by Angela Huth
She was fine at supper, though, and Dan was in good spirits. My chicken salad was praised – much better than whatever Carlotta had cooked last night, put in Sylvie. Dan and I chose to ignore her.
‘Sylvie told you, then?’ Dan said. ‘Carlotta came round and was disappointed to find you away.’ I’d told her I was going. She never remembers other people’s plans.
‘I’d been looking forward to a quiet evening,’ Dan went on, ‘but it’d have been churlish not to ask her to stay. She offered to cook. Something with eggs – pretty good, actually, Sylvie,’ he added reprovingly.
‘So what did you have the row about, then?’ Sylvie asked.
‘Row?’ Dan looked bemused.
‘When I came down, you’d obviously been having a row,’ Sylvie said. There was a spitefulness in her eyes I don’t like. Where does this streak of meanness in our daughter come from?
Dan then gave the merest smile. Bewilderment cleared. ‘Not a row,’ he said, ‘just a difference of opinion – about Bert.’ He looked at me to signal he’d give details later.
I was intrigued. But as we never discuss our friends’ private lives in front of Sylvie, and it was time to change the subject, I went to the fridge to get the strawberries and cream. Dan and I began to talk about the new computer he was planning to buy.
Sylvie’s sulkiness returned until she went up to bed.
CARLOTTA
Jesus Christ. Cat among the pigeons. Dan whirling about in a ridiculous state of guilt. Does he honestly think a man can go for nearly twenty years lusting only after his wife? I’ve absolutely no feelings of guilt. I thought they might come, but they haven’t. It meant little – I mean, in terms of any feeling other than sex. I didn’t suddenly think I was in love with Dan just because he kissed me, or any of that rubbish. I fancy him, I like him, but our tiny indiscretion could not be called anything but innocent, certainly not a threat in any direction. My only regret is that there wasn’t time to go further. I could have killed that bloody child coming down to spy on us.
I suppose I might have guessed Dan wouldn’t come clean to Isabel. Well, yes, it might have complicated things a bit. There’s a chance Isabel would have taken it too seriously, though I doubt she would have actually believed it was anything more than an under-the-mistletoe sort of kiss. Anyhow, his decision relieves me of not having to lie through my teeth to Isabel about the insignificance of the encounter … plus, should she confront me with one of her unbelievably smug I’m-so-happily-married-Dan-would-never-look-at-another- woman boasts, I could always call on my tiny mite of stored ammunition. Serve her right for having it all.
So, what? Bert?
I’m furious with him, the ungrateful shit. But at the same time I want him under the net: his friendship, his companionship. I see him as a useful man in my life. I see us going out à quatre with Isabel and Dan. I can imagine a holiday – some sunny place abroad. I’ve got much better breasts than Isabel. While she’d sit pale under a sunhat and parasol, I’d put on my scantiest bikini and see if I could torture Dan a little, and at the same time inflame Bert’s jealousy.
What am I saying? I think I’m more shaken by the whole thing than I realised. I also think I know what to do. I’ll ring Bert and withdraw my offer of his coming to stay. Make him wonder if he isn’t being foolish, hesitating about turning down so good an offer.
As soon as this idea came to me, I rang him. He was out. I couldn’t leave a message as he still hadn’t replaced his Stone Age telephone. All day I jittered about – cross, sad, I don’t know.
He didn’t call.
DAN
There were several moments during lunch with Bert when I almost gave in to weakness and told him of the incident with Carlotta. But of course I didn’t. And by the end of lunch Bert had cast his usual spell of sympathy and humour, and it was all as easy as our lunches in the old days. When he began to talk of Carlotta I had the impression he was genuinely irritated by her kindness and persistence. I doubt he’ll agree to go and stay with her. I hope very much he’ll come to us.
As for Isabel’s return, it all went off much better than expected. It is, of course, only guilt that made me suppose she might have been uneasy about Carlotta’s visit. Carlotta’s always dropping round – she didn’t know, or had forgotten, Isabel was away. I think she was positively grateful to hear Carlotta had offered to cook, and keep me company.
Slight panic when Sylvie came up with her row idea. Also relief: she definitely thought our possibly ruffled appearances were the result of some kind of disagreement. I was pretty quick off the mark with the Bert explanation, though my heart was thumping fast as I produced it. Isabel, of course, completely understood. She looked intrigued. Later, in bed, we discussed what, if anything, might happen to Bert and Carlotta. Then I mentioned the possibility of his coming to stay for a time while the builders were in his house. There was a fractional pause, as I knew there would be. I could see Isabel’s practical mind racing round the idea of one more to cook for, extra cleaning for Gwen and so on. But she said that would be a lovely idea. She was lying on her back looking at the ceiling. She put out a hand and touched my wrist. I moved towards her. She took me with particular eagerness.
Now, I think she’s asleep. The moon comes through the window flinging its wide band of silver across the carpet, up on to the bed, over the mounds of our feet. All’s well again. We’re back on track. I love my wife. Never again will I betray her, or think of betraying her. I can only pray Carlotta is to be trusted and will never, ever give the slightest indication to Isabel of what happened. But the fact is, Carlotta’s not to be trusted. She can be a vengeful bitch if things don’t go her way. I wouldn’t put it past her, if there was some row between her and Isabel, to blurt out what happened in a fit of jealousy of our married life. So I suppose that – though I’ve got over the first hurdle and will try to put the whole thing from my mind – I can’t be absolutely certain Isabel will never know.
Does that mean the old innocent peace is forever to be disturbed? If it does, it’s my own fault. How could I have been such a bloody fool?
Oh my Isabel: waking, sleeping, I love you…
GWEN
So I got it. Surprisingly cheap. The man in the shop was very kind. He tried to show me how it worked. But I could see he was very busy. There were a lot of people in a queue all wanting to buy phones. Everyone in the world wants a mobile today.
I came out of the shop feeling quite in the fashion. Gwen Bishop with a mobile! This time last year I would never have believed it. I felt quite excited, and thought I’d try ringing my daughter some time.
But when I got home I was confused. Everything the man said went out of my head. And those little things you have to press – they’re too small for thumbs like mine. But I did press, here and there, and read the things that came up on the screen once I’d found my glasses. It made little squeaks and squawks – made me jump. I don’t know what it was trying to say but I daresay I’ll get used to it in time.
I took it with me to number 18. Every now and then I got it out of my pocket and just looked at it to see if I could understand it better. But I couldn’t. So I showed it to Mrs. G. at coffee time. She laughed at me. She said she’d never have guessed I would succumb. She herself has a mobile though I’ve never seen her use it, or heard it ring for that matter. It lives on the top of the fridge.
She took mine and went through it all with me. Very kind of her. Then we both returned to our work and I put it back in my pocket. I don’t suppose it ever will ring, of course. I mean no one has my number or even knows I now have a phone. In some ways it was a waste of money, but I’ve done it now. Maybe it will come in useful one day.
Some time later – perhaps half an hour – I was at the kitchen window when I saw a man on the opposite side of the street, hands in pockets. He was staring straight at me.
It was Gary.
My heart didn’t just miss a beat, it gave a ruddy great leap. I heard myself give a small cry. Oh no! I
nstantly my hand went to the phone: I would ring the police.
But then I thought: I can’t do that. Gary’s done nothing wrong. He’s at liberty to stand where he likes, look where he likes. Besides, by the time I’d managed to get my glasses on and fiddle about with all those small buttons, and call the police, he’d be gone. And the likelihood was if I did get through to the station they’d think I was a nutter and wouldn’t come round. So I picked up the hoover and went upstairs. Mrs. G’s bedroom‘s over the kitchen. I peeped out of the window. Gary had gone, so I was right to have done nothing.
Heart still racing, I got on with my work.
BERT
Lunch with Dan still on my mind. I’d thought it would be easy enough – Dan and I such old friends, we could chatter on forever. In fact it was hard. We weren’t at a loss for things to talk about, of course. Went through all the usual old stuff. I managed to make him laugh. And then brought up the subject of Carlotta. He didn’t seem much interested in talking about her.
All the time I was in half a mind to confess, clear the air and say, ‘Look here old man, the other night things got a bit out of hand with your wife, with Isabel. I, well, to be blunt I tried to kiss her. Never in my life have I wanted a woman so much. But, don’t worry, I kept control.’
Of course I said none of that. Wouldn’t have done so in a thousand years. As I listened to his problems about the opening of Act 2 of Rejection, I couldn’t help wondering what would have been his reaction if I had spilled the beans. Perhaps, being a man of such goodness and understanding, he would have taken it on board calmly enough. Laughed it off. Forgiven me, forgiven her. Not wanted to know how she felt. On the other hand it might have been the end of everything – our friendship, their marriage. Bearing all that in mind, not for anything would I have taken that risk.
And never will Dan know, or have reason to guess, how much I love his wife. That is something I have to deal with on my own. God knows how.
There was only a piece of cheddar and a cucumber in the fridge this evening: supper enough, with a bottle of wine. We’d eaten a huge lunch.
Then I sat in the old chair that Carlotta will want to throw out, or re-furbish beyond recognition, and thought yet again about the aimless muddle my life had become since returning to London The drink hadn’t helped extinguish Isabel from my mind. If anything, with the picture of her in the cellar, head tipped back, her face cloudy pale in the dim light, my desire for her was increased. Not just to make love to her, but to be with her. Always.
I stood up. And it came to me – the obvious answer: I would accept Dan’s offer to stay. Then, at least, I would be able to see Isabel every day, be in her presence. Her proximity, alongside never being able to touch her again, might ease this pain. No hope can kill forbidden love in the end, I believe. It was worth a try.
I stumbled about the room in search of another bottle to celebrate the excitement of this idea. I switched on a second light. Seeing more clearly the shambles of the room, the wretched Carlotta came to mind. Hadn’t I promised to ring her? Let her know my decision about staying with her? Suppose I probably ought to offer some kind of apology for having been a bit churlish the other evening, too.
I looked at my watch. 11.30. She was probably out. Perhaps she’d be out all night, pleasuring some young man who would later become one of her anecdotes. I picked up the telephone. Had some difficulty finding, then reading, her number written on a scrap of paper. Then I dialled. The familiar scrapings of the old Bakelite telephone came back to me. Doubtless it was another thing she’d want to change for a newer model. I’d put up some resistance, there, I thought. I’m used to my old telephone. It’s done me well.
CARLOTTA
The telephone rang. I’d just put out the light.11.30pm. Bert.
‘Didn’t think you’d be in,’ he said. ‘Just ringing to say I’m going to stay with Isabel and Dan. I think that’d be easier. But thank you for the kind thought …’
‘Easier than what?’ I asked.
Bert didn’t answer that. He mumbled something about being in low spirits the other night when I came round, and he was sorry.
I put the phone down, not waiting to hear his apologies or anything else. Then, very unlike me, I cried myself to sleep.
ISABEL
Much of my life is spent picking up beads the size of a pinhead with tweezers. I’ve been doing that since nine this morning. Once the beads have been stuck in a neat little pattern on the end of a ribbon, it’s time to add a few small feathers. They catch the light when the ribbons move – though not in the same way as the beads, of course. They pick up a gentler light. It’s this contrast in a tiny space that I aim for … and hope to achieve. Not an achievement, I acknowledge, that many would either aspire to … or notice. But our own small, secret pleasures are essential to our wellbeing – no matter if others are innocent of their existence.
This morning it’s hot in the studio. The window is open. The fretwork of leaves on the plane tree outside is absolutely still. Not a cloud trespasses the sky. The white parrot tulips bend too far over their jar on the desk: no one looked after them while I was away. I can see that their water in the glass vase is a slimy green. On the top shelf of the dresser a butterfly rests on a mask of silver and rust spots, as if it had found a place of camouflage. Dead … or sleeping? I can’t tell. But it gives me an idea. I’ll put a fake butterfly on one of the quieter masks – just one, high on the cheek. It might work. I’ll try that, once I’ve finished the next commissioned masks on my list.
I pick up a length of invisible thread. I love this stuff: it’s like a piece of real cobweb, but strong – Cobweb? Quickly I put that thought from my mind … that cobweb in my hair.
As I hold it up and move my hand, its transparency flashes with colours – mauve, green, gold. I wonder at the marvels there are to observe in ordinary things: in our hurried lives so much goes unnoticed. One of the reasons I love my private world up here is that, not only can I make the masks that float into my head unbidden (and sometimes turn out to be more beautiful than I had imagined), I can also quietly observe the minutiae that, in the greater passage of life, go unappreciated: the scratches of shadow on a white tulip, the dull clash of antique colours in the Kilim rug, the sizzling lights in a pot of gold paint …
I thread the needle with invisible thread – becoming increasingly invisible to me with every week. Soon I shall have to give in and get glasses.
There are footsteps on the stairs leading to my room. Odd. No one ever comes up in the morning.
Dan puts his head round the door. Mornings, Dan always has the look of a well-scrubbed schoolboy. Each night seems to wash away his real age. By the time he comes home in the evening, it’s caught up with him again: battered by his day at the office, he’s returned to his middle-age.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he says, ‘but Bert has just rung. He said he’d love to come and stay. Were we sure?’
I put down my needle, still free of the thread. It swung round on the table, pointing at Dan.
‘Of course,’ I said.
The invisible thread had now vanished completely. I felt a stirring of irritation.
‘I don’t think he’d be much trouble,’ Dan went on as if I needed convincing. ‘Out most of the day, generous to Gwen and all that …’
‘It’s fine,’ I said.
Dan was still merely looking through the open door. He would deem stepping over the threshold a gross intrusion, whereas breaking his news from the passage he’d judge hardly counted as a disturbance. I said I’d get Gwen to make up the room.
It seemed Bert’s plan was to move in tomorrow. I nodded again. I shuffled things around: ribbons, cards of buttons, small pots of glitter, skeins of ribbon. The needle, now, had disappeared too. How I hate interruptions.
‘Darling: if it doesn’t work, if it’s too much, we can always ask him to go,’ Dan was saying. ‘He’d quite understand. And I daresay Carlotta’s invitation remains open.’
I loo
ked at him, knowing exasperation was in my eyes. I said I rather wanted to get on now, but he should tell Bert we were expecting him tomorrow, and looking forward to it.
Dan backed away, apologising for this visit, and shut the door.
In long and happy marriages such short, edgy exchanges after a loving night are the norm: a mere flutter against the great backcloth of mutual understanding. My annoyance was nothing to do with the content of our conversation, but about the breaking of work that had been going well. The spell was now broken. I lashed irritably about in search of more thread, another needle, and feathers no bigger than a thumbnail. I wondered if I should give up for a while, change the water in the tulip vase. Still … all this annoyance, I vaguely realised, did keep me from wondering what it would be like, having Bert in the house.
In the end I went downstairs for coffee earlier than usual. The kettle hadn’t boiled. Gwen was apologetic. It occurred to me she looked unusually pale. But she didn’t say anything and I didn’t enquire. Gwen never says much about her life and I don’t like to appear curious. I do sometimes wonder, though. What does she do alone in her small flat after she’s left us? What equivalents, if any, does she have to my secret life in the studio? One day, I must gently enquire how she spends most of her time.
