by Kate Russo
When he headed back to the studio, she closed her magazine. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” he said and immediately wondered why he hadn’t told her the truth. “Have a nice day.”
Bennett and Kirstie: Awaiting Status Update.
* * *
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He hits Refresh, again. Nothing. Being short-listed doesn’t even guarantee a place in the show. All it means is he’ll get the privilege of taking the painting all the way to Mayfair, leaving it at the Royal Academy, and crossing his fingers that they’ll hang it.
He looks out the window, through the curtain, at Kirstie, who is again sitting on the terrace sofa. She’s in her yoga clothes, which she’s taken to wearing more and more over the last couple weeks. Perhaps for both their sakes, she’s stopped wearing the sexy outfits. Is she even doing any yoga? Mostly she just sits on that sofa, drinking tea, reading magazines, or playing on her iPad. All the energy and ambition she had earlier on seems to have vanished, and he wonders if it has something to do with the ex-husband. She’s mentioned the guy being a wanker a couple of times, but Bennett hasn’t enquired further. He’s sick of hearing what wankers men are, though it’s true, they are. But women can be total cunts, too, sometimes. The difference is that he’s not allowed to say that. He hits the Refresh button on his computer really hard this time. Nothing.
Do something, anything, else.
There’s a pair of jeans on the floor, so he picks them up and slides them on.
There. Something.
He hasn’t started on a new painting since he finished the small one of Claire a few weeks back. His intention had been to go full steam ahead on a series of nudes, especially after Carl’s assessment that he needed to return to his old subject matter, but he’s found himself stuck, too apprehensive to move forward. He’s never gone this long without painting. He’s not sure which direction to go in. The old style or the new. Hearing back from the Academy would help. Plus, he’d thought he’d do a few more of Claire from life, instead of photos, but she’s made it clear she’d rather not be in the same room with him. He’s even thought about asking Kirstie. Hell, he’s already seen her naked and he’d been struck by how perfectly still she could stand, reminding him of an Edward Hopper painting. And it’s not like she’s doing anything besides lounging around in the garden. Still, he hasn’t asked her because he knows that would be crossing a line. After all, she’s paying him. That leaves him with hiring a model, which he hasn’t done in years. How does one even do that nowadays? Advertise on the Internet? God only knows who’d come through the door. He supposes he could ask for recommendations, but that seems awkward, too. Seen any naked ladies you’ve liked, lately?
He looks out the window, again, just as Kirstie looks up from her iPad. Seeing him, she waves, beckoning him outside.
Shit.
“You alright?” she shouts, when he opens the door.
“Yeah, fine,” he replies, hands in his pockets, leaning in the doorway.
“I haven’t seen much of you recently. Thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
Yes.
“No. Of course not.”
“I just got an e-mail from Priya, the estate agent,” she says, lifting up her tablet. “Someone else has made an offer on the flat in the Barbican.”
“What are you going to do?” he asks, stepping out into the garden.
“Let them have it, I guess,” she says, deflated. “You were right, I was rushing.”
He looks at his feet. She had been rushing, but now it feels like he’s crushed her dream. Why would she take advice from a guy who makes life decisions at a glacial pace? “I’m rarely right, Kirstie.”
She frowns at him, sensing his self-deprecation.
“I live in a shed in my back garden. You should never take advice from me.”
“Sit,” she commands, tapping the sofa cushion next to her.
She really needs a pet.
But he does as he’s told. The waterproof fabric makes a crinkling sound when he plops down.
“I’m worried I’ve done something to upset you.”
It’s possible she was sleepwalking that night she appeared, naked, at the window. Maybe she has no memory of it. “No, nothing,” he says.
She looks at him, curiously. “You’re hesitating . . .”
“Claire wasn’t so happy about our dinner.”
“Ah,” she says, setting down her iPad. “I’m sorry I got you into trouble.”
He doesn’t think she’s really sorry at all. She sounds more irritated than sorry.
“I think she’s looking for things to be angry about, honestly. I’m not sure I’m the man she had in mind.”
“Who do you think she had in mind?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Yes, you do!” She slaps him playfully on the arm, as she’s done several times before. Eliza used to do that, too, whenever he feigned ignorance, which was a lot.
“I think, maybe, she thought dating a painter would be more romantic.”
Kirstie rolls her eyes. “Don’t date someone that makes you feel bad about yourself.” She has a way of making things sound so simple. Far simpler than they are, actually. After all, if life was as simple as Kirstie makes it out to be, she wouldn’t be divorced and renting his house or asking him what she did to upset him.
“I find out about the RA Summer Show today. I just want to have good news for her.”
“You want to have good news for you,” she scolds. “You painted it, not her.”
Yes, obviously. He stands up. “You been okay? Is everything alright with the house?”
“The house, darling, is fine.”
He nods, slowly, absorbing the clear implication that the house is fine but the woman is not. He never knows how to respond to such insinuations. Do you acknowledge them or not? If she wants him to know something, she should just tell him.
“If you need anything, let me know,” he says in his usual Super Host voice to his less-than-usual guest. By the time he reaches the door to his studio, she’s picked up her iPad again. Returning to the futon, he immediately wishes he hadn’t come back inside.
* * *
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It’s four p.m. when he hits Refresh and he sees his status has finally changed. He’s been staring at Awaiting Status Update for so long he can scarcely believe what he sees: Bennett Driscoll—Short-listed. He hits Refresh another time to make sure it’s not an error. Maybe he should wait a little while before telling anyone, just in case the Academy wants to change its mind.
He looks outside at Kirstie who is still out on the sofa, this time with a magazine, a glass of white wine, and her stupid little fan. She sees him watching her and gestures both a thumbs-up and a thumbs-down, then throws her hand up in the air to ask “Which?”
He smiles, giving her a thumbs-up. Technically, that’s not telling her first, right?
She gives him a little fist pump and settles back into her magazine.
His mind leaps, immediately, to what this could all mean. Maybe the Guardian will do a profile on him. “Bennett Driscoll Is Back and Better Than Ever” will be the headline. Under it will be a picture of him in his studio, an army of nudes behind him. He’ll have his hands in his pockets, and he’ll be staring straight at the camera, looking serious, dressed in his paint clothes. Everyone who looks at it will think: This man lives and breathes painting. He IS painting.
It’s just short-listed. It’s not in the show, yet. And just like that he’s back down to earth. Maybe he should wait until it’s definitely in before he tells Claire?
Jesus, just call her.
Even though it’s been a while since they’ve talked, she’s still near the top of his Recents list, just below Mia. He takes a deep breath.
“Hi,” Claire answers,
solemn, after a couple rings.
“Hi. Is this a bad time?”
“No. Just waiting for the bus. On my way to work.”
“You don’t normally work Thursdays.”
“I changed my schedule.” He can hear her feet scraping along the pavement.
“Oh.”
“Did you expect me to consult you, first?”
“No.” He doesn’t want to tell her his news anymore, so the line goes silent.
“Why did you call, Bennett?”
“I wanted to tell you something.”
“Alright, tell me.” Her tone suggests that nothing he could possibly say would be what she wants to hear.
“The painting of you got short-listed for the RA Summer Show.”
“Okay,” she says after a moment’s silence.
“It’s actually not the one you posed for.”
“Huh?”
“It’s from a photo of you on my phone,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Seriously? You painted a naked portrait of me without my permission?”
“You let me take the photo. It’s beautiful.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Do you want me to withdraw it?” Please say no, please . . .
“Send me a photo of it.” She hangs up.
Finding a photo of the painting on his phone, he texts it to her.
Keep it in, she writes back.
He smiles, responding, Maybe I’ll come in tonight for a glass of wine at the end of your shift?
It’s just a painting, Bennett.
What do you mean?
We’re still at an impasse. It doesn’t change anything.
“Congratulations, Bennett,” would be nice.
He doesn’t know how to respond. He’s got no idea what she wants, and it’s not like he can ask her. She’ll only accuse him of not paying attention. He could spend five hundred pounds on the bottle of Château Margaux, but she might decide to smash it on the ground in front of him. If she did drink it, she probably wouldn’t share it with him.
Fuck it.
He should be celebrating. He launches himself off the futon and grabs his tea mug that’s sitting by the sink. He gives it a quick rinse before opening the door to the garden.
“Gimme some wine!” he says, and Kirstie smiles back.
* * *
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“Shall we order a pizza?” Kirstie asks, two hours and two bottles of white wine later. “I’m starving.”
“Sure.” He’s getting hungry, too, and he knows he hasn’t got anything in his fridge except for a block of cheddar that’s getting dried out and crusty at the corners.
“A big, dirty pizza,” she explains. “Like a Pizza Hut. None of that healthy, thin crust bollocks.”
“You really hate healthy food, don’t you?” he asks, thinking back to their big steak dinner.
“My ex was a health nut. Nothing processed. Everything organic. I’m rebelling.” She fiddles with her phone, but then stops, abruptly. “Don’t you ever do that?” She looks at him, keenly. “Do something just because your ex-wife would hate it?”
He thinks about Roots Manuva and smiles. “I started listening to rap.”
Kirstie grins, pleased with that response. “Well, hopefully the fatty food is just a phase or I’ll end up looking like a blimp.”
Now he can’t help wondering if she’s been wearing the stretchy yoga pants because she can’t fit into tight jeans anymore. He really wishes he wasn’t facing her head-on at the moment. “Nah,” he says, “it’s very difficult for people our age to gain weight.” He tries to keep a straight face but breaks out into a wide grin.
Making her face tight as a fist, she grabs one of the sofa cushions and throws it at him. It’s dense enough that when it hits his face, he can feel the cartilage in his nose click.
“What are your preferred toppings, you bastard?” she asks, returning to her phone.
He tries to wiggle his nose back into place. “I don’t mind. You choose.”
“I’ll choose ham and pineapple,” she warns him.
“Ham and pineapple, it is.” He smiles, because that actually sounds good and also because unlike Claire, Kirstie is so easy to please. He tucks himself further into the sofa, getting comfortable.
“Done.”
“How?!” He leans forward. “You haven’t called yet.”
She holds out her phone to him. “It’s called an app, old man.” She tosses the phone on the sofa and slouches down. “Beautiful evening,” she says. “Finally, a breeze.”
They both relax into the sofa and listen as the air rustles the leaves on the trees.
“You must miss the sea?” he asks, thinking that with her famous actor husband, she must have had an ocean view in Salcombe.
She smiles at him. “I was ready for a change.”
“I should have guessed,” he says. “The Barbican is about as opposite to the Devon coast as you can get.”
“I should start looking again. Either that or you and I have to live like this forever.” She studies him, no doubt trying to gauge his reaction.
“This isn’t so bad,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. Kirstie hadn’t let him drink out of his mug, instead making him go inside the house for a proper glass. When he pulled the glass from the hanging rack in the kitchen, it squeaked so familiarly along the cast iron that, for a moment, it was like the last two years of his life hadn’t happened at all, like Eliza would be there, standing at the kitchen island, when he turned around. She’d be wearing her bright red apron with her rusty brown ringlets falling in front of her face as she chopped an onion. She’d look up at him, tears streaming down her face, and he’d wrap his arms around her and say, “Don’t cry, baby. It could be so much worse.” Then he’d kiss her until the onion juice made his own eyes burn.
A lot worse.
“Why don’t you move back into the house?” Kirstie suggests.
He’s thought about it a few times—sharing the house with Kirstie. The company would be nice and so would a comfortable bed. But he can’t shake how melancholy it would make him feel to be inside its walls again.
“I don’t think I can,” he explains. “Too many memories in there. It’s not you.”
“You don’t have to explain,” she says, and genuinely seems to mean it.
He feels his phone vibrating and he’s instantly terrified it’s Claire. Has she changed her mind about tonight? Will he have to admit he’s gotten drunk again with the very same woman? But no, it’s Mia’s name flashing up on the screen.
“Sorry.” He shows Kirstie the phone. “It’s my daughter.”
“Go on, please.”
He walks over to the center of the garden. “Hi, darling. You alright?”
“Dad . . .” He can hear her voice trembling on the other end.
She’s pregnant.
“What’s wrong?” Pacing the lawn, he makes a face at Kirstie, like this might take a while.
“Calum and I broke up.”
Thank fuck.
“Oh, Mia, what happened?” He can hear her sniffling and gurgling, trying to hold back sobs.
“He punched Richard!”
“What? Why would he do that?!”
Aside from the fact that Richard’s obnoxious.
She takes a deep breath. “He thought Richard and I were too close.”
Bennett does his best to stifle his laughter. “He does know Richard is gay, right?”
“Yeah.” She manages a little giggle herself.
“So why did he think that?” Bennett asks, pacing the whole width of the garden, now, trying to drag out the necessary information.
“Because Richard told Calum he is too controlling.”
This is getting complicate
d. “Is he?” What does that mean?
“Maybe. A little.”
“Mia, has Calum ever hit you?” He looks over at Kirstie, who visibly stiffens at this question.
“No. It’s okay, Dad.”
“Right . . .” He has no choice but to believe her. “Is Richard okay? Where did he get hit?”
“His left eye.”
For a split second Bennett imagines taking his thumbs and pushing Calum’s eyeballs into the back of his skull. “Do you want me to come over?”
“No,” she says, sniffling loudly. Bennett can hear all the snot being vacuumed back up into her nose. When she was a baby, he used to extract all her bogeys by putting a little pipette up her nostril. It’s probably not useful to remind her of that now. “I’m gonna watch romantic comedies and eat Ben and Jerry’s with Richard and Gemma,” she adds. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Tell Richard to put some ice on that eye.”
“We don’t have any ice. He’s got a frozen pork pie on it.”
“I’ll buy you some ice trays.”
“Dad . . .”
“Let me do something,” he says, shaking his head to show Kirstie his exasperation. “Please?”
Kirstie smiles back, putting a hand on her heart to show she understands.
“Okay, Dad. Buy ice trays.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
“What happened?” Kirstie shouts from the sofa, when he hangs up the phone.
“I guess I don’t have to worry about the boyfriend anymore,” he answers, still staring down at his phone, confused. “When Mia says he was ‘too controlling,’ what does that mean exactly?” He turns to Kirstie, worried.
Kirstie’s face has gone pale. “It’s not good news. Have they broken up for good?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” She nods, aggressively.
“He punched her best friend, Richard, who was apparently trying to warn her that the guy was a creep.”
