This Affair

by June Gadsby

  “Callum!”

  “Yes…er…all right…Callum. How…er…?”

  “I heard you the first time,” he said brusquely and then smiled disarmingly. “My apologies. I’m feeling decidedly off-form this morning. I was up half the night trying to find the right tune, the best, blessed melody. I haven’t even managed to come up with an appropriate title, though I have a dozen bars of music that keep floating through my brain. Trouble is, every time I reach out to grab them, they disappear in a wisp of smoke. Have you done any more work on those sketches you started yesterday?”

  He had the most alarming way of putting me at my ease, then he would come out with a direct question that threw me into a spin.

  “Yes. A little, but I’m not too happy with them. I’m not used to dealing with moving subjects.”

  “Ha!” he threw back his handsome head and laughed. “Then maybe you’ll have to catch me and nail me down. Either that or hypnotise me. And I’m sure you could well do that with those eyes of yours. Well, are you going to show us what you’ve got?”

  I saw Trevor’s amused grin from the corner of my eye and blushed even harder as I opened my portfolio and spread out the drawings on the big worktable in the centre of the room.

  “Have a look at these, will you, Terry,” Callum instructed, and Terry moved forward until the two men were pouring over my drawings and I was left standing alone, ignored, shifting from foot to foot and cringing away from a possible expression of disapproval.

  “They’re jolly good, Megan,” Terry said finally, passing from one drawing to another, hesitating over each one and nodding with a satisfied grunt.

  Then Callum was addressing me again, eye to eye, with a directness that was almost hostile in its intensity. “What’s happened to the head shot?”

  “I…er…I didn’t like it. I tore it up.”

  “Why on earth should you do a thing like that, girl? It was excellent. By far the best of the lot.”

  “Oh…well, I don’t agree,” I was gaining courage from somewhere, heaven only knew where, but I told myself grimly that Callum Andrews was not the only one who could get stroppy.

  “And what do you propose to do in its stead?”

  “I found the pencil too severe. I’d like to try a portrait in pastel, but you’d have to agree to sit still for at least an hour.”

  “What was that you said?” He had reacted to my miniature speech as if I had punctuated it with four-letter words. At least, that’s what I thought his reaction was, but I was wrong.

  “I said that I found the pencil too severe…”

  “No! Not that. A portrait, you said….in pastel?”

  “Yes, it’s soft and velvety and…well, sort of romantic.” I shrugged my shoulders. Let him think what he will, I told myself. So, I happen to like things romantic…like the music he was famous for …like his face in repose or when he looked at me with those intensely black, shiny nugget eyes of his.

  He had rushed to the piano and was scribbling away on a score sheet that already had a multitude of scribbles on it. “That’s it! Megan, I love you!”

  I still had my mouth open when he took three long strides across the room, grabbed me by the shoulders and planted a kiss right between my eyes. Terry gave a laugh that broke the silence after the kiss. I saw Callum draw himself up sharply. His hands released me so suddenly that I staggered slightly. He looked from me to Trevor and, scratching the back of his head, allowed a slow smile to spread across his face.

  “Well, that’s the title. Now, all I need is the music. I don’t suppose you could help me with that, Megan, could you?”

  I shook my head and gave him an uncertain smile. I could still feel the impression of his lips on my forehead and it was having an undesirable effect on the rest of me.

  “What title?” Terry asked with a puzzled frown.

  “The main piece of music for the new album – a two CD presentation package that’s supposed to come out the same time as the biography.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes. Portrait in Pastel is perfect for the type of music I represent and if Megan manages to do my portrait in pastel like she says…and doesn’t tear the damn thing up…you can use it for the front cover.”

  Terry mulled that over, then his eyebrows went up and he gave an enthusiastic smile. “That’s good. Yes. I like it.”

  “Right, now…the reason I called you over is…” Callum looked pointedly at me and casually suggested that I go find the kitchen and see if I could cook up some coffee. “Everything’s there, but there’s no guarantee you’ll find it first go. Hilary has this awful habit of putting things in odd places. Like flour in the coffee jar and salt in the tea caddy. It drives me crazy, but I’ve never been able to break her of the habit, bless her.”

  If I didn’t suspect before I left the conservatory, that Callum was strategically getting rid of me to talk privately with Terry, I certainly knew it when I came back ten minutes later with the coffee, which had not really been so difficult to find after all.

  “…just not acceptable, Terry. It’s his whole attitude that’s wrong …Ah, Megan. Find everything okay?”

  Terry was looking at me in a strange way when I handed them their coffee and we sat to drink it near one of the wide plate glass windows. Outside, the cloudy morning had grown positively dark, with great storm clouds gathering and an odd light in the sky created by a stray sunbeam that had found a tear in the Payne’s grey water-colour blanket that was covering all.

  “There’s something we have to ask you, Megan,” Terry said eventually and with some reluctance, I thought.

  “I know nothing about music and I can’t play the piano with more than one finger,” I said with a wry smile, which mirrored itself in Callum’s eyes, but both he and Terry remained painfully serious. My heart turned over as my imagination ran amok with whatever question they might have in mind.

  “Megan…” Terry was taking an infinity of time to get to the point and Callum wasn’t helping. He simply sat there, regarding me with those piercing unfathomable eyes of his. “What effect would it have on you if we withdrew Greg from writing Callum’s biography?”

  I blinked at him, at both of them, for a long time. “You’re not serious,” I suggested. “I mean…you can’t really do that, can you? Why, for goodness sake?”

  “I’d rather not go into reasons right now, Megan. How would you feel about it?”

  I knew how Greg would feel about being taken off his greatest assignment yet. He hadn’t said so, but I knew just how lucky he had been to get it offered in the first place. He was a good writer, but there were other good writers around who could have done the job equally as well. And be less abrasive about it. That was the problem, I was sure. Callum was probably objecting to Greg’s general behaviour, which left a lot to be desired most of the time, though he could no longer be made to see it.

  “I think it would make things very difficult for me to continue with the art work,” I told them simply and sincerely.

  “Does that mean you wouldn’t want to do it?”

  I frowned. This was difficult. I was strung between a grudging loyalty to the man I had married and the utmost desire to carry on with the job. “It means that I couldn’t do it,” I corrected him. “It would cause problems between Greg and I, to say the least."

  “That’s a pity,” Callum said in a low voice from behind a hand that was thoughtfully massaging his face.

  “I don’t see that we have any choice, Megan,” Terry splayed his hand in supplication.

  “Then you give me no choice. I’m sorry.”

  The stillness that had come over the room was suddenly interrupted by a sharp bleeping sound that came from Terry’s cell phone. He excused himself, then went out into the corridor to take the call, leaving Callum and I sitting staring wordlessly at one another. I tried not to look accusingly at him, though I couldn’t help feel some resentment. Perhaps because of some minor blip in his relationship with Greg, he had decided he no l
onger wanted him to work on the book. That was fine. I could understand that. It was, after all, Callum’s prerogative. But all this was going to lead to trouble between Greg and I, one way or another.

  “Look, I’m terribly sorry about this,” Terry’s face was as white as a sheet when he joined us. “That was the hospital. My wife’s just been admitted as an emergency. I promised I’d be there with her at the birth and…I…”

  He stood there, flapping his arms at his sides, looking helpless.

  “Then don’t just stand there like an idiot, man,” Callum said sternly. “You’d better go to her.”

  Terry was looking at me plaintively. “Megan, I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t worry about me, Terry. Go on. I’ll get a taxi back. Best of luck!”

  He disappeared in a cloud of his own dust. We listened to his footsteps receding down the corridor, through the hall and out through the front door.

  “He’s left all the damned doors open,” Callum said with a frown, then turned to me. “Drink your coffee. It’ll get cold.”

  “I really ought to be getting along, Mr. Andrews…I’m really, truly sorry for wasting your time.”

  “Nonsense! Anyway, I still want you to do that portrait of me. I’ve never had one done before and I’m quite taken by the idea. Hilary can have it framed and hang me above the fireplace in the lounge. It’ll be a talking point for her ladies. Now, where are those pastels of yours?”

  “Oh, but…I…!”

  “No buts. We’ll talk about them later. Right now, I’ve got this morning reserved in my diary – the whole time given over to you, Megan. And for the last time, woman, would you please call me Callum!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay…and I can’t possibly do your portrait now.”

  Was that really my voice I could hear echoing in my ears? It certainly wasn’t how I was feeling. But if they were going to give Greg the boot… Words like duty and obligation, immoral and unethical skimmed through my mind.

  It would more than upset Greg to be pulled out of this assignment. He would be morally wounded. I saw stretching before me nights, days, weeks of depression and mood swings that only went one way. Down. I had lived through that before because of a lesser cause. There was no way that I could put myself in the position of adding fuel to the fire. To be told that he was no longer to write the famous biography was one thing. The knowledge that I was still to provide the artistic illustrations for the book was nothing less than rubbing salt in the wound. I would rather give up my own gilt-edged opportunity than have my husband think me an out and out traitor. His jealousy at my landing the job in the first place was bad enough.

  “You’re sure?” Callum was frowning down on me, a hard to read expression creasing his face. Anger? Disappointment, maybe?

  I chewed my lip and hesitated, then gave a short, sharp nod. “Yes.”

  “Tell me, Megan,” he spoke softly, and I wished he wouldn’t, because it sounded too persuasive and I couldn’t afford to be persuaded. “If Greg had never been involved with my biography…would you have accepted the art work?”

  “Oh, yes!” The answer was out before I could stop myself. I gave him a wry, apologetic smile. “Yes, of course I would, but now…well, it changes things. It would put me in too difficult a situation.”

  “Does he love you, this husband of yours?” The question, like most of his questions of a more personal genre, came out of the blue, asked abruptly with those penetrating eyes of his searching my face.

  “Well…yes, I think so.” Why wasn’t I up in arms, demanding to know what right he had to ask such a thing of me, a comparative stranger? It was no business of his whether my husband loved me. And why couldn’t I be more emphatic in my answer? Was it because my long-harboured doubts about the sentiments lurking in Greg’s heart had turned into reality overnight?

  “You only think so?” He shook his head, a little sadly I thought. “And you’re crazy about him, no doubt?”

  “I wouldn’t say that…I mean…we’ve been married quite a few years and…well, we’re no longer living ‘love’s young dream’. Anyway, it’s none of your business…!”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “No! You’re perfectly right, Megan. I’m an old fool and you have every right to be angry with me. Greg must have some qualities, otherwise you would never have stayed married to him.”

  “No…I mean, yes…” I didn’t quite know what I meant right then, but I did know that it was time to go. “Well, I’ll just let myself out, shall I? I’m awfully sorry it hasn’t worked out…you know…with Greg and the book and…”

  He nodded, sighed and looked away, his eyes gazing out into the garden where a misty rain was falling, and the windows of the conservatory were beginning to steam up.

  I didn’t wait around for more pointless conversation. Without a further word, I headed for the corridor, walked down it and across the hall. With a heavy heart I pulled open the front door and stepped outside, cursing under my breath on realising that I had foolishly left my umbrella in Terry’s car. And remembering, too, the ongoing transport strike.

  Stranded, I thought, as I looked up and down the deserted lane that ran around three sides of the Andrews’ house. I started walking, head bowed into the wind and the driving rain, my portfolio clasped before me for protection. It didn’t matter now that the rain might seep through the leather sides of the case and ruin my sketches of Callum. They were no longer needed.

  At the main road, I tried several times to wave down taxis, regardless of whether they were already carrying fairs. I thought that some understanding, sympathetic traveller might take pity on me and offer to share his or her transport with me if we happened to be going in the same direction. It didn’t work. Drivers and passengers either didn’t see me. Or they didn’t care enough to stop.

  I must have walked at least a mile when a sleek black Mercedes pulled up at the curb with an expensive hiss of tires. I tried to ignore it, but when the driver leaned over and opened the passenger door, I couldn’t help but look in his direction.

  “Get in.” The voice that commanded me to get into his car was already familiar to me.

  “Oh, Callum. You don’t have to do this, really.” I started to object strongly, but he simply treated me to the patient smile of an understanding father.

  “Don’t argue. I have to go into town anyway.”

  “Do you really?” I didn’t believe his nod, but I slid into the seat next to him, leaving damp patches on the luxury leather upholstery. “In that case, thank you very much. It’s very kind of you.”

  I felt small and insignificant slumped next to Callum, my hair plastered wetly to my face, which was probably smeared with mascara. I sniffed loudly as a droplet of rainwater tickled the end of my nose. When Callum saw me hunting clumsily through my pockets, he pointed to the glove compartment in front of me.

  “You’ll find some Kleenex in there,” he said and, when I’d found them and gone some way to mopping up the water damage, he slid me a glance or two before continuing. “Are you always this loyal to your husband?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but in general I suppose the answer is yes, I am.”

  “Then I hope he appreciates how damned lucky he is. Where do you live?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to take me all the way. I can easily…”

  “For God’s sake, woman, how do you expect to get home in these conditions? Tell me your address and how to find it. You seem to forget. I have nothing better to do this morning. I was expecting to devote my time to a certain artist who got cold feet, went chicken on me and ran out. Because she thinks her husband loves her and she is always loyal to him.”

  “Why are you so angry?” This time it was my turn to slip in an unexpected question that obviously pricked his conscience because I saw the slight jerk of his head and he sat up straighter behind the wheel.

  “I don’t know,” was all he said in a low voice after what seemed an awfully long si
lence.

  “I live in Darlington Close. Number eighteen.”

  “You’ll have to direct me. I spend too much time abroad and, in the States, ever to get to know my home town fully.”

  “Does Mrs. Andrews go with you when you travel?” I asked for something to say. “Turn left at the next set of traffic lights.”

  “No. Hilary prefers to stay home with her committees and her ladies’ groups and her grandchildren.”

  “I didn’t know you had grandchildren,” I glanced at him in surprise, thinking he certainly didn’t look like anybody’s idea of a grandfather. “Straight on at the round-about and then first right.”

  “I have one stepson, two grandchildren,” he seemed to be speaking through gritted teeth, but I put it down to the road conditions and the fact that he really was doing something he would have preferred to avoid at all costs. “They see so little of me they hardly know me. That’s the price one pays for being famous.”

  “That’s a pity. Children can make your life so much richer, I’ve always thought.”

  “So why don’t you and Greg have any children?” He looked at me fully with these words and we nearly went into the back of a cyclist who wobbled across our path tinkling his bell frantically. “Well?”

  I waited a long time before replying. This same question had been asked of me so many times, but I never got used to it. It always hurt like hell. “We…er…we can’t have any.”

  “Reasons?”

  “Personal ones,” I snapped out the brief response and saw him grimace.

  “Sorry. It’s none of my business. Where to now?”

  “Keep straight on for a few hundred yards then…there. Turn right and we’re half way along on the left. It’s a cul-de-sac, but there’s enough room for you to turn around.”

  We pulled up gently outside the grey stone house that was to have been the new turning point in our married life. My life and Greg’s, that is. We put every penny we had into buying it and were still paying off the mortgage. I had thought it such a beautiful house. At first. Now, I looked at it and my stomach turned over because it’s beauty had not worked the magic we had demanded of it. Our fluctuating marriage was still floundering on rocky ground that seemed as fragile as eggshells.