Worn Out Wife Seeks New Life

by Carmen Reid

  This made River laugh.

  ‘Oh, same,’ she said, ‘nothing freaks parents out more than telling them you’re planning a creative career.’

  ‘And I got good marks at school,’ he said, a little touched that she’d asked about his past and was clearly interested to hear more, ‘so they wanted me to become an accountant, or a lawyer, something respectable, something that paid a lot better than my dad’s job driving a bus, or my mum’s job in social services. And who can blame them?’

  River gave a shrug of agreement.

  ‘So when I said I was going to art school – and in those days, the fees were all paid, you didn’t need your parents’ permission – they just about threw me out of the house. Dad didn’t speak to me for nearly a year.’

  ‘Oh, that’s harsh,’ River sympathised. ‘I come from a very talkative family. They will shout and rant at you, but not speaking… that would kill them.’

  ‘All credit to him, he did come round,’ Dave went on. ‘Along with my mum, he came to our end-of-year show, and he spoke to the tutors and got a better understanding that this was a real thing. There were art professors and lecturers. There were gallery owners and artists who made a living.’

  ‘He must be proud of you now,’ River said, ‘respectable school art teacher married to a successful professional and living in this gorgeous place.’

  ‘And not forgetting the two wonderful children – yes, I think he would be.’ Dave smiled, enjoying her compliment, then thoughtfully added, ‘He’s been dead for quite a while now. Had a heart attack in the supermarket. All those people around and no one knew how to do cardiac first aid. If anyone had been able to do anything helpful, we might have had him around for another five years.’

  ‘Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,’ River said then added, ‘we lost my dad in similar circumstances. He had a heart attack in the cinema. And we can’t blame the movie – it hadn’t even started. But again, no one did anything for him except dial 911.’

  It was Dave’s turn to be sorry.

  ‘I was so angry,’ River went on, ‘you’ll get to know that about me – it’s my go-to emotion – I went on a first responder course the month after he died. Please tell me you still have your mom?’

  ‘No… she died two years ago. They weren’t the healthiest pair – smoked a lot – sorry,’ he added quickly, but River just shrugged. ‘Still, you expect people to make it to seventy these days. But neither of them did.’

  ‘You’ve already lost your dad and then your mom… that is so sad. That must have been so hard to deal with. I’m very sorry,’ River said.

  Her sympathy touched him. Yes, his parents’ deaths had been hard to cope with. And they’d come at such busy times for his own family… Tess frantic at work, his own children and his pupils busy with school exams, so that somehow the process of grieving, coping and coming to terms with it all had felt rushed. Looking back, he often thought they should have put the brakes on everything for a few weeks and he should definitely have taken more time off, especially when his mum went too.

  ‘Anyway…’ Dave took a little moment to gather his thoughts before he spoke again. ‘So painting was a really big part of my life at art school and for two or three years afterwards.’

  ‘So what kind of painting did you do?’ River asked and, enjoying her interest, Dave told her about being part of a group of young artists who were creating public works of art: murals, huge sculptures and inter-active events.

  ‘It was important to get people involved,’ he said, ‘take art out of the galleries and into real spaces where people could interact and take part in it, and we were really trying to make a difference. Some things worked very well… some things not so much,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well, that’s the way with creative stuff,’ River assured him, ‘some flies, some bombs… and usually, no one even knows why.’

  ‘But it was a precarious way to make a living,’ Dave said, ‘and, in the end, that just got to me.’ He drained the last of his coffee. ‘I got married to Tess, who was doing really well, moving up the rungs and having this young, corporate accountant life, while I was totally erratic. I’d have one month at home doing nothing, then two months on the Isle of Skye creating a public monument with a light show for its launch.’

  ‘Wow, that sounds pretty cool,’ River said.

  ‘Yeah… for a time it really was,’ Dave shot her a smile, ‘but then, when Tess was on maternity leave with Alex, and I was either out of London or out of work, it just wasn’t cool any more. She had to go back to work early because they needed her, then she got offered a great opportunity up here… and, within a year, we were living in Leamington Spa and she was a full-time working mum and I was teaching art at a very nice grammar school.’

  ‘Well done, Dave,’ River said, ‘you’ve created a lovely, comfortable life.’

  ‘Yes…’ Dave was agreeing but he didn’t sound completely sure.

  ‘But you must feel there is still art inside of you that you want to get out,’ River understood, ‘because that’s what drives all of us creative people… there’s something inside that we want to drag out into the daylight. Well, that and paying the bills, obviously.’

  ‘Yes,’ he caught her eye and held the look, ‘I suppose that is exactly it. There’s still some unfinished business. Still pictures in my head that I would like to make.’

  ‘Still something you’d like to say,’ River said, but at the same time wondered what she was trying to say with her Merchant of Venice for teens… sometimes not everything you create is a piece of art. Sometimes it just has to be quality entertainment.

  ‘Ah… well, I don’t know about that.’ He gave a shrug and a dry laugh. ‘My radical “art is for the masses” statements are probably behind me.’

  ‘There’s no shame in having a regular job that you’re proud of,’ River told him, ‘believe me, I’ve considered it often enough. And loads of my writer friends work a second job. I bet all your art school buddies are the same, huh? People had to get jobs and make a living and leave being Andy Warhol to Andy Warhol, I guess?’

  Dave let out a long sigh. In many ways, if that were true, it might be easier, but knowing he was with one of the few people who would probably sympathise, he admitted, ‘That would be better, but actually, the people I was rushing around Skye with, working twenty-two hours a day to set up light shows and over-water sculptures and huge city artscapes… they’re still doing it. They’re doing really well, fantastically well, and my guess is you will have heard of them.’

  ‘Really? Who?’ River was intrigued.

  Dave reeled off three names. Two certainly rang a bell with River, but the third, everyone knew the third.

  ‘You went to college with Van Saint?’ she asked, eyes wide.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘You did installations and sculptures and stuff with him?’

  ‘Yup.’

  River now cast her mind to the paintings inside the house. She’d picked up straight away that they were carefully chosen, quality works, but now she realised that she’d been looking at some seriously expensive, original stuff.

  ‘That’s pretty cool, Dave.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So… let me guess, you must be just a little sorry that you stopped working with him and decided to go and be a teacher?’ she asked, even though it wasn’t the kindest question.

  ‘Ah, well… as you say, I have a very nice life and a lovely family…’ he paused, ‘but that can be quite a hard question to answer.’

  ‘And did Tess make you quit the artistic lifestyle? Is that a bit of a sore point between you?’

  This question startled Dave. How do decisions get made in a marriage? One person has an idea; you discuss it, you think about it… Tess had wanted them all to be happy: her, Dave and baby Alex. Leaving making art for teaching art had seemed like a good solution. Tess had encouraged him but hadn’t forced him in any way.

  ‘It was a joint decision and to be honest, Tess doesn�
�t ever mention it,’ Dave admitted. And he realised that over one cup of coffee, River had sought out two of the most tender areas of his life – the death of his parents and the fact that he’d stopped creating art, even though he was good at it, and had never found a way back in all these years.

  ‘Well, hey, if it’s any consolation,’ River began, ‘I was Franklyn Gregory’s girlfriend for three years. We broke up because he wanted to get married and have children, but I think I prefer dogs.’

  Dave turned wide eyes in her direction. After an astonished pause, he couldn’t help blurting out: ‘You were Franklyn Gregory’s girlfriend? For three years? Hold on, hold on… I need to hear some more about this!’

  19

  Tess was frozen to the spot. Maybe if she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, he would go away. But the voice on the other side of the door was still shouting:

  ‘I know you’re in there! Open up!’

  The fear of being a strange person, in a strange country, who didn’t know the rules and didn’t know what could happen next, gripped her.

  ‘Okay, that’s it,’ the voice said, ‘I’m going to call the super!’

  Super? Was that some sort of building supervisor? This seemed to give her the shake she needed and she suddenly felt a boost of confidence – surely no axe-wielding maniac would call the ‘super’? That sounded almost quite a reasonable thing to do. Maybe she could summon her best business voice and talk this over with him as calmly as possible. Maybe this man’s bark was worse than his bite.

  Sounding as English as she possible could, she said, ‘Just one moment please, I’m going to unlock the door.’

  She turned the key, loosened the large bolt and slowly, heart hammering in her throat, pulled the apartment’s front door towards her. There in the hallway stood a tall, lean and upright black man with tight salt-and-pepper cropped hair, broad shoulders and a surprised expression on his handsome face.

  ‘You are not River Romero,’ he said.

  ‘No, hello, I’m Tess. I’m River’s houseguest. I’m going to be staying here for a few weeks. River’s gone to England,’ Tess said, drawing herself up.

  ‘Hmmm. So, did you throw dog shit onto my balcony?’

  This man had a deep and melodious voice, far too classy for that question. It sounded a little like Morgan Freeman was asking her.

  ‘I am so extremely sorry about that,’ Tess began, ‘I was cleaning the balcony, which was a horrible mess, and a… well… poo… fell over the edge. I am so sorry. I was just getting my cleaning things together to come down and offer to clean it up for you.’

  ‘A poo? Fell over the edge?’ the man repeated.

  ‘Yes. It was a complete accident and I’m so sorry,’ Tess repeated, ‘I want to put that right straight away. I’ve got bags and a scoop out on the balcony that I can bring down.’

  ‘A poo…’ the man repeated. ‘Over here we say poop, or crap, or shit by the way… FYI…’

  ‘Right…’

  ‘This dog crap fell on a very special, very, very special pair of dance shoes. I don’t know if your tools, whatever they are, are going to be able to clean this up.’

  ‘Why don’t I get my things together and come over?’ she offered.

  For a moment or two, the man looked beyond her and into River’s apartment.

  ‘I have to say, you have really cleaned up in here. The last time I came to talk to River about her dogs, this place was one great, hot mess.’

  ‘Yes… I’ve had to completely sort it out. I think she must have left in a hurry.’ This was the most tactful way Tess could think of putting it.

  ‘Yeah… that sounds like her. She is always in a hurry. Look…’ He put his hands on his hips and gave something of a sigh. ‘I can see you’re trying to sort that woman’s crap out… literally.’

  ‘No… not really,’ Tess began. In fact she was just trying to take a relaxing holiday. But absolutely not one single relaxing thing had happened so far.

  ‘Well, I can see you didn’t mean any harm,’ he clarified. ‘So why don’t I clean up my own balcony and my own shoes and if I have any problem, I will come back to you. What do you think of that?’

  Tess got the impression that far from being an angry, hot-headed man, this was a pretty reasonable, and probably quite nice man, who had perhaps been pushed just a bit too far by River in the past.

  ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure you’re okay with that? I really am happy to help out,’ she told him.

  ‘Yes… I think I’m going to be fine with that. I’m not sure I want any kind of dog crap removal tools coming through my apartment.’ These words did come with something of a smile.

  ‘No… probably not,’ she said. ‘Look, I really am sorry. What number is your apartment?’ she asked, thinking ahead to the bunch of flowers, box of chocolates, or other little gift she would leave on his doorstep later today.

  ‘I’m Larry Jones and I live at number 33.’

  ‘Hi Larry, nice to meet you. I’m Tess Simpson and I’ll be here for another six weeks. I’m going to try to train the dogs not to use the balcony, so hopefully this won’t happen again. By the way, you’re the first person I’ve met in the building, so I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what has happened to the pool?’

  At this, Larry rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, the pool, now that is a long story.’

  When Larry had gone, Tess finished some other chores in the apartment. But this was only minor dusting the slats of the blinds type stuff. All the critical areas, the heavy lifting of cleaning this absolute rat-hole of a place, was almost completely finished now and she was aware that she needed to get outside. She’d been in LA for over forty-eight hours now and she’d only stepped outside once to go to the shop. In all honesty, she was surprised by how overwhelmed she felt by the outside world. It was so hot, so dirty, dusty and busy out there. And she didn’t know where to go or how she could get there without using River’s car, which she’d not even gone to look for yet.

  She realised that she was completely out of her comfort zone. Busy, busy, organised Tess, who could cope with client meetings, client deadlines, stroppy teenagers, a ludicrously overloaded timetable and all sorts of demands and expectations, was suddenly wondering if she could leave an apartment.

  This just wasn’t like her and she couldn’t understand what was happening. What was it about out there that was keeping her held back and stuck inside? It felt so alien and different and she felt so far away from all of her usual people, places and supports. She was truly out of her comfort zone and there was nothing familiar to fall back on. All at once, she realised how rarely she left that zone and did things that were new or difficult. Maybe part of the reason her life had become so routine was that she had become so routine.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she told herself, ‘you came here for an adventure, so you’ve got to start somewhere…’ Okay, she did at least know one person in LA, so that one person would have to give her the hand that she maybe needed. She called up Tom’s number on her phone.

  ‘Hi Tom, this is Tess… in River’s apartment. Yes… the malamutes. Well… I was just wondering…’

  Then rather hesitantly, she explained to him that when he came to give them their walk round the neighbourhood, would he be able to walk her round the neighbourhood too?

  ‘I just don’t know where anything is,’ she said. ‘Where do I take the dogs? Where do I buy something good to eat? Where’s the best coffee place? I’m sure you could give me some pointers, just get me started.’

  Tom was charmingly enthusiastic and promised he would be there soon, so that put Tess into a different kind of fuss, and she headed to the bedroom to change, wondering what she should wear for the weather and this first trip around the neighbourhood.

  She decided on a flowing, floral linen shift type of dress. Then she brushed and fluffed up her hair, and added comfortable, new, white sneakers and a jaunty basket to her outfit.

  Yes, she thought, surveying herself in the sli
m sliver of mirror – that looks fine: summery, breezy, colourful. Then she began the slow process of anointing her delicate skin with factor fifty sunscreen. Ye gods, didn’t every single bottle ever produced promise to be non-greasy, with no white marks and wasn’t it always a great big lie? She looked at herself in the mirror with much less enthusiasm now. Her legs, her arms, her face and neck all looked pale and waxy. Everything became worse when Tom rang the doorbell, the dogs got all excited and rushed around her legs, shedding white hairs into the layer of sun cream. Good grief.

  ‘So… I don’t often walk around these blocks,’ Tom was telling her as they set off at a jaunty pace with a dog each. ‘I usually put the dogs into the car and drive them out to the nearest hiking trail and let them run. But there are some pretty good dog parks nearby so let’s go check them out and I’ll show you the good places to stop and shop on the way.’ In his perfect fit blue cycle shorts and black t-shirt, he was just as neat and dapper as she remembered.

  Ten minutes into this walk, Tess couldn’t understand why she hadn’t brought sunglasses. The glare from the bright white sky, from the pavement, from even the windscreens of passing cars was hurting her eyes. Plus, her sweat was mixing with the sunscreen to form oily dribbles already running between her shoulder blades and down her sides. Too late now, she realised that the thick linen shift was all wrong for summer in LA. It was designed for gentle British Julys, for temperatures in the high teens and low twenties, when your dress needed a bit of heft against the cool breeze. Here, the occasional passerby they met on the ‘sidewalk’ was wearing vest tops, shorts, or breezy skirts made of light clouds of material with deep slits to benefit from any passing waft of air.

  And her feet were melting in the heavy plastic sneakers, while Los Angelenos wore flipflops, strappy sandals or sneakers made of mesh. Tess’s hair stuck to the back of her neck, as she regretted not securing her thick locks in a ponytail or bun so that the breeze could bring coolness to her sweating and overheated parts.