by June Gadsby
I had been buying my artists’ materials from Mr. Gruber for as long as I could remember, even as a student in college. I had never had cause for complaint.
“No…er… Nothing like that, Mr. Gruber,” I assured him, my voice floundering as I tried to think up a reasonable excuse for my presence there so soon after my last visit. Anything rather than tell him the truth - that I had come into Newcastle specifically to buy Callum Andrews’ famous book.
“Well, then…? Oh, I know. The Ingres paper you were enquiring about.” He looked about him, taking in his bearings and that of the ever-changing stock. “I’m so pleased to be able to tell you, Mrs. Peters, that it arrived on Friday. There, you see. Isn’t that a bit of luck? I was planning to telephone you this afternoon…you know…when things have quietened down somewhat.”
I followed the inclination of his fine-boned head as he pointed it towards the still-growing crowd of love-story fans buying their copies of ‘This Affair’. The women seemed strangely animated and exited and I felt almost embarrassed for them. Especially the older ones, who twittered like plump sparrows, clutching their books to their ample chests.
“I see what you mean,” I told him with a wry smile and turned away abruptly, not wanting to discuss the subject any further. “The Ingres paper…?”
“Ah, yes. I’ll just get one of our assistants. Miss Jones! Here we are. Miss Jones will help you find what you want. Now, do please excuse me, but I really have to be…you know…over there.”
He indicated the sales counter again, gesticulating with a long pale hand. It was unusual for Mr. Gruber not to be on hand to see to my needs personally. A little too personally sometimes, I often thought. He was a gossip and a busybody. Married with five children, he assured me on one occasion, but every inch of him an old woman.
He hurried off, stiff-backed, stiff-legged, rigid with compressed stress and trying not to show it.
“Was there something special you wanted to see, madam?” Miss Jones reminded me of her presence.
“I beg your pardon?” We stared at one another. She with badly camouflaged impatience at having been stuck with a customer who didn’t seem to know the time of day. I, with all the blankness in my head of the person she thought I was. Then I remembered the Ingres paper.
She took me to where the new stock of pastel tinted paper was filling up the shelves and I went into great deliberations over selecting a dozen sheets of varying tints. I watched the sales assistant carefully roll and wrap the paper. All the while my fingers tapped on the counter, beating out a nervous tattoo as I kept an eye on the continuing battle of customers buying Callum’s book. I hoped I would get there before the last copy was sold.
“He’s very popular,” the girl said as she passed my credit card through the tight mouth of her computerised till.
“What? I mean…who?”
“Callum Andrews.”
“Oh…is he? I mean…yes, of course.” She cocked a curious eye at me as if I was being stupid. I was, and I knew it.
“He’s quite old really,” she went on and I felt my hackles rise, until I realised that to this twenty-year old girl a man in his forties could well seem old. “But he’s still sexy, isn’t he?”
“I…er…I don’t know. Do you think so?” I had thought Callum was many things, but ‘sexy’ wasn’t one of them. The description, I thought, cheapened him somehow. Or was it that I didn’t want to think of other women drooling over him in such a way?
“Oh, yes. Well, he’s the same age as my dad, but they’re worlds apart. Not in the same league.”
I looked at her and tried to picture her father. My imagination painted the picture of a beer belly protruding through a straining, sweat-stained shirt as he slumped in front of Coronation Street, can of Guinness in his thick-fingered hand. Or would he be the hard-working, underfed joiner type, coming home to the wife, grubby and smelling of oil and sawdust, a film of dust on his thick, bottle-bottom glasses and bits of his lunchtime sandwich still adhering to the stubble on his chin? I daresay, in comparison with these two imaginary characters, Callum could be considered extremely ‘sexy’.
“Have you…” I looked at the girl and felt a stupid rise of colour on my cheeks. “…er…have you read his book?”
She sniggered and pulled a copy of ‘This Affair’ out from under the counter. “I haven’t finished it yet. I sneak a look in between customers. It’s good…well, kind of personal, you know. I get the feeling that I’m reading somebody’s private diary. Did you want a copy? Only, you’d better grab one quick before they all go.”
“Well, I was thinking…but no, I don’t think so…I mean…I don’t have time to stand and wait in that queue.”
“It’s not usually such a madhouse in here. But then, we don’t have a celebrity author with us every day….” She broke off abruptly as one of the other girls came to check up on the price of masking fluid. Then I had her attention again.
“Did you say that he was here…Callum Andrews?” I felt a tingling and a shudder went up and down my spine when she nodded her head.
“Book signing,” she said. “Local celebrity. Mr. Gruber couldn’t miss out on the opportunity.”
“No, of course not.”
“Look, if you don’t want to wait, I can easily get you a copy and put it through on this till.” And when I started to object, not wishing to put her to any trouble, she shook her head firmly. “It’s not a problem, really. Would you like a copy?”
“Well, I…er…yes, I might as well treat myself…”
She was gone in a flash before I could change my mind. I saw her push her way through the crowd of women chattering volubly in the middle of the shop, then she was back, triumphantly waving a copy of the book and feeling she had coerced a sale from an unsure customer. If only she knew!
I looked across the shop at the dwindling crowd of Callum’s admirers and felt a ping of excitement as Callum stood up, towering over the women. I wished I had the courage to join them and get the copy of his book signed, see the expression on his face when he recognised me.
Despite my brain telling me to leave immediately before we came face to face, my heart refused to let me, so I decided to linger a while longer and pick up one or two other items. Half an hour later, my arms full of Ingres paper, Langton drawing pads and a selection of pastel chalks, I headed for the door, pleased that the crowd had thinned sufficiently to let me pass without being noticed. I could see Mr. Gruber looking ever so humble. talking to his celebrated musician and author behind the counter. The shop manager was rubbing his hands together like a praying mantis and pouring out the condescending syrup a little more loquaciously than usual. He looked enormously pleased with himself.
As I approached the glass door leading onto the street, the two men came around the counter and I had to quickly side-step to prevent them from colliding with me. My clumsy movements dislodged the bags and roll of paper I was carrying. I tried to juggle with them, but to no avail. They slipped out of my grasp, spilling onto the floor at the feet of Mr. Gruber and his very important guest.
“Oh, dear, Mrs. Peters.” I heard Gruber’s voice, full of concern as I scrabbled to retrieve my purchases with the minimum of fuss. “Are you all right, my dear? Do let me help you. I’m sure it was all my fault, not looking where I was going.”
He started scrabbling about the floor with me, chasing runaway pencils and bottles of ink. I had the Ingres paper in my arms and was reaching out for my prize purchase of ‘This Affair’, when a hand reached out and picked it up for me. A hand with long, artistic fingers; a hand made to dance over the ivory keys of a grand piano; a hand I knew all too well.
“Allow me, Mrs. Peters.” Callum’s soft Scottish brogue wafted by my ear and I suddenly knew the meaning behind the sales-girl’s words when she spoke of a ‘celebrity author’.
I stared at the hand gripping the book, which had slipped out of its regulation brown paper bag and was exposing itself for all the world to see. I followed the hand, w
ith the book, as it rose slowly, passing by gleaming black shoes, long legs clad in trousers of expensive silk. By the time I reached his face I knew it was no use trying to escape.
“Hello, Callum,” I said in a breathy whisper as my heart looped the loop, then went for a spin around my churning stomach.
“Megan,” he nodded and gave me a soft, secret smile.
I had forgotten how tall he was. And how his eyes, when they smiled, lit up and turned my bones to rubber. And his mouth turning up at the corners in that famous way that had earned him the reputation of being enigmatic. One black winged eyebrow rose, while the other, the one with the tiny scar through it, remained static. His smile widened, emphasising the high cheekbones and the long, deep indentations beneath. That oh so perfect mouth with the strong, white teeth. I had kissed that mouth. The memory of it made my lips tingle.
My mind suddenly played a cruel trick on me and I saw a flash picture of that day three years ago when we had agreed to end our affair. That was the day when we stole the peach and I saw him again biting into it, laughing as the juice ran down his chin, holding the fruit out to me so we could share it.
I blinked away the vision. My mouth had gone dry, my tongue cleaving coldly against the roof of my mouth. I felt light-headed and shaky, like someone in shock.
He was still smiling down at me, holding out the book he had picked up from the floor.
“I see you’ve bought my book,” he said. “I’m flattered. You must let me know what you think of it.”
“Yes…yes, I will…thank you,” I stuttered, grabbing the book and clutching it jealously to my chest, like a mother clutching a fallen child that some stranger had picked up and comforted in her stead.
Mr. Gruber, having stared at us curiously, snapped his fingers at someone, and asked for a plastic carrier. An assistant rushed up, beamed a blushing smile at Callum and appeared almost to curtsy as she handed over the carrier. Or perhaps it was that his warm regard melted her knees too.
“Here we are, Mrs. Peters, all safe and sound and no damage done.” Mr. Gruber handed me the bag filled with my purchases. His smiling, nodding head passed from me to Callum and back again two or three times, then he heaved an embarrassed sigh and clasped his hands in front of his narrow chest. “Well, if you’ll excuse us...er… Mr. Andrews, can I offer you a cup of coffee in my office until the next signing marathon takes off.”
“Coffee would be very welcome, thank you.”
Callum was speaking to Mr. Gruber, but his eyes were fixed on my face, a curious frown creasing his high forehead. There was a hesitancy in his manner as if he wanted to say something, but perhaps the circumstances of our chance meeting dictated that cool civility was the order of the day. Perhaps it was just as well.
“Was there anything else we could help you with, Mrs. Peters?” Mr. Gruber was tactfully trying to get rid of me. He was no doubt anxious to have a few minutes alone with his celebrity. I wondered what he, and indeed, all the women who had clustered into his shop that day, would have thought had they known of the relationship that had once existed between that same celebrity and this humble customer. Shocked, no doubt. Surprised. Astonished. After all, Callum Andrews was a famous name. Who was I? An insignificant artist, somebody else’s wife, an ordinary woman that practically nobody had heard of.
“Thank you, Mr. Gruber,” I heard my own voice echo eerily in my singing ears. “I have everything I need.”
I inclined my head slightly in Callum’s direction, trying to look cool and collected. He gave a short nod back. Then I turned and walked, head held proud and high, out of the shop, not stopping until I was well out of sight. My knees finally gave way, fortunately, just outside Tony’s Ice-Cream Parlour and I managed to stagger to a table, where I sat breathing deeply and trying not to cry.
I hadn’t asked for Callum to sign my book, and he hadn’t offered to do so.
Chapter Three
Ros was waiting for me when I got back home. I knew she would be. As soon as I put the key in my lock her bottle-black curly head popped out of her window and shrewd green eyes fixed me with a questioning stare.
“Well?” She asked with an upward thrust of her snub nose. Her round eyes remained unblinking until I gave her an answering nod, indicating the carrier bag from The BookShop. “Ah.”
There was a note of satisfaction in her gravelly voice. She returned my nod and smiled broadly. A muffled sound came from somewhere inside the house. I frowned, pointed to the door. Ros pulled a face and nodded again. We had developed a great sign language, Ros and me. It had been established long ago in the early days of our unlikely friendship, largely because she and Greg didn’t hit it off too well. That’s something of an understatement. The first time their paths crossed you could see the daggers drawn at ten paces. It was immediate and neither of them had taken even the hint of a step to improve the relationship.
I tucked the book more securely into the bottom of the carrier bag, making sure that it was adequately hidden by my array of artists’ materials. Then, taking a deep breath, I turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. As I was about to step inside, Ros hissed at me, jerked her head, ran thumb and forefinger down towards her chin, then gave me the ‘thumbs down’ sign. I gave her a swift nod of thanks for her warning. Greg, apparently, was in a bad mood. She had no doubt seen him come home and maybe even heard him through the adjoining wall that separated our two houses. Greg was not the quietest of men at the best of times.
I hadn’t expected to find him home. That morning, I left him still snoring and dead to the world after whatever kind of sortie he had been on. I left a note on the breakfast table saying I had gone into town to do some essential shopping, thinking that he would not only be up but gone by the time I got back.
He was in the kitchen, but the glass in his hand was not filled with water. The place reeked with gin, an odour I particularly detested. As I walked in, forcing a pained smile on my stiff face, something crunched under my feet. I looked down and saw a scattering of glass slivers and a large wet patch.
“Okay, so I broke a bloody glass, so what!”
Greg was standing in the middle of the floor, legs braced like a man on the deck of a boat in choppy seas. He peered at me blearily through a mesh of disarranged hair. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
“I see you found another one,” I tossed back sharply, and his faded hazel eyes grew small and mean. Then I softened my tone, not wanting to arouse any more antagonistic feelings in him than were already overflowing. “You’d better sit down before you fall down. Can I fix you anything to eat? You really shouldn’t drink so early in the day. Did you have breakfast?”
He shook his head and fell rather than sat on a chair. The glass in his hand banged down on the table, spilling some of its contents. He hung his head down and muttered something inaudible into his chest. This was Greg being pathetic and looking for sympathy. Ignoring him, I put my BookShop carrier bag down in a discreet corner and went about mopping the floor, retrieving as much of the shattered glass as I could find.
“Bloody women!”
I ignored the remark, thinking that it was possibly aimed at me and I had no intention of rising to the bait. I had been caught in his venomous, verbal traps many times before I learned to avoid them at all costs.
“I said ‘bloody women’!”
“Yes, Greg. I heard you.”
“The new Editor in Chief!”
“Yes?” I tipped a shovel full of broken glass shards into the bin with a great deal of noise.
“She’s a fucking female!”
“Oh?”
“A ruddy female führer with balls!”
“I take it you don’t like her.”
“Like her? Like her? You must be joking! Do you know what she had the balls to tell me this morning?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to let me in on the secret.”
“She told me….” He was salivating down his chin as he spoke, his eyes loosely focussed on some
black liver spot that was floating about dizzily in the turbulent sea of his vision. “She told me that I…. that I…was getting too old for the job. Me! I practically kept that bloody paper going while she was still in her nappies!”
“She’s young, is she?”
“Twenty bloody five! She could almost be my fucking daughter, dammit!”
No, she couldn’t, I thought, thinking of the secret vasectomy he had, the details of which came out when I was desperately making appointments with specialists to discover why I wasn’t getting pregnant.
I hurriedly made some strong black coffee and, when it was ready, shoved a mugful of it in his hand. Then I threw the contents of his glass down the sink. I didn’t know how many gins he had already sunk, but I guessed that it was around the ‘too many’ mark.
The coffee went some way towards sobering him up. While he was drinking it, I whipped up some scrambled eggs and stood over him as he ate. In this kind of mood, he was at least manageable. As manageable as an aged, senile relative. I suddenly had visions of the day when every hour would be filled with the kind of care I was providing right now. The thought did not exactly fill me with joy.
Not for the first time I thought of divorce. The word kept appearing and disappearing in my brain like an intermittent semaphore. This time, however, the thought did not pass through my head like a puff of smoke. This time, I knew that I could and probably would go through with it. I was now earning enough regular money to be independent. I had even managed to save some of it and so was no longer an embarrassment to my bank manager.
“They buggered up the Callum Andrews story, of course.” Greg said out of the blue with a mouthful of egg. “Gave the assignment to some new kid on the block who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. Bloody fools.”
