Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  She let her eyes linger on the artist, who was deep in conversation with his neighbour, and so unconscious of her scrutiny. She was imagining him in bed with all three wives – not separately – together; aware that she was blushing as the pictures grew more vivid in her mind. Before she met the artist, she had never been so blatant. If she’d thought of sex at all, it was fuzzily and vaguely, like out-of-focus snapshots in blurry black and white. But recently those childish snaps had changed to video – dramatic adult movies in flagrant Technicolor. She couldn’t understand it. She was living very chastely in the studio. Christopher had made no real advances – just touched her hand occasionally, or caught her by the hair; teased her sometimes, called her Rosabella if she was bemoaning some small pimple, or her lack of curls and curves. But he had never propositioned her, never asked her out; rarely lingered on beyond five or six o’ clock, but returned to his own pad.

  Yet, even when he’d left for home, she was aware of him, obsessed by him, found herself lying hot and sleepless, thinking of his wife – or wives – not just curious idle thoughts, but jealous and resentful ones, like those she was experiencing now, as she watched his hand slide slowly down Felice’s naked throat, pretending to admire her amber beads. He’d never touched her neck like that, but then she didn’t have a cleavage, or unusual antique jewellery, or a designer dress so daring it revealed more than it hid.

  ‘I hear you’ve got a panel in the ‘‘New Horizons In Glass’’ exhibition at the RIBA.’ Felice’s voice was husky, a sensuous suggestive voice, more suited to the bedroom than the dining-room.

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’ The artist’s tone matched hers, as if they were discussing something intimate, not a public exhibition.

  ‘Alan Younger told me. He’s exhibiting himself.’

  ‘So are you coming to the private view?’

  ‘No. The rotter says he’s been limited to just a dozen guests, and by the time he’d included all his hangers-on and family, there wasn’t room for friends.’

  ‘Well, come as my guest, Felice.’

  Jane forced her eyes away, started forking in mange-tout, now cold and almost slimy. She disliked their soggy texture, but it seemed rude to leave them on her plate, as well as half her pheasant – as insensitive and rude as Christopher was being. He had invited a mere stranger to the private view, while excluding his assistant. She had seen the invitations – including one at Isobel’s – made her interest crystal-clear, yet had still not been included. He was exhibiting his scarlet bird, the one trapped inside a room, which was doubly trapped in a packing-crate in the shed just off the studio, waiting to be taken up to London. There were still three weeks to go till the exhibition opened, but if he started asking every casual female he encountered in that time, there would be no room left for her.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ John Howard smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m … still eating.’

  ‘Most of us do both at once.’

  She tried to animate her face, match his breezy laugh; tensed in shock as his hot and clammy hand suddenly landed on her thigh, as if he wished to change the sex-talk still smirching round the table into practical reality. She stared down at her plate, her whole body braced and rigid. How could she remove the hand without offending him? He was one of Adrian’s clients, an almost-billionaire, who bought up thriving businesses as casually as other men bought beer or razor blades. If she drew attention to the hand, she might embarrass Adrian, anger Christopher. She took a sip of wine to hide her face, moved her leg a fraction; felt his hand grip tighter as she tried to edge away. The hand began to flutter; stroke slowly, slowly, up and down her thigh, squeezing it, exploring. She gulped more wine, could feel the claret burning in her throat, flooding down her body to the thigh, which seemed to scorch and sweat, sticking her and John together. She used her own hand to try to nudge his off, but he caught the hand and snared it, started fondling that as well.

  She fixed her eyes firmly on the table, dared not look around her. People might be watching, not just the other guests, but the three young girls whom Adrian had hired to cook the meal, and who kept trooping in and out with plates of extra vegetables, new supplies of wine. They had made her feel self-conscious from the start, since they were roughly her own age, yet were waiting on her, serving her, as if she were just as grand and monied as the other, older guests. She’d felt she should jump up and join them in the kitchen, get stuck in to the washing-up, or help them with the cooking. One was hovering right behind her, offering petits pois. She had completely lost her appetite, but she took a generous spoonful, since it provided an excuse to tug her hand free, then kept it busy pronging up tiny fiddly peas. She swallowed the first mouthful, then turned to speak to Colin, who was sitting on her other side, asked him what he did – anything to distract herself from those hot intrusive fingers.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m a rather dull accountant in a very boring firm. Though perhaps I was a pirate in another earlier life. Or maybe an astronomer – a biggie like Copernicus. I’m reading this fantastic book …’

  She tried to concentrate. John’s own thigh was pressing close to hers, his expensive calfskin shoe wooing her cheap canvas one. She glanced desperately at Christopher, but he was totally oblivious, flirting still with Felice, drinking from her glass, offering her a cigarette, despite the fact that the others were all eating. Lighting it involved them in a ritual, he leaning over close again, peering down her dress; the lighter held too long, their twin smokes wreathing, fusing; joining them together in a hot and filmy haze. Felice touched his cheek, to thank him for the light, kept her finger on his face, coquettishly, possessively. Jane crammed her mouth with peas, to stop herself from shouting out, laying claim to Christopher herself. He wasn’t hers, though, was he? If anyone had claim on him, it was Mrs Harville-Shaw the Third, who was now winging far away from him in BA’s Business Class.

  Yes, she too was a businesswoman – not the artist she had once imagined – though apart from her position as Marketing Director for a multinational food company, she knew very little else about enigmatic Anne. She had tried to pump Isobel, who had dismissed the famous wife as ‘not my type, but basically okay’. Jane had clothed her in a dozen different forms – darkly plain and angular, or a well-upholstered blonde; a seductive soft-voiced siren, or a nagging harridan. Though if she were genuinely seductive, then why should her husband be making such a play for Felice the instant she was gone?

  She watched him dribble claret from his glass into Felice’s, as if he were feeding her his life-blood. Jane snatched up her own wine, drained it in a gulp. Who cared about him, anyway? He had more or less ignored her the whole evening, courted all the other women, his eyes scrutinising their faces with the passion of a painter, taking in their figures. They’d been attacking him at first, aggressive and condemnatory, but now they seemed his fans; even prickly Viv trying to prise him free from Felice, firing jokes and flatteries down his end of the table. Jane suddenly resented his energy and wit, his refusal to be tired, or behave with more restraint. He was at least three times her age, so why should he be firing on all cylinders, wowing all the females, when she herself felt jaded; even at this moment longing to excuse herself, creep away to bed? Adrian had disappeared already, summoned to the phone, but that was strictly business. There were still hours to go till bedtime – pudding, cheese and coffee to be served; liqueurs in the drawing-room, after-dinner talk.

  ‘You’re quite a greedy girl, you know,’ John Howard said admiringly, as she continued to stuff in peas and cold mange-tout. He lingered on the ‘greedy’, made it sound provocative, not an insult, but a compliment – one she didn’t want. He himself was eating with one hand, his other hand still busy. ‘I’m very glad to find a fellow gourmet. Food’s my second-favourite pastime.’

  She pushed her plate away, relieved to see the serving girls were now clearing off the dishes, bringing in dessert. There were several different puddings – chocolate soufflé, strawberry mousse, meringues,
and lemon sorbet – all frilled and swagged with rosettes of whipped cream.

  ‘Great! Some of each for me,’ said John, relinquishing his plate at last.

  ‘None for me,’ said Jane.

  ‘What, are you trying to show me up?’ smirked John, turning to the waitress. ‘Some of each for both of us.’

  She could hardly contradict him, when the girl had already heaped her plate with chocolate, pink and white, then whooshed on more whipped cream. A second waitress filled her glass with a new golden-coloured wine. She tried the wine, found it sweet and sickly; started ploughing through her puddings, more to occupy herself, shut her off from John, than from any sense of pleasure in their taste. She was more aware of smells, in fact – the insistent reek of garlic, which still lingered from the main course; John’s heavy cloying aftershave, which mingled spice and musk; his claret-breath as he leaned suddenly towards her, scooped a swirl of soufflé from her lip. His finger on her open mouth felt intimate and dangerous. Surely Christopher would notice – intervene, object? No. Christopher was holding forth to Felice, wooing her with words now, as well as wine and touch. Jane took a gulp of wine herself, kept both hands round her glass. The heavy fluted crystal would anchor her, at least; though she was nervously aware that her bladder would complain soon, and she’d have to find the loo. Yet how could she get up, interrupt the dinner, make herself the focus of attention? Almost better to endure John’s trespassing hand. She was amazed by his persistence, his basic bloody cheek. He must realise she disliked the hand, yet those feverish fingers were fiddling with her skirt-hem, even daring to slip under it.

  ‘No!’ she muttered, as fiercely as she dared.

  ‘You like it,’ John purred softly, as his hand explored the texture of her tights, inched slowly, damply upwards.

  ‘I don’t.’ She could see Viv staring at them. Their mutual whispering must sound most suspicious, as if they were conducting a flirtation sotto voce. ‘Get off,’ she mouthed, spooning in iced sorbet, in the hope that it might cool her down, reduce the burning scarlet of her cheeks. John appeared oblivious, merely offered her more sorbet from his own plate.

  ‘Greedy guts!’ he teased. ‘I’ve never seen anyone eat with such sheer gusto. And even when you hold your glass, you’re almost making love to it.’ His hand had reached her crotch now, was moving in and down.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said cuttingly. ‘But I’m afraid I need the bathroom.’ She kicked her chair back, bolted for the door.

  She stayed longer in the toilet than she needed, scrubbing her right hand, the one that John had fondled, as if to scour him from her body and her mind. She reapplied her lipstick, which she had eaten off with dinner, then walked slowly back along the panelled corridor. Adrian had six loos in his house – or so he’d been joking to his guests – but she’d deliberately chosen the one she’d used before, the morning of the storm, the one nearest to the chapel. She paused now outside the chapel door, pushed it open cautiously, saw Adrian inside, kneeling on the bare wood floor, a few feet from the altar. He immediately swung round, stopped her from escaping.

  ‘Come in,’ he smiled, rising from his knees. ‘I’m just grabbing a quick breather after a pretty hairy phone-call.’

  Jane said nothing. It seemed an offbeat way to use a chapel. He made it sound like a jacuzzi, or a gym – somewhere to refresh the flagging businessman.

  ‘I’m sure God understands. I often feel He’s a sort of Chairman of the Board Himself – making all the big decisions, and making them long-term; hiring, firing, doling out rewards or raps … Here,’ he said, gesturing to a chair. ‘Sit down and grab a bit of hush yourself. They won’t miss us for five minutes.’

  He closed his eyes, sank back on his knees, appeared perfectly at ease praying with her there, though she herself felt awkward, as if she’d come across him doing something shameful. How odd it was that full-frontal flagrant sex seemed more normal and acceptable in the relaxed and casual nineties than silent private prayer. She shifted on her chair, admiring his ability to kneel absolutely motionless, to change gear so emphatically from this world to the next. Yet she also felt put down, banished like an alien from that other, higher world; and wishing he’d communicate with her, instead of God. Perhaps it was her lot in life to be ignored by men – at least the ones she liked. She tried to pray herself, found she was addressing not God, but Christopher; begging him to listen, to ditch that devious Felice and concentrate on her, restore her to his favour.

  Adrian eased up from the floor, at last, his casual jokey tone contrasting with his previous prayerful silence. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better wander back, or they’ll imagine we’ve eloped together. Though, if I’m absolutely truthful, I’m not too madly keen on these occasions. And I suspect you’re not enjoying it any more than I am. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to ask you, especially so late on, but …’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘I was actually quite flattered.’

  ‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘Things always get more lively when Christopher’s a guest. Though I find it rather a pain when he keeps attacking my religion.’

  She mumbled some reply, felt disloyal discussing Christopher when he was unable to defend himself.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, Rose, faith’s a very personal thing – like one’s physical appearance, or one’s family, or kids, which it’s bad manners to disparage.’

  Jane glanced up at the angels sculpted in dark wood, tame impassive angels, compared with Christopher’s. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean it to be rude. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he once had a faith himself, but lost it or …’ She broke off in confusion, surprised by her own words. She had no proof of that at all, except he seemed to know so much about religion; appeared as much at ease with angels as if he’d been to art school with them; could talk about the Holy Ghost like other people talked about the milkman.

  ‘The problem is,’ said Adrian, pausing at the chapel door. ‘You can’t choose to believe. It’s a bit like love, in that respect. You can’t fall in love to order, or make people love you back.’

  Jane shivered suddenly as she stepped from the warm chapel into the dark and draughty passage. Adrian was right. Love was an elusive gift you could neither buy nor beg – the love of one’s own mother, who might kick you from your cradle, pass you to a stranger, like a useless piece of jumble. Or the love of someone you admired, who could ignore you all the evening. She continued down the corridor, following Adrian’s blue back. How strange it was that he’d said the same as Christopher – that you can’t believe to order – when the two appeared so different on matters of belief: Adrian a devout committed Christian; Christopher agnostic, still baffled, searching, open to all views.

  The phone was shrilling once again as they approached the offices. ‘I’m afraid I’d better pick that up.’ Adrian dived towards his desk. ‘It’s probably Tokyo. Make my excuses, will you, Rose – tell them I’ll be back in just a tick.’

  She nodded, guessed the tick might well be half an hour; lingered for a moment beside the small framed coloured etching by Chagall – Adrian’s new baby, which he had shown them when they first arrived, describing how he’d outbid all the dealers. He clearly had no problem coughing up the cash for it. Christopher had told her that in Adrian’s line of business, a typical transaction was worth a cool ten million dollars, and he could rake in a million profit on just one single deal. Yet what was the point of earning all that loot, when you never had the leisure to enjoy it? Adrian worked round the clock; had very little social life, apart from occasional dinner parties; often got up in the night to phone his contacts in Japan; didn’t smoke or drink or dance, and had used his ironically named leisure-centre a mere half-dozen times. Money ruled him like a tyrant, so Christopher had pointed out, never allowed him to let up or even delegate. And there was always the real danger of losing everything – not just his precious millions, but his house, his car, his nerve. She was surprised he clung to such a risky job; even more surprised that a man w
ho seemed so mild and easy-going (and had boasted he was lousy at maths) could somehow be a sharp hard-headed speculator.

  She mooched towards the dining-room, reluctant to go in; could hear Christopher pontificating before she’d even reached the door; Felice’s contralto embroidering his baritone with admiring interjections in a lower minor key. She had defended him from Adrian’s attack, yet here he was holding forth again, using his opinions as a form of crass seduction; Anne-Marie now adding her own descant, as he spouted some irreverent view to tantalise her.

  She stopped a moment, dithered, then doubled back the way she’d come. He wouldn’t miss her for another few brief minutes; probably hadn’t even noticed she had gone – not with all that heady competition. And if John Howard was concerned at where she’d wandered off to, then let him try his groping on some other willing thigh.

  She slipped out through the side door to the garden, the warm fug of the house giving way to raw and shadowed gloom; the smell of rotting leaves replacing that of expensive hothouse flowers. She wandered down the path, shoulders hunched against the cold; could hear the party chatter spilling from the dining-room, whose bright-lit windows spangled the dank grass. Even here, she couldn’t escape the artist; his laugh whooshing like a firework from the table to the sky. She looked up at the sky, the new moon so frail and puny it appeared to have fallen on its back, and was waiting for its mother to pick it up and comfort it; the stars faint and far away, as if they belonged to that strange higher world which Adrian could enter, but which was locked and barred to her. She walked on to the chapel, its windows dark, mysterious, the tall evergreens surrounding it seeming to point straight up to God. She could hear the stealthy breathing of a bonfire, its charred remains sighing into ash, its final smouldering flicker contrasting with the blackly torpid laurels. She stood, chilled and undecided, between the chapel and the dining-room – one silent, dark, ethereal, the other bright and raucous. The path divided at that point, so there were other, harder choices. Did she press on further still, to the dim uncertain stretches of the unlit, unknown garden, or return to the safe house?