This Affair

by June Gadsby

  “What on earth has got into you, Greg?” I demanded, choosing the only pair of gold earrings I possessed to go with the new black silk dress that fit me like a second skin and I was already wondering if I dared wear it, since I wasn’t exactly built like a top-model. My curves were a little more rounded and were usually hidden beneath loose shirts and comfortable tracksuit bottoms.

  “Nothing! Nothing’s got into me.”

  “Then what have you got against Callum? He’s been nothing but kind to you…and patient, I’ll bet. You’ve been paid generously for your work on his biography and so have I for the portrait.”

  I had been surprised at how much I earned on this one job. The disappointment was that I had hoped to hold onto the original head and shoulders portrait of Callum. It was by far the best thing I had ever done to date. Somehow, I thought that if I couldn’t have the real thing, this portrait of him in pastel would bring me some consolation. I planned to have it framed and hang it in my study where I could gaze at it with bittersweet longing. I knew every line, every crevice in that well-known face. But then, I had possibly seen him as nobody else had ever seen him. Not even his wife.

  However, Callum had expressly wished to own the original portrait and had sent me a more than generous cheque in payment. How could I refuse him? It was, after all, his portrait. Fortunately, I had thought to take photographs of all my work. I would have a print enlarged. That would have to suffice.

  “Come on, then. Let’s go, if you’re ready.”

  Greg was glowering at me sourly. I grabbed my bag and a shawl, gave myself a last critical glance in the mirror and hurried out behind him. He was already sitting in the car with the engine running by the time I caught up to him, having held back long enough to put out lights and lock the door. Being gentlemanly was not one of Greg’s strong points. It didn’t seem to matter when I first got to know him. I was young and inexperienced. So was he. I had grown up quickly. Unfortunately, Greg had not changed at all.

  The concert was taking place in the Theatre Royal in Newcastle. I felt a ripple of excitement as we parked the car and walked up to the impressive, colonnaded building which was bathed in pink floodlights. The street outside was crowded and people were looking restless and disappointed. Last minute seat seekers, no doubt. I had tried a week ago to obtain tickets for various friends and relatives who had heard about it and found the place sold out.

  People were slowly filing into the theatre, guided by the green and gold trimmed uniformed doormen. We joined the throng, moving forward half a pace at a time. I was glad, after all, that I had dressed up for the occasion. It looked as if the whole of the Newcastle elite were attending this important, one-off concert.

  “You ought to have worn your mink, dear,” Greg muttered sarcastically out of the corner of his mouth as we found ourselves pressed up against the back of a rather large lady wearing a fox fur stole. The head of the poor thing, stuffed and glassy eyed, was staring pathetically at me, inches from my nose. It was totally out of fashion and I didn’t know how she had the nerve to wear such a thing.

  “I prefer the skins to stay on the living animal,” I said pointedly, hoping the woman would hear me. “They weren’t put on this earth to clothe us. At least not in the twenty-first century.”

  The woman must have caught on to what I was saying and turned to give me a scathing look that spoke realms. She looked the type to have a pet Pekinese that she adored and over-stuffed with titbits until it died of some dreaded doggy ailment and she’d blame the vet for not saving its poor, unhealthy life.

  On my left, there was a jingle of chains as the Lord Mayor and his wife surged forward and a way was made clear for their progress into the theatre. The Mayor was looking red-faced and nervous and was already glancing at his watch, probably working out when he could respectably leave to fit in another engagement. Or, which was more likely, since I knew his reputation, he was already counting the minutes to the interval when he could prop up the bar. The Lady Mayoress smiled broadly about her, nodding to people she recognised and a few she probably didn’t know from Adam, but she was doing her job with indefatigable enthusiasm and enjoying her moment of importance.

  Greg made a castigating remark about her in my ear and got a dig in the ribs from my elbow for his pains. We had at last managed to get inside. Greg was waving aside a programme proffered by a middle-aged usherette when I got my eye on Ros. She waved to me and I nodded, sorry that we wouldn’t be sitting together, but with Greg around that would be asking for trouble. I had managed to wangle that one odd ticket from Terry Carter and when I presented it to Ros you’d think I’d given her a pot of gold.

  “Aw, shit!”

  I cringed as I heard Greg’s voice and saw one or two heads turn with shocked expressions.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve come wrong. These tickets are for one of the boxes. Come on.”

  He grabbed my hand and dragged me after him. He pushed aside the incoming crowds and I followed, muttering hurried excuses as we bumped into people. We made it to the box allocated to us just in time. I was breathless as I sank down in my seat, leaned forward and saw Callum stride onto the stage and take his first bow.

  The whole theatre erupted and the quiver of excitement I had felt since we arrived turned into something more profound. I felt, somehow, that I was a part of him as he stood there smiling reservedly, his eyes shining, the creases in his cheeks deepening with the rising crescendo of the applause.

  Callum started to turn as the applause died down. His gaze slid up towards the box where Greg and I sat. Our eyes met and locked for an instant. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of recognition and his smile broadened. Then he went to sit at the huge grand piano and the orchestra started playing the first overture of the concert.

  For a while I didn’t hear anything but the beating of my own heart, because of that one look, that one smile, espectially for me. I didn’t dare look at Greg in case he read something telling in my expression. Thankfully, the audience lights went down as the music swelled and for the next hour I was completely lost in another world.

  Of course, I had listened to Callum’s music many times in the last few weeks, so I was no longer a stranger to it. But hearing it like this, tonight, live on stage, it had a magic to it that set every nerve in my body quivering with erotic pleasure.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The intermission arrived all too soon. With the applause still ringing out, the lights went up and I peered about me. Throughout the theatre, hands were slapping together in appreciation. Faces were aglow with delight. I heaved a satisfied sigh and was suddenly aware of Greg’s fidgety presence. He had done extraordinarily well so far, though I had caught him a couple of times giving surreptitious glances at his watch. He was never one to sit still for any length of time and classical music of any kind bored him. He was happier with heavy rock or modern jazz, though I was never sure that he actually listened to any of it.

  “Isn’t it wonderful” I enthused, but Greg was too busy screwing around uncomfortably in his seat, straining buttons and zips as well as his neck.

  “Let’s go get a drink,” he suggested, already on his feet and pushing his way towards the exit.

  I hesitated only long enough to give a quick wave to Ros who happened to be looking my way and she prodded the air with an approving thumb, telling me that she was enjoying the concert as much as I was. Then I followed Greg as he pushed his way unceremoniously through to the bar. He was big and clumsy. People got out of his way quickly, eyeing him with marked disapproval. I handed out one or two apologies on his behalf, then gave up and hung back. I was tired of making excuses for him.

  In the bar, I stood a little way off, amidst an overheated crush of bodies. Groups of men and women were hurriedly drinking, smoking, eating crisps, salted peanuts and olives. There was a toxic fug of expensive perfumes. The conversation was a sort of general unintelligible rumble punctuated by the odd raucous laugh and an occasional ampli
fied remark.

  Greg had managed to get hold of a couple of drinks, both of them vodkas, his being a triple on the rocks, mine half drowned in lime juice cordial. At least he had remembered that I was with him. He headed towards me like a rugby player going for a try. My stomach sank as it often did on similar occasions when I wished he had opted to stay at home, but then the occasions were invariably his occasions. Tonight, it was very much my night out. I didn’t want anything to spoil it.

  “Mrs. Peters! There you are!”

  I heard the voice tinged with impatience and relief through the mêlée and turned in the direction of its owner. It was Callum’s private secretary. I had met her on several occasions and could never quite make up my mind whether I liked her or not. I think the difficulty, on my part, was because I was almost one hundred per cent sure that she did not approve of me for some unknown reason. She always regarded me with an air of suspicion as if I might run off with something precious.

  “Hello, Frances!” I tried to look and sound cheerful, but it was difficult with this formidable woman bearing down on me on one side while my erstwhile husband with his notorious bad manners was coming at me from the other direction.

  “I was just about to give up finding you,” she said, a trifle breathlessly and tugged nervously at the frilled lace ruff beneath her chin. “But then that would have made Callum furious and he’s so moody as it is these days. I just can’t understand what’s got into the man.”

  “Perhaps he’s working too hard,” I suggested, but she pooh-poohed this with a derisively arched eyebrow and pinched nostrils.

  “Quite frankly, Mrs. Peters, he’s not working at all.”

  Greg had reached us by this time and Frances eyed him with open dislike, quickly refusing the drink he half-heartedly offered to fetch for her. The warning bell telling us that the second half of the concert was about to begin, put her into an even more nervous state. “Oh, I must get backstage immediately to make sure everything’s in order. Callum’s so relaxed about these things you know.”

  “But Frances…” I grabbed her arm as she was about to depart in the direction of the door towards which people were surging and trying to get through while being vaguely polite to one another. “What did you want me for?”

  “I beg your pardon…? Oh. Yes, sorry” She pulled again at her frills and let her worried eyes travel the room before returning her attention to me. “Callum has invited you….and your husband, of course, to go backstage after the concert. There’ll be drinks and hors d’oeuvres…you know the kind of thing…”

  “Really?” I looked at her in astonishment, wanting to hug her in my joy, and yet wishing I’d never come. Even less that I’d brought Greg with me.

  “But of course…” Another questionable glance from the secretary in Greg’s direction. “Perhaps you have other arrangements? What should I tell the maestro?”

  “Well, I don’t know…” I turned to Greg, who didn’t seem to be listening to a word of our conversation, but was eyeing a rather attractive blonde at the bar. “Greg, what do you think? Callum’s invited us backstage for drinks after the show.”

  He swallowed a large amount of vodka and chewed on an ice-cube. He grimaced and shook his head. “I’ve got to be on the other side of town in…” He made a rather theatrical show of looking at his watch. “….in half an hour.”

  “You never mentioned that when…” I started to say, then fell silent, letting my frown say the rest. I wasn’t convinced that his suddenly remembered appointment was genuine.

  “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “Yes, of course it matters. I don’t want to miss the rest of the concert.”

  “You don’t have to. Stay and get a taxi back home later. Anyway, I’ve got this interview set up and…and…well, that’s it, Megan.”

  “More important than Callum Andrews?” I hissed at him and felt Frances’ eyes swivel from Greg to me and then back to him again.

  “Please…what do I tell Callum?” Frances said eventually, when it was obvious that Greg had no intention of answering me. “I really must get back to him?”

  “Tell him…” I hesitated on the brink of sending my apologies, then looked directly at my husband’s broody face and changed my mind. “Thank him for his invitation, Frances, and tell him I’ll be happy to join him backstage later.”

  She hurried off after a quick, non-committal nod, leaving me feeling as if she would have preferred it had I refused the invitation. I glanced at Greg, who was ignoring me and swirling the remains of his ice-cubes around in his glass.

  “We’d better get back to our seats,” I said, noting that we were among the last to leave.

  “You go ahead,” Greg muttered into his glass. “I have some phone calls to make.”

  It was the old, old story. Greg, leaving me stranded, going off on some factual or fictitious business of his own. This was one of the things he had promised never to do again. But since when had he ever kept a promise for longer than a month or two. Just long enough to keep me tagging along thinking he had changed, then all the bad habits would come floating back again. Like an alcoholic keeps gravitating towards alcohol or a drug addict who can’t resist the pull of crack or whatever poison they absorb carelessly into their bodies, Greg always returned to his own social addictions. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. It didn’t matter which, if they had what it took to excite him and make his adrenaline soar. I was just the girl he married. And wives were boring creatures at the best of times.

  I left him heading back to the bar, rattling his ice-cubes at the barmaid with the over-inflated breasts peeking cheekily out of her shirt. The orchestra was already tuning up as I re-took my place, in the empty box, smiling apologetically at the people next door when my fold up seat went down with a bang.

  And then, suddenly, I was lost yet again in the programme as the music transported me to a world apart. A world of love and romance and pleasant fantasy. I wrapped the music around me like a comfort blanket and forgot about Greg and the problems that had so long infiltrated our marriage

  And, of course, Callum was there, on stage, smiling magically at his audience, a king among his fellow-musicians, a prince of his devoted followers. And the one man who could touch my heart, take it in his hands and squeeze it until I felt the need to cry out with bittersweet pain. A love he must never be aware of; an emotion he would never return. Because he was married to Hilary and they were happy and…I couldn’t bear the thought,

  I sucked in the perfumed air around me on an unexpected sob and felt tears prick behind my eyelids. In the darkness that surrounded me, I shut my eyes tight and fought back an unaccustomed surge of emotion. How stupid, I thought, to long for something so unobtainable. Longing for the unobtainable is perhaps the most hurtful emotion of all. As a child, I had always longed for a dog, but was never allowed to have one. As a newly married woman, the longing was for a child. That, too, was denied me. Now, it was a man my heart was reaching out to. And Callum Andrews was, I was sure, even less obtainable than either dog or child.

  The concert was all but over, and he hadn’t yet played the title piece of the newly released album. I wondered if, perhaps, he had not been able to finish it in time after all. He had been struggling with it for so long.

  As the applause died down, Callum rose from the piano and walked to the front of the stage, raising his hands in supplication as the applause became a thundering crescendo. He beamed at the audience, his glance skimming the rows, his handsome head shaking as he laughed at them and pleaded for a moment’s silence, so he could make an announcement. Finally, the clapping of hands and the stamping of feet faded, and his velvety tones reached the ears of the people who, like me, didn’t want the concert to finish. I found myself sitting forward on the edge of my seat, straining to catch his every word. And I wasn’t the only one. I swear every woman, and some of the men too, were doing the very same thing. Callum Andrews was their hero and, because he was not a man of many words normally, the occas
ions when he spoke to his audience were rare events not to be missed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, then hesitated, cleared his throat and looked about him, his eyes searching the audience, a modest man with a great talent, proud, slightly arrogant, yet tinged with that shy, ‘little boy lost’ quality that endeared him to so many female hearts. “First, I’d like to thank you all for coming here this evening. As I’m sure you know, the proceeds for this concert will go towards helping young and talented musicians to realise their own personal dreams. In particular, those less fortunate than others…young disabled musicians….”

  There was a fresh burst of applause. Everyone knew that Callum had been responsible for setting up a trust fund for disabled children and young adults who wanted to study music in all its forms. There were Callum Andrews’ Special Music Schools going up all over the world. Brave new establishments that housed their students and educated them, not only in music, but in all available subjects. Everything under the same roof. They had the growing reputation of being a good place to be if you were blind, deaf or paraplegic, not to mention the great variety of lesser-known disabilities. They were a home away from home, extended families, run by people who were highly qualified, but more important, by people who cared.

  “Please, please…” Callum held up his hands and shook his head. “If you want to help these wonderful young people, you’ll find donation envelopes at the back of the theatre. The usherettes have been ordered not to let anyone leave without taking one.” Laughter and more applause. “Now, since you haven’t all gone home, I take it you’re waiting to hear the new piece which gives its name to the album I’ve just recorded…Portrait in Pastel.” Again, an ovation that Callum had difficulty in curtailing. “It was a long time in the writing and it would never have made it but for the inspiration given to me by one young lady. It’s to her I’d like to dedicate the piece you’re about to hear.”