by June Gadsby
I felt suddenly light-headed as Callum’s eyes found and rested on my burning face. His hand went to cover the microphone as he looked right at me and clearly said: “Thank you, Megan.” Other eyes followed his, curious, smiling faces wanting to see the object of his inspiration. If embarrassment can be wonderful, then that’s what that moment was. I smiled back at him, then bit my lip and pressed my back against my seat, wishing I could disappear in a puff of smoke. I was certainly burning sufficiently to go up in flames.
Callum gave one of his short, cursory nods in my direction, then crossed the stage and once more sat down at the huge grand piano. The hall fell silent except for, I was sure, the loud beating of my heart. Callum had dedicated a piece of music to me! I couldn’t believe it. But I had heard him say so with my own ears and so had several hundred other people. Thank God, I thought, Greg was no longer with me. But what about Hilary, Callum’s wife? What would she think about a thing like that? Oh, dear! It was bound to get back to her. Hilary never attended Callum’s concerts. From early on he had found her presence too distracting. Hilary told me that herself and didn’t seem to mind at all.
A tinkle of notes, high and bell-like, jerked me out of my cloudy thoughts. Callum had begun to play our piece of music. I had always thought of it as our music, because he had composed it largely while I was there working on his portrait. And here it was now. Even the title was my doing. Portrait in pastel. I remembered saying that one day, but I never thought he was serious when he said he would call the piece that.
As he played the first few bars an image appeared on the backdrop of the stage. It was the portrait, digitally enlarged. There was a collective gasp of appreciation and I burned even more with embarrassment and pride.
The final applause was deafening. People got to their feet, others followed. The standing ovation lasted for at least five minutes, ten maybe, before the hall started to empty. I had a brief glimpse of Ros as she went with the masses and I wished I could get to her and persuade her to come backstage with me, feeling sure that Callum wouldn’t have minded. Not only that, I felt I needed the moral support she would have given me.
But she was already disappearing as Frances bore down on me, somewhat impatiently.
“Come along, Mrs. Peters,” Callum’s faithful girl-Friday said to me as if I were a mindless, recalcitrant adolescent. “They’re already gathering in the Green Room and Callum is behaving in a most uncharacteristic manner.”
“Oh, how do you mean?” I asked, and she tossed her nose in the air and clicked her tongue like an old-fashioned school-mistress.
“Like he is all the time these days,” she said in a low voice that was almost a growl. “A bear with a sore head. I don’t know why. The concert has been an unqualified success and the book is selling very well. We can’t keep up with the requests for concert tours. Just about every civilised country in the world is begging for him to go there. And a few not so civilised.”
As she talked, she was guiding me, pushing me in fact, through the departing crowds, along dimly lit corridors and finally through a narrow door with the title ‘The Green Room’ inscribed in black paint on a pale aqua background.
“Well, here we are,” Frances said, ushering me into the room where there was a crush of people, laughing, talking, being animated as only excited adults can be animated, especially when in the presence of genius.
A young redhead in a black and white waitress uniform came up with a tray laden with champagne. Frances frowned down at the short skirt and black tights before taking two glasses and handing one to me.
“Here you are, Mrs. Peters,” she said, her jaws set firmly, her eyes wandering elsewhere in the room. “Now, you must excuse me. I have to speak to one or two important people about Callum’s plans for the future.”
Without a further word, she left me standing there. I cast around for a small friendly group, or someone standing on their own that I could latch on to, but before I could move a step I was aware of Callum himself breaking away from a rather large crowd of friends and admirers and bearing down on me.
“Megan.” My name, spoken in soft exclamation, made my knees tremble. And the glint in his eyes as he looked at me with that shy smile of his. “I’m so glad you were able to come. Did you enjoy the concert? Where’s Greg?”
Before I could open my mouth to reply, he leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. My heart soared, until I realised that it was very like the affectionate kiss that a father might give to his daughter. Then my heart plummeted, and I cursed myself for still being so vulnerable in his presence.
“Hello Callum,” I said a little too loudly and flushed scarlet at the sound of my own voice. “It was a wonderful concert…the best I’ve ever been to. And thank you so much…you know, for Portrait in Pastel.”
“My dear girl, if it hadn’t been for you, there would have been an almighty problem. I’d been working on that piece for ages and I just couldn’t get it right. Then I met you and…well, everything fell into place. So, it’s I who should thank you. Have you received your personal copy of the book? Don’t you think your illustrations look wonderful? I’m very pleased with it. So, where is that husband of yours?”
He said it all in one breath and it amazed me to think that he sounded almost like a nervous schoolboy. He was looking down at me, and seeming a little self-conscious, as he waited for my reply.
“Greg had a business appointment,” I told him, my voice now disappearing into a husky fog as I was aware that people were staring at us, hovering on the outskirts of our conversation, stretching their ears and getting impatient to join their hero. “I’m afraid he had to leave before the concert was finished.”
Callum nodded, and his face creased into a serious frown. “Hmm. It defies me to think of Greg being able to write the way he does. I mean, it was patently obvious that he hadn’t the slightest interest in his subject, yet he turned out the most magnificent prose.”
“He’s a professional,” I explained simply, and he nodded again, thoughtfully.
That was when Frances returned to take charge of him. She had some people lined up for interviews of one kind or another. Callum looked at her with barely disguised impatience, to which she reacted imperviously.
Callum glanced my way and touched my arm. My flesh tingled beneath the light pressure of his fingers. “Don’t go,” he said. “This won’t take long, I promise.”
But his time was well and truly claimed from then on. From time to time I saw him, and our eyes would meet across the room, separated by laughing, talking, drinking heads. His glance, his smile, the slight nod he sent over to me, seemed loaded with meaning. Or maybe I just imagined it all, because I wanted there to be more to it than a friendly acknowledgement from a man I barely knew.
Barely knew? I knew every line, every contour of his wonderful face. I knew every expression, every light and shadow. I had recreated him many times over in his own image on paper, on card, on canvas. I knew his face better than my own reflection and I loved every bit of it. Oh, God, how I loved this man, this celebrated stranger, this forbidden fruit.
The room was beginning to empty and I was feeling somewhat edgy. It was after midnight and it would be difficult to get a taxi home. I began looking around me, hoping to catch Callum’s eye to say goodbye, despite his instruction for me not to go.
Callum was deep in conversation with a rather tall, elegant woman of an uncertain age as I made my way to the exit. She was captivating his whole attention, speaking with great animation in a Nordic accent. I had one foot in the corridor when I heard Callum excuse himself and call out my name.
“Megan! Wait!”
I turned, and he came towards me across the carpeted floor, his long legs striding out. I waited, smiling self-consciously as one or two heads turned to inspect the object of Callum’s sudden interest.
“Where are you going?” His eyes burned into mine, dark and serious.
“I really had better be going, Callum,” I informed him. �
�It’s late and I’m not sure how easy it’ll be to find a taxi.”
“You don’t have a car?” One raven’s wing eyebrow shot up critically.
“No. Greg took it.”
“And left you without transport?” The question was rhetorical and a bit sharp-edged. His fingers squeezed my wrist and he cast his eyes about the room. “Frances!”
His secretary’s head jerked up and she trotted over to him like the obedient lapdog she was.
“Yes, Callum?”
“Get rid of everybody, will you,” Callum said firmly but not unkindly. “I’ve had enough for one evening. I think I’ve spoken to everybody. If not, give my apologies and fix them up with appointments to see me in the coming week. I’m going to take Megan home.”
“Oh, no,” I objected feebly. “That’s really not necessary.”
“Don’t argue.” he snapped, and I felt the censoring eyes of his indomitable secretary boring into my flushed face.
“Shall I telephone your wife and tell her you’ll be late home?” Frances asked pointedly, and I cringed inside, as I fixed her with a confident and perhaps too rigid a smile.
“That won’t be necessary, Frances,” Callum patted the woman’s broad shoulder and I saw her flinch and flash her accusing eyes again in my direction. “Hilary no longer waits up for me after concerts.” He glanced at his gold Rolex and smiled indulgently. “At a guess, she’s already been in bed and fast asleep for almost two hours. I’d hate to ring and disturb her at this late hour.”
“Very well,” Frances said stiffly. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” Callum reminded her, but she continued to stare at him unflaggingly. “Even you don’t work on Sundays….at least, not at my instigation.”
“Your wife,” she replied, and I thought I detected a particular emphasis on those two words, “has invited me to Sunday lunch. Had you forgotten?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I had,” Callum gave a light, apologetic laugh. “Sorry about that, Frances. In that case, I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
“I’ll bring the proposed contract for the Australian tour and we can discuss it then.”
“Oh, dear. Must you?”
“Time’s getting short and they’re impatient for a final agreement.”
“Frances, don’t you ever think of anything else but work?”
The secretary’s eyes slid over me, then came to rest briefly on Callum’s face, before dropping her gaze to the floor. As if realising he had hit a sore spot with his casual comment, Callum gave her a brief hug, which seemed to disturb her greatly. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Have a good weekend, Frances,” he said and, gripping my arm, propelled me through the door with a great sigh. “Poor Francis! I wish she would take up something that would occupy some of her free time. She doesn’t seem to have much of a life outside the office and looking after me. The trouble is, she’s a little too conscientious at times.”
“She’s probably in love with you,” I found myself saying and he gave me a funny look before laughing it off.
“That’s the last thing I want from a secretary,” he said, his hand still cupping my elbow as we stepped out into the fresh night air outside the theatre. “Besides. She’s not my type.”
I had a sudden mental picture of the woman he was married to and wondered how much she had changed since they met at the altar. Had she been ‘his type’? Was she still ‘his type’? My mind went blank.
Above us the sky was inky black, pitted with twinkling, silvery stars. There was the aroma of strong ground coffee mingling with lasagne and pizza coming from an all-night bistro with pink neon lights surrounding a steamy window. Strains of music and Pavarotti reached our ears above the gaggle of late night diners.
“My car’s just around the corner,” Callum stated and smiled broadly as my mouth opened and closed silently. “You don’t think I’d let you go home all on your own, do you?” And then: “Do you really think that Frances is in love with me?”
“I’d say so,” I whispered because my voice refused to come out normally.
“Good lord! She’s been with me for about fifteen years or more and I’ve not noticed anything in her behaviour to suggest anything other than total professionalism. But then, I’m a man, and we men aren’t always aware of that kind of thing, even when it’s right under our noses. It’s strange Hilary has never mentioned it. They’re great friends, you know, Hilary and Frances. Birds of a feather, you might say. I must ask Hilary her opinion tomorrow. I wouldn’t want poor old Frances to get hurt.”
We had reached his car. He opened the passenger door for me and helped me in, not that I needed it. Such a gentleman, I thought. Next to him, poor Greg was like Neanderthal Man. I couldn’t remember when Greg had last held a door for me. Any door. And when we entered a room it was usually Greg who went first, leaving me behind to fend for myself. Not that I was helpless, but it would have been nice, once inside, to be introduced to one or two of his friends and colleagues. At least then it would save them the embarrassment of finding out who I was after they had made snide remarks about my husband’s promiscuity behind his back.
I don’t know why I didn’t say anything when Callum turned the car to the left and headed for the river, which was in exactly the opposite direction to where I lived. But I was only too happy to bask in his presence, silently absorbing him as if by osmosis, breathing him in like an intoxicating perfume.
He drove down onto the Quayside where the stars and the moon and the famous new Blinking Bridge were reflected magically in the black waters of the River Tyne. He parked in a quiet, deserted spot and switched off the ignition. I heard him sigh as he rested his head back against the cushioned support, then he turned and looked across at me and smiled wistfully. My heart turned over as, in the darkness of the car interior, his hand reached out and found mine. It only rested a moment, then he withdrew it almost as if his fingers were scorched by the contact.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said and there was a weariness in his velvety voice. “I just needed to get away and relax for a few minutes. And, of course, to have a little time alone with you.”
“Oh?” It was a weak, little girl voice that made the sound and I found myself clearing my throat loudly, frowning at the watching night and the shocked expression of the pale, golden moon.
“Yes. It seems a long time since you and I sat together in the conservatory.” He laughed suddenly. “You were like a frightened little girl sometimes. Was I such an awful ogre?”
“No, of course not. Well, maybe, at first.”
“You were nervous?”
“Yes, a little, but it was a big job. I didn’t want to fail you…or myself.”
“You’re an excellent artist, Megan.”
His hand was over mine again, patting it, then withdrawing quickly. I gave him a sidelong glance and saw that he was gazing directly ahead, as I had been. His cheek muscles were working as they so often did when something was troubling him. Oh, I knew him so well, yet I didn’t know him at all.
“Doesn’t your wife ever attend your concerts?” I asked, for something to say, and because I was curious about Hilary Andrews.
He thought about it for a long time and I wondered if he was going to ignore my question, when he sighed and gave a little groan.
“Oh, Hilary gave up going to my concerts years ago. We made a pact. She doesn’t attend my concerts and I don’t attend her coffee mornings, except on occasion when it’s for a cause I support. She’s happy going her way and I mine.”
“I would have thought…” I hesitated, wondering if I might be speaking out of turn. “I would have thought she’d be proud to have you as her husband.”
“That she is,” Callum nodded his head gravely, his black brows lowering over half-closed eyes. “She’s just not interested in music. Now, young lady…” He smothered a yawn and stretched, flexing his arms and shoulders, then rubbing a hand over his face. “…I think I’d better
get you home. I’m more tired than I thought.”
“Really, you don’t have to…” I started to say, only to have him turn and place a hand heavily on my shoulder. I melted beneath his touch.
“For goodness sake, Megan, don’t rob me of my pleasures. I get few enough of them now that you’re no longer….” He halted abruptly, his forehead creasing. “I’m sorry. Take no notice of me. Now, remind me how to get to your house.”
There had been a moment’s unease between us. A moment when the air was filled with a certain kind of electrical charge. My imagination read all sorts of endings into the little speech he had almost made but pulled himself up short. What had he been about to tell me? That my presence during our short acquaintance had given him some small pleasure? Was that all I had meant to him, I wondered? A small pleasure, like a kitten or a puppy given to a child at Christmas. A present that would soon become boring perhaps.
Oh, how I wished I could be disinterested and bored with the presence of Callum Andrews, but he was always there. I carried him with me in my subconscious mind, the memory of those days we had spent together. Our innocent hours of conversation, amicable walks along the river with his neighbour’s dog, the companionable silences. And the yearning I felt for him physically, so profound that it was like an excruciating pain. A pain he would never, must never know about.
“Give my regards to your Mrs. Andrews,” I said as I got out of the car twenty minutes later outside my house. My eyes slid up to the bedroom window where a light was shining through hastily drawn curtains. Greg was home already. My stomach sank. I don’t know why, but it did.
“She’ll no doubt keep in touch,” Callum also glanced up at the chink of yellow light. “She really took a shine to you, you know. Me too.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from her,” I muttered, my hand on the gate, reluctant to open it.
“Well, I’ll say goodnight,” Callum still made no sign of going and I felt that there was something else on his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Take care, Megan. Goodnight, my dear.”