by Roxie Cooper
So, what do you do when your wife gets this worldly professional opportunity? Do you stand in her way because you don’t want to move? Do you kick off because you don’t want to leave your job? Or, do you make huge changes in your life because compromise is what marriage is all about? Because you love her?
Because you owe it to her because you’ve cheated on her?
I expressed my concern that we’d be completely alone there. Both of our families were in Manchester so we would lose any help with Seb and further children. Not to mention that we’d be leaving our friends too. But after many long chats about it, she still wanted to take the job.
So, I handed my notice in and here we are.
We both agreed that living in London wouldn’t be good for any of us. Helen could handle an hour’s commute, so that gave us more to play with. Helen’s new role paid very well and offered a relocation package, so we had a bit of financial slack.
She was the first to mention Cambridge.
‘It’s within commutable distance, pretty, family friendly, very arty. It’s perfect!’ she said, almost as if she’d had a eureka moment.
My heart began to race the second she suggested it.
Could I live that close to her?
No. Too dangerous.
But … the thought of being that close to her all the time filled me with such happiness.
Should I tell Stephanie? What if I bump into her? What if I’m with Helen and I see her with Matt? I should warn her. But that would mean contacting her, and if I do that, I’m done for because I can’t resist her.
So, here I am, surrounded by boxes with furniture stacked up everywhere. My wife and son sleep in the other room, ready for the chaos of unpacking which will start tomorrow. Our new life in Little Lyton, a small market town on the outskirts of Cambridge is about to begin. The house is nice, not much bigger than the one we had in Manchester because you get less for your money down here, but it’s a lovely three-bedroomed semi-detached house with a decent garden and a garage which I can use as a work space.
I’ll miss the old house. I prefer old houses to the new builds, like this one. They live and breathe; make noises in the middle of the night and have floorboards that creak when you stand on them. I became accustomed to, and eventually rather fond of, the ones I knew to avoid stepping on when Seb was a sleeping newborn. The new house seems a bit characterless. But I suppose you have to just roll with what you’ve got.
I don’t know why this has happened. Is it coincidence that we are moving less than twenty miles away from Stephanie? So much for me always banging on about fate and the universe always knowing what it’s doing. Well, that backfired, didn’t it? Because I have no idea what this all means. Why am I being moved closer to the one woman I never thought I’d see again?
CHAPTER 13
Saturday 16 October 2010
Stephanie
The train clanks and wobbles as it approaches King’s Cross. As it slows down, it dawns on me that I have become one of those people who stands up before it comes to a full stop – I hate these people.
Stepping off the train and walking to the end of the platform, my heart starts to gallop and my pace quickens.
I couldn’t believe it when he contacted me last month. Staring at the notification on my phone, I left it there for several minutes before opening it. I had to mentally prepare myself because I genuinely never expected to hear from him again, let alone be asked if I wanted to meet in October.
But I was even more shocked to hear he was moving to Cambridge. Well, gobsmacked is a more accurate description. Text messages went back and forth. They remained ‘friendly’, never once descending into an emotional place. But he said he would like to meet this month and, now he lived close by, we could try to be friends.
Is that even possible? It seemed so when we were hundreds of miles apart, but something happens when we are in the same room.
We agreed to meet, just for the day, in London. As friends.
More specifically, he said he had something to show me. It sounded very intriguing and I’m sure, being Jamie, it’ll be brilliant.
I’ve felt sick all morning with nerves.
There he is, standing outside the station, next to the steps, just as we agreed. He’s already looking at me by the time I spot him, smiling in that way which makes me feel like I could collapse if he did it for more than ten seconds.
Walking towards one another, we immediately melt into an embrace without saying a word. It’s the kind of hug I wouldn’t give a friend – my hand grips on to his hair as I plunge my face into it. He holds me closer and tighter than he would his other female friends, I imagine. But that’s as far as either of us take it today.
‘So lovely to see you, Stephanie,’ he says, breaking away from me.
I smile. ‘And you … Can’t believe you’ve moved.’
Jamie rolls his eyes and we both burst out laughing.
‘I did it under duress, obviously,’ he says, doing a gun-to-his-head motion. ‘You look great. Really great.’
‘Thank you, so do you,’ I say, genuinely. He really is so classically tall, dark and handsome.
‘So, are you excited about our day of fun?’ he teases, popping his sunglasses on.
‘Very! I have no idea what to expect. Something … arty?’
‘Oh, Steph, you know me too well! Come on, let’s go …’
‘The National Portrait Gallery?’ I ask, gazing up at the magnificent entrance to the building.
‘The very one.’
‘Oooh! I’m intrigued …’
‘I told you I’d introduce you to some proper kul-chorrr,’ he replies in his broadest Mancunian accent.
‘I can’t wait!’ I tell him, genuinely. ‘Ah! Portraits? That’s your thing, isn’t it?’
‘It’s my favourite thing to paint, yes,’ he says as we walk into the foyer of the grand building. ‘I come here this time every year to see the finalists in the Portrait of the Year competition. This year I wanted to bring you and it’s the final day it’s exhibiting.’
I look around to see banners advertising what he’s talking about. I’ve heard of this prestigious annual painting competition – arguably the best in the world.
Jamie is the best person to go to an art gallery with. He’s so knowledgeable and I love listening to him talking about the artwork, seeing his expressions as he studies the exhibits. It’s inspiring. His passion for art radiates out of him. I don’t know much about it but he goes out of his way to explain things to me in an easy, engaging way.
The gallery is busy, bustling with people. It echoes with voices and footsteps, the occasional shrieking of children. Everything in it looks very ‘classical’. Huge portraits in elaborate gold frames hang on the walls. It’s like being in one of those period dramas you see on BBC2.
By the time we get to the Portrait of the Year finalists, Jamie looks positively giddy, darting about examining each of the portraits. He studies each one intently, commenting on the paints, technique, and overall effect.
The winner is a painting called Last Portrait of Mother by an artist called Daphne Todd. I’m taken aback when I see it.
It depicts a one-hundred-year-old woman who has just died. It’s raw and vulnerable, exposing and harsh. The elderly woman slumps on a pillow, her yellow skin sallow, her mouth sags and eyes remain open. It is undeniably a corpse. The artist painted it – her own mother – over three days, after she’d passed away.
My jovial mood of moments ago switches when we stop to look at it. It’s too much.
Jamie marvels at it, talking about how shocking and disturbing it is. But I’m unable to take my eyes off it. From nowhere, nausea stirs in my stomach and surges up my throat. I feel strangely lightheaded all of a sudden. The room starts spinning and I stumble backwards slightly, clutching on to Jamie’s arm as I go.
‘Steph? Are you OK?’ he says, holding me upright.
‘No,’ I say, exhaling deeply. ‘It’s just a bit hot in here, a
ctually. Can we go?’
Jamie quickly glances at the picture, then back to me.
‘Yes, of course we can,’ he replies, taking hold of my hand and leading me out of the gallery. ‘It’s lunchtime anyway.’
We head to Soho for lunch. I adore it there. I came all the time when I lived in London, I loved how eclectic and vibrant it was. It’s a world away from my life now. Not better, just different.
Settling in a little trendy bar and ordering overpriced wraps – ‘Posh sandwiches that don’t fill you up,’ according to Jamie – and skinny chips he thinks ridiculous, we throw caution to the wind and order a bottle of wine.
‘Look, I’m sorry about that picture,’ he says when the food arrives. ‘It was shocking. Some art is. I suppose I take that for granted and didn’t think to warn you. I didn’t know that portrait won.’
‘It’s fine, not your fault. It was just a bit gruesome, that’s all. Don’t worry about it.’
I really don’t want to waste the time we have talking about why it upset me. That is not for today.
‘Tell me about you. So much has changed – new house, new job, new baby. How’s it all going?’ I ask, taking a big gulp of wine. I suspect I’ll need it for the answer I’m about to receive.
‘Yes,’ he laughs, running his hand through his hair. ‘It’s all … good. I’ve settled in the new school although it’s very different to my old one; it’s in a much more privileged area. Sebby is wonderful, but exhausting!’
‘And how’re things with Helen?’ I ask without even thinking. I regret it as soon as it’s out.
‘Fine. I’m happy,’ he says, without hesitation. His answer has the same effect on me as a million bee stings; a short, sharp pain shoots through my body. I can’t dwell on it. This is how it is.
‘So, why are we here?’ I ask, boldly. ‘I thought we weren’t doing this again?’
He nods. ‘So did I. But it’s hard not to see you when you effectively live down the road.’
‘That’s the only reason you contacted me? Because you moved down south?’
‘I care for you, Stephanie,’ Jamie says. ‘I don’t regret what happened last time at all. And while it can’t be repeated, I would love to still see you as a friend.’
‘What happens if I see you in Cambridge? Now that we’re “friends”? If I’m with Matt and you’re with Helen?’
His face tenses; he’s obviously thought about this and the very thought of the scenario causes him anxiety.
‘What do you think should happen?’ he throws back at me.
‘I don’t think we can acknowledge each other. Too much.’ I smile, gently.
‘I agree.’
‘And that’s why we can never be real friends,’ I reply.
He knows I’m right and reluctantly nods in agreement with me. Our eyes meet as we take a drink and I have to look away to stop myself sinking into them.
We discuss everything that’s happened in the last year. The recent international news story involving the thirty-three men trapped down a mine in Chile has completely gripped us. They’ve been there for sixty-nine days and there’s just been a fabulous rescue mission which involved bringing them to the surface in a metal vessel which travels really fast, like something out of a space film.
‘Imagine, not knowing if you’d ever see me again?’ I put to him as we wait for the bill to arrive.
‘Well, I really did think that last year,’ he says putting his coat back on.
‘I don’t mean like that. You could always change your mind and see me in those circumstances. I mean, if you thought I was going to vanish forever.’
‘Like if you were going to die?’ he asks dramatically, raising his eyebrows.
‘I suppose so, yes,’
He thinks about it for a few moments.
‘One of the most tragic parts of that, aside from the fact I’d lose you and would be devastated beyond all belief, is that I wouldn’t be able to come to your funeral,’ he says, looking at me with a strange sense of sadness in his eyes.
‘What?’
‘How would I explain who I was? To everyone in your life, I’m nobody. Another person on the street. I couldn’t just turn up.’
I’ve never thought of this, but now he mentions it, it makes me feel so terribly sad, because it’s true. And it works the other way too. I couldn’t go to his funeral either.
‘You know you’d be one of the most important people there, right? I’d want you there. So, I’m insisting you come,’ I laugh.
‘You thinking of popping your clogs anytime soon, Missy?’
‘Nah, just important to clarify these things,’ I reply in a mock-serious tone. ‘So, where now?’
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ he says, smiling. ‘You’ll love it.’
The Tate Modern doesn’t look like an art gallery from the outside. It looks like an industrial factory and actually used to be a power station. Jamie loves this, and adores the building. As we walk over Millennium Bridge towards the imposing structure, taking in the sweeping London skyline, he asks what I think of it. I think my squinty-not-impressed-face says it all. He laughs at me, declaring ‘wait until you get inside’.
It’s all skewed angles, sweeping block staircases and huge bright spaces – a complete contrast to the more traditional gallery we visited this morning. He loves playing the tour guide, pointing out things I wouldn’t even notice if I was alone.
It’s busy. The moderately noisy hum of chattering and footsteps echoes throughout the building. The whispers follow you everywhere you go.
He leads me into a space which hosts a large, white marble sculpture. The enormous window nearby shines a natural light on to it, transforming it into a translucent glimmer.
Jamie excitedly beckons me over with a nod of the head, as I follow. There’s a gathering of people looking in its direction. A few teenagers giggle at its naughtiness. A group of very arty-looking people point and gesticulate wildly towards it.
‘What do you think of it?’ Jamie asks.
I raise my eyebrows. He’s brought me to look at this for a reason. I walk over to the plaque next to the sculpture to find out more about it.
Auguste Rodin
The Kiss
1901–4
The Tate’s The Kiss is one of three full-scale versions made in Rodin’s lifetime. Its blend of eroticism and idealism makes it one of the great images of sexual love.
The sculpture is two naked lovers embracing, about to kiss. It’s a very sensual image.
‘Erm … it’s very sexual, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘There’s more going on than that, though. Look closer.’
‘Jamie, they’re naked, I’ll look like a right perv if I get any closer!’
He smiles and, taking my hand, slowly walks me around the piece.
‘It was sculpted in such a way that it would be viewable from 360 degrees. Look at the bodies, the way they’re holding each other …’
Even as an art novice, I can see what an incredible piece it is. To think it’s been carved out of marble is amazing. It’s visually stunning from all angles.
‘Do you want to know the story of who the lovers are?’ Jamie asks, returning to the front of the statue.
‘There’s a story?’
‘Oh yes. It’s a scene from Dante’s Inferno. They’re Francesca and Paulo. Francesca was married to Paulo’s brother, but she fell in love with her brother-in-law after reading the love story of Guinevere and Lancelot. Look, you can see the book slipping out of his hand on the statue …’
I quickly look to see if he’s right, and there it is, the book in his left hand.
‘They’re ultimately doomed lovers, but the sculpture perfectly encapsulates the passion and romance between them. It’s thought that Francesca’s husband killed them both immediately after this kiss,’ he says.
I gasp. ‘Oh, well, that puts a different spin on it.’
‘So, what do you see?’ he asks again.
> ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, now you know the story, look at it and tell me what you see.’
I’m no good at this – interpreting art and all that kind of stuff. I just say what’s there. Jamie places his hands on my shoulders and spins me round so I’m facing The Kiss.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s hear it.’
I want to say something meaningful, but I can’t. Especially not after what he’s just said about doomed lovers and passion. I can’t think straight. It’s noisy in here. High ceilings and lots of people chattering make me feel like I’m back in the dinner hall at school. It’s too loud to concentrate.
I gaze at the statue, trying to dissect it. Cocking my head to one side, I can feel Jamie standing behind me.
To my immediate right is a group of tourists who are having some kind of art lesson by the sound of things. Their tour guide spouts out all kinds of arty jargon: ‘The lovers, fused in passion, the sleek and supple bodies provide a striking contrast to the roughly chiselled rock on which they sit …’
I laugh and copy the sentence, word for word, in a faux-intense voice. I hear Jamie chuckle behind my right ear, momentarily resting his face on my shoulder.
‘Nope, sorry, you’re not getting out of it that easily,’ he says. I feel his hands rest upon my shoulder, before sliding gently up the sides of my neck. Tingles and fireworks shoot through my whole body and I freeze.
‘Look at it, block everything else out, and tell me what you see,’ he whispers, before moving his hands up and firmly placing them over my ears.
Everything goes quiet. A muffled sound drowns out the sound of my heartbeat which is rising by the second. I can barely concentrate, with this much physical contact from him. Taking a deep breath, I look at the intertwined lovers.
Who are they?
I think about me and Jamie as I scan my eyes over the smooth marble bodies. Doomed lovers. The whole time, I feel his body right behind me. It feels so good to be this close to him. After about a minute, Jamie removes his hands.
‘So, what do you see now?’ he asks, moving around to stand beside me.