this I didn’t tell her. I said I’d like to take her and Dan out to dinner and the theatre from time to time. ‘Lovely,’ she said. I hoped I wouldn’t be a nuisance, I added, and it wouldn’t be for too long.

  It was then she gave me one of her ravishing smiles and said how good it was to have me there. I had to make my hands into fists so that I would not touch her. I really believe she believed my cobweb story was true, so in her eyes our friendship is innocent as always. How can I bear it? Will I break down one day, confess? I hope not. I must not.

  I thanked her for supper and said I’d go to my room, get over the chore of ringing Carlotta and telling her to give the go-ahead to the builders.

  ‘Ah, Carlotta,’ Isabel said. ‘I must ring her sometime, too. Our last conversation ended badly.’ I didn’t ask why.

  In my room the white walls were shadowed with blue. Fresh evening air came through the open window. I pulled up the armchair so that I could look into the garden, dominated by a vast chestnut tree. It was good, here, the room. Bad – and yet good – being so close to Isabel. I lit a small cigar, thought of her hands, her smile.

  Eventually I rang Carlotta. She seemed to have calmed down. Didn’t ask how or where I was, though she must have known. She suggested we’d meet at the house in a week’s time when I’d be able to see some progress. I resolved to be nicer to her. She’s trying to help, after all. But I’m very glad I chose not to be her guest. I know exactly what would have been expected of me to show my gratitude, and I couldn’t have faced that. Not in my present state of love for Isabel. But if I can stop myself being quite so churlish to Carlotta, perhaps we could be reasonably good friends.

  Isabel, Isabel: just yards away in the marital bed with Dan.

  I took out my flask of whisky. Best not to think.

  SYLVIE

  Bert has been staying with us for about a week now. He gave me a fiver on the first night and today he gave me another ten. He said he realised the first £5 wouldn’t buy a video. He’s cool. It’s nice having him here. He makes Mama laugh and listens very hard when Papa bangs on about his play. So far he hasn’t brought horrible Carlotta round, so maybe they’re not going to be an item. So it’s all OK.

  I think he’ll probably give me some more money in a week or so, if I keep being nice to him.

  Chapter Eight

  DAN

  Good having Bert here. The perfect guest, I’d say. Keeps out of the way. He produced a tin of caviar last night, a week after the generous wine we’re happily getting through. He’s pretty vague about the interviews he goes to: I’ve a feeling he’s no intention of taking any of the jobs he’s offered. I think he spends a lot of time re-acquainting himself with The National Gallery and the B.M. – and he admitted the Tate Modern took him a whole day. I like to think he’s happy here. He seems more relaxed than when he first arrived back from America.

  I gave him Act II of Rejection to read. He made one or two small suggestions, said he was no expert on reading plays but there were various things he liked or that made him smile … or think. I respect his opinion, as I always have, so took encouragement from his comments. But I don’t know what he really thinks. He didn’t show any great enthusiasm – perhaps he doesn’t want to encourage false hope. But it was kind of him to read it, give me his thoughts. So I’ll plod on (‘plod’ being the apt word at the moment. Act II has yet to come alive). One day I’ll say to him, ‘Bert, tell me honestly, do you think my writing’s crap? I haven’t got what it takes? I should give up trying?’ And I know, confronted, he’ll give me an honest answer. But I won’t ask him just yet. Perhaps when Rejection is finished. I have sleepless nights trying to think of a proper title.

  Carlotta he never mentions, nor do I, although I know he has a meeting with her arranged in his house. I don’t think she occupies much of his thoughts.

  I don’t dwell on her much, either. The incident seems far away, reduced in size to a bantam’s egg. Odd, mind pictures: visualising it, I see us both the size of eggs, in the same way that I think of people in the ancient world as very small, toy-sized figures. Historical perspective has always played tricks on my mind.

  I still can’t begin to understand what demon got into me – or Carlotta, for that matter. And when I do let myself think of it, it’s with infinite regret. More worrying – and the anxiety is larger than an egg and won’t go away – is the fear that one day Carlotta will hint to Isabel what happened. Years from now she might – even accidentally – refer to it. There have been moments in the past when she’s let Isabel down by revealing something she was sworn not to reveal. But there’s nothing I can do about that. Just hope. If my stern warning to her could trammel up the consequences… But I can’t be sure of that. I can only live trusting that one day the whole regrettable business will fade.

  CARLOTTA

  So. The evening of the meeting at last. I sent Bert a card saying please be there at six. I don’t want to ring him again. My plan is to get there at 6.15. That will give him time to take in the progress so far on his own. He can gather his thoughts, put them to me when I arrive. It can all be over very quickly. I shan’t hang around looking for an invitation to dinner. I shall act as if he’s nothing more than a client.

  All the same, I’ve been thinking constantly of the move I might make that would stir things up one way or another. Should I, or shouldn’t I? Would it be completely mad? Certainly it would be a risk. Think I shan’t decide till I get there. See what sort of mood he’s in. Act spontaneously if there’s the slightest indication…

  I arrived back early from the office, had a bath. When I got out of it I stood for a long time looking at my naked body. Not bad, I have to admit. Amazing breasts, small waist, narrow hips, long legs. Sexier than Isabel, surely? – I kn
ow Bert admires Isabel hugely: does he fancy her, I wonder? I put on a black cotton shirt that does up with a spine of tiny pearl buttons. Left a few undone at the top, but not too many. No intention of cheap provocation. Then I took up my Bert file and set off in the car.

  With some trepidation, I have to admit.

  ISABEL

  A week to the day after Bert moved in I ran into him on the stairs. I hate meeting people on stairs. It’s always hard to find something to say as one is going up, the other down: not the place to stop for a proper exchange.

  I knew he was off to see what Carlotta had done so far to his house. He’d said he wouldn’t be in for dinner – he thought he’d better take out ‘the decorator’, as he called her, to make up for his previous bad behaviour. If she refused, he added, with a sparkle that indicated this would be unlikely, then he’d look after himself.

  Bert was coming down, I was going up. We stopped simultaneously, he just one step above me. Our eyes met. I blushed, then regarded my own hand, a distant thing, nothing to do with me, tighten on the banister. There was a timeless silence, a mutual rush of unspoken words, flaying questions: how to begin? I think both of us wondered.

  ‘In an ideal world,’ Bert eventually said, ‘I wouldn’t be doing this, going out this evening to waltz my way round Carlotta’s sensitivities. I’d be here sharing the fish pie with you and Dan.’

  ‘That would have been nice,’ I answered, helplessly.

  He stepped down onto my stair, said he wouldn’t be late. He moved as if to kiss me goodbye. Then he flicked back his head before our cheeks had a chance to meet, and looked at his watch without conviction: I knew he didn’t give a damn about the time.