Colouring In Page 6

  ISABEL

  Goodness knows why, but the thought of Gilbert and Carlotta at the Wigmore Hall occupied an unreasonable amount of my thoughts last night. At supper Dan and I speculated about how they were getting on. Dan thought she would irritate Gilbert so much he’d probably never go out with her again. I didn’t know what to think.

  And now Dan’s on his way to Rome. High among the clouds. I know he thinks it’s silly, but I always pray that the journey will be safe. I never feel totally easy till he’s rung me to say he’s landed. I hate it when he goes away, even for a few days.

  All morning I worked hard on a bird mask – glorious blue black feathers spurting from a golden heart (a rather ingenious upside down heart, so that the point would touch the forehead and the two curves would fit each side of the nose). Then I went down to the telephone in Dan’s study – unusually tidy, wastepaper basket empty. Gwen had obviously had a good go at it this morning. The room was full of sun. I sat for a few moments in the swivel chair, swinging from side to side, warm, comfortable, wondering if I should. I picked up Dan’s favourite photograph in its tortoiseshell frame – the three of us, Sylvie must have been about five. Dan and I definitely looked younger, though indefinably so. I dialled Carlotta’s number.

  Naturally she was in a hurry. I could tell that from the way the mobile was snatched up, even before she spoke. ‘You’re ringing to find out how it went with Bert,’ she said. ‘Thought you would.’ She laughed a short bark of laugh that wasn’t wholly amused. ‘I’m in a dash, but I can tell you, it went bloody well. Really good evening. And, no: if that’s what you want to know. But could have, easily. He was raring to go. Much livelier than the night we had supper with you. Jet lag over, I’d say. Peaceful through the Brahms – Mozart – whoever, randy but gentlemanly at the Savoy …’

  ‘The Savoy?’ I said.

  ‘Randy at the Savoy, and absolutely all for it when I parked at his front door.’

  There was a brief silence between us. ‘But, hell, you know me,’ she went on. ‘I’m thirty-six, not the spontaneous woman I once was. I wasn’t interested. I’d like Bert to be a friend, a useful spare man. I’m not up for any more complications, not after Andrew.’

  ‘Quite,’ I said. And then I added that I hadn’t rung up to find out whether or not she had slept with Gilbert, but whether she had liked him and whether she had enjoyed the evening. ‘Oh that,’ she said airily. ‘Of course I liked him. I only didn’t like him decades ago when he jumped on me in the bushes. I nearly always like your friends, don’t I? I like Bert, I enjoyed the evening, I shall enjoy doing up his house, OK? Now I’ve got to go. Speak to you soon.’

  So there was no time to ask more, and anyhow to have done so would have been intolerable, even in a jokey way.

  Now I sit in the empty kitchen, listening to the pounding of the grandfather clock, awaiting Dan’s call to say he’s safe in Rome.

  DAN

  Stifling, Rome. Carlo, my only friend here, is in Capri. ‘Come and join us for the weekend,’ he said, when I rang. What an idea. But Isabel would be miserable at the thought of my extending my trip. So would I. I wouldn’t enjoy Capri without her. I rang her. Didn’t mention the invitation I’d refused just in case, in the sweetness of her heart, she tried to persuade me to go. Then had dinner by myself in a trattoria down the road. God it’s good being surrounded by Italians again. Their emphatic way of speaking somehow endows every moment of every ordinary day with a sense of importance, something I love. It would be exhausting in England, but it works here. Over my tagliatelle alle vongole I cast my mind back to my year in Florence after Oxford, a kind of post-university gap year, and the best of my youthful decisions. The hours – careless of time, money, the need to be productive in some way – just looking at pictures, at sculptures, at the Arno, at the cypress trees black against skies familiar from the small background space they were afforded by Botticelli et al. I remembered that Bert came out one weekend. The thing that got him were the hot bombolini in – what was it called, that tiny dark street? They zoomed down from an upstairs window in a chute. You’d pick them up with a paper napkin, heat still burning your fingers. The dense sugar stuck to a huge area of mouth and cheek. Fingers could only be de-stickied by washing them. Never had such doughnuts. And the Dante and Boccaccio. I’d wake at dawn and read before breakfast. A couplet, just as I dug into a nostalgic zabaglione, came to me unbidden:

  Chi vuol esser lieto, sia -

  di doman non c’e certezza…

  For how many years had that lain buried in my sub-conscious? It’s something I must pass on to Sylvie in a few years’ time.

  The telephone was ringing when I got back to my hotel room: the office to say I was wanted in Nairobi on Monday. Did I want to come home first, or fly straight from Rome? Isabel, as I knew she would, said of course…it would be mad to return home for half a day. Oh hell: we’d been looking forward to the weekend. I was going to suggest Bert came round again on Saturday evening, on his own. So we were disappointed, but resigned. Di doman… No certainty of to-morrow, indeed.

  Now I sit gloomily in my air-conditioned room, dejected by the narrowness of the hotel desk. The shutters are half-shut. Sky, the colour of wild salmon, pushes in through the shut windows. I fling onto the floor the plastic hotel blotter and all the bumf about hotel services. They make a clatter. It jars my head, previously calm, now muddied by change of plans. I set up my word processor.

  My last play, finished two months ago – a more lively piece, than usual, I’d thought – is whirling round that silent outer space in which theatre managements reside and never respond. So it’s time to stop fretting about that one, and all the others, and to start something new. This time I feel more than usually enthusiastic – or do I always feel that? I’ve a suspicion I do. Anyhow, it’s to be about rejection. Something I’m familiar with. Something we’re all familiar with. Something we should all be taught to deal with as children in order to soften the inevitable blows as grown-ups. I’ve many thoughts on the subject. And I’ve a cracking good opening, I think. So here goes.

  Act One. Scene One.

  Now, late into the Roman night, I begin.

  ISABEL

  When Dan rang late last night to say he was going straight from Rome to Nairobi – sensible, of course – I expressed the normal sort of disappointment, and cheerfully agreed it wasn’t that long till he’d be back on Wednesday evening. In truth I felt a profound sense of gloom which I could not understand. Dan is often away for anything up to ten days. I miss him no end but can cope perfectly well, enjoy spending more time than usual concentrating wholly on Sylvie. So why the shadowed feeling after his call? Perhaps it was simply because it was late and I was tired, and the envisaged weekend was shattered. I put out the light, very awake. Then the telephone rang again: Carlotta.

  ‘Hope I’m not calling too late,’ she said – she would have been scathing if I had said she was. ‘But I just thought you’d like to know my plan about Bert. Would you?’ I didn’t know what she was talking about but said I’d listen. ‘Although I’ve agreed to do up his house,’ she said, ‘I don’t want him to think of me just as a decorator.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, after a long pause.

  ‘I’d like him to be a proper friend,’ she went on. ‘Now I’ve ditched Mike, there’s – well, a bit of a gap. It’d be nice to think I could – you know – ask Bert round sometimes, take him to things, generally ease him into my life in the most innocent way. What do you think?’

  I said I didn’t know what to think. I seemed to remember she’d said a few weeks ago that Mike had walked out on her. Perhaps I got it wrong. Or perhaps she’d changed her story. I felt no inclination to sidetrack her onto that subject. I didn’t really understand what she was on about, this plan about Bert. Where was it leading? Why did she have to ask my advice if all she was plotting was an innocent friendship? My long silence, tacked on to my lack of opinion, plainly disappointed her.

  ‘So what I’m goi
ng to do,’ she said, ‘despite having rushed about getting samples of goodness knows what, is to keep him dangling for a bit. I mean, I don’t want to sound too keen. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. So I’m not going to ring him at least till the middle of next week. By then, he might have become impatient. He might want to get the house started. So he might even ring me. – Isabel?’

  I said I thought she was being oddly devious about a plan which was directed at simple friendship. Why didn’t she just ring him when she was ready to explain her decorating ideas? Besides, I heard myself saying – and it was a cruel thing to say – knowing Gilbert was not the sort of man who would ever be aware of the state of dangling, there wasn’t much point in putting it into practice.

  Carlotta gave a long sigh. ‘I might have known it wasn’t worth talking to someone who’s been happily married for fifteen years,’ she said. ‘You’ve obviously forgotten what it’s like, negotiating the single world. Nothing is simple, not even a quest for friendship.’ She sounded forlorn. Before I could apologise for my lack of sympathy, she put down the telephone. We do sometimes end conversations like that – out of sorts, ruffled. Luckily the chill quickly melts. I’ll ring her tomorrow, apologise.

  I was awake much of the night, thinking of her, of Gilbert, of Dan. In my confused reflections only one thing was clear to me: I did not want Carlotta to become too close to Gilbert. I wanted him for my friend: mine and Dan’s. Horribly selfish, that: Carlotta needs him far more than I do. For all her toughness in the business world, she’s extraordinarily insecure when it comes to men. Most of her disasters have been because, too eager to gain their love, she’s gone at them too fast – offered everything. She never believes me when I say men don’t want everything: they only want selected parts. I hope her foolish plan won’t lead to another disaster. Perhaps, devious woman that I am too, I had better warn Gilbert. Tell him, simply, if he doesn’t want to be engulfed, he should keep his distance.

  GWEN

  This morning, I don’t know why, I went down much earlier than usual to the post box. Usually all I get is bills and junk mail. But there was a real letter among them in a grubby envelope. Not what I’d call ‘educated’ writing.

  I sat down at the kitchen table – the place where I’ve received so much bad news over the years, and very little good – and opened it. Just a couple of lines, it was. I know your sort it said. I know what you’re playing at Gwen. There are forces out there who know more than you think. You should take care. Yours, Gary.

  I read it over several times. Chilled, I was. If it had been from anyone else I would have thought that it was just some crank, and probably thrown it away without another thought. But from Gary… What was he on about? Was it a threat? Was he saying he knew something about me that he could use to hurt me? Was there any such thing? I tried to think. I’ve made a lot of bad mistakes in my life, but as far as I know there’s nothing wicked I’ve done, nothing I’m ashamed of. All the thinking put my head in a whirl. I saw my hands were shaking. I didn’t fancy my cup of tea though I took a sip or two to get down a couple of aspirin. Perhaps I should speak to Gary next time I see him lurking. Trouble is, he’s always just out of hearing: I can’t shout across the street, and if I approached him he’d be off quick as anything. It’s horrible of him. I’ve got my life up together, straightened it out, I’m as happy as anyone could be, given all the circumstances: I mean Ernie’s not a bad son and, though Jan’s a rotten daughter, I still love her, she’s still mine… And now this dreadful man comes and unsettles everything. Haunts me, threatens me, takes away the feeling of safety.

  At one point during the morning I found myself so upset I decided to ring Mrs. Grant. But then I quickly went against that idea. I’ve never talked to Mrs. G about anything much in my life, for all our closeness. Besides, it would be too long to explain, the background. She’d be horrified by my story of having taken up with Gary in the first place. No: I couldn’t bother her with all that, not on a Saturday morning, busy with taking Sylvie swimming and so on. Mr. Grant back from abroad, Mrs. G getting muffins out of the freezer and the sun coming in through the windows. I can see it all. Their house is always in my mind. It’s not a place I want to bother with my problems.

  BERT

  Still accosted, I am, by an unusual restlessness. Perhaps in middle age one takes longer to re-adjust. It will all be better when I’ve decided what to do. Next week I’ll sit down and seriously consider the offers that are coming in. How do these companies suddenly know I’m on the market, back in London? All very odd.

  It occurs to me Carlotta, who assured me she’d be in touch immediately about her decorating plans, hasn’t rung. Tremendous relief, actually. I’m not up to her barrage of suggestions just yet. So I’ll carry on with the rackety old fridge and oven for a while: only ring her when things actually collapse.

  What I feel like is a peaceful evening with Isabel. Which reminds me, Dan is in Rome. I said I’d ring her. If I don’t do it now, Dan’ll be back. I’ll make my way to the Garrick for lunch, then go hunting for a car. It’d be fun to roll up to number 18 in a Lamborghini, see Isabel’s face. I know she thinks Dan’s taste in cars is fairly unadventurous. What would she think about mine? I’m prepared to be berated.

  SYLVIE

  I don’t like it when Papa isn’t here on Saturday morning. He usually drives me to pick up Elli, then drops us at the pool. At breakfast this morning Mama said Bert had rung and was coming round this evening. Again? I said. I mean I like Bert, but I wanted a nice evening with Mama playing games and stuff. But she was extra kind – to make up for having to share her, perhaps. She let me have a fantastic new yummy ice-cream for lunch, and said Bert – why does she always call him Gilbert? – might be coming in some swanky new car, and if he did we’d all go for a ride in it. So? – I mean, that’d be cool. But no car would be as good as Papa’s BMW. Then she said, perhaps we should take our chance and go and get those new trainers (she didn’t even purse her mouth) you’ve been going on about. Cool, I said. Thanks. Whatever’s got into her? She walked about humming, and chopped stuff for salad into very small bits. Sometimes she’s so weird.

  Chapter Four

  ISABEL

  I heard an unusually melodious hooting of a horn outside. I looked out of the window. Parked outside the house was a great bird of a car, vast and silver. If it had raised invisible wings and risen into the air I wouldn’t have been surprised. It carried on with its cooing noise, like a plaintive dove – surely no warning to errant traffic. I laughed. There was a moment’s silence, then Gilbert got out of the car. From his puffed up gait and jaunty swagger I could see he was tremendously pleased with himself.

  He explained he had only just managed to get the beast in time – and, what’s more, he hadn’t paid for it. No: it had been lent to him for the weekend to try out. He’d already been to Windsor and back and then had had a very entertaining time trying to get to grips with the inbuilt satnav. ‘What made them trust you?’ I asked. Gilbert just shrugged, suggested it was his honest look … Oh, and he had left a deposit large enough to fill the boot with Chateau Mouton Rothschild 84 …

  He couldn’t wait for Sylvie and me to test it. The inside was a cave of bleached leather. Sylvie climbed into the back. Having been thoroughly snooty about the whole idea of this ride when I put it to her earlier, she was now clearly in some awe, but trying to hide her perfidious reaction. Her loyalty to Dan’s BMW is total.

  I swung into the front seat. Gilbert shut the door from the outside. It made that soft clunk that’s the nature of really expensive car doors, the re-assuring noise of leather slippers on stairs. Then we were off – Hyde Park, Constitution Hill, St. James’s Street, Regent Street and back down the Marylebone Road to Shepherd’s Bush. Wonderful: I suddenly understood Dan’s thing about cars, though his BMW had never actually inspired me with this feeling. Gilbert said as soon as it became his – and there was no question of it being returned – he would take us for a spin on some motorway
very early one morning so that we could get an idea of its speed – ‘Might even let Dan have a go at the wheel,’ he added. When we got home he asked Sylvie her opinion. ‘Cool,’ she answered, ‘… but nothing compared to ours.’ She’s so predictable.

  She didn’t want to eat with us. I gave her a tray of supper to take up to the television. When I went to say goodnight to her later, her lights were turned out and she was asleep, or pretending to be. Odd. Her moods are constantly fluctuating. Her age, I suppose. But Gilbert was probably relieved she didn’t join us for supper. He’s not brilliant at conversation with children.

  He was the one to bring up the subject of Carlotta. She hadn’t rung, he said, and was somewhat relieved. So, I thought, she was putting her plan into action. And my prediction was right: Gilbert had absolutely no idea that in the silence she saw him as dangling. ‘What do you make of her,’ I asked, ‘after all these years since your childhood?’ I pillowed this question very carefully. What do you make of? is somehow less crude than the straightforward what do you think? Less blunt, less challenging. Usually produces a more considered reply.

  Bert shrugged, gave a flick of a smile that indicated he wasn’t much interested in the subject of Carlotta, but he’d do his best before we moved on to more compelling matters. At least that was my initial interpretation. A second later it occurred to me he had become smitten by Carlotta in the two evenings they had been together, and I was the last person to whom he had any wish to confide his feelings. A blade of ice ran down my spine.

  ‘Well, of course, she’s changed out of all recognition – hardly surprising. Better looking. Much better looking. Lively, noisy, doesn’t know when to keep quiet. But plainly a good friend.’ He could quite see my fondness for her, he said. Though what exactly it was that drew us to each other, he had still to decipher.