Growing Up for Beginners

by Claire Calman

  They walked and talked. Andrew took pretend sips of his coffee; he never ordered takeaway coffees because on his last attempt he had removed the lid but then spilled it all down his shirt and had to go round the rest of the day looking like he should have been wearing a bib.

  Olivia asked him more about his work.

  ‘I’d love to see what you do. Do you take before-and-after photos when you mend something or restore it, as a record?’

  ‘Mmm, yes, I do sometimes, if it’s something a bit unusual or if the work is extensive or particularly tricky. Here…’ He took out his phone and opened up the photos. Selected one showing just an extreme close-up of the bottom of Conrad’s painting. ‘This is the damaged part of a painting I worked on recently.’ He held out the phone to show her, then flicked to the next photo. ‘And this is the same area after I’d worked on it.’

  ‘That’s amazing. It looks perfect.’

  ‘Well, it’s not, but I was quite pleased with it. I showed you that one because it’s colour. We don’t usually restore paintings in my department – that’s a whole different section. We work mostly with the Prints and Drawings department – works on paper: engravings, drawings in pencil, charcoal, pastel, that sort of thing. This one was on board. I’ve got more photos of it if you want to see?’

  ‘Well, this is me.’ Olivia paused outside a handsome old block of flats.

  Andrew wondered if she might ask him in for more coffee. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and paused.

  ‘That was a lovely evening,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming out with me.’

  ‘It was lovely.’ She looked away then back into his eyes. ‘And belly-dancing was an unexpected bonus, of course. I’m sorry, I would ask you to come up, but my sister will only grill you and I’d rather expose you to my family very gradually, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Andrew moved a fraction nearer. ‘So…’

  ‘So…’ Olivia smiled and moved nearer, her face slightly tilted up towards his.

  He leaned in then, and put his hand on her waist and drew her to him. And kissed her. She seemed to melt against him and he put his other arm around her to encircle her.

  They drew apart but stood still entwined, looking into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Will you come out with me again?’ he said. ‘If that wasn’t too hideous?’

  ‘I think I could force myself.’ She kissed him briefly on the lips and took out her keys. ‘Good night then.’

  ‘Good night.’ He drew her to him and kissed her again. ‘Shall I call you? Or text? Email?’

  ‘All of those.’ Her face lit up with her smile again.

  Afterwards, he stood outside the entrance door to the flats for a minute or two, just revelling in this unfamiliar feeling. He feared he must be grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Then he turned and set off to walk all the way back to his parents, wanting some time and solitude in which to replay every single moment of the evening in his head.

  28

  The Cloud

  Roger came into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, then opened the cupboard to take out a cafetière. They owned three small ones, to save having to wash one every time he wanted fresh coffee. He stood looking into the cupboard. Eleanor watched him, and could see his registering the inexplicable lack of cafetières. It was extraordinary how long he stood there just staring into the depths of the cupboard, as if the cafetières might be playing some sort of mischievous prank on him and were deliberately hiding, hunkered down behind the sugar bowl or holding their collective breath behind the milk jug. Eleanor remained sitting at the kitchen table, apparently reading the paper, flicking glances in his direction. Her feet pressed down into the floor, willing her to stand up and go out. It would probably be better if she were to leave the room. Then he would have to work it out for himself. There didn’t have to be a confrontation. But, for some reason, she remained in her seat. She couldn’t quite fathom why she was doing this, engaging in this small, rather pathetic act of defiance. What good could come of it, after all? Her arms shivered with goosebumps.

  All three cafetières were still by the sink – his one from yesterday morning, yesterday evening, and the one he used this morning. Usually, Eleanor would have washed them and dried them and returned them to the cupboard. Even if one were in the dishwasher, she would never have put all three in there; there would always be at least one clean and ready for him. But today, now, here they all were, unwashed.

  ‘I can’t see a clean cafetière.’ Roger half-turned towards her.

  Eleanor knew he must have seen them – dirty, their thick layer of coffee gunge still in place – at the back of the worktop. Admittedly, Roger’s obsessive eye for detail had mysterious blank patches; he always left his empty wineglass by his chair in the sitting room, and his dirty mug on the desk in his study. After his shower, his towel would be dumped on the floor or flung over the side of the bath rather than returned neatly to the rail to dry.

  Eleanor dug her thumbnail deep into the newspaper page and half looked up.

  ‘None in the cupboard?’

  ‘Apparently not.’ Roger sighed and shut the cupboard door with a bang, no mean feat given its expensive soft-close hinges.

  ‘Oh?’ Eleanor drew her thumbnail back up the page, scoring a groove.

  She could get up now, rise to her feet, walk across as if she were a normal person, a wife carrying out a very minor domestic task. She should just wash one of the cafetières. That’s what a good wife would do. She should definitely do that. Why make a big deal of it? Eleanor was not the kind of person who made a big deal of things, really not. She was the kind of person who just got on with whatever needed to be done, without making a fuss about whose turn it was or if it was fair or any of that. So why so stubborn all of a sudden? It was just a dirty cafetière, after all. Only a bloody cafetière. But then Roger was actually standing right by the sink, and was it really so much harder for him to wash one just this once, rather than for her to come over and do it for him? Especially as he was the one wanting coffee, after all. Eleanor didn’t even drink coffee.

  ‘The ones by the sink are still dirty. Apparently.’ Roger’s tone, Eleanor noted silently, had shifted. It was – surprisingly – not accusatory. It was… she thought for a moment, assessing… puzzled.

  ‘Ah.’ Eleanor looked back down at the newspaper. Beneath her fingers, the photo of a smugly blissful couple – C-list celebs, she assumed, though she had absolutely no idea who they were – was scored with deep grooves from her thumbnail.

  She looked up at Roger, facing him now, clutching the edges of the newspaper as if it might hold her up.

  ‘You might need to wash one then,’ she said.

  He met her gaze for a moment, then he turned and walked out of the room.

  Roger was not happy, and when Roger was not happy, the whole of north-west London sat under a raft of thick, grey cloud so dense that no glimmer of sunshine could break through. When it descended, the Cloud hung heavy over the house for anything from twenty-four hours to an entire week, until Eleanor’s finely tuned strategies succeeded in gently blowing it away. Now, three days in, she was unusually impatient with the need to tiptoe round her husband. Roger could not be teased out from the Cloud or told to snap out of it. The only effective strategy was to softly, softly coax and cajole him into allowing the Cloud to lift with a succession of small offerings, little touches that reflected his importance as Head of the Household: a clinking gin and tonic set by his chair the moment he came in, accompanied by a dish of Eleanor’s homemade crispy cheese nibbles; his business shoes buffed to a mirror-shine; his pyjamas pressed and warm, ready for him to put on. In the early days of their marriage, Eleanor could tease him about being the silverback gorilla, the leader of the pack, and he would laugh with her, but a while ago, perhaps a very long time ago, she was aware that somehow the balance had shifted and that it was no longer acceptable to tease him in this way, that it would merely serve to deepen his disp
leasure.

  Tonight they had a work function of Roger’s to attend: drinks and canapés on a boat sauntering down the river to Greenwich and back. Eleanor had been dreading it, knowing that, once the boat had departed from the pier, they would not be able to get off it for four hours. But now she was feeling cautiously optimistic: if the party went well, Roger’s spirits would be bound to lift and, in any case, surely even Roger would hardly dare to be grumpy around his valuable clients or his boss? At least it couldn’t possibly be any worse than the last two evenings where they had sat having supper in stony silence until Roger claimed he needed to check some figures and had sat there stabbing at the screen of his tablet computer while he ate.

  It was understood that Roger would drive to the dock and Eleanor would drive them home again at the end of the evening, so that he could relax and have a few drinks. That was the way it always was. In fact, tonight Eleanor would love the chance to kick up her heels and have a second glass of champagne for once.

  ‘I wonder whether we mightn’t do better to take a taxi this evening instead?’ she speculated while looking in her wardrobe to choose a dress. Suggestions to Roger were often better received if she were not looking at him directly and if couched in the form of a question seeking his expert view.

  ‘I’d rather have the car there. I hate coming out to find you can’t get a cab for love nor money.’

  ‘Won’t it be tricky to park round there, though?’

  ‘No, it’s not a problem.’

  ‘I just thought I’d quite like to be able to have a second glass of wine if I fancied it.’ Eleanor looked at him from around the side of her wardrobe door.

  ‘Be my guest.’ He shrugged. Roger would happily drive after two or three glasses of wine, but Eleanor wouldn’t dream of having more than one small glass if she were driving. ‘I doubt you’ll be much over the limit. You’d have to be pretty unlucky to get caught. Makes no odds to me.’ He turned back to the mirror and tweaked his tie into position.

  ‘It’s OK, I won’t drink.’ It was nothing to do with the risk of being caught. It was about being safe – surely he could see that? She sat down at her dressing table to apply her make-up.

  ‘Do try not to take ages – don’t forget the boat leaves at seven thirty sharp.’

  She heard him thudding heavily down the stairs followed by the plink-plink of ice and the clink of a bottle as he presumably poured himself a drink.

  On the way, Roger fulminated against ‘the cretin who had organised a bloody boat trip in winter, for crying out loud.’

  ‘It’s actually a rather lovely evening, though,’ Eleanor pointed out. ‘At least it’s not raining. And the lights will look magical, I think.’

  ‘And it’s going to be bloody sushi instead of normal canapés. Who wants to eat raw fish and cold rice while shivering on the river?’

  ‘But lots of people love—’ she began then cut herself short. Contradicting Roger when he was in this mood would merely extend it. ‘Well, I suppose sushi is trendy now,’ she said softly. ‘Perhaps she thought the clients would like it?’

  ‘Nonsense. The clients don’t know anything – that’s why they need us to advise them.’

  Eleanor did not point out that perhaps there was a difference between needing expert legal advice and knowing which foods you preferred to eat.

  ‘Maybe they’ll have those little seaweed rolls with fresh tuna inside – you quite like those, don’t you?’

  ‘Not nearly as much as proper, cooked food.’

  Eleanor turned and looked out of the window. Well, it was only one evening and they would get a good view of the buildings along the river. She was not usually keen on boats, as she was prone to motion-sickness, but the river was very calm, and it was better to be out with the opportunity to talk to other people rather than stuck at home eating supper in silence.

  She spotted him glancing at her black dress and held her breath, hoping she had made a good choice.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Is it new?’

  ‘Fairly. I’ve had it a few months.’

  She had spent some time trying to choose the right outfit, something that would make her attractive enough so that he would feel she was a credit to him, but not sexy or too alluring, which might invite comment.

  ‘Good that you didn’t wear that purple one like last time. I don’t want clients thinking you’re some sort of… well…’ He sniffed.

  The purple dress was supremely elegant but rather low-cut; Eleanor had originally bought it for precisely this reason, as the neckline was low enough to show off a beautiful pearl and amethyst necklace she had, but Roger had spent the whole evening frowning at it on the one occasion she’d worn it.

  Eleanor flushed. It wasn’t a tarty dress at all. She tucked her hands under her legs to quash the impulse to jab him in the face with her elbow.

  ‘Well, I’m not wearing it, and so long as I don’t start dancing on the tables and flashing my knickers I’m sure I can trick them into thinking I’m perfectly respectable.’

  Roger shot a look at her, but she stared resolutely forwards.

  ‘There’s no need to be snotty about it, Eleanor. I didn’t force you to spend my money on an inappropriate dress that isn’t fit to be seen in for anything other than a hen night in Essex. Did I?’ He breathed out huffily through his nostrils.

  Eleanor remained silent.

  ‘Did I?’ He repeated.

  ‘No,’ she said, turning to look out of her side window once more. ‘You didn’t.’

  They drove in silence for the rest of the way. Eventually, they managed to park, and as they walked to the pier Roger reminded her that a couple of his most important Jersey-based clients would be there and could she please, if it wasn’t too much trouble, make a particular effort with them, laugh at their jokes and so on, and not look so bloody bored like last time.

  In the end, the evening was better than expected. There were plenty of hot canapés in addition to the sushi, Roger had taken full advantage of the drinks being proffered every few minutes, and it was just mild enough for many of the guests to stay out on deck, relishing the opportunity to knock back unlimited champagne that someone else was paying for. When Eleanor looked across at Roger to monitor his mood, it seemed to her that he was looking a lot less grim. He was talking and laughing with his clients, laying his hand on a blonde woman’s arm in that annoying proprietorial way he had with younger women, but she didn’t seem to mind. Eleanor began to feel more cheerful. The last couple of days had been barely tolerable, with her dreading the scraping of his key in the lock, the heavy thud as he slammed his briefcase down on the hall floor, the theatrical sigh if she wasn’t there poised in the hallway ready to take his coat.

  At the end of the evening, they returned to the car and Eleanor began to chat animatedly about how beautiful the river had looked with the lights sparkling on the water and how delicious the canapés had been after all, and—

  ‘Yes, I was there, remember? Is my presence so unimportant to you that you didn’t notice that I was also at the party? There’s no need for you to replay the entire evening for my benefit, is there?’

  Stung, Eleanor simply shook her head and concentrated on driving.

  In her mind, Eleanor pictured dealing with the Cloud as like tiptoeing one’s way across a minefield. It was, hypothetically, possible to navigate a safe path and make it through to the other side, she knew, and yet only very rarely had she managed to do this. Usually, sooner or later, she had said the wrong thing, or failed to exhibit enough wifely compliance and obeisance, and then it had got worse, with Roger harrumphing around the house and the two of them chewing through supper in stony silence, every mouthful – every exactingly prepared mouthful – like ashes in her mouth.

  Over the years, she had become more adept at acting pre-emptively. It was easier to try to keep the Cloud at bay, after all, than it was to shift it once it had hunkered down to settle in. It had become a habit, deferring to Roger when it
came to matters of preference, whether it was where and when they choose to go on holiday, or even over very minor matters, such as which path to take on a country walk. Often Roger would ask her, ‘Which way do you want to go, darling?’ For years, she had interpreted this sort of question as being a genuine enquiry; Roger was seeking her opinion. But then she might say something like, ‘Let’s go that way. It looks lovely up there.’

  ‘But it’s all in shade with so many trees. This way is more open. It’s so gloomy that way.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind. Let’s go this way then.’

  And it wasn’t that she really minded whether they went that way or this way, on the whole, but she would have preferred it if Roger had said at the outset, ‘Let’s go this way,’ or had simply led the way so that there was no illusion that she had any say in the matter. It was like being offered a plate with a choice of cakes and, as you reached out to take your favourite, the waiter just choosing one for you and dumping it on your plate.

  29

  Nothing Else Is

  1979–1982

  Conrad writes to her – sometimes an outpouring of everything he feels about her, every thought fizzing through his teeming brain, and sometimes no more than a sentence: ‘Today I saw a striped apron in a shop window as I rushed past and I thought of you wearing yours, completely naked underneath, stirring soup.’ Writing to her helps to leaven those grey days when he cannot get away to see her. If email had existed back then, perhaps he’d have written more often. He returns to love poems he had read years ago, realising that he had never properly understood them before; or, rather, of course he had understood them intellectually, but not here, deep in his gut, his heart. From Donne…

  She’is all states; and all princes, I,

  Nothing else is.

  ‘Yes!’ He strikes the headboard with his hand. ‘That is exactly how it is. When I’m with you…’ He slows down now, and turns to pull her on top of him so he can look into her eyes. ‘When I’m in bed with you, my love, really – nothing else is.’