The Calico Cat

by Amanda James

  Out of the eight names I picked for the baby, James and Beth have chosen Louisa and Jacob. Obviously, it would depend on the gender of the child as to which one it gets. Louisa was beyond thrilled when I told her. After Caleb returned to school, I stayed with her for a week and painted as if I were a machine. Not literally, of course – the paint would have landed everywhere. I don’t think machines have much of an artistic and in-touch-with-nature eye, or hands to paint with, come to think of it, unless they are a robot type of machine.

  The result of all my hard work will be on display tomorrow. This thought makes my knees go wobbly and a little organ grinder appear in my insides. Don’t get me wrong, I am totally happy with my painting, ecstatic even (Louisa keeps prodding me to be more vocally proud of it), but it’s only natural to worry about a new venture, isn’t it? Especially when that venture is so personal to you. If the paintings don’t sell, then it’s a reflection on me. If they aren’t deemed good enough, then I’m not a good enough artist. If I’m not a good enough artist, then the launch of the new career is dead in the water and I’m back to the drawing board – except I won’t be, will I? Because I can’t draw well enough.

  I know – I’m jabbering. I can practically hear you sigh and see you rolling your eyes. Louisa and Caleb have given me a good talking to about it all. Caleb asked me what had happened to that confident, couldn’t give a toss what other people think girl he knows and loves. I told him that she’s still inside me ninety-nine point nine per cent of the time but seems to do a runner when it comes to thoughts of opening day.

  Caleb is back on board with the business side of it all, thank goodness. He’s going to do the books and other stuff that I’m no good at and have no desire to learn. He did most of the organising, too, while I was being a painting machine. A friend of his knew a signwriter who did a wonderful job. ‘The Calico Cat’ in orange, black, and white letters now sits over the door. It sounds garish but it’s not. You’d have to see it to appreciate it.

  Caleb also contacted Peter, Leo and Neave, and to my surprise they are all coming. I thought Peter might, because he doesn’t live far away, and he said he would at the time, but the other two live north of Bristol, which is a good three hours from us. There is also the fact that we didn’t totally see eye to eye over the charity walk, too. Nevertheless, they said they’d be delighted to come and I will be delighted to have them.

  There are also ex-colleagues from school, including Anna, who is very jealous that Caleb and I are together, my parents, his parents and his brother and sister, Beth and James, of course and my lovely Louisa. She will bring her sister Suzie and her husband, and there might be other people that have been persuaded by the very swish leaflets Caleb designed and left around the main tourist haunts. To think I was worried about nobody turning up – now I wonder where we’ll put them all in such a tiny space.

  Louisa helped organise the nibbles and wine. In fact, she supplied it all, really, which was so generous of her. I made her promise to tell people that it’s from her vineyard. Mother came round a few weeks ago to meet Caleb and wanted to stick her beak in over the ‘decorations’. She thought it might be nice to have some tasteful party balloons and bunting about the place. I agreed to the bunting but drew the line at balloons. When she complained, I said that if she didn’t like it, she could do the other thing. Mother immediately became complacent and overly affectionate, saying how proud she was and so on. I wanted to say that this was too little too late but knew that wasn’t a good idea. I need to be the grown up in the relationship, because she finds it so hard to be.

  Mother had to sit down when she learned that Beth and I were big mates and that Caleb and I had stayed at Moonridge Farm. I really wish you could have seen her face. It looked as if her eyes didn’t belong to the rest of it. The muscles that organised the smile function were working overtime, which pushed her cheeks into little pink pillows, and her eyebrows were arched almost into her hairline in a show of happy surprise. The eyes couldn’t hide a kaleidoscope of emotions that flickered back and forth, though, totally at odds with the expression of delight she was trying so hard to pull off.

  Afterwards I tried to clarify in my head what the eyes were saying, but that conversation was complicated. Overall, if I had to pick the overarching theme from those of regret, jealousy and hunger, it was mostly hunger. Mother wants what I now have with James; she couldn’t give a stuff about Beth, as we know, but she can’t bear the fact that we all like each other so much and want to be in each other’s company. She’s obviously worried that when we meet up we might discuss her and find her wanting, just like Louisa said. There’s nothing to be done about that, though, is there? It is what it is.

  Caleb, unlike Beth, has apparently found favour. Mother couldn’t stop talking about him to me on the phone the next day. She said that he was a good-looking chap, so kind, considerate, intelligent, and that I must try and hold on to him. I said he wasn’t a prize trout on the end of a fishing line, for goodness sake. If he didn’t want to be held on to, I’d chuck him back over the side. Furthermore, people shouldn’t be bullied into liking someone, it made for an unstable relationship. Mother just harrumphed and changed the subject. But then I didn’t expect anything else really.

  So, it’s the day of the opening and I’m in the studio with my immediate family, Caleb, and a Greek tragedy going on in my head. Will they like my work? Will my speech be too speech? Should I just forget the speech? No. Of course they won’t like my work, how could they? I’m not ready for this yet. I need more time. I tell myself to shut up and look out of the window at the ocean. We have decided to open the doors in a few minutes, then I say ‘a few words’ and declare the studio open. Luckily, it’s a lovely day because we would never fit everyone inside here at once.

  Louisa is outside chatting to guests and handing out glasses of sparkling wine. A playful breeze makes steel-grey streamers of her hair and I am reminded of the first day I saw her. Who would have thought that we’d become such great friends – mum and daughter, even – such a short time later? Not me, but if there are such things as lucky stars I do thank them, very much.

  A good-looking couple, possibly in their mid-sixties, wander up and have a chat with Louisa. Caleb whispers to me that they are his parents and hurries out to meet them. In all the excitement I’d almost forgotten that they were coming and now I’m even more nervous. What if they don’t like me? What if? What if? This constant negativity is beginning to get tiresome and it’s so not like me. Who cares in the end who likes me and who doesn’t? Who cares if none of my work gets sold and the day is a disaster? Not me.

  In the end it’s what I want to do and the main thing is I am bloody doing it. I’m not chained to a career that’s killing me bit by bit, draining my creativity and spitting me out wrinkled, used up – a husk of a person at the other end of forty years who barely has the energy to wonder where all the time has gone.

  Louisa checks her watch and gives me the nod and I’m pleased to find that the last conversation I had with myself has dumped the nerves and I’m ready to enjoy my day. Caleb opens the door and I step out and smile at the assembled guests. I abandon my huge speech that was far too long and a bit grand for such an occasion and just say, ‘Good morning, everyone, and thanks so much for coming. I feel so honoured that you did, and I know some of you have come a long way,’ I smile at Leo and Neave who are just coming up the path. ‘Please help yourself to refreshments, have a browse, ask questions and don’t feel obliged to buy anything – it’s enough that you are here to help launch my new venture.’ I stand to the side of the door, give a huge smile and sweep my arm inside. ‘Welcome to The Calico Cat.’

  It’s an hour later and can you actually believe it – nearly half my work has been sold! This is both overwhelming and terrifying, because how on earth will I paint quickly enough to keep replenishing? Louisa calms me by saying we’ll have to make prints and sell other bits and pieces until I have built up my collection. Mother hovers at he
r shoulder nodding and adding her advice, which is really a repetition of what Louisa says. I noticed her expression when Louisa and I shared a warm hug a little while ago. This time it was unadulterated jealousy. This made me a bit sad for her, but not too much.

  Dad appears to have changed, become more decisive, forceful even, so miracles do happen. He told me that I was one of the finest artists he’d come across, which was nice. Then he got me in a corner and tried to have a heart to heart about the past after one too many glasses of wine, but I told him we’d do it another time. And we will, because I think we need to.

  A lion’s voice behind me says, ‘This collection is totally awesome. We just bought this one.’ I turn to Leo and Neave and look at the painting he’s holding. It’s the one I finished from the Holywell Bay sea monster drawing the day we met.

  Before I can reply, Neave gives me a huge hug. ‘Told you it would look fantastic as a painting,’ she says, her open freckle-dusted face just as I remember it.

  ‘Yes, you did! Thank you so much for buying it. How are things going with the walk?’ I hope this doesn’t lead on to difficult questions about charity again, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Thanks to you we cut it short. It was all getting a bit much, to be honest, now that autumn is here,’ Leo says, his darty-about eyes doing just that over my face.

  Thanks to me? What on earth did he mean? I hope my argument didn’t mean that they abandoned the cause – that would be just awful. ‘Not sure I’m with you.’

  ‘You told Peter about us, didn’t you, or Caleb did, and he donated more than we could have raised in a thousand walks around Britain,’ Neave says and does her tinkly laugh that I like so much.

  What a relief. ‘Really? I had no idea. How did you know it was him, though, it being anonymous and all?’

  Leo slips his arm around Neave and she leans her head on his shoulder. ‘It was because he donated so much. Half a million needed proper verification!’ When they see my jaw drop they throw back their heads and laugh out loud, his golden curls mingling with her red ones as if they are a sunset.

  ‘Oh, my word! What a wonderful gesture. Have you met him?’

  ‘We’ve spoken on the phone, of course, but we haven’t seen him here, yet,’ Neave says.

  ‘Yes, he sent word that he was running late but will definitely be here. I can’t wait to see him again. Winning the lottery couldn’t happen to a nicer man.’

  ‘Nice of you to say so, Lottie,’ Peter’s voice says in my ear.

  ‘Peter, you’re here!’ I turn around and the broad smile on his moon face encourages mine to try and beat it.

  ‘I am indeed, and what a wonderful painter you are, just stunning.’ He flings his arm towards my work on the far wall.

  Neave’s eyes fill and she puts a tentative hand on his arm. ‘Peter, it’s Neave.’ She takes Leo’s hand. ‘And this is Leo. As I said on the phone, we can’t ever find the words to tell you how grateful we are to you for’

  Peter’s moon turns pink and he pats her shoulder. ‘You have thanked me many times. I know you appreciate it – no need to say more.’

  Leo dashes at his eyes with the back of his hand and pulls Peter into a huge bear hug. Though it’s a poignant moment, I feel a laugh snake into my throat and have to pretend to look for something in my pocket, because Peter looks like a helpless little rag doll in Leo’s grip.

  At last he’s released and after a few minutes chatting, Neave and Leo wander off to talk to Louisa. Peter looks at the wall of paintings and strokes his chin. ‘I can’t make up my mind which one I like best, so I’ll buy them all, how about that?’

  Of course, he’s being his ever-generous self, but I don’t want him to. As I told you before, it’s not about the money really; it’s about the love of painting. I want people to come in here and fall in love with something. I want my work to speak to them, to their soul. I know we had the discussion about souls before and perhaps having artwork speaking to them might sound a bit ‘out there’, but it’s how I feel right now, so this is what I tell Peter.

  ‘I totally understand, Lottie.’ He looks around again. ‘All of them are speaking to me, but not as strongly as that one in particular.’

  My gaze follows his finger to The Calico Cat. She’s just come along for the day to oversee proceedings, but she’s certainly not for sale. Caleb made a not-for-sale tag that was there earlier but now is missing.

  ‘Sorry, Peter. That one’s not for sale.’ It occurs to me that he must be beginning to wonder why he bothered coming.

  ‘Why? I adore it.’ He goes over and looks into her eyes. ‘It’s speaking to my soul – and I’m not making that up.’

  ‘It belongs to me. I only brought it because she inspired the name for the studio.’ That is only partly true as you know only too well.

  ‘Name your price.’ Peter looks from the cat to me, his moon bright with longing. ‘I’ll give you a million for it.’

  My jaw drops for the second time today and for much longer. That kind of money would be life-changing. Then into my stunned thinking process comes clarity. But my life is already changed. I don’t need more money; I have good friends and family, I have Caleb, and I’m doing what I’ve always dreamed of but never had the courage to try.

  ‘Now that is a most generous offer, Peter, and I thank you… but she isn’t for sale.’

  It’s Peter’s turn to drop his jaw. ‘My God, you must be very attached to this painting, Lottie.’

  I think about that one for a few moments. ‘Yes, I am… but you see, it’s not the painting but what it represents that isn’t for sale, if you know what I mean.’

  Peter shrugs and turns one side of his mouth up. ‘Not sure that I do.’

  No. Why would he when it’s a bit tricky to explain it to myself. Caleb did it best the day we got back together, when he talked about the cat being a metaphor for me and turning points and so forth. I couldn’t tell Peter all that, though. It would take far too long and I’m not sure he’d really understand.

  ‘In a way the cat represents me – who I am.’ I look at the cat. ‘I praise the fact that I am individual, different, stubborn… apart to an extent, but not totally. I used to think that I didn’t need other people and that I could only rely on just myself. Then I did some learning and discovering during and after my walking holiday and found that I do need some people after all. The right people.’

  ‘And the painting says all that about you?’ Peter says, and his eyebrows do a bit of a wiggle.

  I knew he wouldn’t understand properly. How could he? ‘Kind of… but the main thing you have to know is that she will never be for sale.’

  ‘Right. I get that.’ Peter rubs his nose and then points to the Dragon Cave. ‘Now this one really speaks to me even more than the cat! Please tell me it’s for sale?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, though each time I see a painting being wrapped, it feels like a part of me is being taken away, a memory lost. Then I tell myself that I have plenty more memories in my paintbox just waiting to be made.

  It’s early evening and everyone has long gone. Caleb and I are sitting across the road from the studio on the beach watching each new star come out. We have a picnic hamper, Louisa’s wine and a warm blanket wrapped around both of us. We’re talking about the day and how wonderful it’s been, even though the ocean keeps shushing us. The tide is coming in and we’ll have to move back up the beach soon.

  ‘Did you know that Peter paid a thousand pounds for the Dragon Cave, even though it was priced as two hundred and fifty?’ Caleb says.

  I swallow a strawberry. ‘No, I didn’t. But I’m not surprised he gave more, considering what he wanted to give me for The Calico Cat.’

  Caleb doesn’t even flinch when I tell him how much and my jaw drops. I expected at least a few words of incredulity. ‘So you’re not shocked, disappointed?’

  ‘What, that you turned down a million squid for a painting that is to all intents and purposes a physical represe
ntation of your life journey, of who you are? Of course not. I wouldn’t expect anything else. That’s why you’re so special to me. You’re extraordinary, beautiful, clever, headstrong, stubborn, sexy, unpredictable’

  I place my hand over his mouth. ‘Okay, enough! My head will grow bigger than the moon up there if you carry on.’ I pull the blanket tighter around us both and kiss him on the cheek. His skin tastes of strawberries and sea salt. In a way I can hardly believe that he just took the news like that. I mean, I could have given him some money to him to help follow his dreams too, whatever they turn out to be. But he did just take it like that, and that’s why I’m so fond of him. Okay, I’ll admit it to you. I love him, I suppose, but don’t tell him or his head will grow bigger than Jupiter.

  ‘What else have we got in that hamper? Any salmon left?’ he asks, shoving his hand into the basket and rummaging ineffectually.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ I hand him a variety of foods while my mind shouts at me to say something nice to him. He needs to know that I want him around for the foreseeable, but the happy ever after conversation I had with Louisa isn’t resolved yet. So why not ask him what he thinks?

  ‘Caleb. What do you think about happy ever afters?’

  ‘As opposed to sad ever afters?’

  ‘Kind of.’ I shove my hair from my forehead and realise I’ve put cream cheese in my fringe. ‘I mean, do they exist, really?’

  ‘I’d like to think so. Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘Yeah, but the thing is, because having one is so important to us, we might be sad if ours isn’t perfect, doesn’t live up to our high expectations of happiness. So instead we pretend that we do have a happy ending, when in fact we don’t.’

  ‘Is that a reason not to aim for one?’ His eyes look into mine, the blue in them soft in the fading light, and my heart rattles about a bit.

  ‘No. I suppose not.’