Perfect Imperfections (Moments Book 1)

by J Wells

  “Next time you visit, how about you leave the face paint behind?”

  Face paint? I’m not some kind of clown. Seventy pound I paid for that bottle of foundation. I open my mouth to put him straight.

  Bells jangling, my head spins round. A grey long-haired cat shoots out from the dining room. Reaching my chair, he slows down, his tail almost poker straight. Purring, he rubs himself between and around Gabriel’s legs.

  “Ah, Mr Pooch, wondered what had happened to you.”

  “Mr Pooch? But I thought he was a dog.”

  The cat meows as Gabriel scoops him up, cuddling him into his chest.

  “Clearly not, but this cat definitely think she’s a dog. I throw scrunched-up bits of paper or small rubber balls and she never fails to fetch them back.”

  “A cat who thinks she’s a dog, you call her Mr and yet she’s a girl.” I scratch my head, disturbing my hair. “Wouldn’t you call her somewhat of an oxymoron?”

  He places her back down at his feet.

  “You what?”

  “You heard.”

  He tilts his glasses away from him eyes and I get a peek; they are light, a kind of wishy-washy blue.

  “You know, oxymoron.”

  He doesn’t break into a smile; in fact, his expression doesn’t change at all. I wonder if he knows what it means.

  “You know, total opposites.”

  “Okay…”

  I lose his eyes as he pushes his glasses back up against the bridge of his nose.

  “Does that make me one?”

  I lean forward in my seat and rest my elbows on my knees.

  “Come again?”

  “A partially sighted painter, isn’t that a contradiction? Isn’t that one of your so-called complete opposites?”

  He doesn’t look amused, but I can’t think he’s making anything other than a joke.

  “Suppose.” I giggle. “Thinking about it yes, in a roundabout way.”

  “Guess that makes me a moron too?” There’s a serious edge to his voice now.

  My stomach drops and I feel sick. I knew I should never have come here; the day is going from bad to worse.

  “You come into my home and make out I’m some kind of pervert.”

  The chair shoots back as I jump to my feet.

  “No, I didn’t!”

  He steps towards me.

  “Don’t lie, the door was open. It’s my sight that fails me, not my hearing.” He points towards his ears. “I heard every word you said to your mum.”

  I look down at my shiny black stilettos. I have no idea what to say in my defence, so I don’t reply.

  “Then you go on to offend my cat, and call me some kind of moron.”

  “No, you don’t understand...”

  “Strike three,” he says, holding up three fingers. “Now you question my intelligence.”

  “No, no…”

  But he doesn’t give me chance to explain. He rolls and ties his leather pouch.

  “No offence, but we’ve got off to a bad start. How about we knock it on the head and give it another go tomorrow?” He pauses. “I’ve got to be honest with you, though, Natasha, if things don’t get any better, it’s probably best you find yourself another artist. Preferably one that can see, isn’t a moron and doesn’t own a cat. If that be the case, I will reimburse your mother.”

  “So, what are you saying? You throwing me out?”

  “Take it however you wish, but I won’t be painting today.”

  He’s strutting around the conservatory like he’s impatient for me to leave. I don’t intend on leaving here quietly, and my slamming the door will be something for him to remember me by. I open the conservatory door till the hinges groan and can open no more. I stand outside looking in, the tips of my fingers ready to let it go, to thrust it back into its frame. Then I see those small amber eyes peering up at me and that pretty grey face, and immediately I put my foot in the way so she can’t escape.

  I stroke her head and rub the side of her face; her fur feels so soft. Purring loudly, she almost rattles as I lift her up, turn her round and push her ever so carefully towards Gabriel, whose back is turned.

  Guess my humour is a little bizarre at times; Josh gets it, Mum struggles and Gabriel obviously doesn’t get it at all. Either that or my face was never meant to be mounted on a wall.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean … I mean, you took it the wrong way.” My words are a rambling muddle.

  I wait a couple of seconds, thinking he’ll turn, that he’ll say something and we’ll reach some kind of truce. He clears his throat, and with expectation I raise my brows. He leans over and bundles Mr Pooch up under his arm. Did I hear the words ‘see you tomorrow’ float towards me, or was it just the breeze and a faint hope?

  I fight my way back through his garden with its wayward weeds and overgrown grasses. I shake my head. Galium aparine, or stickyweed as it’s more commonly known, is my dad’s number one pet hate, a weed that once it gets hold has no intention of letting you go. My outfit is covered in fluffy green balls and long sticky stems, and as I push my way through it’s as if they are pulling me back. This damn weed has re-patterned my entire dress. I could honestly scream.

  “Hope you brought your appetite with you, Natasha.”

  Angela’s voice precedes her as she bustles from the kitchen into the dining room, her hands buried deep within a pair of cream embroidered oven gloves. Red-faced, she carries a steaming Crockpot filled to the brim with linguini smothered in a rich tomato sauce, one of her home-made specialities.

  Everything she eats is organic and freshly grown from either her garden or greenhouse. Her window sill in the kitchen is home to her many herbs. I laughed when Josh told me she arranged her pots in alphabetical order—basil, coriander, dill, fennel.

  It’s such a picturesque drive to the quaint little village in Derby where they live. I could almost count on one hand how many families live in the area. Angela isn’t exactly what I’d call nosey; she’s just one of those women who seems to like to do good and then loves to bask in the glory. I’d go as far as to say that she’s the glue that holds their small community together.

  Christmas is open house at the Braithwaite-Scotts’ residence. Angela tells me that on 24th December each neighbouring family turns up with a bag full of presents. After a hearty English breakfast, they indulge in mugs of hot coffee and home-made mince pies, then sit huddled together round the open fire in the lounge and sing carols. She loves playing host, preparing her turkey and veg for the oven; she cooks for them all. I imagine from Christmas Eve through to Boxing Day the woman never steps foot out of the kitchen. Courtesy of Josh always wanting to escape to warmer climes, we miss out on these festivities; our Christmases tend to consist of lying on a balmy beach sipping cocktails on the other side of the world. It was quite a shock when they turned up in Jamaica on Christmas Day; I can only wonder who got lumbered with the cooking that year.

  The legs of the table squeak as Angela leans between Hughie and an empty chair. Unsteadily she lowers our evening meal down in the middle of the table, where it takes its place beside a crystal centrepiece in the shape of a long-necked swan.

  I watch the steam rise and feel bloated just looking at the monstrous pot. It’s not like I can help myself to a small portion, as my plate is whisked away. I raise an eyebrow on its return. I’m sure the plates are new and I could swear they’re getting bigger every year. In regards to the pattern, there was one, but it’s now buried beneath a mountain of pasta. No worries, I’ll walk off the unwanted calories first thing in the morning. Larry’s stumpy legs won’t be too happy with me, and I’ll probably end up carrying him home as usual.

  Angela pulls a chair up next to me.

  “Coral rang earlier,” she said, and I feel a nudge from her elbow. “Told me all about your surprise present for Josh. Tell me, love, how was your first sitting? Are you back there tomorrow and for the rest of the week?”

  I roll my eyes. Where do I start
? What do I say? Insulting a partially sighted man, whatever would she think? Avoiding her intrusive stare, I coil the long strips of linguini round and round the prongs of my fork as a distraction from eating and from answering her.

  A shudder runs through me at the thought of seeing that man again tomorrow. I shoot a gaze at the tall mahogany grandfather clock that watches over us ominously as we eat. I know it’s all in my head, but the second hand appears to be moving much slower than usual. It’s 4.58 p.m., which means I have an hour to kill; an hour sitting here playing the doting daughter-in-law before Josh calls me on Skype, giving me an excuse to escape.

  I guess Angela’s not as interested in my day as I first thought. She doesn’t prompt me for an answer and instead rattles on about a shopping trip she’s planned to New York together with a four-night stay in a five-star hotel. All the time she’s talking her head never stays in one place, but bobs around like a nodding dog, the sort you see in the back window of a car, her mousey-brown hair dancing above her shoulders. Josh would usually kick me under the table, as he could see from my face that I’m on the verge of laughter. But after the day I’ve had, laughter is the furthest thing from my mind.

  I can’t take my eyes from her cosmetically enhanced lips, although they’re never together for long as Angela just talks and talks. There’s no break between words and usually no thought behind them either. She just waffles on without stopping or coming up for air. Going cross-eyed, I turn my focus to Hughie. Talk about opposites attracting; you couldn’t find two people who were more different. He sits with his mouth closed; in fact, I don’t think he’s uttered more than a couple of words all afternoon.

  I watch him eat and think of Dad. Etiquette? Pfft! I smile. They haven’t any between them. In either household there’s no such thing as eating quietly or elbows off the table.

  Hughie is quite a few years older than Angela, well on his way to the big 70, though you wouldn’t think it looking at his face. His skin is smooth and flushed pink, and no matter what time of year it is he always has a nice colour; I put it down to their regular trips to the villa in Spain. I gaze up at his thinning grey hair and laugh to myself at the old-fashioned comb-over.

  I jump as his eyes meet mine. He looks at me with widening eyes, like he’s expecting me to say something, but I don’t. He smiles, takes a sip from his glass, then pushes his plate aside and flicks through the pages of a local newspaper. He stops a couple of pages from the back, and with a pair of kitchen scissors cuts around the outline of a bright yellow coupon, which matches the stripes on his tie. I take a large gulp of water. Penny pinching; I look at him under my lashes. Cutting out 10p, 20p coupons for the local supermarket, I can’t weigh him up, the man’s a total contradiction, an enigma; one minute he’s scrimping on shopping and the next he’s out buying six-figure motors and handing a big chunk of his business over to Josh. The Braithwaite-Scotts own so much, and their background is so different to the humble one I had growing up. I suppose I should give Hughie his dues; brought up on a council estate with next to nothing, he’s worked bloody hard building his interior design business from scratch. Angela, on the other hand, was born into money, and had a privileged life with private schooling; when she and Hughie met, he took over and her privileged life continued.

  I turn my head, still digging into my large bowl of pasta. Angela looks up from her plate and I watch her eyebrows draw together.

  “Not hungry?” she asks.

  I place my knife and fork down. “No, not really, I feel bloated.” I look down at my stomach; looking at it, anyone would think I’d already eaten a three-course meal.

  “Not using that excuse again, are you?” She shakes her head. “I hope your mother isn’t putting pressure on you to lose weight before the wedding.”

  “No. It must be because I’m missing Josh.” I feel a fluttering in my stomach. “He’s Skyping me at six.”

  Her hazel eyes move towards the clock face.

  “I wouldn’t normally ask, but do you mind if I excuse myself?”

  It’s daft really. I’m twenty-seven years old and asking if I can leave the table, but Angela has the knack of making me still feel like a child. She treats me the same as she did when I first met her at twelve, donning a mouth full of braces and wearing knee-length white socks.

  “If you’re going to be speaking to Josh, I could always put your plate in the microwave and heat it up later.”

  “For God’s sake, Angela, can’t you see she’s not hungry? Just let the girl be.”

  I smile a thank you at Hughie and he winks back.

  I check the messages on my phone as I walk into the hallway. Angela’s voice seems to be getting louder as she whittles on.

  “I can’t have her wasting away before the wedding.”

  I bolt up the stairs two at a time, not giving her a chance to call me back.

  “Hi, sexy.” Josh blows a kiss at the screen and I raise my hand to catch it.

  “Over your jet lag yet?”

  “Getting there…” He nods with a slight grin; his face looks drawn and his voice sounds tired. His black wavy hair brushes against his collar as he shakes his head. “Dad’s really gone and thrown me in at the deep end; I’ve been in meetings all morning.”

  He flicks open the top button of his shirt and loosens his tie. He obviously hadn’t noticed the small hole Larry made the other night.

  “These new fucking suits are like straitjackets. Anyway, forget about me, what about you, how was your day?”

  “I’ve had better…”

  Chewing on his bottom lip, he points. “Hey, isn’t that my favourite dress?”

  “Might be.”

  “Well, you really must be missing me.” He puckers his lips. “You could always go one better.”

  He pauses and I stare back. It’s only a couple of seconds before he breaks into a huge grin. He swivels round on his chair, pushing himself back towards the window. Reaching up, he pulls a cord and lowers the blinds; the screen darkens.

  “Come on, Tash, slowly, very slowly… You know, the way I like it. Step out of that little black number. I could really do with a pick-me-up, and what’s say we have a bit of fun? I’ve heard such a lot about cyber-sex, why don’t we give it a go?”

  Laughing hard, I snort. Very sexy, Tash, a real turn-on.

  “Naughty, naughty!” I giggle, wagging my finger.

  His eyes widen. “Could be nice…”

  The screen lightens as he turns on a small table lamp. He leans in closer to the screen. I blink and his face is lost. The zip of his trousers is down and I’m staring at his crotch.

  “Josh, your folks are downstairs.”

  He laughs, jumping back. “You never said…”

  “You never gave me a chance.”

  I hear his zipper and his face appears, slightly redder now. He uses his fingers like the teeth of a comb to smooth his hair from his face.

  “Get Dad for me, would ya? Something I need to clear up with him before tomorrow’s meetings.”

  I glance into my lap at the time on my phone: 10 p.m.

  “Tash, keep your hands above the table so I can see you’re not cheating.”

  “You’re beating me by miles; I’d need a miracle, not a phone, to help with the letters I’ve got.” Z, X, C, F, K, G and one vowel on the little cream squares.

  Josh is still talking to his dad. I’m back downstairs with Angela for company. I’ve endured a three-hour game of Scrabble and worse still been lumbered with a classical CD of Tchaikovsky. Her narrow eyes grin up at me from behind a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses.

  I’m not against board games, and I’ve played this one many times with my dad and sister and actually enjoyed it. We always had a laugh, as Adrianna made a point of spelling out swear words or others she had the letters for that related to sex. But not Angela; the woman’s so precise that she’s checked the spelling of each word in the English Dictionary and managed to suck any fun out of the game.

  My head hu
rts. I really can’t fathom her; some of the words she comes up with like ‘Aleuronat’ … what the fuck? That’s what I longed to shout out, but having already upset Gabriel earlier I think better of it. God, that man’s haunting me.

  A hand is placed on my shoulder.

  “Room for one more?” Hughie’s piercing green eyes beam down.

  “Josh?” I quiz with raised eyebrows.

  He pulls out a chair.

  “Josh?” I ask a second time.

  “Err, sorry, Tash. He had a call and had to go, oh and said to say goodbye.”

  I tip my remaining letters into the small drawstring bag.

  “No more games for me tonight, I’m all played out.”

  I give a sideward glance at Angela, who shuffles in her seat, looking victorious after winning all seven games.

  Hughie reaches out his arms for me to walk into.

  “Thanks for today, it’s been lovely seeing you.”

  His arms tighten around me. “Don’t forget, three rings when you get home. I need to know you’re back safe.” He pecks me on the cheek. “Love you, remember.”

  “And don’t forget I love you back,” I whisper.

  Angela has left the table and is standing behind him.

  “Goodnight, Tash,” she mutters, manoeuvring past. “Mwah, mwah.”

  I move my head from side to side as her lips brush both of my cheeks. My heels click on the solid wood floorboards as they walk me out into the hall. I grab my lightweight jacket from the wall pegs and step out onto the driveway. The darkening sky with its half-moon is suddenly lit up by the overhead security light.

  “Tash…”

  I dip my head into the car and then turn.

  “I know, three rings.”

  I honk my horn, wind down my window and wave as I pull out of the large driveway. I watch as they get smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror; then, as I turn onto the country lane, they disappear.

  Waking up red-eyed, I threw cold water over my face, had a quick bite of toast for breakfast and then rang Mum to tell her I couldn’t go back. I asked if she could find another artist. I didn’t care who, anyone would do, just not Gabriel. After singing his praises I knew she would be disappointed, and although she didn’t actually say so, the change in her voice gave her away.