'Are you for or against?'
What a very silly question. I was a liberated women of independent means, wasn't I? 'I'm
for,
of course - but that certainly doesn't mean that I'm
desperate.'
'Well, I'm for, too. So' - he shrugged and his face bore the slightly perplexed expression of one whose lights have fused -'it'll happen, won't it . . .?' He gave me a look that made me feel that being caught staring at another woman's breasts was as nothing. 'After all, this is only our first date.' He was right, of course. Possibly it was time to cede a little of the control to nature.
Then somehow all of a sudden we were behaving naturally. As if we
had
met at a party or something and this was our first date rather than the pre-determined unromantic result of forethought. We talked about art, of which he said he knew very little but which turned out to be a good deal more than many. He favoured buildings rather than paintings and his hero was Corbusier. Expressionism was more in his line visually because, he said, it reflected the turbulence of the age. How he managed to say such a thing without being pompous I am not sure, but he did. I told him about framing and how it felt almost godlike sometimes to be adding to and enhancing an already perfect piece of art. How I managed to say that without curdling his blood I don't know, but I did.
Having got our pomposities out of the way, he then said a very nice thing - which was that Inigo Jones began life as a picture-framer. Something which I did not know and which I squirrelled away for the days, those long dull winter days, when I would be back at the shop twixt Reg's eye and Joan's
flick.
I could ponder on being made Court theatre designer by Charles III and thereafter designing temples to ecology
..."
Film interested him more than theatre. Cars not at all, which he regarded simply as things to drive around in. Friends were few and very dear, acquaintances more thickly strewn. He was happier in town than country, though not averse to rural ways. He was neither a gourmet nor a cook, but liked simple food, simply served. And he never wore suits. There were a lot of places he wanted to visit here and in Europe during the year, some alone, some with company. He lived in a flat which he did not own in Clapham.
So banal really, yet so important, all these beginnings.
I was glad that he really was going away. His personal details sounded far, far too appealing. Mind you, anybody's can before you come upon the smelly socks under the bed.
One other matter (besides
sex) needed raising. 'We should,
I said, 'discuss money.'
He was struggling not to laugh. 'Oh,' he said. 'Are you going to charge?' He gave me a far too innocent stare. 'I didn't know that.'
I waited.
'I leave you everything in my will,' he hazarded, draining his glass. 'I accept.'
I couldn't decide whether to be offended or not. So I sat it out.
Eventually he said, 'Money?'
I nodded. And waited again.
'You mean who pays for what?' he said.
'Yes.'
'I hadn't thought about it. What's your view?'
'I think we should go Dutch - mostly.'
'Agreed. That sounds fine. Very practical.'
Somebody's got to be, I thought. I stood up. 'And now let me pay for half of our lunch.'
'No, no' - he pushed at my purse - 'have this on me.'
But I insisted. You can have your knees sliced from under you on matters of money in relationships and it was best to begin as equals.
We paid and left. The May sunshine was still very bright as we walked towards our cars.
'This is all very bizarre,' I said. 'Isn't it?'
'It is,' he said solemnly. 'Look on it as an adventure.'
On the whole it seemed the best approach.
'We mustn't forget the romance,' I said, half teasing, turning from unlocking my door.
'Women never do,' he said, and he kissed my cheek.
I jumped about a foot. God knows what I would have done if he had suggested a quick one round the back. The ten-second mile?
'Bye, then,' I said, awkward as a teenager, as I got into my car. He stood there waving as, a little confusedly and in the wrong direction, I drove away. I found myself looking in my mirror to check that he would not slip back into the pub for an assignation with Miss Bristols. But only a moment later I realized, with a wonderful flash of pleasure, that jealousy need never be part of this accord. We had struck a Chinese bargain, one that did not need lawyers or even to be written down, for it was of equal benefit to us both and therefore as binding as law.
By the time I had righted my course and reached home, I was beginning to feel quite thrilled. Something is happening at last, I told myself and Mrs Mortimer. In the hall mirror my eyes looked very bright and my cheeks quite pink, which was exactly right.
1
could almost see the damp hanky and the tear in my eye as I waved him off to Nicaragua next year
..
. Nicaragua
of all places - and I wondered why. Just a
Boy's Own
sense of 'outward bound' tinged with politics? Or something more profound? Not my business. Wonderful liberation. I did not have to find things out. A great relief. It would happen, he had said - and that applied both to sex and to other things. Let it be.
I made up my mind not to tell Saskia what was happening. This was purely for me - if she got wind of it she would hammer it to death. Besides, I felt uncomfortable talking to her at the moment. She had stepped up her campaign about Dickie coming to London one day and I thought I would stick to letter-writing for a while. Letters were much easier to control. Blessed are the peace-makers, perhaps, but I was quite at peace
not
seeing Dickie. Saskia had to respect that.
With my mind a jumble, which was reasonable, I could not settle and went out again almost immediately. I called in at the shop. It was nearly closing-time. Reg was out delivering and there was no sign of Spiteri Junior. Joan looked just the same and it gave me the grimmest of satisfactions to watch
le flick
from the safety of the other side of the coun
ter. It being Tuesday the lankne
ss was apparent but it had not yet reached devastation point. Beneath its haunting shadow I detected a welcoming smile.
'How's it going?' I asked,
bonhomie
oozing from every pore. 'Dreadful,' she said. 'Dreadful.'
My stomach turned over, or whatever really happens to make the midriff lurch. I had promised Spiteri Senior that if the shop got completely out of hand I would come back - if only until a replacement was found - and, heart, blood and soul, suddenly I really,
really
didn't want to.
'Where is the brute?' I asked.
She raised her arms in despair, flicked back her hair again and eyed me balefully as the hank slowly descended. Automatically I reached for the small jam jar on the counter and took out a rubber band, handing it to her without a word. Automatically she took it, also without a word, and put it in her hair.
'In the cells,' she said.
I saw stars.
'What?!'
I screeched. With no protective covering Joan's eyes blinked like a startled owl's. 'What on earth for?' Had he been embezzling? Assaulting the female customers? I saw my delightful days of sunshine and fun evaporate. I heard Simon's voice say, 'I've got a fair amount of free time .
..'
My heart sank. Bloody Spiteri Junior. In the
cells?
'He stole a car and he had some hash .
..'
Not, surely, things that would take him away from framing for ever? Wishful thinking. 'Oh, God.' I slumped down. 'That's it, then. I'll have to come back.'
Joan looked even more startled. 'Well, not necessarily,' she said. 'I mean, I'm coping fine here and Reg is. We're on top of it. Manos is a bit of a pain but he does his turn. We manage .
..'
'Manos?'
'Mr Spiteri's son . . .'
'How on earth can he do his
turn
if he's languishing in cells and reeking of pot?'
'Oh, Aunt M!'
Joan was laughing. 'It's my Charlie who's in the nick. Not Manos.'
'Charlie?
My God!' I said. 'You went back with him
..
.?' But I very nearly kissed her.
'Mistake. Never again,' she said grimly.
'I'm sorry,' I said. She shrugged. On the whole there was not the usual look of crushed worm about her. 'Despite that you look well, Joan.'
'So do you.' She looked me up and down. 'In fact you look terrific'
'Well, that's what a few weeks off the treadmill can do' - I leaned forward - 'and no love troubles to get in the way. I'm sorry about Charlie.'
'Oh, it was over and done with, anyway. Think I
will
give it all up for the time being.' She sighed as she repla
ced the right-angle samples neatl
y on the display board. 'It just never works out, does it?'
'Not if you hope it will,' I said, perhaps a little too happily. 'Lower your expectations, and it might.'
I bought a card for Jill on the way home of a simpering Edwardian couple standing in a rose bower, she parasoled, he bare-headed and bewhiskered, their hands about to touch as they reached towards the same bloom. The caption was 'Love blossoms'. Feeling a bit wicked, I added, 'But watch out for pricks,' which I thought was quite witty. I sent it off with a little message to the effect that I would ring her very soon to confirm the weekend arrangements for the end of May. Oh! I thought after I dropped it in the pillar-box.
Arrangements.
Like a double bed? I thought with passing regret of the pretty little room I usually occupied, with its flouncy curtains and broderie anglaise on the single bed, where I had always felt like an indulged child. Well. 'There sleeps
Titania some time of the night,
Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight.' Hmm, and we all know what happened to her . . .
Tomorrow I would go to the Auerbach show and get Sassy's wretched catalogue. That'd shut her up. She could be extremely tenacious sometimes. As I wended my way home, I thought, Now there's no going back . . .
Chapter Eighteen
Dad and Judith are separating for a while. It is so sad and I feel very bad about it because, apart from that, I am extremely, extremely happy. And still waiting for that catalogue! What's the matter? Don't you care about
me any more? We paint away like
mad. I'm learning a lot. He's nicer than you could possibly imagine. Hope you are having a good time whatever you are up to!
Verity, who is working on a script treatment based on Joan's experience - very loosely based since she has re-invented her heroine as extremely beautiful, extremely rich and extremely powerful - is feeling pretty fed up again. She is drinking mineral water laced with a few drops of lemon juice and, although it makes her feel morally superior, it is no compensation for the buzz of alcohol. However, she has vowed to abjure it, and abjure it she has. Even when Mark rang and said that he was about to ask someone else out but before he did he wanted to know if Verity really meant it was over between them. She had put her knuckles in her mouth while he was talking so that any sobs or gasps would not transfer, and she said bri
ghtly
when he had finished his little speech, 'Yes, of course. I hope it works out for you.' He had not sounded too sure that it would, nor pleased to be given her blessing. As she put the phone down, she said to the handset that at worst he was game-playing and at best he meant it. Either way it showed him up for the shit he was. Why couldn't he just leave her alone?
She has stomped back to her word processor and written a highly satisfying dialogue between her heroine and her hero in which he abjectly apologizes for everything. The abject apology goes on for quite a long time and turns into a lament for the honour of done-unto women. Verity knows that it will all have to be cut - the whole point is that he docs not excuse himself for the way he is made, nor for being in love with both her and the other man. It is a play for the caring nineties, which is how she sold it, and any hint of prejudice will have to come out. Nevertheless, the scene has been a satisfying exercise. She might keep it for the next opus. With the dead way she has been feeling, by the time she comes to
write
the sodding next opus it will be out of the caring nineties and into the terrible twenty-ones - castrate the deviants and women should be seen and not heard .
..