Too Late to Paint the Roses

by Jeanne Whitmee

  When I walked in he stood up and stepped forward to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Elaine, hi! What can I get you?’

  ‘Just a plain tonic water, please,’ I said. ‘I’m driving, remember.’

  ‘Oh come on. One small measure of gin in it won’t send you over the limit.’

  I shrugged. ‘Okay then.’

  The barman poured my gin and tonic and Chris picked up his half finished whisky and soda and looked at me. ‘Shall we find a quiet corner?’

  The lounge was almost empty and Chris carried the drinks to a table in the far corner. When we were seated he looked at me.

  ‘So – what made you change your mind?’

  The question immediately put me on a back foot. To my horror I felt my colour rise. ‘Curiosity,’ I said with sudden inspiration. ‘I just had to know how you made that dream of yours come true.’

  He laughed. ‘The answer to that is – with great difficulty, though heartbreak, disappointment and sheer tenacity come into it in generous measures too.’

  ‘You had faith in yourself,’ I said, taking a sip of my drink. ‘You always did.’

  He nodded. ‘You could say that, though at times my confidence took some severe knocks.’

  I smiled, feeling myself beginning to relax as the alcohol in my drink calmed my nerves. ‘So what’s the story?’

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re asking?’ he laughed. ‘Writing’s a lonely business. Once you start a writer talking about himself you could be in for a long night.’

  ‘I’ll take that risk.’ I settled back in the comfortable chair. ‘Do you still live in St Ives?’

  ‘No.’ Chris sipped his whisky. ‘I stuck it out at the cottage for a couple of years, working my socks off and getting through the money at an alarming rate. It took me six months to write the first book and I sent it off, fully expecting it to be the hit of the century. It came back with a scathing note damning it to hell and back in seven short words. Predictable plot. One-dimensional characters. Repetitive and flimsy.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Exactly. But by the time I received that one back I’d almost finished another. I sent that off and after months of waiting I got a slightly more encouraging rejection. It was then that I decided that I ought to have an agent.’

  ‘Sounds like a good move.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Trouble is it’s a catch twenty-two situation. No agent worth his salt wants to take on a writer with no successes, but you can’t get any measurable success without a good agent.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘By this time the money had run out. I was living on beans on toast and finding it hard to pay the bills. I sold the cottage and moved to London. I found a job in the accounts department of an engineering firm.’

  ‘So your grandmother was right when she insisted you study accountancy.’

  ‘Yes, though I didn’t stay on at college to qualify as you know, so the salary wasn’t great. I rented a top floor flat in Hackney where I burned the midnight oil writing my third opus.’

  ‘And that one found success?’

  ‘Not immediately. I sent it to an agent. He was an unknown guy who was just starting up so I guessed that he’d be looking for clients. He’d previously worked for a major publishing house so he knew what he was talking about. He wrote and asked me to go and see him. At that time he was still working from home – didn’t even have an office. In fact his flat wasn’t much better than mine. He said he could see a lot of potential in my book. He pointed out the places where it failed but he liked the plot and he had lots of suggestions for improving it. He said he was willing to work with me on a re-write as long as I could take criticism.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘When the book was finally finished to his satisfaction – and it took a while, with me working evenings and weekends – he sold it to a major publisher for an advance that nearly made my eyes pop out.’ He smiled. ‘And the rest, as they say, is history. There have been six more books since then; all of them best sellers, here and abroad.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Mike, my agent has to take a lot of the credit. I couldn’t have done it without him. He is wholly responsible for my success.’

  ‘You were lucky to find him.’

  ‘Yes, but by the same token, he was lucky to find me. I’m responsible for his success too. He now has an office in Mayfair and a client list to die for.’

  ‘And I take it you moved out of your flat in Hackney.’

  He grinned. ‘What do you think? I’ve got a nice little pad in Kensington now: the penthouse in a fashionable block on the High Street.’ He tossed back the last of his drink. ‘There’s a little villa just outside Sorrento too, with a fantastic view of Vesuvius. It’s my bolt hole.’

  ‘What a wonderful success story, Chris,’ I said a little wistfully. ‘By the way, how did you come by your pen name?’

  ‘That was Mike’s doing too. He thought that Christopher Harding sounded more like a civil servant than a crime novelist.’

  ‘He sounds as though he has his ear to the ground.’

  ‘He certainly has.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to Mike Nolan. May his client list never grow less – as long as I’m still top of it!’ He looked at my glass. ‘Another of those?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, better not. You go ahead though.’

  He called the waiter over and ordered another whisky and soda. Although this Chris was very different to the restless, frustrated boy I’d fallen in love with all those years ago there were still traces of the youthful charisma I remembered. His looks had changed of course; he was heavier and more mature. He carried the aura that comes with success.

  He looked at me. ‘Your turn now. Come on, what have you been up to all this time?’

  I shrugged. ‘Nothing much. You already know I’m half of a catering firm. Mary and I have done very well.’ I looked at him. ‘You remember Mary Sullivan; my landlady when I was at college?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘When we both qualified we went into business together.’

  ‘Well if the buffet lunch today is anything to go by I’m not surprised. It was delicious.’ He looked at me, glass halfway to his lips. ‘So – did you marry?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. Ian is a musician. He’s teaching at one of the town’s largest schools and he has a list of private pupils too.’

  ‘Good for him. Kids?’

  I’d known this was inevitable so I was prepared. ‘I have a son, Jamie. He’s gifted musically too.’

  ‘Great! What a talented family.’

  Was he being the slightest bit patronizing? ‘What about you?’ I asked quickly. ‘You haven’t mentioned a wife.’

  He paused. ‘I was married – for a while.’

  I held my breath. ‘Children?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, thank goodness. Kids would really have messed things up. It was one of those crazy things; a bit wild. Sometimes I think she was just after the reflected glory of being married to a successful author. From my point of view it was more passion – lust if you like – than love. It burned too brightly and just….’ He shrugged. ‘Fizzled out. Splitting up was the best thing we could have done.’

  ‘Who for?’ I asked, suddenly glimpsing the old single-minded Chris under the veneer.

  ‘For both of us. We were making each other unhappy. Where’s the sense in hanging on to that?’

  ‘Where indeed?’ I stood up and reached for my coat. ‘Well, it’s been lovely, Chris, catching up like this, but I have to go now.’

  He looked taken aback. ‘Already? That’s a shame. I’ll walk you out to the car park.’

  In the late spring dusk the air was redolent with nostalgic scents, wallflowers and cherry blossom. Suddenly I was reminded of Cornwall and Cecily – memories that had lain buried for so long. I shivered slightly and Chris took my coat and wrapped it round my shoulders.

  ‘It’s chilly. Can’t have you catching col
d.’

  ‘I expect you’ll be gone by the weekend.’ The moment I said it I wished I could take the words back. It sounded as though I was hinting at another meeting. Embarrassed, I added hurriedly, ‘Your agent must have promotional dates lined up for you.’

  Although it was almost dark I could hear the smile in his voice. ‘As a matter of fact the world is my oyster at the moment. I’m between books, and my next publication date isn’t till September.’

  I forced a laugh. ‘Lucky you! You should take advantage and fly off to that villa of yours in Sorrento.’

  He sighed. ‘I would – if it wasn’t so lonely.’

  My heart gave an uncomfortable jerk. I sensed that he was looking intently at me and I refused to meet his eyes. ‘I have a confession to make,’ I told him lightly. ‘I’ve never read any of your books. I did see The TV adaptation of The Mourning Rose last winter, though. Ian and I enjoyed it very much.’

  Suddenly he took my shoulders and turned me towards him. ‘Come to Sorrento with me.’

  I stared up at him, stunned at the suggestion. ‘What an idea!’ I made myself laugh. ‘Surely you can’t be lonely when you’re busy writing.’

  ‘You’ve no idea.’ I was acutely aware of his hands, firm on my shoulders. ‘I haven’t told anyone this, least of all Mike, but I’m suffering from what is known as writers’ block at the moment.’

  ‘No new ideas?’

  ‘Not even the ghost of one. Try as I may my mind is like the bottom of a pit.’

  ‘Sorrento will work wonders for your imagination, surely?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The trouble is that when you shut yourself off in a study and write day after day there comes a time when you stop actually living. The mind just – dries up.’ He shook his head. ‘But why am I burdening you with my problems? Just come over to Italy, Elaine – for a holiday.’

  ‘I take it the invitation includes my husband and son?’ I asked.

  He hesitated. ‘No. I’m inviting you, Elaine – for a break. I’m sure you deserve one. There are orange trees in the garden and you can read all my books, sitting in the sunshine by the pool. How does that sound?’

  ‘Idyllic, but I’m not free to do as I like. I have my business commitments as well as the family.’ I laughed and shook my head. ‘But why am I justifying myself? The idea is preposterous, Chris and you know it.’

  ‘I don’t see why in this day and age. Surely married women aren’t shackled to the kitchen sink any more.’ His hands dropped to his sides. ‘Sorry. Of course it’s a preposterous idea. Forgive me, it was just wishful thinking.’ He touched my cheek with one fingertip. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful it’s been, seeing you again, Elaine. I’d have known you anywhere, except that you’re lovelier than ever.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true, but it’s been great seeing you too, Chris.’ I fumbled in my bag for my keys and began to open the car door. Suddenly I was aware of a tension between us and I couldn’t get away fast enough. I turned to him ‘Goodbye, Chris and thank yo—’ He drew me close and kissed me on both cheeks as he had when we met. Then suddenly his lips were on mine. I pulled away.

  ‘Chris – no!’

  He let me go abruptly. ‘I know – It wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve just spoiled a pleasant evening.’ I was aware that my voice was shaking.

  ‘Don’t say that. Please say you’ll see me again, Elaine.’

  ‘I can’t!’ I got into the car and started the engine. He bent down to the window. ‘Please! There’s so much more I want to say.’

  ‘No, Chris. I shouldn’t have come this evening. It was a mistake.’

  ‘Then why did you?’

  It was the one question I couldn’t answer. I let in the clutch and pressed my foot down hard on the accelerator, driving the car forward towards the exit much too fast. In the mirror I could see him standing there, his arms spread in a helpless gesture. As I turned onto the road and began to drive towards home bitter tears of regret and self-disgust ran down my cheeks. What had I done? Oh God, what had I done?

  To my relief the house was quiet when I got in. I ran upstairs to change. Taking a quick shower as though to wash the guilty feelings of the evening away. Ian and Jamie arrived ten minutes after I’d finished. In the kitchen I gave Jamie hot chocolate and biscuits.

  ‘How was the rehearsal?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, looking up at me, his top lip brown with chocolate stain. ‘I’m playing a solo – Dance of the Blessed Spirits.’

  ‘That’s good. But straight up to bed with you as soon as you’ve finished your chocolate,’ I told him. ‘Or you’ll never get up for school in the morning.’

  ‘Where’s Toffee?’ he asked, looking round.

  ‘I expect Granddad took him up to the flat,’ I said. ‘So that he wouldn’t get lonely.’

  ‘Lonely? But you’ve been here, haven’t you, Mum?’

  As he spoke Ian came into the kitchen. He smiled at me. ‘Did you go round to Mary’s for a cooking session?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s right. Do you want some chocolate?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  I escaped gratefully to the scullery to refill the kettle, my cheeks crimson with guilt. It was the first time I had ever lied to Ian. And I promised myself it would be the last.

  Twelve

  I lay awake well into the small hours, asking myself, why had I gone to see Chris? In a way it had been curiosity, but there had been something else too. Had I been hoping to lay a ghost? Maybe. Instead I’d reopened what for me was unfinished business. There was no denying that Chris was Jamie’s father. Was it right that they were unaware of one another? It was a question I hadn’t asked myself for years. Had Mary been right all those years ago when she had said that Chris had a right to know he had a son? But Ian was his father now – had been for almost half his life. Ian was the only male role model Jamie had ever known; his mentor, music teacher and soon to be adoptive father. Nothing – nothing must be allowed to disrupt that. And nothing would, I promised myself, turning over and punching the pillow for the hundredth time.

  Ian stirred beside me. ‘Are you all right, darling?’ he asked sleepily, sliding an arm across my waist.

  ‘I’m fine. Go back to sleep,’ I told him. ‘A bad dream, that’s all.’ And right at that moment that was what it felt like – a bad dream.

  In the cold light of morning everything looked different. The morning rush over, Ian and Jamie gone, I sat down at the table for another cup of coffee and thought hard about the previous evening. I told myself I was foolish to worry about it. Chris would be gone in a few days’ time. He would soon have a new idea for a book and would forget all about our meeting again. He knew nothing about Jamie. They need never even meet. All I had to do was sit tight and wait for the problem to go away. Writing came first in Chris’s life. Once he started working on a new idea I would be forgotten. I pushed away the memory of his lips on mine. The kiss had been brief. I’d pushed him away. But at the back on my mind I couldn’t deny that it had stirred up memories; memories of joy and laughter, of first love and later the pain of heartbreak and despair. It was like a potent wine or an addictive drug: once taken, yearned for forever.

  Dad opened the kitchen door, jolting me out of my reverie.

  ‘Morning, love.’ Toffee was trotting at his heels and ran over to greet me.

  ‘Morning, Dad – morning, Toffee.’ As I fondled the little dog’s ears I glanced up at the square of blue sky I could see outside the window. ‘Looks as though it’s going to be a fine day.’ I could see that he was already dressed for the garden in his old corduroy trousers and an open-necked shirt.

  He nodded. ‘I thought I’d go and buy some bedding plants this morning,’ he said. ‘Time to get planted up ready for summer.’ He looked down at Toffee. ‘I’ll take young feller-me-lad here with me. Better than leaving him here.’ He raised an inquiring eyebrow at me. ‘I take it you’ll be going round to Mary’s?’

  ‘Yes.�
�� I looked at my watch. ‘I’d better get going or she’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. Toffee will be perfectly okay here for an hour you know, Dad. You mustn’t spoil him. He has to learn to be by himself sometimes.’

  He pulled a face. ‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t be by himself, would he? She’ll be here.’ He nodded towards the hall.

  ‘Amanda, you mean?’

  ‘I do – wouldn’t trust her with a feather duster, never mind an animal.’

  ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t purposely hurt him, Dad.’

  ‘Are you? I wouldn’t bet on it. She’s got a vindictive streak, that one. Anyway, better safe than sorry.’

  ‘Well, just as you please.’ I got up and began to clear the table. ‘Want to eat with us this evening, Dad? I’m going to put a casserole in the crock pot before I go out.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, lass. I told you when we started out that I’d keep to my own quarters and I mean it. You’ve got a right to your own privacy. It’s good of you to have me here.’

  ‘Not at all, it’s half your house! Well, you know you’re always welcome so if you change your mind….’

  In the doorway he looked back with a wistful grin. ‘Casserole did you say? Would that be anything like hotpot?’

  I laughed. ‘Not a million miles off.’

  ‘In that case I wouldn’t object if you were to save me a portion.’

  I was quiet as we worked together in Mary’s kitchen that morning. She was quick to pick up on my mood.

  ‘Are you all right, Elaine?’

  I looked up. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re very quiet. Something worrying you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not still thinking about yesterday?’