by Mandy Lee
He shakes his head. ‘Whatever it is,’ he reaches into his pocket and takes out his mobile, ‘he’ll calm down eventually and talk to you about it. But you’re not going to force it out of him. I know him well enough to know that.’
He slips into silence, squinting down at his mobile, concentrating on tapping out a text. Obviously a message to Dan.
‘Well, we’re going to go out for the day,’ Lucy pipes up at last. ‘We’ll give you two some space. Come on Clivey.’
On any normal day, I’d shoot my friend a look of sheer disbelief. It didn’t escape my attention that she just came up with a pet name for her pet accountant. And it also didn’t escape my attention that he smiled in return. But it’s not any normal day. In fact, it’s a crap day, the sort of day that calls for much more wine than we’ve got in the flat. If I’m about to listen to my sister’s catalogue of woes, then it’s something I’m going to endure in a pub. I glance down at my scrunched-up dress.
‘I’m going to get changed,’ I announce. ‘This bloody thing is getting on my nerves.’
While Lucy hauls Clive off into her bomb site of a bedroom, Sara follows me into mine, glass in hand. I watch as she settles herself on the edge of the bed before I set about changing into my customary summer pub outfit: combats and a strappy T-shirt.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sara whispers.
‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’ I rummage around in my wardrobe, pulling out the first things that come to hand. ‘Let’s just forget about Dan. He’s doing my head in. Tell me what’s been going on with you and Geoff.’
‘He’s a selfish prat. He’s always out with his mates. If he’s not playing football or watching football, he’s down the pub talking about football. I’m fed up, Maya. He leaves me alone with the kids all the time.’
‘He’s done that for years.’ I take off the dress and toss it into a corner.
‘I know. I’ve just come to the end of my tether.’
‘Then get another tether.’ I put on a T-shirt. ‘Either that, or get a divorce.’
Her eyebrows seem to shoot up her forehead.
‘A divorce?’
‘Yes. A divorce.’ I step into my combats and zip them up. ‘He’s not likely to change and you’re not happy.’
‘A divorce.’ She gazes out of the window and takes an enormous gulp of wine. ‘Mum and Dad won’t like that.’
‘They’ll like anything that makes you happy. And besides …’ I’m not really sure I should add on the next bit. ‘They never really liked him anyway.’
She turns to gape at me, finishes off her wine and seems to think for a moment or two. At last, she smiles. ‘Well, that’s me sorted then. How about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘You and Dan? How long has it been going on?’
‘A few days.’ I shrug. ‘But I think it might be over now.’
‘Clivey seems to think he’ll come back.’
‘Clivey’s an accountant. What does he know?’
She nods her head, opens her mouth to speak and then closes it again, her attention waylaid by something in the corner of the room.
‘Wow!’ she breathes, scrambling round to the foot of the bed. ‘You’re painting again!’ She points at the canvas. ‘It’s brilliant! I love it, Maya. God, I’ve got a talented sister. Are you going to do more?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so happy for you. What made you start again?’
It’s not a case of what, I’d like to tell her. It’s a case of who. Daniel Foster made me start again, and if I’ve got nothing else out of this disaster of a relationship, then at least I’ve got my mojo back. I reach up and touch the pendant, a reminder that I want so much more than that. He may well be doing my head in right now, but I’m still in love with the man.
‘Right,’ I breathe, feeling my heartbeat jitter. ‘Go and sort yourself out. We’re going out for the afternoon. And we’re going to get blasted.’
***
By the time we stagger back into the flat, fully laden with two ready meals, three bottles of wine and a selection of chocolate snacks, we’ve already said it all. Holed up in a local pub, we’ve put the world to rights, identifying the only possible solutions to our respective problems: Sara needs to leave her husband and I need to carry on painting, irrelevant of the man who may or may not be in my life. After half-heartedly picking our way through two platefuls of something that looks suspiciously like dog sick, we spend the evening watching crappy television, drowning our sorrows in silence, flicking our way through the endless channels of crud until we finally settle on Bruce Willis in a vest.
‘Die Hard,’ Sara slurs. ‘Just what I need. I can’t be doing with romance or any of that shit.’
‘Me neither.’ I hiccough. ‘Romance is a bunch of shitty crap shit.’
‘What’s that fucking noise?’ Screwing up her nose, Sara shuffles about on the sofa, finally realising that the ‘fucking noise’ is, in fact, the ringtone of her mobile. ‘Oh,’ she sighs, pulling the mobile from under her backside. ‘Oh, fuck it. It’s Mum.’
‘Answer it,’ I instruct her.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Drunkenly, she swipes her forefinger across the accept call icon. ‘Hi Mum.’ She holds the phone away from herself for a moment before slapping it back against her ear. ‘Yes, I’ve walked out on him. How did you know? What?’
Shooting up from the sofa, she staggers off into the kitchen, leaving me with Bruce Willis and a handful of German renegades. When she finally returns, Bruce has already managed to despatch at least half of the opposition, cutting his feet to shreds in the process, but I’ve barely paid attention to any of it. I’ve been thinking about Dan.
‘What’s up?’
‘That bastard,’ she sneers, pushing her mobile onto the coffee table and collapsing back onto the sofa. ‘He phoned Mum and asked her if I was there.’
‘What’s bad about that? He’s the father of your children.’
‘He’s a shit. He just wanted to make me look bad in front of her.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘I’m sure he did. Anyway, she’s happy I’ve left him, and she doesn’t want me to go back to him.’
‘There you go.’
‘And she wants to meet your new boyfriend.’
‘What?’ I straighten myself up, sending a bag of Maltesers plummeting to the carpet. ‘You didn’t tell her?’
‘It just kind of came out. He’s invited next Saturday to Dad’s birthday bash.’
I stare at my own mobile. It’s languishing on the coffee table, in between a half-eaten Chocolate Orange and a box of Ferrero Rocher. Not one single text from Dan.
‘Look, Sara, I’m not even sure he’s my boyfriend any more. Can we just drop this?’
My mobile starts to ring. I huff out a sigh and answer it.
‘Mum,’ I breathe, without even checking the caller ID.
‘Sara tells me you’ve got a new man in your life. She says he’s bloody gorgeous and I want to meet him.’
‘Get straight to the point, why don’t you?’
‘Bring him to your dad’s do. No excuses.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Get here for one. I’ll call Lucy in the week and make sure she knows about it. I’m sure you’ll forget. Oh, and tell your sister she’s doing the right thing. That husband of hers is a knobhead.’
‘Mum!’
‘I speak the truth. See you on Saturday. Got to go. Pam’s reading circle starts in twenty minutes.’
Sliding the phone back onto the table, I pick up my wine glass and take a huge glug.
‘So,’ Sara mutters, picking up her own glass. ‘I’ve been thinking about Dan. I’ve been thinking about why he took an instant dislike to me. Did you tell him about the things I did?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you tell him I was the world’s worst big sister?’
A few seconds of silence pass between us. We’ve never spoken a
bout this before. She’s never admitted to what she did, and I’ve never alluded to it. Up until now, it’s all been apparently forgotten, brushed aside, nudged out of sight. But in those few precious seconds, we gaze into each other’s eyes and silently acknowledge the past. And somehow, it seems to open the gates.
‘I told him about some of the things,’ I murmur.
‘Such as?’
‘The thunder thing and the arm thing.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yep.’
‘Jeez, you left a lot out.’ She stares at the coffee table, eyeing up a packet of chocolate brownies. ‘I’m sorry, Maya. I don’t know why I was like that.’
‘It’s all water under the bridge.’
‘It’s just that … some of the things I did, some of the things I said - they were unforgivable.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. We all move on and we all change. You’ve changed.’
‘I know. Life’s taught me a few lessons. I just wish I could go back and change the way I was.’
‘Well, you can’t, and just for the record, you are forgiven.’
Simultaneously, we lean forwards, place our wine glasses on the coffee table and dive in for a short, uncomfortable, drunken hug. And then, simultaneously, we release each other and reach for our mobiles.
‘Who are you texting?’ I ask, although I already know. While my phone has remained resolutely silent for most of the day, hers has been inundated with messages from the idiot husband.
‘Geoff.’ She taps out her message and proudly displays it to me. ‘Bruce Willis has inspired me.’ I struggle to make out the words, but giggle as soon as they come into focus. Yippee Ki-yay, motherfucker! ‘And who are you texting?’ she asks, merrily prodding at the send icon.
‘Nobody in particular.’
I’m not about to confess that I just can’t leave him alone. He may well be playing silly buggers again, but I’m not prepared to join in this time. Somewhere, in amongst all the wine and chocolate and words, I’ve decided to send him a text. Just one. And if he doesn’t reply, then I’ll leave it at that. I type in the message and fire it off into the ether. Two words. Nice and simple. And they say it all. No running.
Chapter Thirty
I spend the night lying on top of the bed covers. I can’t sleep. It’s not helped by the heat or the alcohol swirling about in my veins or the pigeons fighting outside my window, or by the fact that I can still smell his scent on the bed sheets. Every now and then, I pull them close to my face and drink in the fresh smell. Every now and then, I check my mobile, only to find that he hasn’t replied to my text. Every now and then, I touch the pendant that’s still around my neck, wondering what was going through his mind when he decided to give it to me. Was this commitment? And if so, then what the hell was going through his mind when he stormed off? Eventually, at day break, I stand by the open window, clutching a sheet around me and watching the beginnings of Monday morning. The colour’s back in the world. But today, it hasn’t reached me. Today, I’m monochrome.
***
The week passes in a blur. Hardly aware of time, I’m lost in a daze, waiting for the tears to arrive. But day after day, just like Dan, they fail to show up. On Monday morning, I call in sick and spend the day with Sara, wandering around Camden market, stopping here and there for a coffee and saying very little. I call in sick again on Tuesday. Only this time, after seeing Sara off on the train, I take the tube down to Monument, picking my way along the north bank of the Thames until I’m directly opposite Fosters Construction. From this angle, with the Shard right behind it, the building seems far less imposing than before. And suddenly I’m pricked by inspiration.
Taking a mound of photographs on my mobile, I return quickly to the flat where I shut myself away in my bedroom and start on a second canvas: a storm brewing over the rooftops of the south bank. Somehow, with no contact from Dan, the sweet peas don’t seem relevant any more. And somehow, I already know that this is my own way of dealing with the rejection. Consumed by a need to see my anger in front of me, I work into the early hours, watching as the buildings of Southwark gradually emerge from the canvas. Using the photographs, I sketch them out with precision: the cathedral, the Shard, a mishmash of office buildings and there, right there at the centre of it all, the fifteen storeys of black glass that belong to Daniel Foster. On Wednesday, after finally gathering enough courage to call Mrs Kavanagh with my resignation, I remain in my bedroom and begin to paint. By the end of the day, the basics are in place, but it’s the storm clouds that have taken shape before anything else. Pressing down onto the buildings and reflected in the waters of the Thames, they dominate the scene, just like they dominate my mind.
Thursday gives me no time to work. Early in the morning, Lucy reminds me that it’s time to prepare for Friday night’s exhibition. I’m forced to get dressed, to eat a little breakfast, and then I find myself in the back of a taxi, propping up the painting of the woods while I listen to my flatmate’s endless complaints about the day ahead. An hour or so is spent hanging the canvas, followed by a few more hours helping Lucy with last minute arrangements. Shortly after six, deciding that everything’s finally ship-shape and hunky-dory as far as the gallery’s concerned, Lucy turns her attention to me: I’m dragged over to Oxford Street where I’m ordered to buy a little black dress and a pair of killer heels.
‘This is the way to deal with heartbreak,’ she informs me, guiding me towards the fitting room. ‘Put on your LBD and get jiggy with it!’
‘I’m not getting jiggy with anything, Luce,’ I sigh. ‘That sort of crap always ends in disaster.’
‘You should wear this on Saturday too.’
The dress is thrust at me.
‘Saturday?’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Maya. You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’
I shake my head.
‘Your dad’s birthday, twat features.’
My brain finally sparks into life. Dad’s sixtieth party. Up until now, it’s been the last thing on my mind. And the last thing I need right now is a party.
‘Oh shit.’
‘Your mummy called me’ Lucy smirks. ‘I’m going, and I’m taking Clivey.’
Oh great. A car crash of a party.
‘But you hardly know him.’
‘Whatever.’ Lucy waves her handbag in the air. ‘She wants to meet my new fuckbuddy.’
‘Well, I won’t be taking mine.’ I stare at the dress, wondering why I’m even buying it. It’s not as if I’ve got anybody to impress. ‘Is Clivey driving?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Then I’ll catch a lift with you two.’
***
After a few glasses of wine and a restless night, Friday eventually lands on my doorstep. I spend most of it painting, enveloped in my own private world of light and shade, wrestling with colour and shape and balance. I’m only dragged back into reality by a text from Lucy, ordering me to get ready and heave my sorry backside down to Soho. Obediently, I take a bath, blow-dry my hair, apply a smattering of make-up and put on my best black underwear, complete with suspenders and stockings. Squeezing myself into the tiny black dress, I take a look at the end result in the mirror. Immediately, my eyes are drawn to the necklace. I have no idea why I’m still wearing it. It’s obvious now that I need to return the delicate white flower to its true owner. And I will. But before I do, I’d like to wear it for one last night.
After riding the tube down to Tottenham Court Road, I wander through London’s Friday night streets, fighting my way past the hoards of tourists until I make it to Slaters. Pushing open the glass door, I come to a halt. The usual serene atmosphere has disappeared for the evening. The place is packed. I falter for a moment, sensing a twinge of apprehension in the pit of my stomach, only too aware that this is a new beginning for me. Daniel Foster may well have disappeared, leaving me with a huge vacuum in my heart, but somehow, somewhere along the way, he also managed to put me back together again. Taking a deep breath, re
minding myself that I’m well and truly back in business, I step inside the gallery.
‘Maya!’ Lucy calls from the other side of the room. ‘Good God, woman! You look stunning! Get over here!’
I pick my way through the crowd, to where Lucy’s stranded with a bad-breathed, shih tzu-holding man.
‘Have you sold many?’ I ask.
‘Quite a few. Yours has gone.’
‘Already?’ I glance around, anxiously. ‘It wasn’t Dan, was it?’
‘Don’t know. It was some representative, buying on behalf of a mystery collector.’ She scans the gallery. ‘Whoever it was, they’ve paid three grand for it and I’d say that’s a good start. And you’re getting plenty of interest. Look at that little lot.’ She waves over to where my picture’s displayed. A group of three or four important-looking types are gathered round it, deep in discussion. ‘The bloke in the corduroy jacket’s a big collector of stuff like yours and he’s well interested. Come and say hello.’ She grabs me by the arm and drags me over to the group, introducing me, thrusting me into the middle. I have no say in what happens next. Suddenly, I’m being bombarded with praise and questions. A good ten minutes pass like this before I’m finally rescued.
‘Darling!’
I’m swivelled round on the spot by a chubby set of fingers, and find myself gazing down at Little Steve. ‘We love your picture, simply love it. You have to do more!’
‘I’m working on something right now.’
‘Oooh!’ Little Steve screws up just about everything that he can screw up: eyes, nose, mouth, shoulders …
‘We have some news for Maya,’ Big Steve weighs in from behind.
‘Ooh, yes.’ Little Steve unscrews himself and pulls on a serious face. ‘We’re selling up.’
‘What?’
‘Selling up,’ Little Steve repeats himself. ‘We’ve found a buyer.’
‘Who?’
Little Steve pretends to zip up his lips.
‘Can’t say, darling. It’s all hush-hush.’
‘What he means is,’ Big Steve smiles, ‘we haven’t got a fucking clue yet. It’s all going through a third party. But don’t you worry. You’ll get plenty of exposure, even after we’ve bowed out. Lucy’s bound to see to that.’
