by June Gadsby
I heaved a sigh of relief on seeing that Greg was not at home. Then I remembered him saying earlier that he was going to London, so it was likely that he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow at the latest. That gave me time to work out some strategic way of sympathising with him and supporting him when he discovered that he had been pulled out of the Andrews’ story.
I saw the curtains twitch in Ros’s house and knew she was watching as I got out of Callum’s car.
“Thank you for the lift. You’re right. I don’t know how I would have got home otherwise. It was very kind of you.”
“Don’t destroy those drawings,” he rasped out, the anger still prevalent in his voice. “I want them, but I want you to work on them a little more first.”
“I…I’ll see what I can do. Thank you again…I…I don’t suppose I can offer you a coffee…?”
He hesitated, for just a fraction of a moment. Then he shook his head and looked straight ahead through the rain-spattered windscreen as he re-started the car’s engine. “Thank you…but no.”
And there I was standing at the gate of my house in the rain watching his tail lights disappear around the corner in a puff of exhaust smoke as he stepped on the accelerator. I didn’t even notice the rain running down my face, penetrating the thin material of my summer jacket. I could only stand there telling myself that I was all kinds of fool, knowing that had the roles been reversed, Greg would not have acted in the same loyal manner.
But was it really this that was bothering me? At the bottom of me I knew there was something else that had made me back out. It was that scary feeling that I had experienced on first meeting Callum. It made me so jittery I felt I couldn’t function properly, which was why I seemed to act like an immature ass when I was in his company. Or even when the thought of him passed through my head. It took as little as that to throw me off balance and make me feel terribly vulnerable.
I was, at last, beginning to recognise the sensation. Enough, at least, to know that it was dangerous to let things continue. I was already hurting from my marriage. I didn’t want to pile on further agonies that I would never be able to deal with one way or another.
“Are you planning to stay out all day in this bloody rain, then?”
I hadn’t even noticed Ros arrive, but there she was standing right next to me holding a big jazzy umbrella over my head and giving my arm a squeeze. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but was that James Bond look-alike a certain well-known piano player?”
I gave her a couple of blinks and gave a deep sigh. “Oh, Ros.”
“Uh-oh. Trouble! Want to tell me all about it?” I nodded, and she marched me back into her house and put the kettle on.
“Bloody fool!” was what she said when I eventually got the story told of how I’d thrown up the chance of a lifetime rather than upset Greg more than he was going to be upset anyway. “You get on that phone right now and tell that gorgeous fella that you’ll do the paintings and to hell with Greg’s feelings. When does he ever consider you? I’ll tell you, Megan, my gal….”
“Oh, don’t! Stop it, Ros,” I held up my hands in supplication and felt my mouth tighten to hold back the stupid trembling that was working its way to my lips. “It’s done. Best just to forget the whole damned business.”
“Phew!” Ros blew out the sound and sat with arms folded across her chest, glaring discontentedly at me.
She wasn’t the only one to be discontent. I had the strong feeling that I had let us both down rather badly. She had spent the last couple of years building up my confidence in my work and myself, teaching me that there are times when self must come first. I had just failed my first big exam.
Chapter Thirteen
After two cups of tea, numerous chocolate biscuits, a very liquid lunch topped up with a somewhat whisky-flavoured afternoon I finally left Ros and dragged my weary self back home. home. The weariness was hardly due to anything physical and it wasn’t that time of month, so I figured it just had to be psychological. The stress factor. I was toiling under the heavy burden of having done something I now wished I hadn’t.
I put my portfolio on my worktable and stood staring down at it as if it was going to pop open and reveal the answer to all problems major and minor. When I got tired of staring at the black leather case, I moved to the window and stood there, like some moonstruck dimwit, staring out at the rain. It was coming down even heavier now, running in clear quicksilver sheets down the windowpanes. The light was fading and turning into a greenish beige hue as the sun tried to separate the clouds and failed miserably.
I stared, and I stared, and my brain remained locked on zero thought. At least I was managing to fend off the negative thoughts that could have been passing through that addle-pated void. Things like: what must Callum Andrews think of me? And: It’ll hurt badly to see somebody else step in and do what I was supposed to be doing.
There were other thoughts too: I wonder if he still has sex with his wife? Does he buy her flowers, take her out to dinner, remember her birthday and their wedding anniversary? Are they happy together? And cruelly: How can a man like Callum Andrews be married to a woman like Hilary?
The questions bombarded my dead brain, bouncing off like hard rubber balls when they got no response. I couldn’t stop the questions, but I could force myself not to consciously think about any one of them.
Hilary Andrews is very nice. She obviously adores Callum. No, it’s no good, I just can’t imagine the pair of them having sex, romping around the bedroom naked and jolting the bedsprings, writhing and moaning as they reach a mutually satisfactory climax…
Stop it! As I screamed at myself silently, the telephone jarred me back into life. While I had been standing there by the window, mulling over moot points, the room had become quite dark. I moved too quickly and stumbled over my bag, which I had dropped at my feet on the floor. Knocking into my worktable, I uttered a breathy curse and caught the arc-lamp which took a dive over the edge.
The telephone went on ringing insistently and I staggered blindly towards it, cursing Ros and her wine and her whisky. I had the horrible premonition that the caller was going to be Greg with bad news. Why he should think to ring me and talk about it, I don’t know. Surely, he couldn’t know already about being withdrawn from the Andrews biography. Unless he had been in touch with the office, that is.
Oh, God, don’t let it be Greg.
My prayers were answered. It wasn’t Greg. How stupid of me to think that it would be. It was Terry Carter and he was eulogising about the beautiful nine-pound daughter his wife had just presented to him.
“Terry, I’m so pleased for you,” I heard myself say, even though I felt incapable of talking in a straight line. "How…how is…um…Christine?”
“Tired, but ecstatic. We have a beautiful daughter.”
“That’s wonderful news,” I congratulated him, wondering why I should be the one to hear it and so soon after the event. I was also feeling a deep, deep sadness that I didn’t think any man would understand. Sadness and anger. Yes, and jealousy, which is an emotion I have always despised in others. “Are you still at the hospital?”
“No. Just got home half an hour ago. The reason why I’m really phoning you, Megan…” Ah, so there was another reason. It wasn’t just to boast about becoming a father.
“Yes?”
“Are you all right, love? You sound a bit fuzzy.”
“Just a bit frayed around the edges,” I managed to say and heard him laugh at the other end. He sounded so bloody happy.
“I’ve heard from Callum Andrews. He told me what happened.”
“Oh. Terry, I’m sorry, but…”
“Not to worry, Megan, love.”
“But it’s given you a problem…I mean…”
“No problem.”
“Oh? You already have somebody else to do the job?” There was a knife twisting sharply in my gut.
“No. You are going to do the artwork, as planned.”
“Oh, but I can’t possibly…”
“It’s all taken care of. Callum has thought things over and he’s prepared to let Greg continue, as long as you do too. Megan? Are you still there?”
“What? What did you say?”
“Callum has nothing against Greg’s writing. Just his attitude. I’m afraid your old man can sometimes be rather rude at times. And, to make matters worse, he turned up once the worse for drink. Andrews doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”
If that were the case, then I was surprised he still wanted me to do the artwork for the book. “So, you’re not pulling Greg off the job after all?”
“Only if you agree to the artwork. Callum was quite definite about that.”
“Well, it seems like the onus is on me to continue, doesn’t it, Terry?” Did I sound business-like, or just plain baffled? The latter of which was how I felt.
“I thought you might be a little more pleased. It’ll get you recognised as an artist, you know.”
“Yes…yes, Terry, I’m delighted, really I am. It’s just…” What was it just? How could I tell this happily married, proud new father that I feared the job he had offered me on a silver platter because I felt in danger of falling head over heels in love with a man I couldn’t possibly have.
There! It was out, if only in my own head. I think my heart had recognised that fact the first second I laid eyes on Callum Andrews. That wham to the solar plexus, the weakening of the knees, the liquidising of the rest of the body and part of the brain every time his name was mentioned. Not to mention the flash cards that went through my head of his face every time I blinked.
“Right! So, we won’t say anything about all this to Greg when he gets back from London, okay?”
“Okay, Terry.”
“Just forget it ever happened.”
“Right.”
“Good girl!” Oh, yes, I was that all right. There was a slight pause, then: “Oh, I almost forgot. You’ve got an appointment at the Andrews’ house tomorrow morning at nine sharp…and you’ll be happy to know that the strike has ended so no more transport problems. Until the next time, that is.”
Reprieve! I put down the phone and literally did a dance around the room. Literally. Stupid, I know, at my age, but I felt anything but mature right then. Mature women did not jig about and feel euphoric. Mature women gave a nice little sigh of relief, smiled gratefully, maybe even offered up a prayer of thanks, then got on with life, happy in the knowledge that all was again well with their world and their future, which they had almost ruined by over-zealous and misplaced loyalty.
I stopped jigging, punched the air with a victorious fist, then took myself more firmly in hand. It wasn’t just the work and the success that could result from it that I was celebrating. Those slight heart ripples and flurries of butterflies in the stomach were owed more to the fact that I would be seeing Callum Andrews again.
Well, I thought, even a mature woman could enjoy a bit of fantasizing now and then. Most women, at some time or another in their lives, dream of falling in love with someone famous. In fact, most of them do actually ‘fall in love’, though they don’t normally get to meet the man in question. I was fortunate in having the real flesh and blood item literally at my fingertips. I knew I would dream and fantasize about Callum for all I was worth. Where was the harm in that? I would be the only one to know.
Chapter Fourteen
Of course, Greg wasn’t back from London by the next morning, so I took a taxi over to Stephenson Road. I was feeling incredibly nervous. More so than at our first meeting, which had been exciting enough. I hadn’t known Callum then, or anything about him. Not that I knew much more now, but I knew how I felt about him already. How I could feel if things were different.
Stupid woman! These words of approbation kept ringing through my head. You’re far too old to have a crush on anyone! Especially someone so unattainable as Callum Andrews.
As I got out of the taxi and walked slowly up the Andrews’ drive, feeling anything but confident, I had the sudden shivery feeling that I was being watched, though the place seemed deserted. Not even Mrs. Andrews’ neurotic little poodle was careering around the lawn. I thought I caught a movement in one of the upstairs windows, but it could have been a trick of the light.
However, as I reached the steps up to the front door it was flung wide and Callum appeared looking slightly dishevelled and a little flushed. He stood there on the doorstep, towering over me. There was a look of marked surprise on his face, which gently faded relief.
“I thought you wouldn’t come,” was all he said, then left me standing there, open mouthed and blinking at his back as he disappeared down the hall towards the back of the house.
I stepped inside, closed the door and followed him to the conservatory. He was already sitting at the piano when I arrived.
“You can leave the door open,” he said curtly. “Hilary’s not here.”
He must have noticed my curious frown. The exact meaning behind the words perplexed me somewhat. Was he being an old-fashioned gentleman and showing me that I had nothing to fear from being alone in the house with him, or…? What else? I didn’t know.
“She’s gone to see her sister in Edinburgh, so we can work without interruption,” he said, then hesitated again, obviously gauging my mood or my thoughts. Or both. “When Hilary’s in the house I can’t concentrate unless that door is shut. She tends to make a lot of noise. And, of course, she invariably has some of her ladies visiting for one reason or another.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling embarrassed and ridiculous. He had not, so far, made any mention of what happened between us yesterday.
As if reading my mind, he looked at me from beneath one black arched eyebrow and gave me a lop-sided smile that tugged at my heartstrings. “I’m glad you changed your mind, Megan. Welcome back.”
“I didn’t change my mind,” I reminded him as I installed myself and my materials on the big worktable in the middle of the room. “You changed yours.”
He shrugged and inclined his head, then went back to running his fingers over the piano keys. I recognised the ghost of a melody. He had been playing something like that during my first visit. It was a pretty piece, slow and dreamy and quite simple, yet he made it sound special. He had obviously been working on it because I noticed some changes and some improvements.
“Like it?” he asked, and I realised with a start that I had drifted towards the piano and was standing looking down at him as he played, the magical movements of his hands up and down the keys having a hypnotic effect on my brain.
“It’s lovely,” I said with a shy smile and went back to the worktable, which I noticed he had moved so that I wasn’t sitting in full sunshine. Much as I was glad to see the sun back in the sky, it was difficult working in such a glare. “Is it finished?”
“Not yet, but it will be soon, I hope.”
“So, you found the inspiration you were looking for?”
“You could say that. Actually, it was handed to me on a plate.”
“Oh, really? What’s it called?”
“Portrait in Pastel.”
My head shot up and I gazed at him, wide-eyed. So, he had been serious about the title after all. Another lop-sided smile shot my way, then his head was lowered as he made a few musical adjustments in pencil to the score sheet in front of him. I had provided him with that title. Had he got the necessary inspiration from the title, or was he saying that I gave him that too? I didn’t dare ask.
“Am I all right like this for now?” he asked. “I’d really like to keep on working on this piece while it’s in my head and flowing. I’ll happily sit more posed for you later.”
“Yes…yes, you’re fine like that. Don’t stop now while you’re ahead. Do you mind if I wander about a bit? I need to search for the best angle. Is it all right if I take some photos?”
“I’ll do my best to ignore you.” Another flash of a smile. This time accompanied by a mischievous dimple. I melted inside like a blob of butter on a hot-plate. “But that won’
t be easy.”
He uttered the last phrase almost to himself, then shook his head as if he wished he hadn’t said it and applied himself once again to the keyboard. I went through the motions of seeking the best vantage point for my sketch, though I was finding it unusually hard to concentrate on the job in hand. It was during my perambulations that I suddenly saw there had been some changes made in the conservatory.
There was one long, natural stone wall, which, if my memory served me well, had been bare yesterday. But today, it was filled with a colourful selection of paintings. Oils and watercolours and pencil sketches. All of them bore a French flavour, which went with the rustic terracotta floor of the conservatory.
“Oh, you’ve hung some pictures!” I couldn’t help myself coming right out with it, then I bit my lip, because I didn’t want to annoy him by interrupting the flow of the composition he was working on.
“I had a sudden urge to see them again,” he said, playing one discordant note repeatedly with a show of irritation.
“Sorry,” I apologised. “That’s my fault. I’ll keep quiet from now on.”
“No. I’ll have to get the damn thing tuned. It stands here unused for most of the year. Hilary is supposed to see that it’s tuned regularly, but she forgets. She’s not at all musical, you know. What do you think of the paintings?”
“I like them. Bare walls are like empty minds, I always think. Have you just bought them?”
“No. I’ve collected them over the years. Too many years to count comfortably. Since I was a boy, shall we say? We have a house in South-West France. Every time I go over there I buy something and bring it back. Haven’t been there for a few years. Hilary doesn’t care much for travelling and she’s never very happy with the French. She finds them frighteningly friendly. All that hugging and kissing. And she can’t cope with the food. My wife’s a very plain eater. Not at all adventurous, more’s the pity.” He turned and looked at the paintings and I saw a shadow of nostalgia pass over his face. “They were stored in the attic. Suddenly I had a longing to be in Gascony, so I brought them down to see if a wall full of French scenes might act as surrogate sop. I’d like to live permanently in France when I retire, but… There now! I wish I hadn’t said that awful word. It makes me feel so damned old.”