by Freya North
‘Did Julius have children?’ Matt enquired.
‘No,’ Fen confirmed, ‘I reckon he belongs to that tall lady. It is a boy, isn’t it? The Peter Pan collared smock and little straw hat are ever so girly – but a girl wouldn’t have been dressed in trousers back then?’
Matt scrutinized the photo and shrugged. ‘Looks like a little chap to me,’ he said, ‘but we only see profile or back view. Could well be a tomboy called Marie-Celeste or something.’
Fen looked at the photos. ‘I wonder who the mystery lady is?’ she said. ‘It’s almost as if she’s avoiding the camera on purpose.’
‘Oh Fen,’ Matt laughed, ‘your imagination is overactive – I mean, look at the other couple, are you telling me they moved intentionally so their features would be blurred?’
Fen looked hard. ‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘This is a sculptor’s studio photographed in the 1950s and deposited in an archive,’ Matt teased, ‘it isn’t a still from a security-camera in police records!’
Fen smiled sheepishly. ‘It’s just that Julius’s last months are not well documented. We have a fragmented jigsaw,’ she said. ‘I’m just trying to piece the possibilities together.’
Matt made to leave. ‘Well, if you get bored with the day job, you could always be a researcher on Crimewatch UK!’ He kissed her nose and slid his hand fleetingly up her thigh.
Alone, Fen looked at the photos again. Really analysed them because she didn’t want to consider Matt’s honesty, his affection. And she didn’t want to hear Pip and Cat and Django. And she didn’t want James appearing in her mind’s eye. The photos, the photos. From the brace of the woman’s back, she could detect an emotion. What was it? Not shyness. Tension? Not really. Sadness? No. Loneliness? No. What then? Unease. That was it. Made all the more apparent by the ebullience of the child, obviously having a fabulous time.
Look at the little mite utterly enthralled by the mass of Abandon! All the adults are engrossed elsewhere; Henry and Julius deep in conversation, the tall woman gazing at the knees of Eve on one side of the room, the couple – his hand at her waist – sharing thoughts on Julius’s late work, Tristan and Isolde. The child has been left to his own devices, given free rein to explore what to him must seem a fantasy adventure playground peopled with the most extraordinary characters – including a man old enough, with beard white and long enough, to be God himself!
‘Lucky little bugger,’ Fen said aloud, ‘I bet he doesn’t even remember the day he visited the sculptor’s studio.’
HH. Paris. June 1954. That was all that was documented on the back of each of the photos. The HH was from a stamp, enclosed within an oval. The place and date were written in copperplate, in blue ink. Four months later the sculptor would be dead, buried and – to Fen’s enduring consternation – really rather forsaken. Abandoned. The studio would already have been rented out to an abstract expressionist called Brochard. Fen shuddered when she thought how Julius would have turned in his grave had he known of the hastily discordant action painting being produced in his studio.
‘Where did Abandon go?’ she wondered out loud. ‘Within four months, this huge work had disappeared. Where did it go? Who took it? Who has it?’
By fair means or foul, she prayed the work still existed.
Please let it have been stolen to order.
The thought of it having been destroyed was unbearable.
As Fen travelled home, she comforted herself, downright amused herself, imagining Abandon having pride of place in some opulent casa in a secret location in South America. She conjured a huge open-plan room with white walls and a ridiculously thick cream carpet. Monet’s Impression: Sunrise on one wall. Abandon with ten feet of floor space all around, positioned near to the window-wall. A faceless figure sitting in a chair gazing at the work – some art-loving drugs baron perhaps, or maybe a reclusive spaced-out rock star whom most presumed to be dead and buried in Père-Lachaise.
Wherever it is, and with whomever, as long as Abandon exists, as long as it’s safe and adored, and gazed upon regularly and marvelled at, then Julius can rest.
Still, though, Fen would love proof. As would the rest of the art world.
THIRTY-NINE
Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise.
Sigmund Freud
Although Fen’s relationship with Abi and Gemma was restored to its former level of intimacy, she felt very much that it had also moved on. It was different. The affection each had for the other was as strong as ever it had been – but oddly, Fen felt left out. Saying that, however, she had no desire to be included in the antics of their lifestyle. Threesome syndrome, that’s what it was – an inevitability that a pairing will always materialize leaving an outsider. It had never transpired amongst the McCabe sisters, whose inter-relationships were utterly equal. Fen didn’t even think that the sexual angle of Gemma and Abi’s relationship had that much to do with it. It was a wavelength thing. She simply wasn’t on theirs – nor did she aspire to be. Furthermore, though she had accepted – without approving or disapproving – the situation with Jake, it did not necessarily follow that she felt any easier about it. Gemma and Abi spoke openly about their open relationship but at such times, Fen politely and subtly switched off.
Consequently, she’s been spending more and more time at Matt’s flat – where Jake spends less and less time. The quality of the time that Matt and Fen share is beginning to change. As it develops and deepens, ironically it becomes more mundane. But it is the very way in which it fits so snugly into everyday life that makes it all the more enjoyable and fulfilling. Not all evenings now lead to sex, not all conversations are fact-finding missions or focused on flirtation. In fact, Fen and Matt have started to coexist as a couple very nicely, sharing silence, snuggled up watching television, doing their own thing but in close physical proximity to one another – Fen reading whilst Matt snoozes; Fen pottering about his kitchen whilst he checks page proofs; Fen luxuriating in his bath whilst he chats to friends on the phone. They fit in and around each other’s space as fluidly and comfortably as Fen’s head fits in the nook of Matt’s shoulder, or when their bodies gravitate into spoons position during the night. Fen has woken up on occasions to find Matt’s hand gently and almost subconsciously cupping her buttock. She had started to wake up to check. She doesn’t need to wake up now. She sleeps very well.
‘Do you know what I like?’ Fen mused one day, stopping midway along the soft-drinks aisle in Marks & Spencer in Islington.
‘Doggy position?’ Matt tried. Fen laughed. ‘Monty Python?’ he persisted. She punched him lightly. ‘Slightly burnt toast with an inordinate amount of butter?’ he said, because he’d noticed that was precisely what she liked.
‘What I like,’ Fen persisted, ‘is coming back from work together and doing this whole homey thing.’ Matt, blushing a little, turned his attention to a bottle of ginger-and-lemongrass carbonated drink. Fen continued. ‘But also, I like meeting up elsewhere – having primped and preened myself at home. I like it that we have hot dates!’
‘Best of both worlds,’ Matt quantified.
‘I suppose so, yes,’ said Fen.
Fen is exhausted yet wide awake. She can’t sleep – despite Matt sleeping soundly, cupping her buttock in his hand.
Django is right. Matt is placing his heart in my hands. I have the potential to handle it with all the care this deserves. But I also have the power to drop it and break it. I am, to a degree, responsible for his emotional welfare. And James too. Yes he appears all set in his ways and emotionally self-sufficient. But the vibe that we share is strengthening. He has bemoaned the physical distance between us. He sighs, ‘Oh Fen,’ when he comes. What did Matt say? The best of both worlds. Oh God.
So you’re lying there thinking of James, while Matt sleeps with a handful of your buttock.
I have to start treating these men better. Django is right. I’m being selfish and unfair. I must treat Matt, treat James, with the deference they deserv
e. I must start, finally, to make my mind up.
And thereby lay your own path to walk confidently along. Hand in hand with one other.
I feel stifled. Not by Matt. Not by James. But by my own actions. I can’t think straight. I can’t breathe.
See her lying there, hot tears coursing silently down her face? She’s wondering what she’s done. What on earth has she done? What is she going to do? What the hell is she going to do? Her breathing is shallow and short. She is perspiring at the back of her neck. Her head hurts and her heart is very very heavy. Partly because it is filled with the enormous weight of loving two men. Partly because she knows she is overstretching it. She must let one go, for her health, for their sake.
‘Babe?’
Instinctively, Matt has woken. He reaches for Fen and finds her damp and distressed.
‘You OK?’
He senses that she nods. He turns towards her and places his arm gently, protectively across her shoulders. He kisses her cheek. He tastes salt.
‘Bad dream?’ he mumbles, sleepily.
‘A nightmare,’ Fen admits.
‘Go back to sleep,’ he says, with a little squeeze and another kiss, ‘I’m here.’
FORTY
Fen gave little warning to Matt, or James, of her departure with Pip for a long weekend in France. The Tour de France was in full swing and their aspiring journalist of a younger sister had left England almost three weeks before to join this circus of sorts. Django approved the mission to the extent that he wired money to facilitate their surprise visit to this lycra-clad world, currently heaving its way up and over the Alps.
Fen had in fact planned to visit Derbyshire that weekend but hadn’t told Matt of the fact. Matt was thus musing whether to whisk his girlfriend away to Suffolk for the weekend, but had not told her because he loved planning surprises. James, expecting Fen for the weekend, had eschewed Safeways in favour of the lovely delicatessens and butchers in Bakewell, buying lots of fresh food, which he’d hidden carefully from the dogs. He’d also ironed his sheets (for the first time in his life), placing them carefully in the airing cupboard (which he’d forgotten he had), though he had scolded himself thoroughly for being a ‘soft bastard’, and had scalded his wrists from the steam on Egyptian cotton. He’d also bathed Barry and Beryl with a particularly expensive brand of human shampoo-conditioner – a somewhat overzealous reaction to his dogs having found a secret stagnant pool to which they were paying a daily pilgrimage, its whereabouts a mystery to James.
‘How does a room with a view, a four-poster bed, complimentary shortbread and sherry, fluffy towelling robes and gourmet dinner in the heart of Constable country sound to you?’ Matt asked Fen in the queue at the sandwich shop.
‘Pretty idyllic,’ Fen grinned. She licked her lips – though her mind was mainly focused on potential sandwich fillings. She had reached the head of the line and was changing her choice for the umpteenth time. ‘Emmenthal and tomato on granary,’ she ordered. ‘No! on baguette, please. And a little mayonnaise. Large cappuccino, one sugar. Slice of that too. Hang on! Does that one have nuts in it? OK then, a slice of that other one, then. Thanks!’ Matt ordered salt beef and mustard on rye, a double espresso and a caramel brownie, which Fen insisted on paying for – though Matt jokingly put her arm into a half-nelson while attempting to hand over his cash to much remonstration from Fen. Their larking and laughter gave others in the queue cause to grin or sigh wistfully.
‘Shall we take a half-day?’ Matt said, as they strolled to the gardens opposite Trust Art.
‘A half-day?’ Fen replied, confused – and ultimately more interested in making headway into the foot-long baguette. ‘What for?’
Matt finished his mouthful. The salt beef was unnervingly stringy. ‘The four-poster gourmet weekend in Constable country,’ he said.
‘Oh!’ Fen responded. Then she looked at him and prayed he hadn’t gone ahead and done what she suspected and now dreaded.
Not this weekend. Please don’t let him have booked it for this weekend.
‘When?’ she asked a little shyly.
Matt leant forward, his eyes sparkling. ‘I’m going to whisk you away for the weekend tomorrow!’
Fen’s appetite had suddenly disappeared. Even without France in the equation, her weekend would have been doubly booked. Upsetting one person was one thing, upsetting two was quite another. France was going to cause upset to both James and Matt. Yet France was also saving her the task of choosing between the two. And there was the rub. Suddenly, Fen had no idea which she’d have chosen. Derbyshire or Suffolk? Who did she want to spend time with more? James or Matt? Who did she wish to hurt the least? James or Matt? Who would hurt the most? James or Matt?
She had no idea.
She hadn’t really been thinking of anyone but herself.
She was appalled.
‘Fen?’
This was just the sort of knot her sisters had prophesied her behaviour could create. However, instead of it having a humbling effect, Fen’s feeble reaction was one of irritation. Though this was of course directed mainly at herself, it seemed much easier for the time being at least, to assuage her guilt by redirecting her frustration on to Matt.
It would have been enough to have merely told him that actually, she was off to France at the last minute with Pip to find Cat. But for some reason, she saw fit to preface this by accusing Matt of being presumptuous and hasty. Furthermore, why she had to also employ such an impatient and unkind tone of voice, I do not know. To top it all, her facial expression was unfriendly and hard. Insult to injury.
Matt, stunned by content and delivery, simply stared at her, his face criss-crossed with hurt and bewilderment. For Matt to display such a clear reaction to Fen’s total lack of tact and sensitivity served only to compound her guilt. Ironically, the worse she felt the more badly she behaved. It caused her to lose her appetite – but that meant she could not even manage the smallest portion of humble pie. Therefore, she steered well away from apology or remorse by walking away from Matt instead. Briskly. Swearing audibly under her breath.
Matt sat there, stunned. He couldn’t swallow – even without the salt beef stuck in his throat. He coughed it back up into the sandwich bag. He threw the bag in the bin and went directly to his office. He spoke to no one for the rest of the afternoon. He didn’t even phone the hotel in Suffolk to cancel his reservation though he was aware that he’d lose his deposit because of it. He just couldn’t find his voice.
Shit. James.
James, of course, was busy gardening. His phone rang. He could see from the caller display that it was Fen. It made him smile. However, James was handling manure. Mobile phones being fiddly things, the thought of having to gouge out bits of dung from the keypad meant he did not take the call. He’d phone her back. He went about his work again, now with a jaunty whistle.
Tammy Sydnope phoned Ruth Brakespeare immediately.
‘He’s whistling,’ she told her furtively, though James could neither see nor hear her. ‘Has he ever, ever, whistled whilst at yours?’
Mrs Brakespeare wished she could affirm that he had. But he hadn’t. James? Whistle? How very out of character. Whatever can be the matter?
‘He’s in love,’ Tammy deduced, with a very flat edge to her voice. ‘He’s working very productively, so much so that he can afford to stop every now and then to gaze at nothing in particular. He’s in love, I tell you.’
‘Or he’s won the lottery,’ Ruth added with a glimmer of hope for this preferential scenario.
‘If he had won the lottery,’ Tammy reluctantly philosophized, ‘he wouldn’t be working for us for £15 per hour.’
‘Who is she?’ Ruth wondered out loud.
‘How about the young ’un he was seen with in the Cross Oaks?’ Tammy wondered back.
‘Who is she?’ Ruth repeated. ‘No one seems to know who she is.’
James was working his way around her garden with such conviction and efficiency, even his dogs were reduced to ly
ing very still in the middle of the lawn and regarding their master suspiciously.
‘All done, Mrs S,’ he said, his eyes glinting, ‘I shovelled the shit must faster than I anticipated so I did a little cutting back too.’
‘Rushing home?’ Tammy Sydnope probed. ‘Plans?’
‘Not really,’ James said, ‘not today. Tomorrow, though.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Tammy repeated with persuasive vagueness whilst gazing at her potentilla in a bid not to appear too nosy.
‘I have a guest for the weekend,’ said James, swinging his key fob about his index finger.
‘Oh yes?’ Tammy said, stooping to fiddle with her well-tended pieris. ‘Family? Friends?’
James just grinned. His clients amused him, and it amused him to be stubborn about imparting any personal details. It was very flattering, after all, to know that you fluttered the hearts and dominated the conversation of the section of your clients who were female and under seventy years old.
