Authors: Gilli Allan
‘I sometimes think it’s their
raisons d’être,’
Stefan said. Dory put her emptied glass down on the coffee table and gave him a querying look. ‘The young.
Their purpose is to put the adults in their lives through agonies of worry.’
‘This wine is far too good to drink quickly but …’ Dory refilled their glasses, with a shrug. ‘You’re talking about Dom,’ she said, handing him his.
‘Of course.’
Later, he followed her into the little kitchen and sat on a high stool while she sizzled some cloves, bay leaves, garlic, cinnamon, allspice, and split cardamom pods in the bottom of a heavy-based saucepan.
‘That’s a wonderful smell.’ Stefan breathed in appreciatively, aware of a blossoming lightness of spirit. Dory hadn’t seemed to require any kind of explanation of his relationship with Dom. Just by relating his concerns to her, a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Her offer to speak to the boy might not resolve anything, but it was another step forward. ‘I don’t bother to do much cooking for myself. And Dom’s still a burger or pizza kind of guy.’
‘Don’t expect too much, it’s a bog-standard chilli.’ Dory tipped in the rice and gave it a stir around with the spices. ‘Can you hand me the kettle?’
He watched her as she waited till the rice began to smoke. She poured in the pre-heated water. Instantly, as it hit the hot pan, it churned into an explosive boil. She gave the rice a stir then quickly crammed the glass lid over the pluming steam. She added a weight to secure the seal and turned down the heat.
‘I give it seven minutes on simmer,’ she said. ‘Then another seven off the heat with a tea cloth under the weighted lid to absorb the moisture …’
‘Duly noted, Delia.’ He groaned, suddenly realising how this gave him away. ‘God, that probably dates me! She was the last TV cook I was aware of.’
‘No more than it dates me,’ Dory said, with a laugh. ‘Only I daresay I watch more television than you. Nigella is a bit more current, but I can’t, of course, aspire to her voluptuous figure.’
‘Overrated,’ he said. Then felt the need to explain, ‘Voluptuousness, I mean. Not every man’s cup of tea.’
Chapter Thirty-six - Dory
‘Not every man’s cup of tea.’ Like a wet flannel striking her face, it was almost as if he were warning her off. He might just as well have said outright, ‘Don’t bother fishing for compliments, love. I’m gay!’
Until that moment she’d been enjoying the evening, despite the tricky subjects they’d discussed. She was touched by how much he seemed to care about Dom. His love for the boy was evident in every word and gesture, so much so she’d been momentarily fooled. He spoke like a father about his son, not like a lover. When she offered to talk to Dominic, it was as much to please Stefan as it was to help the lad.
There’d been a short silence afterwards. She stared into the bowl of salad she was tossing, determined not to let him see the plunge of disappointment mirrored in her face. But what had she been expecting? She knew he was gay. Her rationality was something she prided herself on. Yet when their arrangement to meet had changed, from a casual early evening chat to supper, she’d begun to agonise. Eventually she’d settled on a favourite silk dress that she’d had for years, so was armed with the disclaimer – ‘What, this old thing?’ And her make-up was applied with unusual care. Everything so far this evening – the vintage wine drunk on an empty stomach, the soft, fragrant breeze through the window – had conspired in her delusion. Now she felt ridiculous.
Initially, it was he who seemed to withdraw a little. Was he embarrassed? Had he been afraid she was about to make a move on him? The awkwardness passed. Nothing further was said about celebrity cooks or their attractiveness. Anyway,
he’d
probably prefer Jean-Christophe Novelli, she thought grimly. If nothing else, her guest gave every appearance of enjoying the chilli. Even so, perhaps it was time to put this evening back on a businesslike footing. Forget the chocolate cake. She led the way to her desk.
‘OK,’ she said, briskly. ‘Since our conversation in March, I’ve been thinking about how you could market yourself more successfully.’
‘Really? You shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘It didn’t take long.’ She tapped the mouse on its pad and the screen sprang to life. ‘It’s clear you could do so much more than you have. First, the website. I looked into a few ideas and found these domain names available.’ She could hear her voice rattling on, like an old-time schoolmistress. From the moment this evening had been arranged, she’d intended to raise the subject, but the earlier, easy atmosphere had dissipated.
Get this over with
, was now her overriding instinct. ‘Up to you. You might have some other ideas that I can test out. But I can secure this one, for instance, for less than forty quid for twenty-four months.
‘Now, look at this. A website for another sculptor. It’s quite effective and stylish. I could do something like that for you, without much trouble. To make your registration money back, you’d have to put up with other people advertising on your site. I’d add more keywords and links, which would bring it up readily for someone Googling.’
Stefan was speechless, gazing at the website as if he’d never seen such a thing before. Dory scrolled rapidly through the high-quality images of sculptures, some set in a dramatic landscape and some on a beach with the sea behind them.
‘Then I found these.’ Dory pulled up one website after another of sculpture parks and sculpture gardens all over England. ‘And these are the links to apply to have your own pieces considered for inclusion,’ she said. ‘This one is just over the county border. ArtSkape is the next site you should look at.’ Dory brought up the website of the local artists’ community. ‘You should get yourself included, particularly when it comes to the open studio events. There’s no one else doing anything remotely like the kind of work you do. And then there’s this.’
Another website, this time a commercial business selling garden ornaments, opened on the screen. Glancing at him briefly, she couldn’t interpret his expression. His eyes were riveted to the screen as she scrolled through the images of statuary and classical urns in a grand garden setting. She saw neither pleasure nor gratitude in his face.
‘You may not stand a chance with a firm like this,’ she soldiered on, nerves clipping her voice. ‘These look like replicas of originals. But I don’t suppose the owners sell their permission to reproduce them
ad infinitum.
They’ll hire it out like a royalty. Selling
your
originals at a flat rate is a really bad idea.’
‘I don’t regard the gnomes as art,’ he said flatly. ‘I prefer to wipe them totally from my mind.’
‘You have to be hard-nosed about it, particularly the bronzes …’
‘They
are
offered as limited editions. But it’s a purely theoretical concept.’
‘You’ve got to develop a more positive attitude,’ she said, with a touch of impatience. ‘Look, this producer, or someone like them, may well commission pieces from current artists. It’s something we need to find out.’ Dory blushed, and then hoped he hadn’t noticed she’d said ‘we’ without thinking. She ploughed on. Even to herself she sounded brisk and officious.
‘Then there are competitions. There are two open that I could find. One is to produce a war memorial in a coastal fishing port, in Yorkshire, I can’t recall the name off-hand. It’s to commemorate a ship that went down during a training exercise, with a battalion of GIs on board. It was just before D-Day, and the disaster was kept secret until recently. I’ve put the details in the folder. The other competition is to produce a piece … hang on,’ she brought up the details on the screen. ‘That’s right, to create a piece which “encapsulates the spirit of the town” to be incorporated into the plans for the redevelopment around the docks in Painchester. About time too, in my opinion. That’s where all the local prostitutes ply their trade …’
‘They’ve got to go somewhere,’ Stefan said. There was a definite edge to his voice now, but his eyes were still focused on the monitor. At first he’d seemed stunned by what she’d shown him, but now she wondered if he was even pleased. His expression was closed, unreadable.
‘It’s also where the drug dealers hang out,’ she added, squaring her shoulders. ‘But you’re right, cleaning up one area only moves the problem to another. It’s easy to lay blame, far more difficult to come up with solutions. So …’ Shrugging off her sense of misgiving and adopting a back to business tone, she held out the folder. ‘This competition gives you another local possibility.’ He made no move. There was nothing for it but to finish what she’d started. ‘I’ve printed off the brief and the entry form. It’s all in here.’ Instead of taking the folder from her, the legs of his chair scraped back across the floor. Her heart sank at the sudden discord. Stefan stood up abruptly.
‘I didn’t expect any of this.’ He sounded rattled and defensive.
‘I know. But you need to be more commercially minded.’
‘If I’d wanted to pursue commerciality do you think I’d be in this position?’
‘I understand. I’m only using the term with regard to earning a living.’
‘This is my fault. I must have given you the wrong signals.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘Help? I don’t need … I never
asked
for help.’
The realisation that she’d blown it crackled painfully in her voice. ‘I thought …?’
‘That’s the trouble. You thought you’d take over. Bloody hell! You said your sister was the bossy one!’
‘But …’
‘Look. I’m sorry. I can see that you’ve gone to a lot of trouble. I didn’t ask you to. There’s no way I’m doing any of this stuff … it’s not
me.
I thought I’d explained.’
Another time, it might have been funny. Instead, the sight of him struggling to pull his trainers back on just underlined her sense of a lost opportunity.
Chapter Thirty-seven - Fran
Alone in her bedroom, Fran stared out into the dusk. Through her open window she could hear the TV and intermittently, the laughing voices of her husband and daughter downstairs. They were watching some glitzy US series, and probably poking fun at the female forensic technician who, always dressed in white with her cleavage on display, teetered around the scene of crime in four-inch heels.
Mel had changed from the pudgy teenager who’d obstinately thrown her backpack over her shoulder and set off for Thailand with her friends. Now she was a slender young woman, her prettiness transmuted into a fragile, haunted beauty. Fran knew she wasn’t forgiven. She couldn’t predict if she ever would be. But the bond between father and daughter had grown stronger, and more exclusive.
She recalled, with wistful nostalgia, the days when she’d been irritated by Peter’s untidiness. Now the house was not just untidy, it was in utter chaos. Since Mel’s return, Peter had embarked on a manic clear out. He started with the study – or more accurately – the PC. A skip had been delivered and left at one end of the in-and-out driveway. To watch her placid and kindly husband standing inside the skip, smashing the computer into fragments with a sledgehammer, had been chilling.
When he’d first picked it up and carried it outside to be thrown into the skip, it was Mel who ran out after her father.
‘You shouldn’t do that! Details can be retrieved off the hard drive.’ Fran and Peter didn’t bank online or pay utility bills that way, but once the idea had been planted, Peter could not let go the fear that the email correspondence between his wife and her old lover could somehow be unearthed from the wretched machine. He couldn’t rest until it was a heap of mangled plastic, spewing circuits, and microchips. He even smashed up the monitor, keyboard, and printer, while Melanie stood by, hands on hips, in eloquent disdain of the foolishness of the older generation. Watching them both, Fran felt the familiar pang of guilt.
They’d both changed. Peter was silent, his expression bitter, as he turned out the study, piling up years of old documents, box files, correspondence, and old receipts. The house even smelt different. Its usual scent – a combination of lavender, lemon, and pine – was smothered by a dry, fusty miasma. The air was constantly hazy with it. Books, undisturbed for years and trailing cobwebs as thick and dense as antique grey ribbon were pulled off the shelves and thrown onto the floor. It was almost as if he was looking for something, a secret cache of love letters, perhaps?
But she didn’t attempt to defend herself, nor try to reassure him. Though the study was the first to be hit by his whirlwind determination to de-clutter, it wasn’t the only room to have fallen victim to his sudden zeal for a radical clear-out. Wherever stuff had accumulated in squirrelly hoards, he found it and dragged it out. Did she need this? Did she want that? Why was she keeping this rubbish?
The dogs followed him – feathery ears doing radar swoops – manically excited by the unfamiliar activity and the books, magazines, and boxes, furry with dust, which appeared in piles all around the house. But their excitement became tempered by a perplexed anxiety. Ignored and occasionally shouted at, they were now more typically to be found huddled together in their basket, looking crestfallen and depressed.
If Peter had approached the job systematically it would have been easier for Fran to cope, but she knew better than to open her mouth on the subject. Peter neither wanted her help nor to listen to anything she had to say. It was hard to face the fact that he no longer trusted or believed her.
As for the life class, she hadn’t been back despite her sister’s reassurance that no one suspected the real reason she’d quit the lesson so dramatically. The approved story was that she’d felt suddenly sick. Maybe Dory
had
said that to most of them, Fran thought, but what about Stefan? Those two were becoming as thick as thieves.
Chapter Thirty-eight - Stefan
Stefan pulled the front door closed behind him, clattered down the outside steps, and nearly reached the manicured towpath before he came to a standstill and began to question himself. What kind of idiot was he? He knew damn well the internet was a tool he should be using. Even Dominic had said so. As for the rest – Dory had run a business. Of course she knew better than he how to go about self-promotion. But he was too proud, too thin-skinned, too determined to make it on his own to be able to accept help.