From the Outside

by Clare Johnston

  Ben woke to the sound of loud banging on his front door. He glanced at the clock on his oven which read 15:14. It dawned on him, as he tasted the stale whisky in his mouth, that he must have fallen asleep at the table where his head still rested.

  Whoever was knocking at the door was not giving up. Ben slowly got to his feet, suddenly aware of the pounding in his head; his mouth feeling like he’d gargled a sack of sand. Once he reached the door he stopped for a minute, leaning his hand against it in an attempt to regain some composure. When the banging started again he opened up to find Jason standing on his doorstep, eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘I fell asleep.’

  ‘I could see that from the street,’ Jason said. ‘You were flat out on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Sorry. Must have been tired,’ Ben offered meekly.

  ‘You’re stinking of drink. You told me you’d given it up?’

  ‘I have… had.’ Ben corrected, rubbing his head to try and soothe the pain. ‘Come in.’

  Jason stomped into the kitchen and saw the half-empty bottle. ‘You’ve let yerself down, Ben.’

  ‘It’s just a blip, Jason. I had a very bad morning.’

  ‘Bad morning?’ Jason scoffed. ‘You wouldn’t know a bad morning if it came up and smacked you in the face. Try living in my home for a week. You’d soon know a bad morning then.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Ben asked bluntly, now full of nausea and remorse in equal measures.

  ‘My mum’s thrown my dad out again cos he was out drinking till four in the morning and got in to a fight on the way home. She’s spent the rest of the day crying her eyes out so I came here to get out of her way.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Jason.’ Ben inched himself down onto the kitchen chair again, pushing the whisky bottle away to let Jason know he was finished with it.

  ‘That’s not the only reason I came though,’ Jason said dramatically.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Emily sold one of my drawings today – for one thousand big ones.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jason.’ Ben was on his feet now, hugging his young friend. ‘That’s unbelievable. Congratulations.’

  ‘She thinks she’ll sell more no bother so I’m using the money to put a deposit down on a wee flat to rent – two doors down from you. So, we’re neighbours, pal.’ He added with a great big beam on his face.

  ‘I’m delighted for you Jason.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’d be delighted if you’d throw that bottle away. Drink and drugs have been the bloody enemy of my family for years so don’t you go wasting your life with it and all.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Ben, suitably chastised.

  ‘Any chance of a bite to eat?’ Jason asked cheekily.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ben, laughing. ‘Let’s go down the chippie. I’m starving too.’

  Emily paced her living room floor, unsure whether she felt so panic stricken because Ben had rejected her call or by the fact she had let it get to her so much. Had she read the situation wrong? She thought Ben seemed so keen the other night, but then she never really had been any good at reading other people’s body language.

  She couldn’t figure out how men were capable of appearing totally smitten one minute, and totally disinterested the next. Now she’d made a fool of herself by taking the chance on calling him to invite him over for dinner, and he didn’t even answer. After Ben rejected her call, she had spent the first couple of hours convinced he would ring her back at any moment, but as the day crept on and morning became afternoon, she feared she had been unceremoniously dumped before she’d even been picked up. He was probably just trying to keep her sweet for Jason’s benefit, she thought, reminding herself that it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been used. And people wondered why she’d developed such a tough exterior in business. The truth was she was actually a sensitive soul who took everything way too personally so had decided long ago to pull up the emotional drawbridge and retreat. But in Ben, she really believed she had met a kindred spirit, so she’d dropped her guard.

  She checked the clock on the mantelpiece one final time. It was now six o’clock in the evening – eight hours since she’d called him. Admitting defeat, she headed for the kitchen to look out something for dinner, but as soon as she stepped into the hallway, she heard her mobile ring. She swung around and ran back into the living room, unable to remember where she had left it. She ran from one side of the room to the other, the ring getting louder somewhere in the middle. Suddenly she spotted it tucked behind a book on her coffee table. She pounced, noticing instantly that it was Ben’s number.

  ‘Hello,’ she answered breathlessly.

  ‘Emily?’ Ben asked, as if someone else could have been answering.

  ‘Yes, hi Ben. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m sorry I’ve taken a while to get back to you. It’s a very long story which I would like to tell you if you have some time this weekend.’

  ‘Yes,’ she tried to sound aloof then blew it by adding: ‘I have time now in fact. Do you want to come over?’

  ‘What’s your address?’

  ‘28 Novar Crescent.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Emily hung up and sighed a breath of relief.

  CHAPTER eleven

  THE SENSE OF FAILURE that went hand in hand with my fertility problems ironically coincided with the period in which my earnings peaked and my ego reached epic heights. I fear the mix of power and low self-esteem were a dangerous combination that wreaked havoc with my moods, causing me to swing from enormous highs to dark and volatile lows. During the highs I might splash out on another antique sports car to join the collection I hid away in a lock-up on an industrial estate, choosing only to drive them around at night so as not to appear a hypocrite. They were my one major indulgence after I very publicly vowed, during a TV interview about the opening of the Melville Centre, to shun a life of excess in favour of social responsibility.

  During the lows I became increasingly paranoid, believing that everyone was out to rip me off and dwelling on the view that I did so much for others, but no one seemed to do anything for me. I frequently bemoaned this situation to Sarah who started out trying to rationalise with me, but later chose just to roll her eyes and walk away as soon as I began one of my rants.

  So, I opted to stoke up my self-esteem by pouring all my compassion and energy into my charitable foundation and I lapped up the media coverage my increasing acts of generosity were winning across both the regional and national press.

  My father ended up framing a two-page interview I did with a Scottish broadsheet - which has taken pride of place in his living room ever since. ‘Local Hero’, read the headline. I still remember the enormous rush I felt listening to my dad recite the article aloud; I can hear the pride in his voice to this day, can see the beaming smile spread across his face. And this was his favourite section in the article, which he confided to me that he’d read over and over again:

  ‘While most multimillionaires would save their spending power for luxury yachts and private jets, Harry Melville instead chooses to invest in some of the nation’s least-supported assets; young people. Yet Melville remains distinctly modest about his efforts, insisting he is merely doing what many others would do in his position: ‘I’m not a saint,’ he explains. ‘I just can’t live with my head in the sands of some exclusive beach club. There are many, many teenagers and young adults who need support and a sense of direction. Their potential is endless as is my determination to help them. I am doing what I can and what I believe we are supposed to do as human beings.’

  Ben reached Emily’s doorstep within thirty minutes, having power-walked the route from his flat that would usually have taken him almost double the time. He was both anxious to see her and desperate to talk. He knew it was strange that someone he had known for so short a period of time should become his chosen confidante for something so deeply personal. But he had been unable to fight the over
whelming urge to share his pain and anguish with someone. Until today, that someone would have been Sarah. Now she was the root of his problems. In one moment in his eyes she had changed from being the victim of a cruel twist of fate, to the perpetrator of a treacherous, vengeful crime.

  As soon as Emily opened the door Ben reached out and embraced her, an automatic response that, had he given it a second thought, he would never have gone through with. Instinctively she held him tight. She was aware, without words, that he was suffering – and that he had come to the right place.

  Sarah must have tried Ben’s mobile more than ten times on the day he had walked into her argument with Paul, but he never answered, a fact for which she was partially grateful as she had no idea what she could say to him to turn the situation around. She flinched as she recalled the look of sheer hate in his eyes before he had turned and walked out of her front door. The shock of finding he’d been lied to on such a major scale along with his outrage at discovering she had cheated on his brother had shattered their blooming friendship and Sarah knew there was nothing she could say to regain Ben’s trust. She had blown it.

  The pain of losing Ben was almost as bad as her grief over my death. He had restored her faith in life. Just when she thought the world was a dark place with no cause for hope, Ben had come along with his unassuming ways and his gentle kindness, and, suddenly, it had all seemed bearable again. There had been a future.

  She lay her head back down on the pillow again and sobbed for everything she had lost. She only had herself to blame she guessed, so why did she feel so let down by life? Then another appalling prospect entered her mind. She prayed that Ben wouldn’t tell Dad about her affair. Because if he found out it would surely kill him.

  Ben couldn’t work out whether it was weirder to wake up in someone else’s bedroom or to wake up next to that someone else. He hadn’t gone to Emily’s the night before with the intention of sleeping with her, but after staying up talking together until one in the morning, it was a natural progression. Intimacy with Emily was easy and there was no embarrassment. A silent understanding had instead united them – as it did now that dawn had broken once again, throwing light on their new status as lovers. He noticed Emily smiling at him and he kissed her softly on the forehead then edged closer to her so she could nestle into him before falling back to sleep.

  Alone with his thoughts again, he soon started mulling over the situation with his sister-in-law. He hated what Sarah had done to him on every level but still he feared for her. How would she cope on her own with what seemed destined to turn into a battle over paternity rights with Paul? He knew the events of yesterday would have left her bereft and, though she undoubtedly deserved to suffer for the pain she had caused, he couldn’t escape the anxiety that gnawed away at him every time he thought of her alone and broken-hearted. He worried most for her unborn child. He hoped Sarah was eating. That she wouldn’t just give up as she had in the early days after my death. Emily had told him she thought Sarah deserved forgiveness but Ben didn’t agree. He knew I hadn’t exactly been a saint, and there had been times where I’d treated Sarah badly, but in Ben’s mind she had gone for the jugular and hurt me in the worst way possible. He felt hot tears start to well up at the thought, yet another wave of repressed sorrow over his loss. The last thing I had ever seemed to Ben was vulnerable, yet now all he wanted to do was protect me – and my memory.

  Emily woke to the sound of Ben’s stifled sobs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, sitting up to comfort him.

  ‘I’m just sad and frustrated. I’m thinking about Harry again. I don’t know what he’d want me to do right now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know whether he’d want me to bite the bullet and keep in touch with Sarah for the sake of the child, or whether he’d want me to cut her off in punishment for her betrayal.’

  ‘You need to do what you think is right, Ben. And you don’t need to make your mind up in a hurry. Just give this time, okay?’

  Ben nodded and let out a deep sigh. As he regained his composure he was embarrassed that he kept putting his problems on Emily. He felt weak again. He wanted to have a drink but he didn’t want to go back to where he’d come from.

  Emily pulled him closer and he turned to embrace her tightly. Just hold on, he told himself, hold on.

  The following day at the gallery, Emily had just finished a phone call with Mark Weiss and could hardly contain her rapture. He owned the largest and most influential gallery in New York, with other galleries on the east and west coasts of the US, and he had just requested two pieces from Jason to show in New York. If they sold well, he hinted he might be interested in doing an exhibition at some stage. Emily had emailed a few contacts in London and New York with pictures of some of Jason’s most recent work and the response had been amazingly positive considering they had not seen his drawings in the flesh and were purely trusting her judgment. An influential gallery owner in Fitzrovria, central London, had also agreed to take three of his pictures after she saw a piece on the TV news about Jason at the time of the launch.

  Emily hurriedly dialled the young artist’s number to tell him the good news.

  ‘Hi Emily,’ he answered.

  ‘Jason, there’s another art gallery requested two of your drawings – this time in New York,’ she gushed.

  ‘You’re joking,’ he laughed, sounding genuinely bemused.

  ‘I’m a hundred percent genuine, and I’ve barely got started yet,’ she beamed, savouring the moment. ‘So I guess you’re going to be busy for the next few weeks.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll have to kick my dad out the living room so I can get on with my work.’

  ‘I take it he likes your new flat then?’ Emily joked.

  ‘He’s never out of it. My mum’s delighted.’

  She laughed at the idea of Gary holding court in Jason’s flat while his mother lapped up the freedom that his absence brought.

  ‘Well, if you could let me have the new drawings by the end of the month I’ll do the rest.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Jason, ‘and thanks for everything you’re doing for me.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Jason. After all, I’m a businesswoman and, frankly, you’re good business.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jason, suddenly reminded that this Samaritan who had stepped in to help him wasn’t just doing so out of the kindness of her own heart.

  Ben had woken early and decided he was going to make the most of the summer sunshine. Now, seated on the cold, unwelcoming harbour steps, he mentally recorded the moment he began to draw again. His plan was to make some sketches then take them home to work from as the basis for his first painting in nearly thirty years. He had taken a few days off from working at the centre so he could dedicate some proper time to this task – and allow himself to take stock of all that happened since my death. Everything had moved so fast in the last few months that Ben just needed to be still for a while.

  Sketching came back to him as easily as riding a bike. He put his pencil to paper and drew as though he had never stopped. This time though, there was no sense of pointlessness to his work, he cherished each outline he created as if it were his first. He would take them home and start working on a couple of paintings – and if he never sold one in his life he wouldn’t care. It just felt so good to be doing something he loved without any judgment or expectation. Emily had promised to push his work in the gallery, but that wasn’t the reason he was sitting on the harbour wall today. He had picked up his pencils and drawing pad again because this was part – not all – of his existence. If it was taken away from him again tomorrow he could still find fulfillment in life so he would never have to face that fear again.

  His new-found strength was partly due to the events of the previous evening when he had visited Dad. His intention had been to tell him about Sarah’s baby, but when he found him sitting peacefully in his cosy living room, painstakingly poring over the crossword, Ben couldn’t bear to
break the news. Instead he’d sat with Dad, helping him complete his puzzle and talking to him about life at the centre. He explained that Dave had decided to move on to a new role with another youth charity, with Sonja set to fill his shoes as manager. He spoke of the plans Sonja had set out to him for developing the centre, including launching a dedicated day each week where they would host teenage mothers and their babies to offer them guidance on parenting, and also to nurture their career ambitions and self-confidence. Ben had thought it was a wonderful idea. Although he feared, in practice, they wouldn’t be able to make it work in the small amount of space they had available to them. Yet, he promised Sonja he would look into the idea, unable to dash the hopes of a woman so committed to helping young people that she would sell her soul to do it. He remembered reading somewhere that those who dedicated their lives to others were in fact earthly angels. Ben had chuckled at the romanticism of that statement when he read it at the time, but listening to Sonja and watching her at work, he often wondered whether there might actually be some truth in it. Her only reward in life was helping others, yet she was totally fulfilled.

  Buoyed by that pleasant thought, Ben thought it was time to try and bridge a gap between him and Dad by finally raising the issue of his refusal to let him go to art school.

  As they sat sipping their cups of tea, Ben posed the question he’d been trying to ask for twenty-seven years: ‘Dad. Why did you stop me from becoming an artist?’

  Dad stared back at him, momentarily stunned and somewhat confused.

  ‘I didn’t stop you,’ he finally mumbled, attempting to instantly dismiss this line of questioning, but Ben persisted.

  ‘You did, Dad. I asked to go to art school and you said no.’

  ‘Well, I probably considered it a bit of a waste of time, Ben. You don’t go very far in life by painting pictures.’