by Penny Feeny
‘I didn’t realise you were short of money.’
‘That depends on whether I’ve had a good day at the bookies’. Sadly, art does not make the artist rich – though hangers-on are another matter. And I’m talking about art per se, rather than the art of publicity. You’re a clever girl. I’m sure you recognise the difference.’
She was finding it hard to relate his present black mood to the person who had sauntered out that morning. Yet – unaccountably, given his language, drinking and general demeanour – she felt sorry for him. Perhaps it was because he had recognised her as a fellow creative. A person who knew what it was like to make something and get little recompense, to balance on a see-saw of approval/disapproval, to hanker after appreciation, to be cast down by disappointment.
‘Mightn’t they change their minds?’
He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. ‘Well it’s still floating around as an idea. The air is full of them, floating fucking ideas. Sponsorship’s the key. Sponsorship or lack of it is the hurdle we come a cropper on. Tripped up. Fucked up.’ Suddenly he swivelled towards her. ‘In addition, it doesn’t help to discover some of one’s best work has been dumped at the back of a garage, halfway to the tip.’
She said guiltily, ‘They’re not dumped. We’re waiting for Julia to collect them.’
‘Really? Julia? Another one who’s avoiding me like the plague.’
She probably has her reasons, thought Rachael. ‘Couldn’t you go back to France? Aren’t you supposed to be giving workshops all summer?’
‘Yes. Well. If there are any takers. They haven’t exactly been inundated with bookings.’ Her attention was reviving him, drawing him out of his slump. ‘Why don’t you fetch yourself a glass, Raquel? Join me. Let yourself go.’
Was he remembering the effect vodka had on her? She’d only drunk it out of defiance. She would have liked to recapture some of Tuesday’s recklessness, but she knew it was a bad idea. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘It isn’t so hard if you try.’
‘I really shouldn’t.’
‘Such a good influence,’ he murmured and she didn’t know if he was being sarcastic.
‘So what’s your antidote?’
‘To?’
‘What shall we call it? Frustration? Bitterness? That feeling of worthlessness? The pain of self-doubt?’
She hadn’t expected Leo to be tarnished with self-doubt. She began to ease away from him. This was becoming too confessional. Where would it lead? She didn’t want to find herself trying to explain her hang-ups and begging him not to tell Matt. ‘I generally go off and make something.’
‘Something to eat, you mean? Like what?’
‘Oh… it depends.’
‘Why is it,’ he mused, ‘that one imagines a cook to be plump and mumsy? Or did they just break the mould with you?’
‘Do you want me to prove it?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘That food gives more succour than drink.’
‘Throwing down the gauntlet, are you?’
‘If you like.’
‘Fine then,’ said Leo tipping more whisky into his glass. ‘I accept.’
This was her chance to escape, to retreat to her familiar lair with its herbs and spices and potions. She would make something rich and sticky like Chelsea buns. She could lose her anxieties in kneading and folding the dough, melting the butter, letting the sugar bubble into a thick glossy syrup. There was nothing more comforting, more absorbing, to her than the slow wholesome process of baking. She could picture Matt’s appreciative smile, Danny licking his fingers, the sunny illusion of togetherness.
She covered the Chelsea bun mixture with cling film and carried it upstairs to the warmth of the airing cupboard. From the sitting room she could hear the racing commentary and possibly a snore. Might Leo be sleeping? She wasn’t going to check. She was satisfied with the way she had dealt with him – not so different from the way Matt had dealt with Dan at breakfast – but you could never tell what would happen next and she was wary of the unpredictable. So she picked up her phone and scrolled to Bel’s number.
The call rang loudly into the void but no answer came, which puzzled her. In an earlier conversation Bel had rattled on about her ‘mental’ journey with ‘two crazy guys’. (Since she had an unerring eye for the flaky and peculiar there was nothing new in this.) Could she be out gallivanting with her new companions? What did people get up to on the western edge of the Atlantic? Rachael wouldn’t dwell on it; she’d keep herself busy. She measured sugar and water and melted them together at the stove, stirring the syrup with a wooden spoon.
Then impatience got the better of her. She wiped her fingers on a damp cloth and prodded Bel’s number again, speaking slowly and clearly to the voicemail. ‘Hi, this is Rachael. Look, wherever you are, Bel, whatever you’re doing, you need to get in touch. Leo’s still here – maybe he’s really keen to see you, who knows? I don’t have a clue! So can you please ring him and find out what this is about.’ She paused and added, ‘Though I should leave it a couple of hours if I were you. He’s a bit sulky at the moment—’ A shuffle alerted her; quickly she ended the message. ‘Bye now.’
She turned to see Leo leaning against the doorjamb. He didn’t comment on the evidence of her industry, the bags of flour and sugar and currants. ‘Find out what this is about?’ he said.
‘I was trying to get hold of Bel. Isn’t she the reason you came here? Apart from the gallery stuff…’
‘Ah, yes. My poor little fledgling pushed out of the nest.’
‘Some flatmate,’ muttered Rachael, returning to the stove.
‘Not the flat,’ said Leo. ‘The family home.’ He spread his arms in an expressive arc. ‘All this.’
‘No one’s pushed her out,’ said Rachael. ‘She owns about a third of it.’
He looked startled, but she ignored him because her syrup was producing hot spitting noises, turning too fast to caramel, to toffee, to ruin. She seized the pan and plunged it into the sink. Things went wrong all the time in the kitchen; she was used to it. But current events were preying on her, making her more vulnerable to setbacks. She could feel tears of frustration rising.
Leo said, leaving a distinct break between each word, ‘Julia. Gave. This. House. To. Matt.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. As it happens, she gave it to all of us.’
‘All of you?’
‘Yes. In exchange for our place. We had to transfer the mortgage – you can’t imagine how complicated it was – but we thought it would be worth it for Danny.’
‘So Bel has part-ownership?’
‘Yes.’
‘Julia didn’t tell me,’ he said.
Rachael felt something snap. ‘Why the hell should she? It’s nothing to do with you any more.’ Then contrition made the tears spill over. They were trickling down her cheeks. She was clinging to the edge of the sink; water was still running from the tap.
Leo was at her side with a piece of paper towel he’d ripped off the roll. He dabbed at her damp face. ‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Jousting at windmills. Tell me, Raquel, is it simple paranoia do you think? Paranoia that a mighty art institution can’t be arsed with me? That my ex-wife might be penalising her daughter for being my offspring? My bloody seed and not his.’
‘But she hasn’t penalised her.’
‘No. As it turns out.’
She knew her voice was muffled as he continued to mop away her tears. ‘Is that what you thought? That she was deliberately favouring Matt and me? I can’t believe it. Nobody would be that vindictive.’
‘I’m sure Julia took a great delight in letting me think the worst. But it doesn’t matter. It’s a misunderstanding I’ll be happy to forget.’
‘So that’s why you came here? You were after revenge?’
‘I came because there was sod-all going on in France and Dorothy Culshaw was doing my head in. I was planning to give my support to Bel, but clever Julia pulled a fast one on me.’
<
br /> ‘That’s not how it happened.’
‘No?’
‘No! Why do I feel like we’re caught in the middle of something we don’t understand between the two of you?’
‘Because we’re a crotchety old couple with too much history? You shouldn’t berate yourself, Raquel. It’s so different from my day, the atmosphere in this house. You’re spreading comfort and joy.’ He smoothed her hair from her brow and then stooped to inhale it. ‘Oh my God, don’t you smell wonderful!’
The compliment was reassuring. She often worried that she’d not quite eradicated the taint of raw garlic, onion or shellfish. Once, coming home from a function where she’d been complimented on her butterfly prawns and parcels of sushi, she’d crept up behind Matt and put her hands over his eyes. He had seized her wrist and kissed her palm. ‘I’d recognise that fishy smell anywhere,’ he said. She’d pulled away from him, furious.
‘What does it remind me of?’ Leo went on. ‘Toffee perhaps? A taste of childhood. Or those big glass jars in the corner shop window, full of boiled sweets.’
She said ruefully, ‘You’ve no idea how bitter caramel gets when it burns. I cocked it up so I’m going to have to make it all over again.’
‘Is that why you’re crying?’
‘Of course not….’
He was stroking her hair now, letting it slide through his fingers. ‘It’s getting to you, isn’t it, this situation you’re in?’
The tears came faster. The last thing she had wanted was his sympathy; nothing was more likely to make a person succumb.
Leo said, ‘In general, artists aren’t judgemental you know. Too concerned with their own vision to give a fuck about other people’s. But you shouldn’t go through it alone. Let me drive you to the clinic tomorrow.’
‘Drive me?’
‘It will have to be in your car. But I won’t take risks. Don’t want to make things any more fraught for you.’
She mumbled, ‘It’s only a consultation.’
‘Whatever. I’ll be your immoral support.’ His arm tightened around her and it was with a wave of relief that she gave in and rested her head on his shoulder.
As he steered her away from the sink, she thought she glimpsed a face peering through the window. She hesitated, but Leo took her hand, drawing her towards the door, and she dismissed the fleeting impression as fantasy.
23
The Fire
Matt was looking for a peace offering. In John Lewis, after work, he idled through displays of kitchen equipment. The way to his wife’s heart, he sometimes joked, was via a new set of measuring spoons. That was bollocks of course. Sharp knives were more like it. She frequently complained her knives were too blunt and the other day had railed at Danny for using one to carve his name in a tree (Dan had denied this). But a present of knives seemed more hostile than romantic. Finding nothing that caught his eye, he took the escalator. Halfway up he got a call from Bel.
‘Is there a problem with Dad?’ she said. ‘Only Rachael’s been leaving me cryptic messages.’
‘I think he’s hanging on till you get back, that’s all. Why don’t you ring her?’
‘I did, but she’s not answering.’
‘Probably in the garden with Danny. Pissed off because Leo’s not exactly been covering himself with glory. How’s it going at your end?’
‘Actually we’ve been invited to a party tonight…’
‘And?’
He was on the second floor now, wandering through chenille upholstery, Egyptian cotton bed linen and Oriental carpets. The fabrics blurred before his eyes. Bel was spinning him an extraordinary tale about coming across the boy whose life his father had saved. How Julia was going to meet him too, at some sort of local gathering. He stumbled against a heap of rugs and sat down, stroking the rich pile absently. ‘Don’t go,’ he said.
‘Why not? I mean, I wouldn’t if she didn’t want to, but she does. After all, what harm can it do?’
He found it difficult to explain his reservations. ‘I just think it’s a bad idea. However tempting. Like meeting the recipient of a heart or a liver or something. Too many ways it could go wrong. So if you’re asking my advice—’
‘Well I’m not,’ said Bel. ‘And it’s not like he’s a stranger either. I already know him. I told you, we travelled down together, got on great. When I found out who he was it freaked me a bit, but he’s just a guy, Matt. Why d’you always have to do this to me, get into your Mr Solicitor mode?’
‘Bel, that’s ridiculous. All I’m saying…’
‘Ssh, Mum’s coming. Catch up with you later.’
She rang off, disgruntled. Matt thought about texting – easier to express his argument in writing than speech – but an assistant was asking if he needed help. Grateful to be distracted, he allowed the man to spread out the rugs and talk him through the different colours and patterns. He didn’t really want to think about Bel and his mother and this unexpected development; he was too far away to influence their plans. He banished Bel’s news from his mind and dwelt instead on an image of Rachael rolled up in one of the rugs like Cleopatra; pictured himself unfurling her, making love.
‘Right, I’ll take it,’ he said. Rachael could put it on her side of the bed, the first thing her feet touched when she got up in the morning. She’d appreciate his thoughtfulness.
‘Do you want it delivered?’
Waiting for delivery would spoil the spontaneity of his gesture. ‘Can you roll it up tight so I can carry it?’
‘We’ll see what we can do.’
It wasn’t until the purchase was rung up on the till that he realised he’d misread the price tag and mistaken a five for a three. Two hundred pounds – hell, that was quite a difference, almost double, and he wasn’t a spendthrift.
‘It’s beautiful this one,’ said the woman waiting for his card. Matronly, with very black back-combed hair, she wore glasses on a chain around her neck. ‘You’ve chosen well.’
After all, beauty had its price and what was two hundred pounds anyway in the scheme of things: a mere blip in his weekly billing target, a couple of nights out? And he was positive Rachael would love it. He slotted his debit card into the device and entered his PIN. A fraction later the card was declined.
Fuck. He’d forgotten about the cash he’d transferred to Julia and handed over to Bel. Obviously his pay cheque hadn’t cleared yet. He produced a credit card.
‘Bad timing,’ he apologised. ‘Sorry. But this should be okay.’
He was beginning to regret the whole operation – especially when the credit card was rejected too. Please call for assistance read the message on the screen. In alarm he rang the call centre and after he’d navigated the security questions, the man asked, ‘So you’re reporting your card stolen, are you?’
Matt said, ‘It isn’t stolen. It’s still in my possession, but someone’s gone over the credit limit and it definitely wasn’t me. I just want you to check to see if there’s an unusual pattern of spending and if there is I want to know why you didn’t alert me earlier.’
‘No,’ said the man.
‘You mean you won’t tell me?’
‘I mean there’s nothing suspicious. The second card-holder on the account made a large purchase yesterday.’
‘She did? Oh I see.’
‘Is there anything else I can help you with today?’
‘No, there isn’t. Thank you.’ He rang off and said to the matron with the black beehive, ‘My wife and I… we seem to have been at cross-purposes. Apparently she’d already bought a rug and we don’t need another. I’m sorry for putting you to inconvenience.’
‘No worries, love,’ said the woman in a kindly tone, which made him feel like a small boy who couldn’t pay for his sweets. He tried to stalk away with dignity.
Since he now had nothing to carry, his hands were free to gesticulate. He rehearsed his self-righteous interrogation all the way home.
What the fuck did you think you were doing, Rach?
; How the hell do you think it made me feel?
Why didn’t you run it by me?
When were you planning to let me know you’d cleared out our joint account?
There was also the possibility that her motive had been inspired in the same fashion as his. A surprise she was storing up? No, he wasn’t going to give her the benefit of the doubt. She’d been sulking for days now, putting the blame first on Bel and then on Leo. It was pathetic and childish and he had to have it out with her, to clear the air.
He hadn’t realised he’d been swinging his fist until somebody caught it and twisted it behind his back. He’d just turned the corner from the station when he felt the yank.
‘Gotcha!’ Kelly grinned. ‘Strong, in’t I? Hey, I didn’t hurt you? Dad says I don’t know me own strength.’
He was glad he hadn’t yelped, though it would have been more from indignation than pain. ‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t be grumpy. What’s up with you today? Why’s everyone biting me head off?’
‘Everyone?’
‘Like, your dad.’
‘Leo?’
‘Yeah. Seems like he’s off his head with something. Our mam used to get like that. Y’know, the eyes go dead. It’s the downers that do it. Great big pupils but she didn’t really see nothing.’
‘Leo’s not on drugs.’
‘I’m not saying they’re illegal. Whatever, he weren’t talking to us. He were talking right up close to your Rach though.’
‘When? What are you on about?’
‘This afternoon, like.’
‘You were hanging around here? Don’t you ever go to school?’
Kelly shrugged.
‘Why are you telling me this anyway?’ said Matt. ‘Are you my spy?’
She giggled. ‘Can be if you want. Like, if there’s stuff you ought to know…’
The offer was disconcerting, as if he might genuinely need a spy, as if he wasn’t aware of what was going on inside his own house.
Kelly hopped on and off the kerb. She filched a biro from Matt’s jacket pocket and rattled it along the cast-iron railings as if testing him. Overhead the trees were spurting into leaf, bright and fresh and green: spring was full of such hope. She dropped the pen back into his pocket and hooked her arm through his, clinging to it in a contradictory combination of bravado and dependency. He’d wondered before whether becoming a father altered the signals you gave off, announcing that you were now a serious, responsible person. Someone to be trusted. Though obviously not in the case of Kelly’s own useless parent, or she wouldn’t be attaching herself to his elbow.
