by Peter Barry
‘You’re joking?’ He frowned, annoyed. ‘Can’t you stop them?’
‘I tried suggesting to them that it wasn’t such a great idea, Hugh, but it’s their home and there’s only so much …’
‘But I thought they hardly came here now? That it was mainly for you and your brother and sister to use?’
‘They like to be here when any of us are here. That’s how they are.’ She sounded irritated.
‘Don’t they appreciate we need time alone?’
‘Jesus, Hugh!’ She closed her eyes tight, tensing her whole body, as if she couldn’t take any more of his questions. ‘There is only so much I can do. You know what dad’s like.’
Already it wasn’t going well. Already he felt it was hopeless, his visit a waste of time. If her parents came down, he was going home. He’d make up some excuse. He couldn’t bear being in the same house as them, not right now, especially when it was so small. Normally, he liked the beach house. He felt comfortable in its timbered smallness, its cosy, slightly ramshackle homeliness, and its eclectic mix of furniture (leftovers from every house Kate’s parents had ever lived in, plus bits and pieces, like curtains, bedding, cushions and kitchen utensils, from the homes of their three children). It was summery, even in winter, and imbued with a feeling of teenage beachside escapades. It was very un-Doug and Wilma and, in that respect at least, was totally fake. Hugh suspected his father-in-law, who frequently pooh-poohed the vulgar prodigality of the multi-million dollar homes in the area, regarded the family beach house as more genuine than those of their neighbours, and believed that it also demonstrated that he did not need to prove his wealth to anyone.
‘Why don’t I take Tim down to the beach before lunch?’
‘He’d enjoy that.’
On the beach, there were few people to be seen. Although a fine autumn day, there was a distinct chill in the air. They made their way slowly towards the rocks at the southern end of the beach. They held hands, except when Tim stopped, which he did every few minutes, to pick up a shell. Each of these he held up for his father to admire, a look of wonder on his face no matter how small, cracked or ordinary they were. Once he picked up some seaweed and tried to throw it at his father. Hugh picked it up and chased him, waving the seaweed in the air. Tim ran screaming round in circles until he fell over on the sand, laughing. Then he sat on Hugh’s shoulders and they walked on, his son shouting nonsense into the wind, his face glowing.
The three of them sat down together for lunch, although Kate looked as if she was ready to spring to her feet at a moment’s notice should anything make her uncomfortable. She asked how his work was going.
‘Not so good at the moment. I told you we lost Bauer?’
‘Will that be a problem for you?’
‘It could be if we don’t pick up some new business soon. I’m certainly not as busy as I’d like to be. We pitched for BMW, but haven’t heard back from them yet. We also did a credentials pitch to Dan Murphy’s, but we weren’t shortlisted.’
‘I’m sure it will pick up soon.’ She didn’t make it sound as if she cared one way or the other.
When she was washing up, and Tim was in the adjoining room playing with his toys, he said he’d bring in his things from the car. As he rose to his feet, she told him – or more accurately addressed the dishes immersed in the soapy water in front of her – that she had put him in the spare room.
‘What do you think Tim will make of this arrangement?’
‘He won’t make anything of it. He’s too young.’
‘What happens when he goes into your bedroom when he wakes up and finds you by yourself?’
‘He’ll be fine. Anyway, I don’t actually care what he thinks. I’m happier with this arrangement.’
‘I can’t say that I am.’
He sat down at the kitchen table again. He stared at Kate’s back. That’s all he ever saw of his wife now, her back. That’s how it struck him. Despite her show of strength and independence, he thought she looked frail, as if she might be close to weeping. He stood up. He went up behind her and put his arms around her. She was startled, but unable to avoid him. ‘Don’t,’ she protested, but he was desperate to hold her, to clutch something from their past, to try and recapture what they’d once had. He could only feel her stiffness in his arms, the tensing of her whole body against him, her unyieldingness. There was no frailty there! His fingers slipped, and he was forced to let go. She twisted her body round to face him, one hand still behind her clutching the edge of the sink, the other raised against his chest.
‘Kate, we have to talk. We have to try. That’s why I’m here. We have to give it a go.’
She pushed him away, gently but insistently. He retreated to the table. He sank into his chair and waited. A minute later, she took a deep breath. ‘You don’t need us, Hugh. I don’t believe you need us.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I do. That’s not true.’ He didn’t understand what she was talking about. It seemed he rarely did now.
She smiled, almost as if she’d expected him to say that. ‘Your work’s more important to you than us. That’s your life, your work.’ She was leaning back against the sink now, her arms folded.
‘Everything I do, I do for you. For you and Tim. You know that.’
‘No, Hugh, that’s not true. You do it for you. Everything you do, you do for you. That’s what you don’t seem to grasp. You’re totally involved with your job – which is fine, if that’s what you want. I can accept that. But it doesn’t leave much room for us in your life.’
He tried to see it from her point of view, but struggled. ‘You’re involved with your painting. I don’t hold that against you. I try and encourage you.’
‘That’s different. I don’t allow my painting to take over my life.’
That’s because you don’t feel passionately about it, he thought. He felt heavy, so heavy he doubted he could have stood up at that moment if someone had asked him to. He was like a person drowning in the sea, too weak to plead his case to a person watching his struggles from the shore.
‘You’re happy by yourself. You don’t need people, Hugh. Your work is enough.’
He wasn’t sure how to argue against this. He knew his wife had got it all wrong, but didn’t know what he could say to convince her otherwise. ‘I want us to get back together. I want to give it another go. I miss you.’ He realised he was beginning to plead, but didn’t care anymore.
Tim called out from the next room. ‘Mummy.’ She left him, saying as she passed by the table, ‘Maybe we should talk later, if that’s what you really want.’
He remained sitting in the kitchen. He felt he didn’t know his wife. He’d been married to her all these years, and yet she was an unknown. She was virtually a stranger. She could spring something like this on him, and he’d had no idea, no suspicion that it had been lurking there, in her head. For how long? For years, or since yesterday? He didn’t know, because he didn’t know the woman he was married to. He stood up. He had to do something. ‘I’ll bring my things in from the car.’
She called back, ‘Did you remember to bring those things for me?’
‘Yes.’ Outside, there was a faint breeze coming in from the ocean. Everything was still, and quiet, apart from the sound of a lawnmower in the distance. He felt alone.
Later, they went for a walk on the beach. Tim paddled in the shallows, holding his father’s hand. Kate sat on the sand a short distance away, and although she was gazing in their direction, Hugh felt she wasn’t seeing them. Then they went home and had tea and watched an old movie on the old television set. Almost everything he and Kate said was said to their son. They made only the briefest of statements to each other. Hugh hoped his son wouldn’t go to bed, that maybe, even though he was still young, he’d be allowed to stay up until late, and sit between his parents on the sofa, as he was doing now. He would act like a soft pink buffer and so prevent them harming each other. But later, inevitably and – it struck Hugh – relucta
ntly, Kate said it was time for Tim to go to bed. Then they were left alone.
If they stuck to safe subjects, he thought, if they avoided talking about their marriage, about each other’s feelings or about anything to do with the emotions, then they might get through the evening unscathed, and after that there would be a good chance they could build from there. Over time it was likely they could discuss an ever expanding range of subjects, even, eventually, their own marriage, and so finally reach a better understanding of each other. And perhaps, in the not-so-distant future, they could get back to the kind of relationship they’d enjoyed in the past, where there was both love and trust and – well, he wasn’t sure what kind of words he could use to describe this dream, except that they’d been good together once; there hadn’t been any of this warring and distrust. That’s what he wanted, and surely that’s what she wanted? They were, neither of them, ready to chuck it all in right now, not this easily.
‘Are you still painting?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
It was like a slap down. Straight off she was letting him know that he’d asked the wrong question. Why could he never work these things out? Why couldn’t he better understand what his wife wanted, what she expected, to hear? ‘I just thought that you might have been too busy or something, that’s all.’
‘If my mother looks after Tim I can sometimes get to my old class.’
‘And is it going well?’
‘Really well.’
‘That’s excellent. I’m really pleased.’ What a stupid thing to say. As if he wouldn’t be pleased. ‘Have you still got the same guy teaching you?’
‘Yes.’ She concentrated on the TV screen. He felt she was holding something back. He’d always wondered about her art teacher. What was his name – Warren? Was she having an affair with him? Had she slept with him? Or modelled for him? That would have been bad enough. What if she’d modelled for him in the nude? It was scarcely a good time to ask her.
She tousled her hair, rubbing her fingers through her spiky hair, a mannerism that had always struck him as false. He suspected it was supposed to demonstrate that she was clearing her mind or trying to bring it back from higher things, such as Art, to the mundane practicalities of everyday life. She frowned, then looked over to him as if she had only just become aware of his presence. They stared at each other in silence.
He stood up. He was finding it hard to sit so close to her. He paced up and down the small room. He wanted to get away, to leave Palm Beach, but how could that be? Was there now nothing they could say to each other? And what about his marriage? Shouldn’t he want to stay and fight for that?
* * *
The next morning, at breakfast, she told him her parents had called to say they were coming down. ‘They’ll be here for lunch.’ She also told him that she quite understood if he wanted to head back home later in the morning, if he didn’t feel comfortable seeing them – even though they’d love to see him again. She hoped he’d leave. She was worried because she’d forgotten to tell her parents not to mention her plan to move in with them. ‘Only for a short while, of course,’ she’d told them, ‘until I’m ready to move back with Hugh.’ She didn’t want them to say anything to their son-in-law, especially not her father.
He left mid-morning. Tim clung to him when he said goodbye. ‘Don’t go, Daddy.’
‘I have to get back, darling.’ He picked him up.
‘Why?’ Tears welled up in Tim’s eyes. He stared at his father, his face right up close to his own. Hugh dabbed his son’s eyes with a tissue. ‘Don’t cry. I’m going to see you again soon.’
‘When?’
‘Very soon.’ But the boy wasn’t fooled. He started to cry, quietly, persistently, without let up. Kate took him off Hugh, but he couldn’t be consoled. As Hugh reversed down the driveway, she hated him for causing their little boy so much hurt. He just drives away and leaves me to cope. That’s what he’s always done. She wondered if he was going off to meet someone, maybe the person he’d been with after that funeral. She wasn’t sure now, looking back, that she’d ever really trusted him, and a lack of trust was hardly a good foundation for a marriage. All those nights he worked back at the office, and all those young secretaries. His assistant, Sarah, what about her? She was pretty – very young, but pretty. And Fiona, he’d always been close to her. Advertising was notorious for its promiscuity, and wasn’t that what the business was all about anyway – deception and lies? Hugh would be good at those. Lying and deception would come naturally to an advertising executive. She wondered how long he’d been deceiving her.
He hadn’t always been like that. It was only in the last few years that he’d changed. At the beginning, when they first met, he’d been different to any man she’d been out with. Decent was the word that best summed up that difference; he was a decent human being. He was less self-involved than other men she knew, more interested in her. She liked that, and the fact he was more worldly than her, and happy to advise her on so many things – finance, politics, culture, good restaurants, so many different areas. She knew nothing about any of these. Even her knowledge of art was superficial, whereas he could explain so much. And then, of course, there was sex. She’d been a little conservative in that respect, certainly more cautious than some of the girls she’d gone to school with. She could remember at least two of her classmates ‘going all the way’ with boys and being quite brazen about it; one of them even showing her a packet of birth control pills and describing in a very cool and worldly voice what a man looked like ‘down there’ when he was excited, and what it felt like when he was inside you. She hadn’t been a virgin when she started going out with Hugh, but she might as well have been. When she was twenty-two, there’d been that one man, Ben Shields, who’d done it with her, or to her, just as, she later discovered, he’d done it with practically every other girl in their circle. They’d only gone out a few times before he passed on to the next one, his next victim. Sex hadn’t been an awful experience, but nor was it particularly memorable or enjoyable. After Ben, she made the decision to save herself for someone special, conveniently blocking from her mind the fact that it was now a little late to do so. That special someone turned out to be Hugh. She went to bed with him before they were married partly because everyone she knew was going to bed with someone at that time, but primarily because she told herself that he was definitely the one. Not wanting to appear too innocent in Hugh’s eyes, she built Ben up a little, exaggerated his importance in her life, and said the sex had been ‘great, really good’. Yet she also told him, and was being totally honest when she did so, that Hugh was the best lover she’d ever had.
There was a time when he enjoyed being her guide and mentor. In later years he hadn’t been so keen on the role, but this was more likely because she’d grown tired of being his pupil, and had reached a stage in life when she wished to discover things for herself; forge her own path and form her own opinions.
This didn’t stop her continuing to believe in his dreams. He’d once had dreams. He never spoke about them, but she knew they were there. He was ambitious; not in an overweening, trample-everyone-else-underfoot kind of way, but with a definite desire to succeed. And she had no doubt that he would, despite her father’s lack of faith in his abilities. Her father had a problem with his son-in-law being in advertising, and never bothered to hide his belief that Hugh didn’t work in a real profession. Ergo, he was not good enough for his daughter.
‘It’s an occupation that has elevated itself to the ranks of a profession without ever having received the nod from any outside official body. It’s all nonsense, darling. Look at that Singleton fellow. I wouldn’t want him to be a member of my golf club, I can tell you. And those Saatchi brothers in England – Iraqi Jews, say no more.’ But he did – as if his thoughts on the matter had been bottled up for far too long. ‘One of them may be a Lord, but only thanks to that greengrocer’s daughter. They look after each other, those sorts. These advertising fellows are no better tha
n greengrocers themselves – salesmen. Everything falls off the back of a truck, and if it doesn’t then they do their best to drag it down to that level. Like Charles Saatchi and his art collection. It’s not art, darling, it’s commerce. He buys and sells art as if he was a stallholder in Petticoat Lane – which he could well have been at some stage in his life.’
‘Dad, I’m not going to argue with you about this. I don’t have a problem with how Hugh makes a living. I also don’t have a problem with someone who supports the arts, even if he does profit from it.’ It was her dearest wish that she could one day make money from her own art. If only Charles Saatchi would snap up some of her canvases.
Her father ignored her. ‘Those advertising fellows are no different to those upstarts in the city. Not stockbrokers, who belong to a long established and respectable profession. I’ve known some fine stockbrokers in my time. No, I’m talking about those finance people – dealers, I think they call them. Do nothing but shove money back and forth around the world, certainly nothing you could call productive. Yet they receive salaries and bonuses that are nothing short of outrageous.’
‘I’d have thought that being unproductive, as in not actually producing something with your hands, would be an excellent qualification for professionalism.’ Then added pointedly, ‘In your books.’
‘I’m not sure that I follow you, darling.’
His wife offered up an opinion, tentatively, as if torn between the desire to support her daughter and a reluctance to step out of line with her husband. ‘I think you’re being a little unjust, dear. I think some of the advertising you see on television is very clever.’
He snorted, looking quite scornfully at her.
‘Dad, the truth is, you wouldn’t have been happy with any man I chose. And that’s very sweet of you – believing none of them were good enough for me – but you’re not living in the real world.’
‘Not convinced about that, darling. That fellow you brought round for Sunday lunch once. Think it was a couple of years before you were married. Now he was a good chap.’