by June Gadsby
“Don’t worry. There’s another bottle.”
I gave her a third helping of pudding, filled her glass and started stacking the dishwasher. That’s when the telephone rang, and I heaved a sigh, running through a list of people who would be likely to ring me at four o’clock on Christmas Day. My mother was, of course, head of the list, followed by my father-in-law, or perhaps my agent to remind me that I still had not come up with the drawings for the latest book and, rare but possible, Greg, from his hospital bed.
Wrong on all counts.
“Megan?”
It only took the sound of his voice murmuring my name on the other end of the line to recognise that my caller was none other than Callum. My stomach churned, my heart did a double flip.
“Good heavens, Callum!” My head was suddenly spinning, and it had very little to do with the wine.
“Just wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas,” was his response after a short pause that seemed to echo loudly in my ear. There was a slight slur in his voice and his Scottish accent was more pronounced than usual. I loved it, but unfortunately, I guessed he, like Ros and I, had had too much wine with his Christmas lunch.
Ros, with her own glass raised halfway to her mouth, arched her pencilled eyebrows and mouthed Callum Andrews’ name to me in silence across the room. I nodded, and her eyes grew even bigger.
“And the same to you, Callum,” I said a little tersely, feeling strangely angry towards him for stirring up yet again my already strained emotions. “I hope you and Hilary are having an enjoyable day.”
“Yes…it’s been…well, you know…the usual sort of thing. Everybody’s sinking beneath the food and the drink. Hilary, of course, is rattling away in the kitchen wondering what to give us all for tea! How are you, Megan? Everything all right?”
“Greg’s in hospital. Broken leg. He had an accident last night.”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry, Megan. Does that mean you’ve spent Christmas alone? If we’d known…you could have come over here…spent the day with us…”
“It’s all right, Callum…thank you all the same, but I have a friend here with me.”
“Oh, I see.”
“It’s Ros…my next-door neighbour,” I felt I had to reveal the identity of my Christmas companion, having a horror of him thinking I was with another man. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
“Ah. That’s good, then.”
“Well, it was really nice of you to call…and…and Callum…I love your present. Thank you so much…and…Greg liked his pen. You really shouldn’t have, you know…I mean…” There was a long silence, at the end of which I wasn’t sure whether he was still there. “Callum?”
“I’m glad you liked your present, Megan. It was the least I could do…Do you like flowers? Yes, of course you do! What an idiot I am. Forgive me, Megan, I’ve had too much to drink and I’m feeling rather…nostalgic…no, no, dammit, that’s not the word for how I feel. Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you…I’m sorry about Greg’s leg. I hope he’ll be better soon…well, you know what I mean… anyway…Oh, damn!”
“Callum?”
“I’m sorry. Just ignore me. If you’d like to come over…any time…?”
“Thank you, Callum, but I don’t think so…I…” my voice tailed off and I swallowed the lump which had arisen, unbidden, to my throat. “Wish Hilary and the family all the best from me, will you?”
“Yes…of course. Megan…?”
“Yes…?”
Silence. Then: “Oh, nothing. We’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Take care.”
Oh, God, why did he have to ring? Why didn’t he just go away on one of his long tours, give me time to forget him? Every time I saw him or just heard his voice, I was lost, drowning in my own emotions. I needed time to get over him, to re-adjust. His arms had encircled me just once, and only once had his lips brushed mine, so lightly that they might never have been there except in my dreams. However, I felt as though I had had a torrid love affair with him and must now say goodbye because neither of us could live with the guilt of it, should it progress from that one sweet kiss.
“Well, thank you for ringing, Callum. ‘Bye!”
“Goodbye, my love.” Did he really say that?
I put the phone down quickly so that he couldn’t prolong my agony.
“That was Callum,” I said, unnecessarily, to Ros with a watery smile. “Just ringing to wish me Happy Christmas.”
“He’s in love with you, Megan.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ros. He’s been married to Hilary forever and he adores her. She worships the ground he walks on.”
“So, you keep telling me.”
“It’s the truth. Now, do you want some coffee or not?”
“Yes, please,” she smiled at me and her smile travelled to eyes that were so worldly wise they frightened me. Or was it that I frightened myself with the intensity of my emotions regarding the very honourable Mister Music? Callum Andrews, faithful husband.
Chapter Twenty-One
They kept Greg in the hospital for five days. At the end of which I collected him in his own car, which was more spacious than mine. Terry Carter brought the car around on Boxing Day. It had been parked in the Daily View’s parking lot since Christmas Eve when Greg had, in Terry’s words, ‘gone ape’ over Patsy’s new sports job.
Greg was in a gloomy mood. His stay in hospital had done nothing for his morale. The only thing that kept him ticking was his job and all that went with it. But he had been ordered to rest for three months. For Greg, that was an eternity.
“Don’t fuss! I can manage perfectly well,” was Greg’s response when I tried to help him from the car on the day of his discharge.
I withdrew tactfully and hurried up the garden path to open the front door. The house was warm and welcoming. In the sitting room there was a vase, full of red roses. Two dozen of them.
Callum had sent them. ‘To help cheer you up’, the message had said. Oh, if only he knew. And if Greg knew who had sent them he might not understand. Not that there was anything to understand. Not really. I was not having an affair with Callum Andrews. I refused to believe even in the possibility of such a thing.
But I dreamed of it, day and night. And I wished with all my heart that it were true! That one sweet kiss did not constitute ‘an affair’. It was just a kiss between friends.
“Where the hell did all these flowers come from?” Greg demanded as he hobbled into the house uncertainly on his crutches. He gave a violent sneeze as the heady floral perfume hit him and scrabbled for his handkerchief.
“Oh…these?” I indicated the roses with a casual sweep of my hand. “Well, they cheer the place up, don’t you think? And, after all, it is Christmas…well, nearly New Year now. I like them.”
He heaved a sigh of exasperation then, ignoring the flowers, dropped down heavily into an armchair.
“Well, what do we do now?” he asked in a despairing voice.
I took his crutches from him and placed them to one side of the chair. He glowered at them, then at me.
“We take each day as it comes,” I said, trying to sound soothing, but knowing that the stress of the situation was making my voice sound more contrite than understanding.
“It’s a bloody awful situation! What the hell am I going to do with myself for three months?”
“Well, you can start by trying to relax,” I told him, switching on the CD player, which I had programmed to play a selection of soothing CD’s, taking care that none of Callum’s music featured among them. “And then we’ll concentrate on your diet. It looks as if you’ve already lost a few pounds while you’ve been in hospital, so that’s a good start.”
“Bloody diet! They starved me in that fucking place!”
“They were trying to save your life, Greg.” I could feel my voice rising in exasperation.
“Have we got any beer in the fridge?”
“No beer, Greg.”
“Then what have we got, dammit? Get me a gin and tonic, will you?
”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“You know as well as I do that alcohol is on the forbidden list. Besides which, it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. Greg, don’t you care about your health? You’ve gone steadily downhill since the day we got married and now the alarm bells are sounding. You’ve just got to look after yourself better.”
“Ah, shit, Megan! Don’t you start. I’ve had enough bullying from the nurses and the doctors in the hospital.”
“I’ll make some coffee,” I said quickly, not wanting to get embroiled in a heated argument within five minutes of his return home.
“Don’t bother,” he said dully and wiped a hand over his face. He looked tired, depressed. “Anyway, they say I shouldn’t drink coffee either.”
“What then? A cup of tea?”
“If you’re making one…okay.”
I looked down at him and was suddenly engulfed in a rush of sympathy. By rights he should still be enjoying life as a reasonably young and virile man. But the excesses, which he had enforced upon himself, were already threatening to shorten his life. He had the appearance of a young man turned old overnight, though I had to admit that I had seen the signs coming for a very long time. People constantly formed the opinion that Greg worked too hard. True, but they didn’t know the rest. They didn’t know about the other excesses that he constantly pushed to the limit. The smoking, the drinking, the eating. Sex.
It was strange, but in many ways, I had lately felt happier when Greg had another woman in his life. It meant that he didn’t make so many demands on me and, very often, he was kinder, more thoughtful. Until things went wrong. And then he made my life unbearable. There was no pleasing Greg. He always wanted more, like the starving child in Dickens’ ‘Oliver Twist’. It wasn’t a question of love, but one of lust.
I wondered if it had ever been anything even resembling love?
The telephone rang as I was making a pot of tea in the kitchen. Greg, insisting that it be placed within his reach, scooped it up immediately. He was probably hoping for some encouraging calls from his colleagues. I heard his voice, low and guttural, heard him give a short, staccato laugh. He was hanging up as I entered the room carrying a tray of rattling cups and saucers.
“Who was that?” I asked, seeing the creases on his forehead and the cynical twist to his mouth.
“That,” he said, pausing for effect, “was the wife of your boyfriend, Callum Andrews.”
“Don’t be silly, Greg. He’s not my… boyfriend as you put it.”
“Maybe not, but I bet he would be if you gave him half a chance, the silly old fool.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” My chest was vibrating and my heart racing around like a mad dog trying to catch its own tail, but I had to deny his allegation vehemently. What else could I do?
“Don’t worry, my pet,” Greg pulled out a bent cigar from his pocket, stared at it in disgust then threw it down. “He’s stuck like glue to that frump of a wife of his. Knows where his bread is buttered, does old Callum. He may be rich in his own right now, but with her money and what she stands to inherit…” He spread his hands in a Gallic shrug.
“So?” I fixed him with a curious stare. “What did Hilary want?”
Greg sighed and shifted his plaster-encased leg with a great show of discomfort. “Oh, it seems they’re guests of honour at the annual dinner of the Northern Musicians’ Association and they’ve been given a couple of spare tickets. They wanted to know if we’d like to join them.”
“Oh?” My heart was suddenly beating recklessly. It leaped up into my throat and I was in danger of choking to death if it didn’t calm down. All this internal commotion just at the meagre possibility of seeing Callum again! It was ridiculous. “Well, of course, you told her that we couldn’t possibly go?”
Greg stared into the artificial flames of our gas fire for a moment, then he turned and met my eyes, his expression sullen and broody. “Actually, I told her that we’d be delighted to go.”
“You what!”
“I accepted the invitation. Hell, Megan, there’s not an awful lot happening in our lives right now. I had plans for New Year’s Eve, but that’s all gone by the board because of this bloody thing…” He rapped his knuckles on the stiff leg brace that looked like a moon boot. His face twisted in frustration. “Anyway, we’re going and that’s final. Here, buy yourself a new outfit if you want.”
He threw a handful of notes at me, which was a habit of his I had come to detest. It made me feel cheap, as if he could buy me as and when the mood took him. I was sorely tempted to tell him what to do with his money, and the invitation, but my brain and my heart were not of one accord.
“When is it?”
“New Year’s Eve…Hilary says it’s formal and most of the ladies will be wearing long dresses, though it’s not obligatory. Well?”
“You’re supposed to keep off your leg for a few weeks.”
He wiped a hand around his perspiring face and gave a derisory grunt. “I’d rather put up with the pain than stay in these four walls and be bored to death.”
He stared up at me, eyes bulging.
I returned his stare. “Well, in that case I suppose we’ll have to go. It’s your choice.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic. I thought you were the one who liked these dinner-dance things.”
“I do, but…”
“So?”
“Nothing. We’ll go!” I shrugged and marched out of the room, so he couldn’t see the mounting colour in my face. I loved dinner-dances, loved dressing up and feeling special. But Greg had killed all that for me years ago when he always insisted on getting drunk and making a fool of himself. Going out with him had so quickly become an embarrassment that I could well do without. A small part of me wished that he would decide not to go. Perhaps he would suggest that I went on my own, but that wouldn’t look good. And I would be sitting at Callum’s table and…
“Maybe you’ll get a dance with your boyfriend.” I heard Greg calling out sarcastically from the sitting room, and my cheeks flamed with anger at his sarcasm, and just a little anticipation.
I ran upstairs and flung wide my wardrobe doors. There was a dress I’d bought for some aborted special occasion last year. With a bit of luck, it would still fit. It was a particularly beautiful dress, quite simply cut in icy powder blue satin. The neckline was daringly low, the sequinned bodice figure-hugging and there was a revealing slit from ankle up to mid-thigh on the left side. I remember how the girl in the shop had enthused about it when I tried it on.
“Oh, madam, it does bring out the colour of those gorgeous eyes of yours,” she had exclaimed and went to bring her colleague who immediately agreed with her.
I found myself standing before the mirror, holding the dress in front of me, gazing into my own eyes and dreaming. The shop assistants had been right. Somehow, the dress made my eyes glow like huge, iridescent blue-green orbs. What would Callum think, seeing me all dressed up like Cinderella going to the ball, instead of denim and comfortable sweaters? Would he find me attractive? Would he ask me to dance? What would it feel like, to waltz around in his arms with his face close to mine, my head light with the music and the wine and the closeness of his body…?
“Megan!” Greg’s voice came up to me through the floor, pained and complaining.
“Yes?” I jumped to attention and quickly hung the dress back in the wardrobe.
“I’ve spilled my bloody tea. It’s all over the place.”
“Don’t move. I’m coming.”
The dream was broken. I ran downstairs to Greg and cleaned up the mess.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was only two days between Hilary Peters’ phone call and the event, but I felt every second drag interminably. When we finally left the house and stepped into the taxi that took us into town, I could hardly control my jittery nerves. The dinner was being held in the new Wharfside Hotel, a big conference centre looking out onto
the shining sweep of the River Tyne.
Newcastle, and its famous bridges, were lit up, the colours reflecting in the dark waters of the river. The whole city was one big festive occasion, milling with happy, smiling people. New Year’s Eve was not a time to be miserable or sad. It marked a new beginning for young and old alike. Only Greg wore a long face as he stared ahead unseeingly, gripping his crutches as though he would like to hit somebody with them.
The recent bad weather had cleared up for the occasion. The evening was crisp and clear with bright stars twinkling merrily in the inky black sky.
The taxi driver obligingly dropped us off right outside the entrance to the hotel and helped Greg out, hauling him up like a sack of potatoes, both grunting with the effort. I held onto Greg’s crutches until he was ready for them, then a ruddy-faced, uniformed doorman hurried to our aid.
“Bloody ridiculous,” Greg panted as we got him through the huge, revolving glass doors and into the main foyer. I should have stayed at home.”
“Well, maybe you can write an article about the event when we get home,” I suggested with a bright smile and nodded to the doorman who was instructing us how to find the function we were attending. There were several being held on various levels. Fortunately, the Northern Musicians’ Association had the ground floor and we simply had to follow the red carpet to the Rose Room.
We made agonisingly slow progress down the corridor, Greg leaning heavily on his crutches, his face strained, his chest heaving and wheezing. I could see people drifting in and out of a pair of swing doors at the end. An undulating flow of music and a cacophony of conversation wafted out every time the doors swung.
“Not so bloody fast, Megan,” Greg complained, puffing and panting behind me.
“Sorry. I hadn’t realised that I was forging on ahead, so anxious was I to see Callum. Anxious, yet at the same time, more than a little scared. Would I be able to tell what he was thinking when he looked at me? Worse, would everybody be able to read in my own expression the emotions that were going through my head. My heart was beating so rapidly I thought everybody would hear it. I didn’t know if I would be able to cope with the situation. It wasn’t going to be easy acting indifferently under the innocent, motherly regard of Callum’s doting wife. And yet, I had to do it, for Hilary’s sake. For all our sakes.