After Isabella

by Rosie Fiore

  She didn’t win the competition, but she was the first third year in the school’s history to get a ‘Highly Commended’ certificate. There seemed no way to thank Isabella adequately except to take over her maths homework when asked and to catch her hand whenever she was about to dash headlong across a road without looking.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Imagining Isabella’s slim hand between her shoulder blades. That was what had got her to Tate Britain at eight o’clock on a Friday night, to wander around with a glass of chilled wine while a performance poet with a megaphone shouted incomprehensibly in the echoing main vestibule. She immediately regretted coming. She’d imagined some kind of civilized soiree, with people standing around chatting and looking at the paintings. Instead, it seemed there were events in every room, starting every half an hour – performances, lectures, classes and debates. She didn’t know enough about art for this. She was considering ducking out and going home, or at least going to a pub where no one with a megaphone would shout at her, when a gallery assistant walking through the rooms announced loudly that the talk on Francis Bacon would be starting in five minutes. Bacon had been Isabella’s favourite artist. She had written her major sixth-form essay on his work and prints of his disturbing paintings had hung on the walls of her room at university. Esther saw it as a sign – a message from Isabella – and followed the assistant into a room where rows of chairs faced a screen.

  She took a seat on the edge and towards the back. More people drifted in, and eventually the seats were around two-thirds full. She looked to see who would be giving the lecture but couldn’t identify anyone in the room who might be an art expert. Once everyone was seated, however, a slim young woman with a sheet of raven-black hair stood up and went to the podium. She had something of the young Isabella about her. She spoke eloquently for forty-five minutes on Bacon’s intense relationship with George Dyer. Dyer was an East End gangster who broke into Bacon’s home to burgle it, and this was the start of a tumultuous relationship which ended with Dyer’s suicide. The woman spoke well, the subject matter was fascinating, and the photographs and paintings were compelling.

  When the lecture was finished, Esther took the time to walk around all the Bacon paintings on display. She felt a little woozy from the wine. She hadn’t spoken to anyone directly, but she’d had a fascinating evening and she’d learned something new. It was almost time for the gallery to close, and as she prepared to leave, she realized she was ravenous. She knew of a reasonably nice pub around the corner in Pimlico. Hopefully they would still be serving and she could get a plate of something – fish and chips, she decided; definitely fish and chips – before heading to the Tube and going home.

  The pub was much busier than she would have expected, but she managed to find a space at the bar and stood patiently waiting to place her order. Someone jogged her elbow slightly, and she turned to see who it was. A tall man with a pleasant, boyish face and sandy hair was standing beside her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, and smiled.

  She smiled back and turned away to try and catch the eye of the barman who was currently serving down the far end of the bar. When she glanced back the other way, the man was still looking at her. She smiled again, a little uncertainly.

  ‘So sorry, I don’t mean to stare,’ he said, ‘but were you just at the Bacon talk at the Tate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So were we,’ he said. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Fascinating. I didn’t know much about him before. I mean, I’d seen his work – an old friend of mine was a big fan – but I had no idea about his…’

  ‘… rather chaotic life?’

  Esther laughed. ‘A fair description.’ She looked back down the bar at the barman, who seemed to have skipped her and moved on to another customer.

  The man, who was considerably taller than her, gestured and managed to catch the eye of another barman, who came over. ‘You were here first,’ he said politely. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Esther, and ordered a glass of white wine and her dinner.

  The man hesitated for a moment, then turned to her and said, ‘Look, I don’t mean to be forward, but as you’ve just ordered for one, I assume you’re here alone?’

  Esther looked up at him, a little surprised.

  Before she could say anything, he cut in hastily. ‘I’m here with a few friends – we’ve all ordered food too. Might you like to join our table? We could all talk Bacon while we eat.’

  Carpe diem, thought Esther. At least this way she could tell Regina on Monday that she had met some new people. And she wasn’t going off with a lone strange man – he was there with friends, so it was a potentially less stressful situation. A friendly meet-up rather than a pick-up.

  ‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you,’ she said, picking up her glass and following him.

  On the way over to the table, he introduced himself, rather formally – his name was Philip Osborne. Esther stole another quick glance at him. He was probably around her age, in good shape, with the slender physique of a lifelong sportsman. She’d have put her money on tennis or cycling. He had an open face and closely cut sandy hair, which on inspection showed a sprinkling of grey but didn’t appear to be thinning. His eyes were a light, clear blue, and he was well, if casually, dressed in a blue open-necked shirt and chinos.

  His friends were both work colleagues. There was a woman called Gillian, who was sturdy and wore her brown hair short, and Benjamin, a man with a long, narrow face and a slow, deliberate way of speaking. They all worked together at an environmental charity, something to do with rare British wildlife. Gillian was the campaigns manager, Benjamin did something in IT and Philip was the financial manager. They all seemed nice and were perfectly happy to shuffle round their smallish circular table to make space for Esther and her glass of wine.

  The conversation began a little haltingly, but Philip encouraged everyone to talk about the Bacon lecture and then to discuss some of the other events. Benjamin painstakingly explained the intention behind the performance art piece with the man and the megaphone. It was something to do with alienation. ‘Well, in my limited experience, stomping around shouting at people through a megaphone will lead to alienation,’ Esther said, and was surprised when Philip chuckled at her not-very-funny joke. She glanced at him and he was watching her closely. Good grief, she thought. He fancies me. It’s been so long, I’m not sure what to do. Self-consciously, she tucked her hair behind her ear. She was sure she was blushing. Luckily, at that moment the food arrived and there was the usual fussing with cutlery and asking for ketchup.

  Esther ate her fish and chips enthusiastically. Gillian, across the table, picked at a rather limp and unappetizing Caesar salad. ‘Should have gone with the fish and chips,’ she said, eyeing Esther’s plate. ‘I was trying to make a healthy choice, but as this is four leaves soaked in a bucket of cheesy dressing with two baby tomatoes and oily croutons – loads of calories, rubbish taste, and maybe only one of my five a day – I needn’t have bothered.’

  Esther smiled. ‘Have some chips,’ she said, pushing her plate closer to Gillian. ‘Life is always better when you have chips.’

  Gillian grabbed a few. ‘I agree, but sadly, as much as I love chips, they seem to love me more.’

  ‘A moment on the lips…’ Benjamin drawled slowly.

  ‘Honestly, Benjie, I’ll smack you with this chip if you finish that sentence,’ said Gillian, dipping her golden fry in a pool of ketchup.

  Esther laughed. Gillian looked her up and down. ‘To be fair, you don’t look like a woman who’s eaten too many chips,’ she observed. ‘You’re skinny as anything.’

  Esther was used to this – a touch of friendly accusation from women of her age; as if by being slim she had betrayed some unwritten rule of the sisterhood. ‘I was a bit rounder until recently. Now I run,’ she said, shoving a chip in her mouth. ‘It burns off a multitude of sins.’

  ‘How much do you run? I mean, how far do you have to run
to offset dessert? Is ten kilometres equal to one chocolate brownie?’

  ‘I don’t really think of it like that,’ said Esther. ‘I run four times a week because I like it and it keeps me sane and, amazingly, I’ve found that then I can eat pretty much what I like.’

  ‘I run,’ said Philip suddenly.

  ‘Oh, Phil is the ultimate running bore,’ said Gillian. ‘Five London marathons.’

  ‘Marathons?’ Esther noticed for the first time that Philip’s plate held a plain-grilled chicken breast and a heap of salad.

  ‘Yes. Are you aiming for one?’

  ‘I’m not really a competitive runner, and I’m nowhere near that kind of distance.’

  ‘It doesn’t take a lot of preparation,’ Philip commented, efficiently assembling a forkful of pure protein and raw vegetables.

  ‘I’m sure it does, if you do it properly.’

  Benjamin and Gillian lost interest in the conversation and started talking to one another about a big blockbuster film that was opening that weekend and whether or not they wanted to see it. Philip seemed happy to chat about running and diet and training programmes. She could see that even though he had been brave enough to invite her to the table, he was quite shy; being able to discuss something he was knowledgeable about obviously made things easier for him. He seemed a nice man. There, you see, she thought, I’ve gone out, I’ve done something new, and I’ve met a nice man.

  She wasn’t surprised when, after they had all finished their food and were preparing to go, he hesitantly asked for her telephone number. She was happy to give it to him. What had started out as rather an unpromising evening had turned into something quite pleasant.

  He rang the next afternoon. Clearly he had no plans to play hard to get. With almost comical formality, he introduced himself with his full name and said how lovely it had been to meet her the previous evening. He wondered if she might like to join him for a walk on Hampstead Heath tomorrow, Sunday, as the weather forecast suggested it would be a lovely day. Might she like to have tea? She might indeed. They arranged to meet at Kenwood House at two o’clock, and said their goodbyes.

  Esther sat looking at her phone for some time. This was a date. Definitely a date. She hadn’t been on a date in more than twenty years, and even then she’d known Stephen since university and they had been friends first, so they hadn’t dated in the conventional sense. It was more that they just started sleeping together. Oh dear heavens, she thought. That was where this was leading, wasn’t it? Not this Sunday, but if that date was a success, and Philip asked her on another one, and another, at some point in the nearish future, they would…

  She jumped up from the kitchen table, where she’d been sitting doing some lecture preparation, and headed upstairs to pull on her running things. She needed to think about this.

  Within a few minutes, she was running at a slow warm-up pace towards the park. If sex was the ultimate aim, she would have to get naked with Philip. How did she feel about that? Her first response was a flurry of almost teenaged self-consciousness. No man but Stephen had seen her naked in years. No man but Stephen had seen her naked since she’d had a baby. What if Philip was horrified at her ageing body? She checked herself immediately. That was ridiculous, and she was being juvenile. Her body was fine, and he was middle-aged himself – he was fit, but not some buff young Adonis.

  More importantly, did she want to get naked with Philip? It was too early to know for sure, but could she foresee wanting to at some point? He wasn’t unattractive, she thought, as she laboured up a steep hill. He was pleasant-looking rather than sexy and she hadn’t felt an instant buzz of electricity when she met him. But then, would she recognize a buzz if she experienced it? It had been so long since she had gone looking for someone to be attracted to, she wasn’t sure she’d know the signs anymore. The fact was, he had chosen her and not vice versa. How she felt about him, and whether there was the possibility of something real happening between them, was yet to be seen.

  She woke the next morning cross with herself for over-analysing the whole thing. She deliberately didn’t take too much time choosing what to wear, selecting a new pair of jeans and a crisp white shirt. She added a light, raspberry-coloured cardigan in case it was cold or windy on the Heath and opted for comfortable flat shoes which would handle any but the most rugged walking terrain. She left her hair loose and applied minimal make-up and the faintest spritz of a light floral perfume.

  She was punctual by nature and allowed extra time to drive to the Heath and park the car. This being one of the first properly sunny weekends of the year, she knew it was likely to be very busy, and so it was. She found parking in a side road some distance away and walked briskly up the hill and down the driveway to Kenwood House. It was a beautiful stately home, recently restored, which commanded a sweeping view of lawns and a lake. It had featured as a location in many films, and the lawns were the scene of an annual series of concerts in the summer. She had always liked it and often visited with Lucie or with friends, either trailing through the house to look at the paintings, or going to the tea garden for cake after a walk.

  Despite the parking and walking delays, she still got there early enough that she could take a stroll around the outside of the house before it was time to meet Philip. She saw immediately that they would be lucky to get near the tea garden today. Every table was taken and she could see a line of people stretching out of the door, queuing to be served, even though there would be nowhere to sit once they had their scones and pot of Earl Grey. She had been too nervous to eat any lunch, and she realized that she was now quite hungry. She knew that The Spaniard’s Inn, another famous historic spot, was a short walk away, but she imagined it too would be busy at the height of Sunday lunchtime. Perhaps they could find a kiosk that sold sandwiches or something.

  She glanced at her watch. She had ten minutes until she was due to meet Philip. She nipped into the ladies’ toilet. Luckily she didn’t need to go, as there was a queue of ten women waiting for a cubicle. She took a moment to check her reflection and tidy her hair, then squared her shoulders and set forth.

  Although it was only five to two, Philip was already standing outside the entrance of the house as she rounded the corner. He hadn’t seen her yet, so she had a moment to observe him. He was as she remembered: tall, slim and in possession of all his hair. He was dressed pretty much exactly as he had been on Friday night – in an open-necked shirt and chinos. A conservative man in his dress, then, who would be considered by most to be reasonably attractive. But how did she feel about him? Attracted? She still didn’t know. Then she spotted the wicker basket at his feet. Clearly, he had anticipated that the place might be crowded and had brought a picnic. Foresight, consideration and sandwiches. She instantly found him more fanciable.

  She walked over and touched his elbow, and he turned quickly. His face lit up at the sight of her, and there was an awkward moment when she could see him trying to decide whether he should kiss her. She made it simple for him by leaning in to kiss his cheek, inhaling as she did so. He wore no aftershave, but his skin smelled clean and faintly of shaving foam. Not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all.

  They walked side by side around the house and surveyed the lawns, which were already fairly crowded with picnicking families and groups playing with Frisbees or balls.

  ‘Shall we go round towards Parliament Hill?’ he suggested, and she nodded.

  It was less crowded that way, although without any manicured lawns to sit on, but Philip found a bench with a splendid view and they made themselves comfortable on it.

  ‘I thought it might be very busy,’ he said, opening his basket, ‘so I decided to make us self-sufficient.’

  He had done an excellent job, or at least Marks & Spencer had – there was a good selection of tapas-style snacks, bread and cheese, and a chilled bottle of wine (‘I remembered you ordered a Sauvignon Blanc in the pub, so I got that,’ he said). He’d brought picnic plates and cutlery, and wine glasses, which, although
plastic, were still nicer than paper cups. He even had cloth napkins. Esther was impressed and said so.

  ‘I’ve been looking after myself for quite a few years now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got fairly capable.’

  It seemed a good time to exchange biographical information. Philip (‘Call me Phil’ he said hastily, when she used the full version of his name) was also forty-seven, about six months younger than Esther. When she tentatively asked about his marital status, he said, ‘Widowed.’

  She nodded, not sure if she should enquire further. Before she could, he asked the same of her. ‘Divorced,’ she replied. ‘With one daughter. Lucie. She’s twelve, going on forty-five, but in a good way. Do you have kids?’

  ‘No, no, none,’ he said, but didn’t elaborate.

  He filled her wine glass and his own, and they began to eat, chatting more generally about the weather, the Heath, and a little about their respective careers.

  When they had finished eating, Phil packed the leftovers and dishes neatly back into his basket, and stood. ‘Shall we walk? Or would you rather just relax?’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said Esther, jumping up. It seemed natural to loop her arm through his free one as they strolled down the hill.

  They walked in silence for a while and then chatted sporadically. But then, abruptly, Phil brought the conversation back to his marriage. He seemed to need to tell her his story. He had married his university sweetheart, a woman called Sue. They had agreed early on that they didn’t want children, but in her mid-thirties Sue had changed her mind and persuaded Phil that they should try. When she didn’t fall pregnant after a few months, she went to the doctor. A check-up revealed that she had stage four cervical cancer. She died just before her fortieth birthday.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Esther. ‘I lost my best friend to cervical cancer. It’s brutal.’

  ‘I was heartbroken, as you can imagine,’ Phil said. ‘And even though I wasn’t sure I wanted children, I’ve spent a long time being even more heartbroken that we never had any. At the time, it seemed as if she just disappeared from the world and there was nothing left of her. I started running after she died, because I couldn’t sleep. It was very therapeutic to be able to pull on my running shoes and go out at two or three in the morning and run myself into exhaustion.’