by Tom Butler
Harvey Raines Homes was his latest employer back then, having done the rounds of the estate agents in Middlesex and never quite settled to one for very long. The new house builders wanted vibrant people to be sales negotiators, and somehow, Michael had bulldozed his way through the interview stages and been appointed chief negotiator for a four hundred house development near Twickenham. It meant a bit more money than the other negotiators but also something he wasn’t so used to; extra responsibility. There had been a general downturn in the housing market, and selling expensive plots was harder than ever despite the perpetual housing shortages in and around London city centre.
At first, it was not such a struggle as the houses in the first phase sold well, but phase two proved slower, and phase three became a challenge too great for a man who hated confrontation. This he got in the very sizeable form from the Area Sales Manager who took Michael to task over unsold plots. It started as a warning to him— just pull up his socks and pull his finger out— but ended in acrimony and a visit to the job centre when Michael called the man a ‘Big fat loudmouthed arsehole’. Not something that looked good on his CV hence a move to pastures new and Leicestershire, working for an auctioneer specialising in property, land and dilapidated farm buildings.
It meant upheaval for Angelica too of course, but she pledged to go where he went, and the outskirts of Hinckley wasn’t so bad. There were far worse places, and they did carve out a generally enjoyable life together, before and after the kids had come along.
So what went wrong? What made a usually placid man do something so horrendous to the person he had promised to spend the rest of his days with and had shared the delights and to a lesser degree the despair of parenthood with. And what was he thinking to put his children through the recurring nightmare that even now would not leave them alone and might never fade away. Some would say it was a pretty easy conundrum to solve. That it was just down to pure, insatiable jealousy.
On a bitter cold evening in March 2006, Angelica had just put the two youngest children to bed, allowing Noah to stay up with his dad to watch a documentary on migrating birds. She suspected the just turned ten-year-old had no great interest in migratory birds at all but simply wanted to stay up later than his siblings as it was a cool thing to do.
On the dining room table, there was a sketching pad with a half-finished pencilled portrait of a man who Angelica had met six months ago. An interesting face, not many lines to show as he was ridiculously young, but nevertheless an intriguing subject. This was Daniel Sutton or “Sooty” as most referred to him. He had turned up at Hinckley College for an evening art class which Angelica had enrolled for as a refresher in the hope she could get her artistic mojo back after many years’ inactivity whilst concentrating on other things, mostly her three demanding children.
A week ago, completely out of the blue and with some bravado, Daniel had invited Angelica out for a quick drink after college, and though her instincts told her she should decline, she in fact said yes. He had seen what she could do in class, and though she still claimed to be rusty, he marvelled at her “genius” and bizarrely suggested she sketch him right there and then.
Purely from memory, she now continued with the sketch, and it had almost been finished by the time Michael sent Noah up to bed despite his protestations that it was still too early. She looked critically at the face she had drawn and was surprisingly pleased with it. The prominent features that had made it such an interesting challenge were there on show, and there was a rugged smugness about the expression on the face that she also liked.
With sarcasm, Michael asked her, ‘How’s lover boy coming on?’ and she pulled a face at him. Over the years, she had done several sketches of him, and the one she liked best of all had been framed and was on display in the hall. Alongside it were more recent portraits of each of the children which, though not her best did capture a likeness and never ceased to make Michael smile with pride every time he passed them by.
‘It’s just a sketch dear,’ Angelica eventually replied to him. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘I hope you didn’t pay him to sit for you. He ought to be paying you for the privilege.’
She ignored him. ‘I told you last week, it was done ever so quickly in the pub with some of the others watching,’ she lied.
She had been alone with Daniel, though the rest was true. It somehow didn’t seem to matter that she had distorted the truth.
‘What’s he like as a painter or whatever it is he does,’ Michael asked her.
There was no simple answer. The artwork Daniel produced was hard to define.
‘He dabbles, tries different things, abstract mostly. Depends what kind of mood he’s in. One day, I think he’ll settle to one thing and stick to it. Until then, he’ll just keep experimenting.’
To him it sounded like she knew Daniel well, almost as if she was taking a keen interest in him and his artistic temperament.
‘Sounds like an oddball to me, I’ve heard it said that many of the great artists were a little insane. Thank god that doesn’t apply to you.’
She took it as a compliment and carried on shading in.
‘I suppose,’ he went on, ‘if this character were to become famous later on, that portrait could be worth a small fortune. Perhaps when it’s finished you should hide it in the attic.’
‘When it’s finished it will be given to the subject as usual,’ she said, guessing he was just toying with her.
With boring predictability, he said, ‘Well, I still think you should make him pay for it, after all you’re not a charity.’
‘He paid for a round of drinks and sat really still while I got the outline done, I think he’s paid for it already.’
There was another half lie relating to the drinks and she started to feel bad about it. Why not just tell him the truth? Wasn’t she to be trusted?
When Michael had settled back down to watch television, she had a pang of conscience, and it was all to do with Daniel. Outside the pub, he had held her hand and said so many nice things about her. She had pulled it away quickly, but nevertheless, she had felt flattered that a man many years her junior had looked at her the way he had and told her how clever and wonderful she was.
She got that from Michael in isolated doses, but she knew how much he loved her and that it was preposterous to think that something or somebody would ever come between them.
When the portrait sketch was nearing completion, she couldn’t help but keep staring at it, wondering if she had really captured the essence of the young man behind the sketch, a man who had been ever so bold in his actions and kind words even though he knew Angelica was married and was a proud mother to three young children.
Next day, at college she handed Daniel the almost-finished sketch and it was lorded around the classroom, becoming almost the topic of the session which had her blushing and feeling quite humble. Daniel was over the moon and did invite everyone to the pub later which Angelica was relieved about. But only a couple of the others could make it, and they were soon gone, leaving her and Daniel alone again. She knew there was a girlfriend waiting for him somewhere, and perhaps last week, she had misread the signs, but when he took her hand again as they got up to leave, something akin to madness allowed him to hold on to it, and for just a few seconds, she felt like a teenager again, her heart pounding an irregular beat and her whole body shaking.
‘I’m so glad you like the portrait,’ she said in panic. ‘And thank you.’
He smiled and didn’t say a thing. It was all in his eyes. They were smouldering, not daring to move from hers. When she did disengage her hand, he looked a little crestfallen and slightly embarrassed.
‘You’re so sweet Daniel, you’ve certainly boosted my confidence. I’m so glad we share the love of art.’
It was like telling him that they simply couldn’t share anything else but at least she was letting him down gently. Still, he said nothing. The words were caught up in his throat. In a moment of sheer
madness, she touched the back of his hand and leaned across to kiss his cheek. In a friendly, not romantic way. All was not lost, he thought, and he tried kissing her on the lips. Their mouths sort of collided, and she tried to laugh it off as a kind of game. But he tried again, and now he had his arms around her.
‘No, Daniel. No.’
There was no pulling back, and he was trying to kiss her. It may not have been a very successful attempt, but she hadn’t fought him off in the vigorous way she should have.
‘Daniel, please behave.’
There were people in the pub, but no one had taken much notice of them. They were just a couple kissing. Or at least, that’s what it looked like. Nothing unusual in that.
‘I must go; Michael will be wondering where I am.’
Daniel did back off at the mention of her husband’s name, but any embarrassment from him had gone.
‘Sorry to have delayed you,’ he said, breaking his silence. ‘I hope to see you next week.’
She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was time to call a halt to the classes. She felt she was sketching better than ever, and they had served their purpose. No real harm had been done in meeting Daniel, but there was much thinking to be done in the coming week.
Ironically, she decided to go to college a week on, taking the finished portrait with her, but surprisingly, he wasn’t there. She was not in the best of moods having rowed with Michael and was thankfully spared any further complications with Daniel’s absence. The argument had been over Michael’s mother Megan who had suffered a stroke just after Christmas and was staying in a respite care home Michael disapproved of. Not for the first time, he had broached the subject of Megan moving in with them, but she had reminded him they lived in a small to average-sized three-bedroom house, and quite apart from lack of space, his mother would have special needs which might mean a posse of home help carers visiting the house. Not an environment she wanted for her children. Michael had called her uncaring and selfish, and she had driven to college in a huff.
A local landscape artist was an invited guest to talk about his work, and at least that took her mind off problems at home. At the end of the class, she was thinking about what she would say to Michael on her return when a familiar voice startled her as she got to her car. It was Daniel, looking a little dishevelled and weary.
Straight away she asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I needed someone to talk to and hoped you’d be here.’
‘Why me? I have to get home.’
‘Come for a drink please,’ he pleaded with her.
Like the first time he had asked her, the instinct was to say no, no matter how harsh and cruel it sounded. She looked at her watch which was futile because she knew it was just after nine.
‘Alright, but not for long, just one drink and a chat.’
He hurried to his car, and she followed him but not to the local pub they went to previously. He drove for about three miles and then pulled up outside a four story building in a tree lined side street. She had no idea where she was or why she was there. Without explaining himself fully, he told her this was where he lived, and that surely she would prefer a quiet coffee to a soft drink in noisy surroundings. There were alarm bells ringing in her head as she sat with the engine running, but she didn’t pay them enough heed and switched off.
‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ she complained to herself. ‘This shouldn’t be happening.’
His flat was on the third floor overlooking the rear of a small shopping complex which had a well-lit car park that reflected light into his lounge and adjoining kitchen. He quickly pulled blinds, put water in the kettle and offered her what looked like a comfy armchair after completing a lightening quick sweep to tidy the room. To one side of her, there were several easels angled with their backs to her, and on the other side, there was a plain blue double sofa positioned so that it faced both a wall mounted gas fire and small flat-screened television.
‘It’s not much but it’s home,’ he said nervously, staying close to the archway that led through into the kitchen.
She asked, ‘What’s this all about? You sounded as though it was urgent.’
‘I’ve been a bit flaky these last few days,’ he replied. ‘I really wanted to see you.’
‘But I don’t understand. Is there something wrong with you?’
‘Girlfriend trouble… suppose that covers it.’
‘What are you saying? You’re not making much sense.’
To him it made perfectly good sense, and he merely shrugged.
‘She dumped me, took her stuff and left.’
‘Who?’
‘Natasha, her name’s Natasha.’
‘Your girlfriend walked out on you? Why are you telling me this?’
Daniel wasn’t really listening as he was waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘We’ve rowed before, and she’s threatened to go, but I never thought she would go through with it,’ he said, rolling his head from side to side.
Angelica felt very uneasy and repeated herself.
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘Because I know you. I know that you’ll listen and make me feel better about myself.’
His form of flattery was only confusing her. He didn’t really know her at all. She thought that he understood last week was a mistake.
He was now putting hot water in the coffee mugs and looking more relaxed.
‘Your husband is a very lucky man. Not many men can boast to having a beautiful wife who is clever and artistic too. I hope he appreciates you the way he should.’
He was now sounding much older than his years and was getting close to her again, using the arm of the chair as a perch and passing her the coffee.
‘Will Natasha come back?’ Angelica asked him, changing the subject.
He sighed. ‘No idea, maybe she will, maybe she won’t.’
It was no sort of answer as if he really wasn’t thinking about the departed Natasha at all, and she was no longer part of him.
Suddenly, Angelica remembered she had the portrait of him in the back of her car, and this she thought to be a useful distraction, getting him away from relationship issues. He went with her to fetch it, and she deliberately stood whilst he examined it back in his lounge.
The likeness was uncanny. She thought that he was about to cry.
‘It’s ended up better than I thought,’ she said modestly.
‘It’s absolutely amazing. Bloody incredible.’
‘I was going to get it framed but couldn’t quite find the time,’ she apologised.
‘You’ve done enough. I really should pay you. Name your price.’
‘Not necessary. You were a good subject,’ she declined his offer. Putting the sketch where it could come to no harm he reached out and tried to take her hand in his.
‘I should be going,’ she said, backing away.
His second attempt succeeded as she wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge him, and he lightly ran his hand along the back of her arm. There was no real space for her to back into.
‘Thanks for the coffee. Glad you like the sketch,’ she said, desperately trying to avoid eye contact. She had been here before, precisely two weeks ago in the pub, only now they were alone at his place, and he was suddenly reverted back to single status.
With a persuasive tone he begged her. ‘Stay a bit longer. You haven’t finished the coffee, let me get you a fresh one. Please say, you will.’
It was out of the question, she thought. ‘I shouldn’t really, I must get back.’
He hadn’t moved his hand, and she now noted the weight of it pressing against the joint of her elbow.
‘Ten minutes more, you can’t just leave the sketch and run away. A few minutes won’t matter much,’ he implored her.
She should have refused him any more time and headed for the door. Surely, he wouldn’t keep hold of her arm and make it hard for her to leave. As she thought it, he let go and went and sat on the sofa, not ev
en looking at her. He reminded her of Noah when he wasn’t allowed to get his own way.
‘I’m sorry your girlfriend left,’ she said after a pause. ‘I’ll stay another five minutes then I really must dash.’
Lowering herself onto the armchair again she asked him about his paintings.
He was quite dismissive about them and preferred to talk about her instead.
‘You should be doing it for a living; you’re a natural artist. It’s a plan of mine to one day own my own art gallery, and I would give work like yours pride of place.’
‘I think I still need more practise,’ she smiled. ‘I shouldn’t have spent so long away from it.’
‘Talent is talent, and you have mountains of it,’ he replied, getting carried away.
While they were talking loosely about art, he wasn’t making her feel too uncomfortable, and she thought she had got the message across. She certainly didn’t feel as though she had led him on or encouraged him in any way and hoped they might stay as friends with art the major thing they had in common. Perhaps it had been a mistake to agree to sketch him and an even bigger mistake to follow him home when he might have planned it that way. But at least now he was sitting away from her, not crowding her, still complimenting her but not quite like before.
‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ he said suddenly, getting back up. ‘I’ll make you that coffee, and I have biscuits if you’re not on a diet.’
‘You really don’t have to, I must be careful of the time,’ she insisted.
As though he hadn’t heard her, he swept past her, picking up the mugs and washing them out in the sink after pouring more water in the kettle and switching it on.
‘I must show you this,’ he said, going across to one the easels and unclipping a canvas from it. Suddenly, he was interested in the artwork he had been so dismissive of earlier when she had referred to it. Was it, she thought, a ploy to get her to stay a bit longer?
