by Carmen Reid
‘Hello Dave, how are you doing?’
They switched to video so they could see one another.
‘It’s not me you want to see though, is it?’ Dave asked. ‘You want to make sure the garden has survived.’
‘Well… maybe,’ she admitted.
‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine. The lawn is going to need some TLC…’ this was an understatement, Dave was planning to get the whole thing re-turfed before she arrived, ‘but otherwise, we’re in pretty good shape.’ This was a downright lie… he angled the phone camera away from a flattened rose bush, but no need to get Tess all worked up. He could have a lot of the damage repaired before she got back.
‘Did you have a good time?’ she asked him.
‘Oh… well… parts of it were fantastic… I mean, Tess, Franklyn Gregory was in our garden!’ he said. ‘But the pressures of being the host… they were pretty immense.’
His phone in his hand, he began to push the canvases into the bin bag.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I’m getting rid of the rubbish,’ he said.
But she had spotted something.
‘What are you throwing away there? That didn’t look like rubbish.’
Dave suddenly felt very tired and very hungover. So much so that he sat down on the grass.
‘No,’ he said, ‘these are my paintings… and I’ve decided to throw them away. Because they’re absolutely crap. Boring, mundane, suburban, hobbyist crap.’
This wasn’t just his opinion, some pretty important artists had told him exactly that last night. Yes, he’d been drunk, but he wasn’t going to forget their laughter for a very long time… maybe never.
‘Dave… can I see them?’ Tess asked.
‘Well… if you want to…’
Dave held the phone up and spread his blue canvases across the grass. They were different sizes, and all different shades of blue with abstract shapes painted across them… well, not entirely abstract shapes… those shapes meant something to him, but certainly hadn’t meant anything to the ‘experts’ he’d shown them to last night.
Dave held his phone up over every one for a few moments in turn. He looked at them too as he did this. They had taken hours and hours of work and while he didn’t for a moment consider them great art, he realised they meant a lot to him.
‘They’re lovely,’ Tess said down the line, ‘please don’t think about throwing a single one away. If there are any in the bin bag, take them out now.’
‘No, there aren’t any in the bin bag, but quite a few went up in the chimenea last night.’
‘What?’
‘Long story,’ he said, ‘do you recognise them?’
‘Yes… of course I do. There’s that tiny little green shed perched on the path we had to walk down to get to the beach in Cornwall. And there are the flags, the rows of flags on the beach at Biarritz… that dazzling summer blue, you’ve got that just right. And I love the tiny figures… is that Alex, with a surfboard? And toddler Natalie with the spotty yellow-and-pink swimsuit?’
‘Yeah…’ he said, so pleased that she’d been able to read them all.
‘They’re lovely, Dave. I love every single one of them. You must have worked so hard.’
‘You’re too kind,’ he said, and realised he had a lump in his throat.
‘I want to hang them all up in the house… if that’s okay with you?’
‘Yes… that is okay with me…’ he realised. ‘As long as it’s somewhere subtle… a little bit out of the way, you know… not hanging over the mantelpiece or anything like that.’
‘I’ll think of some good places. Are you enjoying the painting?’ she asked.
‘I found it really hard to start and I’m super critical of what I’ve done,’ he admitted, ‘but when I’m in the moment, painting, yes, I really enjoy it. But…’ his voice went a little husky, ‘as I suspected, I’m not an artist, Tess.’
Tess heard the deep note of sadness in his voice and felt a rush of love and sympathy for him: ‘That’s okay though, Dave… you don’t need to be an artist. I think it’s quite a tricky lifestyle.’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed, thinking of the weeks he’d spent watching River. She’d spent hours and hours locked up in her room and seemed to go through a whole range of artistic ups and downs every day. It looked totally intense and exhausting. ‘But didn’t you fall in love with an artist?’ he asked his wife.
Tess, thousands of miles away, looked out through the big window over the balcony and into the bright blue sky of another LA day.
‘No… I fell in love with you,’ she told her husband. ‘You’re a very kind man. You’re a good teacher…’
‘I could be better.’
‘You’re a good dad,’ she went on.
‘I could be better… And I could be a much better husband too. I want to do much better at it all.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘me too.’
And that was the truth of it. This conversation, this simple heart-to-heart was putting Nathan into perspective for her.
‘Where do we start?’ he asked her.
‘I’m not exactly sure, but maybe with wanting it to be better… and more conversations like this.’
‘Yeah…’ he agreed.
And there was a long and thoughtful pause, before Tess said: ‘Alex phoned me. It was very early in the morning for me, but it was lovely. He sounded really good. Better than I’ve heard him for ages. Really upbeat… really happy and settled. Sounds like he’s enjoying work and London and making friends… all the things you’d want.’
‘Yeah… he phoned me too, the day before the party. And agreed, he sounded great. It was really good to hear.’
‘And how’s River getting on?’ was Tess’s next question.
‘Oh…’ and suddenly the memory of kissing River came hurtling back to Dave and he felt nothing but a flood of guilt, ‘she’s pretty hungover today. I’ve given her coffee and Coke and sent her back to bed. She’s in no state to help with the clear up.’
‘Oh dear…’
‘But I think her writing’s going well, so that’s good.’
‘She must be getting to the end of her project…’
‘I don’t know… I suppose so…’ Still Dave was thinking of that kiss and wondering how he would explain it to his wife… or if he should. ‘And what about you? What are you doing today?’
‘Oh… it’s a pretty exciting day for me today… I’ve been asked to give a guest lecture on personal finance at the University of Los Angeles.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah… I met one of the economics professors there a week or so ago… and they’ve had this last-minute cancellation and were urgently looking for a replacement… so I’ve volunteered to help out. And after that… my dance teacher is taking me out for a fish taco… because I did his accounts for him and saved him about $7,000 and then he’s taking me to LA’s best tango dancing club. So it’s a pretty big day.’
‘Wow…’ Dave looked around the slightly destroyed English suburban garden and told her, ‘Well, that sounds completely epic… I am totally jealous… your dance teacher?’ he asked. ‘Why have I not heard anything about you having a dance teacher…?’
Tess laughed. ‘Wasn’t the point of this holiday for me to go and do things on my own?’
‘But… a tango club? That just doesn’t sound very you.’
‘That’s what this holiday is all about.’
She sounded so well… so energetic and so happy, Dave couldn’t help but notice.
‘I hope your lecture goes really well,’ he said. ‘And that you have a great day… and I love you, Tess.’
‘Thanks… you have a good day too. Love you too, Dave.’
Love you too… that wasn’t quite the same, though, was it? He thought as he hung up. That was what you said to your children, your parents… even your friends. And she sounded so good. Tango dancing, guest lectures… the blonde hair.
Was she going
to come back to him?
Going to come back to their marriage?
To the way things were?
Why would she?
39
The night before… the night before…
River was in bed trying to sleep off her hangover and tossing, turning, dozing, then tossing and turning again. She was searching her memory for what on earth had gone on at the party. She was thinking hard, trying to remember as much as she could, the good, the bad and there had definitely been ugly too.
It had begun beautifully; hazy, warm sunshine, a light breeze and the garden, oh-so beautiful, roses standing out in full bloom, tables with white table cloths, chairs, icy bottles of wine and beer cooling in tubs heaped with ice. Dave had rigged up speakers at the windows to play out over the garden and there was a cable so people could plug in their phones and play their own songs. And the most beautifully dressed guests had arrived. Dave’s neighbours in linen suits and floral dresses, sipping champagne and making the kind of polite but delightful conversation that made you wish you’d been brought up in England.
Then the actors had arrived, all jeans or heels and minidresses, and the volume had cranked up a little. More laughter, more jokes, and cigarettes lit up in the garden. And then Phillip had showed up by swanky car from London with his girlfriend and a couple of friends in tow. River remembered what a good host Dave had been: circulating, introducing guests to one another, making sure everyone was talking and their glasses were full. He’d picked up on the importance of Phillip straightaway and had provided him with a welcoming glass of champagne and then a range of fancy soft drinks. Dave had run the barbeque and their old-fashioned hamburgers and elaborate kebabs had gone down a storm. And gradually, this sort of whispered anticipation had begun to build that Franklyn and the famous artists would arrive.
It had swelled and then ebbed a little as people got onto their third or fourth drinks and began to suspect that it wasn’t going to happen. And then the party had got a little looser round the edges. River had put her favourite tracks on through the speaker… and Blondie, Beyonce and Tupac began to blast through the garden and a few of the actors began to dance on the lawn… especially to Blondie, everyone has to dance to Blondie’s ‘Heart of Glass’: ‘Oooooh ooooh woah oh!’
And then Franklyn had appeared. The fucking fucker had fucking appeared.
‘You fucking made it!’ River seemed to remember greeting him, wine bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. Never mind, she also remembered that she looked absolutely gorgeous. She’d ordered some outrageously expensive, cutting-edge, summer dress on the internet – Essential Antwerp, well, when in Europe – along with high, clumpy heeled, pink ankle boots. She’d made her hair poker straight, done deepest smoky eye and slash of lipstick and looked totally boho summer hot.
‘Hi River, what a fabulous house… what an awesome party,’ he’d told her and she could tell he meant it. ‘This is my wife, Mena.’
River remembered kissing this slinky blonde woman, who smelled ah-mazing and had skin like satin. She also remembered they all talked… and it was lovely and kind of totally cool. She had revelled in the feeling of enhanced reality that celebrities bring. People all around are noticing but pretending not to and meanwhile the celebrity is noticing being noticed and also pretending not to.
But she had to respect Franklyn, he totally owned it, bossed it even.
He and Mena talked to her, the hostess, for the longest. Then they began a gorgeously kind and thoughtful tour of the garden. Like visiting royalty, they went around, shaking hands and saying hello to every single person there. No one went without their moment in the Franklyn sunshine. Make that the Franklyn and Mena sunshine, because she was quite something. She was the wife for him and River could tell that he truly loved her. Phillip got senior Hollywood treatment, River remembered. And that was good… there was something else about Phillip too… but she couldn’t remember it right now. No panic, it would come back, surely.
And while River was watching Phillip schmooze with Mena and Franklyn, there was this screech of tyre tracks and blaring music from the front of the house. When she’d gone round to look, she’d watched a ludicrous silver sports car pull up, then three guys and a woman in a satin slip of a dress piled out. The guy in the pink suit and flamboyant yellow shirt she knew straight away. That was Van Saint, one of Britain’s most famous and most successful artists. She thought the guy in a more conservative blue suit was Dean Vincent… known for his work with Van Saint. The guy piling out of the back in a black shirt and jeans, she didn’t know him. But she guessed these guys were all from Dave’s art class. And the woman had to be someone’s wife-slash-girlfriend, because she didn’t look like the kind of person who’d hang around all day thinking artistic thoughts and being splattered in paint.
Dave’s voice over her shoulder: ‘Oh my God! You made it! You found us! Bloody hell!’ Then a volley of laughter, followed by: ‘It’s so good see you again.’
Big manly hugs and back slapping all round.
And then there were some preciously glam moments of Hollywood clashing with the art world: Van Saint looking pretty surprised to be shaking hands with Franklyn Gregory.
‘How do you know Dave?’ he’d asked, sounding astonished.
‘River,’ Franklyn had pointed her out, ‘she’s a friend of both of ours.’
‘Right…’ This had cleared no confusion.
Having sprinkled the party with magical Hollywood sparkle, Franklyn and Mena had slipped off with kisses and more of those wonderfully scented hugs and: ‘See you soon. Wow, great party, River.’
And then the neighbours with their delightful chat peeled off home too. So the actors, the artists, River and Dave were left and that’s… that’s when it all got wild.
Aware of the deep, pulsing pain in her head, River remembered The End of the Wine… and the ransacking of the entire drinks cabinet. And then Jimi Hendrix was blasting out of the speakers with that big heavy, throbbing bass and amp and electric guitar.
And it got sooo late and she got soooo drunk.
And the artists went into the summerhouse and hauled all of Dave’s paintings out and they roared with laughter at his efforts. Dave was laughing too, but River… she could feel her stomach clench. It had clenched up then and it clenched hard now at the memory of this.
All those drink bottles scattered across the lawn, glittering in the firelight. And the artists opening the chimenea and first of all stacking in more and more logs and videoing the fire and laughing and drinking like crazy pirates.
Then they started to stuff Dave’s canvases in through the door of the chimenea.
They were filming the whole thing and roaring with laughter and calling it ‘the Suburban Death of the Artist’. (This, she had to admit, was freaking genius… but not at Dave’s expense.)
And she was talking to Phillip and trying so hard to concentrate on what he was saying because it was… what was it? It had definitely been good.
But finally, she’d had to stand up, and put a stop to what those asshats were doing. She stumbled over to the chimenea in her clumpy pink boots, cigarette in one hand and scooped up all the canvases that were left with her other.
‘Fuck off,’ she told the artists, ‘I’m keeping these ones.’ And she stomped towards the summerhouse with the paintings in her arms. But something was missing.
She realised halfway to the summerhouse that her battered old Zippo lighter wasn’t bumping against her hip. It must have fallen out of the handy pocket of her dress (those European designers, huh, a pocket in a party dress) when she bent down for the canvases.
She turned to see Van Saint, his face orange in the firelight, pull open the Zippo’s brass case, pull out the fuel-soaked wadding and throw it into the already roaring fire.
‘Stand back!’ he shouted.
Then there was a thunderous bang and pieces of hot metal and fire exploded over the garden. Just like a mini, freaking volcano.
There were
screams and shouts and that madman’s maniacal laughter.
‘Oh my God,’ she groaned now, pulling the duvet over her head and wondering if she was going to throw up again. She didn’t even want to remember the next bit. It was horrible. There were burning chunks of fire all over the garden. Chairs, napkins and tablecloths were on fire. The hem of someone’s dress was on fire. And so much screaming! And then Dave had appeared, hobbling at speed from the kitchen with a large fire extinguisher in his hands. First the girl’s dress was doused, then he darted from fire to fire covering everything in a muffler of foam. And soon the fires, the madness and the screaming began to damp down.
River had approached the three artists, who were still freaking filming.
‘Which one of you is the sober one?’ she asked first. The guy in the jeans, who wasn’t the famous one, said he was.
‘Okay, you guys need to go now,’ she’d told them. And she remembered them making a fuss, just like the stupid boys at school parties… ‘We were just having a laugh’… ‘Don’t be like that.’ But, in fact, she really enjoyed being ‘like that’… and told them to scram with no chummy goodbyes to Dave, who was still dousing sizzling metal with foam.
And… that was it! It was coming back to her. That was when she ran into Phillip. And he seemed so calm and sober and wise. He even helped with some fire extinguishing. Then, when things were finally calm again, he sat down with her and made her drink a glass of water.
And that’s when he told her. ‘Hey River, I hope you’re not too drunk to remember this in the morning, but what we’ve seen of the script so far is great. It’s really great. You are knocking it out of the park and everyone is genuinely excited. It’s so good we’ve got extra funding, and we’ve got another big name on the project now. Oh, and park the Shakespeare-for-teens documentary idea for now, just focus on this script. Keep up the fantastic work and we’ll speak tomorrow when your hangover has worn off. Okay… goodnight.’ And he’d kissed the top of her head.
Yes… that was the good part. That was the best bit. It made all the other stuff… Van Saint, Dean Vincent and the chimenea, the ruined chairs, the ruined garden, the terrible, terrible head and godawful stomach almost worthwhile.
