Rules for a Perfect Life

by Niamh Greene

‘Well,’ I bluster, ‘that’s different. I’m only here till Claire gets back.’

  ‘Yes, but you like it so far?’

  ‘It’s not too bad, I suppose.’ I lower my eyes. The way he’s looking at me is making me feel very strange.

  ‘And you’ve been inspired to work since you’ve been here?’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Yes. On your commissions?’

  I raise my head to see he’s looking straight at me. Crap. ‘Um, yes.’

  ‘You’ve found the village inspiring?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘So, it stands to reason that if you do, others would too. If Xanta agrees to provide the funding we could have an artists’ retreat – Glacken could become a real craft village destination.’

  ‘A craft village destination?’

  ‘Yes!’ His face is alight with enthusiasm. ‘There could be a gallery, maybe even workshops for craftspeople of all persuasions. All we need is some investment – and Xanta can provide that. It’s the cash cow.’

  ‘But, Edward, I think there’s something you’re forgetting.’

  ‘What’s that?’ His blue eyes stare at me in puzzlement.

  ‘Peg and Ted. They’ll never agree to it. They want to stop the supermarket at all costs. This plan would devastate them.’

  ‘You’re right.’ His face falls in disappointment. ‘They’ll probably hate the idea.’

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ I backtrack. ‘They might change their minds. You could bring it up at the meeting – see what they think.’

  He looks so devastated that I’m suddenly desperate to find a way to make the plan work.

  ‘Me?’ He laughs, his tone hollow.

  ‘The idea is really good,’ I protest.

  ‘Maggie, I’m a farmer. I know about horses and land, not the arts.’

  ‘Anyone can have an opinion about the arts, surely.’

  ‘That may be true,’ he smiles ruefully, ‘but who am I to plan a cultural regeneration? What would I know about culture? Here I am, covered with horse hair, trying to convert people to art. It’s a bit of a joke. I’m sorry for wasting your time.’

  He drains his coffee cup and gets up to go, but something in his face makes me speak. ‘Hang on, Edward, don’t be so hard on yourself,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He stuffs his hands into his pockets like before. Like an embarrassed teenage boy.

  ‘Trying to promote art and culture isn’t pointless. It’s a very worthwhile idea.’ What would you know about it? a little voice inside me hisses, but I try to ignore it.

  He looks down. Now that the heat of the moment has passed, when he somehow felt he could express his thoughts freely, he seems really unsure of himself. ‘You would say that,’ he says, almost shyly. ‘It is your bread and butter – you are an artist, after all.’

  If only he knew how far off the mark he was. I currently make no bread and butter at all, let alone by anything to do with art. ‘Well, let’s think about it some more,’ I suggest, sounding uncannily as if I know what I’m talking about. ‘Don’t discount it yet. Maybe there’s a way we can sell it to Peg and Ted so that it doesn’t seem like a personal attack.’

  I think I see a flicker of hope cross his face.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he smiles slowly, ‘maybe there could be some way …’

  ‘So we’ll think about it?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, let’s do that.’

  He offers me his hand to help me up and I take it, hoping he’s strong enough to pull me from my seat. The one and only time Robert ever tried to lift me – when I fell and twisted my ankle in Crete – he did in his back. He had to have a painkiller shot and I felt like a prize heifer for months afterwards. It would be utterly mortifying if the same thing happened with Edward. But, mercifully, he lifts me upwards as if I were as light as a feather and I grin at him, suddenly feeling I could float on air.

  Our eyes lock and then it hits me. Now I know why I felt so weird when I saw him in the graveyard. It all clicks into place. Inappropriate and twisted as it is, I was jealous. Jealous of his dead wife. Jealous when I saw how much he misses her. How much he must have loved her. Because the truth is, Polly is right: I ‘like-like’ this man. A man who has a dead wife I can never live up to, a girlfriend who will kill me if she knows how I feel, a mother-in-law who thinks I’m the hired help and a daughter who hates me.

  I can barely believe it, but there’s no denying it any more – I’m drawn to Edward in a way I’ve never been drawn to anyone before. But it couldn’t work. I mean, besides all the complications in his life, he’s just told me he hates estate agents. He thinks I’m an artist – he has no idea that I’ve been spinning a web of deceit since I got here. And if he ever found out … Well, who knows what would happen?

  ‘So … see you at the stables,’ I mutter, before I let go his hand and bolt for the door.

  I have to escape. I have to get out of here. I can’t look him in the eye any more because if I do I have a horrible feeling he’ll know the truth – that everything I’ve ever told him has been a lie.

  Rule Twenty-two: There’s nothing to fear but fear itself

  ‘Like this?’

  Polly squeezes some paint on to the tray in front of her, watching with glee as a worm of yellow spurts out.

  ‘That’s perfect,’ I say. ‘Not too much, not too little, just the right amount.’

  She beams at me and my heart lifts – she’s such a funny little thing.

  ‘I’m not going to use any pink,’ she announces grimly. ‘Pink is naff!’

  ‘OK.’

  Polly rarely does what you’d expect of a six-year-old girl. She’s what Theresa would call ‘unusual in her tastes’. One of her twins is exactly the same – Max refuses to watch Bob the Builder like his brother. Instead, he insists on watching Come Dine With Me while he has his bottle every night before bedtime. He gets very excited if fruits de mer is included on the menu, even though the closest he’s ever come to tasting seafood has been mashed-up sardines.

  Theresa was quite worried about it at first: would he be picked on by other kids? Would he ever find a soul-mate who understood his TV tastes? Would he be marginalized by society at large? But she says she’s made her peace with it now. In fact, she’s decided to be actively optimistic about the situation. Being actively optimistic is one of Theresa’s new life rules. She says it’s a very handy approach to take to things because it can be used in almost every type of daily situation. Say, for example, the toast burns in the morning: this just means that she will eat fewer carbs that day. If one of the twins throws up on her head, as they often do, her hair may soak up vital nutrients from the carrot purée they had for lunch and be extra shiny. Every scenario has an up-side.

  She’s decided to believe that Max’s unusual love for bad telly at such an early age means he’ll turn into a celebrity chef with his own TV series, and when that happens, she intends to be 100 per cent supportive. She may also be an executive producer, because that’s where the big bucks are.

  Of course, Malcolm isn’t at all pleased. He wants both boys to be accountants and studiously ignore all their creative impulses, like he did. They’ve already had some serious arguments about it – Theresa says that trying to stifle Max’s tastes by playing Bob the Builder on a loop is an assault on his civil rights.

  There’s no way anyone could stifle Polly. She has campaigned very hard to get me here, and now that I am, it looks like she’s determined to thoroughly enjoy herself, pink or no pink. We’re in the kitchen of the main house, a selection of paints on the table before us and our easels ready. Edward said this might be the perfect place to have our painting session: the floors are tiled and it really won’t matter if we make a mess, which is pretty much guaranteed. Polly is wearing a washable polyester apron, just in case. I was really nervous in case I met June again – but I didn’t mention that little detail to Edward when he suggested this venue: it seemed childish to do so. Thankfully, there’s been no si
gn of her – it was the charming Matilda who let me in earlier, with a sulky scowl and a bare hello, but I haven’t seen either of them since. I know June must be around somewhere, though – I suspect she’d never let me be alone with Polly if she had her way.

  ‘What will I paint, Maggie?’ A look of concern crosses Polly’s face, making her round cheeks sag a fraction and her smooth forehead crease.

  ‘What do you feel like painting?’

  Her brow furrows in concentration. ‘I’d like to paint Saffy eating a carrot,’ she says finally.

  ‘That’s a great idea.’ Saffy is never far from Polly’s mind. ‘Then just go ahead and do that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She still looks worried. ‘What if I get it wrong?’

  ‘You can’t get it wrong, Polly,’ I say. ‘There’s no such thing.’

  ‘Really?’ Her face brightens immediately.

  ‘Yes, really. All art is subjective.’

  ‘What does “subjective” mean?’

  ‘It means that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and if you like it then that’s all that matters.’

  Happy with this explanation, she dips her brush into her paint and gets to work, splashing the colours on to the page with generous strokes. Within seconds the paper is sodden, a wonderful mess of rainbow hues, and she is singing happily.

  ‘Aren’t you going to paint?’ she stops suddenly to ask me, cocking her head to one side.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I bluff. ‘I’m just waiting for inspiration.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that, unlike you, who have so many great ideas,’ I explain, ‘it takes me longer to come up with anything worthwhile.’

  Thank God Edward is out on the farm somewhere – I’d die if I had to do this in front of him. Ever since I realized how I feel about him I’ve been keeping out of his way – it seems the safest option somehow.

  ‘You should paint those flowers.’ Polly points to a jug of gladioli on the scrubbed-pine table.

  She’s right – the colours are wonderful and the chipped old vase has great character. The composition could make a wonderful picture. ‘Do you think so?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. It’d be cool!’

  She dips her brush into her paint again and attacks her paper with passion and I stifle a giggle. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her but her enthusiasm is so joyful. It’s infectious.

  Taking a deep breath, I try to relax and clear my mind of the inner voice that’s telling me I can’t possibly do this. Instead I try to remember the bolt of inspiration that hit me when I thought a burglar was about to kill me. As my life flashed before my eyes, my one big regret was not painting. I have to learn something from that. All I have to do is give myself permission to let go – that’s what Claire, and probably Theresa, would say.

  Taking a deep breath, I look at the flowers, drinking in their shape and form, and then I slowly begin to paint. The feel of the brush on the paper is wonderful and, within minutes, I’m lost in the act of simply sliding it back and forth across the page. The rhythm is so calming that soon it’s silenced all my inner critics. I’d forgotten how much I love this feeling of complete absorption in the moment. Why ever did I stop painting? It’s so soothing, so relaxing. It’s taken me so long to get back to this place, this place where the world stands still and it’s just you and the paint – it feels amazing.

  ‘Wow!’ Someone whistles. ‘That’s great!’

  I whirl to see Edward standing behind me, staring intently at my picture, his arms crossed. Oh, no. I never meant anyone to see this – especially not him. Why’s he here anyway? He’s supposed to be out doing farm stuff – whatever that might be. Instead he’s no more than two feet away from me. And he looks so … gorgeous. Mud-spattered and smelly as always, but still … gorgeous. God, I really am in trouble.

  ‘Please don’t look,’ I mutter, staring at the ground to hide my embarrassment. ‘It’s not very good.’

  ‘It’s great!’ Edward enthuses. ‘You’ve captured the scene perfectly – the way the sunlight reflects off the petals. It’s fantastic!’

  ‘No, it was only a scribble, really,’ I protest. ‘Please don’t even look at it. It’s nothing.’

  ‘But, Maggie,’ he says, eyes wide, ‘it’s really good. You’re very talented. To make such a wonderful picture from such a simple scene – that’s amazing.’

  ‘Well … thanks,’ I say shyly, torn between being utterly mortified and feeling a little proud. I still don’t think it’s much good – but he seems to, which is very gratifying.

  ‘Is mine good, Daddy?’ Polly is hopping excitedly before him, her face aglow.

  ‘Let me take a look,’ he says seriously, pretending he’ll have to consider her work properly. ‘I’ll have to see. Hmm …’

  Polly watches anxiously as her father studies her wild mélange of colours at length, waiting impatiently for his verdict.

  ‘I have to say …’

  ‘Yes? Yes?’ She can barely contain her excitement.

  ‘I have to say …’

  ‘Hurry up, Dad!’

  ‘I have to say … it’s the most brilliant picture I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Really?’ She dances delightedly before him.

  ‘Yes, really. What do you think, Maggie?’ he asks solemnly.

  I think you’re possibly the nicest father on the planet, I want to say, but I don’t. ‘I have to agree with you, Edward.’ I nod. ‘Polly is very advanced for her age.’

  ‘Quite clearly.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Polly asks.

  ‘It means you’re extremely talented, Polly,’ I tell her. ‘You should be very proud of yourself.’

  ‘Now, where will we hang this masterpiece?’ Edward says.

  ‘How about the fridge?’ Polly squeals.

  ‘Oh, no, somewhere much better than that. Just a second, I’ve got an idea.’ He bounds out of the door on some secret mission.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ a clipped voice says, as he disappears from view.

  It’s June – and, from her icy expression, she’s not exactly overjoyed to see me.

  ‘We’re painting, Granny!’ Polly giggles, bouncing towards her grandmother and wrapping her plump little arms round her waist. ‘Come and see what I’ve done!’

  I place the paintbrush back in the jug of water before me. I can feel June’s eyes boring a hole through my head, and when I glance round I’m proved right – she’s glaring at me with unconcealed hatred.

  ‘That’s very nice, Polly.’ She smiles tightly as Polly whirls in front of her creation, describing it in a breathless monologue.

  ‘… and Maggie said I could paint whatever I wanted to, so I said I really wanted to paint Saffy with a carrot, and she said I should go right ahead and that there’s no right or wrong way to paint …’ Her sweet little voice babbles on and on, explaining in minute detail how she came to paint this particular scene. Meanwhile, I’m busy trying to ignore the way June is looking at me.

  ‘Polly,’ June squats to her granddaughter’s eye level, interrupting her mid-flow, ‘will you run out to the yard and see if you can find Henry? I haven’t seen him all morning.’

  ‘He’s such a naughty cat, isn’t he, Granny?’ Polly sighs melodramatically, wiping her paint-spattered hands on her apron. ‘I’ll have to have stern words with him.’

  ‘Yes, you will,’ June says, smiling at her. ‘He’ll listen to you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She skips happily out of the door. ‘He will!’

  June and I are now alone in the kitchen and the air suddenly feels icier than before. ‘So, what are you painting?’ June asks, slowly making her way across the room to look at my picture.

  ‘Oh, I was just messing around,’ I murmur. ‘It’s nothing really.’

  ‘But Edward tells me you’re a talented artist,’ she says. ‘Surely talented artists don’t just mess around.’

  ‘I’m not that talented.’ I pull my easel toward
s me, not wanting her to see my picture. She’ll know for sure that I’m not a real artist if she sees my efforts.

  ‘You’re not shy, are you, Maggie?’ She cocks an eyebrow at me.

  ‘I never let anyone see a work in progress,’ I reply, bluffing. ‘It’s bad luck.’

  ‘Is that what Edward is to you too?’ June’s face contorts.

  ‘Excuse me?’ What’s she insinuating now?

  ‘Is he your next work in progress? Are you going to work on him until he’s just right?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I respond, flustered by her tone and the cold look in her eyes. Can she tell I like Edward? Does she somehow know that I’m drawn to him?

  ‘I think you do, Maggie,’ she says, her eyes dark. ‘I think you know exactly what I mean. Volunteering to help Polly with her painting was clever, but you and I both know why you really suggested this one-to-one lesson.’

  ‘We do?’

  June is so close I can almost feel her breath on my face.

  ‘Of course we do,’ she spits. ‘You think Edward is a fine catch. You wouldn’t be the first to think that. But you can stop playing these silly games and trying to get to him through his children because it just won’t work.’

  ‘I’m not trying to do that!’ I gasp. I’m not, am I? Is that why I volunteered to help Polly? No, it can’t be. I like Polly – I really, truly like her, regardless of how I feel about her father. I would never use a child in that way. Besides, Edward is spoken for, in more ways than one.

  ‘Yes, you are.’ Her expression is glacial. ‘But there’s only one problem – he’s still in love with my daughter and he always will be. Your plan will never work. Never.’

  Well, that’s true – I’ve seen it for myself. Edward does still love his wife, even if she’s passed away.

  Before I can say anything else, Polly bounds back into the kitchen, a tabby cat in her arms. ‘Granny,’ she squeals with excitement, ‘I found Henry! You’ll never guess where he was.’ The cat mews loudly and struggles to escape from Polly’s arms.

  ‘Where was he, darling?’ June’s voice loses its bitter edge and becomes instantly warm and sunny.

  ‘He was hiding under the gorse bush.’ Polly’s eyes shine. ‘He’d just caught a mouse – look!’