by Roxie Cooper
I take a deep breath, ready to deliver the speech I’ve been practising for weeks.
‘I’ve done a lot of thinking in the past few months. Well, years, really. One thing I know is that I need you in my life. It’s better when you’re in it. And I know I can’t have you in the way I want you. I’ve finally accepted that now,’ I say.
‘But—’
‘No, please,’ I interrupt, placing my hand on his knee. ‘I need to finish this. I’ve rehearsed it enough times and it’s hard enough already.’
He reluctantly remains quiet, allowing me to finish.
‘For the longest time, I held on to that glimmer of hope that you’d finally realise what we had was so special, so beautiful, so amazing, you’d wake up one day and realise you needed it – me – more than your wife. The last few years have made me see that’s never going to happen. I suppose I’ve grown up and become less selfish. I know you’ve struggled with the guilt, more so than me if we’re being honest. And if the only way I can have you in my life is as a friend, then so be it.’
‘Is it even possible? Us being friends? Proper friends?’ he asks. ‘I thought you said we could never be friends?’
‘That’s what I always thought. Honestly, I did,’ I admit, shaking my head. ‘But maybe you’re right about all this fate stuff.’
‘What do you mean?’ he says, confused.
‘It’s been ten years, Jamie. How many times have we tried to stop seeing each other?’
‘I’ve lost count.’
‘Every time we try to move away from each other, something drags us back together. I didn’t expect to ever see you again after that scene at Heathwood Hall, let alone pop up behind me in an art gallery in the remote countryside like a bloody ghost.’
He laughs, looking around the room.
‘Yes, sorry about that. Was a difficult situation.’
‘It was. But it happened. And it shook me up. I’m trying to be a better person and I realised I couldn’t do that without sorting out the one thing which mattered most to me. You.’
Jamie reaches over and hugs me. It’s the kind of cuddle you give a friend: not too close, not too long.
‘The alternative – not seeing you – was too hard. So, I’ll have to make it work. We can make it work.’
He nods. ‘Yes, we can. I missed you terribly. My world was certainly duller without you in it. It’ll be nice to have you back. I’ve missed your annual news round-ups.’
‘Well, you can have an extra dose next time!’ I laugh. ‘Listen, I’d better get you back to my dad before he thinks I’ve stolen you.’
I walk him back to the lift and as it pings open, he walks in alone and stands facing me.
For the past ten years, every time I’ve said goodbye to him, it felt like my world was crushing down on me. Like the ground just fell away and I started falling to the centre of the earth. I’d be suffocated with sadness just watching him drive away from me, every single time.
But this time, it’s different. This is the first time I’m smiling as he walks away from me, because something has changed. I’m not sure why, or what, or how. But it has.
As I walk back into my office, I see my mobile make the tri-chime it does when I receive a text message. I pick it up to see who it’s from but it’s from an unknown number.
I deleted Jamie’s number the night of our row so I wouldn’t be tempted to contact him again, and his name doesn’t come up – but I know it’s from him. Opening up the message, it simply says:
That second verse … Xx
The link to YouTube takes me to Prince singing ‘Purple Rain’. The opening twang of his guitar, the distinctive chords, a second verse which could have been written for us. I listen to the way his delectable voice swells and the eye-watering guitar solo comes in. Sitting on the sofa where we’d been only moments before, I’m drowned with goosebumps. By the time the time Prince is roaring those final notes out, I’m smiling and I feel weirdly happy.
There is absolutely nothing I can do about this situation. It’s not about whether he’s happy enough with his wife or if he loves me enough. It’s far more complicated than that; it always has been with us.
I watch it until the end, turn it off, and get on with my day.
CHAPTER 25
Saturday 20 August 2016
Jamie
The Perfection of Beauty in a Broken World.
That’s the theme for the art competition.
I’ve thought long and hard about it. Paintings aren’t just pictures, they really do speak a thousand words and I communicate so much better through my art than with words. I always have done. It’s important to get this right.
I’m very aware who will be seeing this piece – critics and influential artists who could start my career if they’re impressed with it. This is my chance to show them all who I am and what I can do. I’ve always had a unique style. I’m not what people would describe as a classical fine artist. I mean, I can do all that, but my own personal style is more colourful, bold and daring. That is what this portrait is going to be. Throughout my life I’ve held back and been safe with my art in public, saving my personal style for myself. Not any more. It’s now or never.
She gave me the courage to do that.
But I sometimes think I must be absolutely mad doing this. All it will take is the wrong person to see it, at the wrong time, and I’m absolutely screwed.
Helen sees it as my hobby, just a little competition I’ve entered. She doesn’t understand this is potentially my big break. She knows I have to produce a key piece and suggested a stand-out modern landscape. I listened to her suggestion but kindly rejected it, guilt swelling. There’s only one piece I can do and have any chance of winning with. It’s a portrait – and I know exactly of whom.
Last month, Helen started talking about going on holiday next year.
‘I’ll have to see what happens with this competition before booking anything,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ she replied, looking confused.
‘Well, part of the prize is an internship,’ I tell her. ‘I’d have to give up my job and go to London every day. The money is minimal and I wouldn’t be able to just ask for time off for a holiday.’
She looked at me like I was crazy for a second.
‘Jamie, you have a child to support and house to pay for. I appreciate you want to fulfil your dream, but I don’t think this is the way to do it.’
I remember, in that moment, feeling that I’d never heard anything so selfish.
‘Helen, I’ve supported you throughout your career since we’ve been together. That’s almost twenty years. I’ve supported every decision you’ve made, often to my own detriment. I think I’m owed something,’ I told her. ‘And besides, I might not even win.’
‘How are we supposed to survive, financially, if you win?’
‘We’d manage. Fewer luxuries, no holidays for a few years, cut down on things we don’t need,’ I pointed out. ‘I want this so much, Helen.’
She was tidying the living room and started throwing toys into Seb’s toy box with more force than was necessary.
‘What made you apply for it now anyway?’ she asked, without looking at me.
‘I guess I just realised I was good enough,’ I said.
She used to love the bohemian artist in me. I used to love her feisty nature. I suppose the things you’re initially attracted to are the things you eventually end up disliking about each other.
We are completely different people now. She has a new group of friends from work, and it’s obvious she’d prefer to spend time with them than with me. She goes out with them every Friday after work, getting back in the early hours. I hear her staggering in, kicking her shoes off in the hall then going into the kitchen for a pint of water and some food. We never do anything together. What would we even talk about? It’s got to come to a head at some point, and we both know this, but neither of us wants to bring it up. It’s just too much trauma.
&nb
sp; And I take responsibility for that. Did we ever stand a chance, when Stephanie was in my life? No. But I do think Helen has changed too. The Helen of now would not have married the Jamie I am today; we are simply too different and want different things in life. People change a lot in twenty years together. The one thing we are agreed on, however, is the love we feel for our son. And that’s the one thing keeping us together. Yes, that old cliché.
I often wonder how different things would have been if I’d been brave enough earlier on. If I’d left Helen and been honest with Stephanie – and myself – about how I’d felt. It would have been painful for us, yes – but we’d have all moved on. This isn’t a good way to live. Now we’re both miserable, waiting for the other to end it.
Putting things into words is a nightmare for me. Especially when I have to minutely analyse my own work. I’m an artist, not a writer. If I was any good with words I wouldn’t have to paint. It’s how I make sense of the world.
I waited until the summer holidays were in full swing before I started the painting. I need to properly dedicate my time to such things without any distractions, so even thinking about starting it while I was still teaching was a no-go. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of these arty, ‘needing to be in the zone’ people in order to create. If a job needs doing, I’ll get it done. But I need to be free of distraction and completely unrushed. I identified days when I had a set amount of time to myself, usually when Helen was taking Seb to her parents for the night, or for a day out meeting friends with all the kids. The house needed to be quiet so I could go into the garage and get started.
I’ve finished the piece and I’m happy with it. Really happy. I was anxious to start it, staring nervously at the canvas for quite some time before I applied the first smear of paint, a pale-grey shade which would form the background. As the oil moved around the canvas, it began to take shape. That’s what I love about using oil paint – the fluidity. The lengthy drying times means it can be manipulated over a longer period. I thought it looked crap for ages, as usual. Portraits don’t tend to look good until you start adding the finer detail. It helps to leave it for a week or two and come back to it with a fresh pair of eyes. I wanted lots of rich textures and multi-layers – just like the subject matter. Portraits are so much more interesting if they invite people in to look at them more closely – the finer detail, beyond the surface. I used a brush and palette knife, bringing out the texture of the paint, moving some of it around with my fingers on parts of the face, bringing it to life. I wanted it to have a personal feel, and in order to do that you have to get in close, touch it, caress the canvas.
All artists have their quirks and what works for them. Some work better in silence – I work best listening to old-skool hip-hop blasting out on the stereo. I’ll have two coffees before I start but then I have to switch to water or I start throwing crazy things on the canvas and it’s best not to spend more than a few hours on it at a time. The last thing you want is to become tired or frustrated and do something daft you can’t erase. After five sessions, the strokes became fewer; finer and more delicate. It was like seeing a person slowly coming to life, imprinting a soul on to the canvas.
Standing back, once it was complete, I admired it from all angles. I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased with a piece before. It’s my finest work but also the hardest thing I’ve ever had to create.
And now I have to write this bloody statement. It’s obviously massively important to get it right. Art folk place significance on these things.
Helen takes Seb away for the weekend to her parents’ house so I can work on it. Standing in the hallway as the sun streams in through the front door, Sebby tells me he’ll miss me. ‘I’ll miss you too, Sebstar!’ Helen stands a few feet away from me, watching. I love it when he wraps his little legs around my waist: he reminds me of a baby monkey.
‘We’ll be back tomorrow at about five,’ Helen says, walking out the door. ‘Come on, Seb!’
He leaps out after his mum. How has it come to this?
Shuffling into the lounge, I pick up the notepad and pen to tackle this stupid thing. The limit is five hundred words.
Five hundred words! I think I’ll struggle to get fifty. I stare at the paper, expecting something to come. Well, that’s a lie, actually. I don’t expect anything to come.
But maybe I’m reading too much into it. Just say something. Anything.
Placing the tip of the pen on the paper, I close my eyes and clear my mind. Thirty seconds or so pass. Nothing. I meander to the kitchen and grab a chilled beer from the fridge. That’s got to help. It hisses as I pop the top off and take a swig. I walk back into the lounge and the pad and pen taunt me once more.
Just say what you think.
No, you can’t say what you think. That’s the whole fucking point.
How the fuck do you write the unwritable, though?
Oooh, that’s not bad, actually. Well, without the ‘fuck’ in it, obviously. I could start it like that. I want to keep it as unemotional as possible. The painting speaks for itself because I put all of myself into it so I can’t go overboard with this statement. Not that I could even if I wanted to. I’d sound ridiculous. As my mind drifts off, I realise I’ve started doodling in the top right-hand corner of the page. Ripping the piece of paper from the pad, I scrunch it up and throw it to the other side of the room.
Two hours, three bottles of beer and a football match later, I’m no further forward.
I really want to nail it this weekend while the painting is fresh in my mind and I have the house to myself. I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate if Helen and Seb were here. Christ, though, it’s difficult.
I scan the sandy-coloured carpet of our lounge floor, which is littered with balls of scrunched-up paper. Not much progress has been made today. I’m trying to sound clever and arty. I should just be basic and simple. But I fluctuate between trying to give them what they want to hear – which sounds utterly ridiculous – and sounding like a toddler: equally as daft. There is no in-between.
Right.
I’m doing it.
‘The power and freedom of the brushstrokes evoke a passion within the subject’s features …’
I’m unable to write any more because I’m laughing so much. I mean, this is so not me! I’m sure other artists buy into all this but I just can’t get away with it. I’m too northern, perhaps?
Maybe I should just keep it more technical. Talk about the actual painting and keep all the arty bollocks out of it. Yep.
‘The layers of texture on the canvas using brushstrokes and fingertips gives the painting a wonderfully intimate tangibility …’
Christ!
Why is it so hard to talk about a picture? It’s a fucking painting.
I decide to call Cal for advice. He’s done loads of these things and I’m hoping he will inspire me.
‘Mate! I’m struggling with this statement,’ I sigh, rubbing my forehead.
‘Yeah, they’re the worst. Fine line between giving them what they want and not sounding like a dick.’
I laugh and say, ‘It’s harder work than the painting!’
‘Look, go back to basics. What are your immediate thoughts when you look at it? What do you feel? What do you see? Go back to your roots and take it from there. Don’t overthink it.’
‘You’re right. Christ, I hate this shit.’
‘And don’t use any words like majestically or effervescent – you’ll sound like a twat. Just keep it real.’
He’s right. I need to look at it as I’m writing, even though I remember every brushstroke I did to create it, every time I used my fingers to spread the paint out on the canvas. I need some inspiration.
Flicking the lights on in the garage, I walk over to the competition piece. I take the cover sheet off and look at it. I can’t help but smile. There’s so much I could say. The words rattle around my head, but I can’t put them into any kind of coherent order. Taking a few steps back, I admire it from var
ious different angles.
Just write what you see.
The eyes.
They’re the first things that you see. They immediately strike you down, without warning, blinding you with their intensity. I grab my pen and paper and scribble ‘eyes that strike you down’. Sitting on the battered old chair in the corner of the studio, I scan the painting, searching for words to describe it.
The mouth.
Voluptuous. Exciting.
But there’s more behind it. There’s more behind the entire thing. And that’s why I can’t put it into words. Because how do you write perfection? How do you explain it? It’s not finite – just like the painting. I wanted it to have an unfinished, incomplete feel about it; to show that it was still evolving, growing, improving as the days, weeks and months went by … just like her.
And then it hits me.
Taking a deep breath, I place the nib of the pen to the left-hand corner of a new page. I’ve been coming at this from the wrong angle, approaching it from the wrong direction. I’ve been trying far too hard. All I have to do is say it how it is …
Several hours later, I’m sitting in the garden with a beer. The low, early evening sun creates a beautiful orange glow all across the sky.
I read over the statement I’ve perfected over the afternoon.
Nine sentences.
I’ve given it everything I have and I’m so happy with it. Reaching for my iPhone out of my shorts pocket, I compose and send a message to Steph.
Thank you for believing in me. Just wanted to say I appreciate that. J x
Less than two minutes later, my phone pings. The reply makes me smile so hard. The end to a great day.
Always will. x
CHAPTER 26
Saturday 8 October 2016
Stephanie
‘What’s this?’ he asks, taking the gift I’ve just given to him. He looks at it, wrapped in deep purple paper with silhouettes of spindly trees on. I chose it because it reminded me of autumn – our favourite season.