‘Let’s have a look, Mum.’ Fred, Laura’s reluctant garden assistant, thrust between his mother and the book, snorting mirth which turned to stunned silence when he reached the page starring Laura. There she was, riding piggy-back on Guy who, pale and etiolated as he then was, looked about to collapse with the strain. ‘Girls On Top,’ read the caption. ‘How to get your boyfriend where you want him and keep him there.’ Fred blinks and turns the page, still not speaking.
Imagining his silence to be respectful, awestruck even, Laura leaned over Fred’s shoulder and said mistily, ‘It was such fun. Do you remember the one where I had to pretend that plank of wood was my boyfriend and you came and challenged it to a fight?’
‘WHAT? You mean you did more of these love stories? Was Guy actually your boyfriend then?’ Fred dropped the annual onto the struggling broad beans and looked between his mother and Guy, his mouth slack with disbelief. Taking their silence as confirmation, he staggered back in mock alarm. ‘That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. I hope you didn’t tell Dad – he might divorce you when he gets back from America, it’s so lame.’ Fred’s tone was withering. Laura turned pink and glanced at Guy then away fast because he was looking at her.
‘Um, yes,’ confessed Guy, looking hunted. ‘Once in the dim mists of time Laura was my girlfriend.’
‘He can’t divorce me because we aren’t married, are we?’ Laura retorted, brushing earth and leaves off her annual and hugging it to her.
‘Aren’t you?’ asked Guy, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Er, no,’ said Laura, somehow wishing she hadn’t disclosed this information. And then, to change the subject, ‘Have you got any more? I’d love to get hold of the others and stick all the pictures in the loo or somewhere.’
Fred groaned faintly. ‘I can’t believe you’re actually going to have these where people can see them,’ he complained. ‘I’ve got to tell Dolly, she’ll go mental.’ He wandered away, shaking his head and muttering, clearly much moved.
‘I should still have the others somewhere,’ said Guy. ‘I’ll have a look.’ He dug his hands into the pocket of his jeans and looked at the ground. ‘Celia has been going through everything and taking all her stuff away, so I’m left with heaps of chaos I can’t really bear to sort.’
He looked so bewildered and so bravely bereft with the elbow of his jersey worn to a hole and his tall frame hollowed with shock, that Laura felt a lurch of compassion and smiled warmly. ‘I’ll help, if you like. I’m good at other people’s disorder – it’s just my own I can’t deal with.’
Chapter 18
Inigo’s hay fever is little more than a memory and a sodden handkerchief the next morning, which is maddening as Laura has planned to go and finish Guy’s sorting for him. The vigour with which Inigo yells, ‘What the hell is that pile of suburban shite?’ at the hissing and chiming of the Goblin Teasmade, leaves Laura in no doubt as to his mood. Admittedly it is seven in the morning, but Laura is always delighted to be served tea whatever the hour, and especially since finding this domestic classic in the attic at Guy’s house and making it her own. Inigo wraps a pillow tightly around his head and turns his back on Laura and the open window behind her, through which silver birdsong wafts in snatches and a whip of rose stem scrambles. Laura sips her tea, soaking up tranquillity and chatting to the silent Inigo. He’s not asleep, no one could be asleep with their hands almost knotted around a pillow wedged over their head, but he probably can’t hear her. Still, chatting in bed in the morning is the sort of thing couples should do, so Laura does it.
‘I’ve been helping this old friend Guy – you know, the one who looks after the goat for us – to clear his junk out.’ Inigo makes no response, Laura nudges him. ‘Well, I was helping him a couple of weeks ago anyway, although I never finished it, so I ought to do that.’ It is good to make it sound like a chore, Laura thinks. ‘And I’ve got to go to the village later this morning to sort out the table-top sale we’ve organised for next weekend, so will you be OK here with Doll and Fred?’ She looks hopefully at Inigo’s back. It quivers. ‘The sale is to raise money for the church, and I can’t believe how friendly and helpful people are being here about it. It would be a good opportunity to promote Guy’s organic business too, so I thought I’d make some leaflets—’
Laura stops, interrupted by a spine-chilling groaning sound from beneath the pillow and a tiny, muffled voice saying, ‘This is like a nightmare. When I went to New York you were my dream woman, sexy, clever, sharp, maternal – everything I ever wanted. All right, so you’re a bit clumsy and you don’t always remember useful things, but you were everything I loved.’
Well, you never bloody said so, did you? Laura thinks, biting her lip to stop herself yelling, ‘You are a sexist pig!’ as Inigo bursts from under the pillow, red in the face, and leaps out of bed, striding about stark naked, intent on his message.
‘And now look what’s happened. You’ve got this hovel here like a chutney Mary, and you’ve become a lesbian dog-lover type with Women’s Institute written all over your face and Do Gooder stamped on your bottom. I can’t stand it. You’ve probably got hairy legs. Now you listen to me.’ Inigo pauses and points his forefinger at her accusingly. ‘The only table-top stall you’re doing is an Allen Jones Private View for me in this bedroom and that’s that.’
Laura rolls her eyes and looks at the ceiling. Allen Jones, with his pneumatic rubber doll goddesses, has always been Inigo’s favourite artist when he’s annoyed with her. It’s not great listening to this sexist diatribe, although it’s quite funny watching Inigo marching up and down. If men want to be taken seriously then they must wear something, but this is not the moment to remind Inigo he has nothing on. There is a screech of brakes outside as the postman stops by the box at the gate. Inigo grabs a towel and wraps it around himself.
‘And who is this guy Guy? Fred showed me that My Guy annual.’ He stops, and says with feeling, ‘My Guy, for Christ’s sake. You could have done Penthouse or something decent.’ He glares at Laura again and restarts his pacing. ‘I know perfectly well that Guy is that bloody farmer from your past you used to go misty-eyed over. What are you doing minding his business for him when my studio is covered in dust and you haven’t asked one single question about the show in New York? That hideous dog of yours is more interested in my work than you are. At least he walked around my portfolio. You just bloody tripped over it. You’d better watch out or you’ll be so dug into Norfolk mud that you can’t get out.’
It isn’t helpful, but Laura begins to laugh. Inigo in his bath towel, ranting his way around the room, throwing the odd look of loathing at the Teasmade, is so very comical. Laura has never found his tantrums particularly threatening. She is used to men with mood swings, and in fact, she is increasingly sure that the energy of Inigo’s temper is the energy he harnesses for work.
She runs through the list of things she wants to achieve this weekend, trying to find something for Inigo to do which will take his mind off the affront of Guy’s table-top sale. Tying up the roses? No, Fred is doing that; he promised because he kicked a football into the most overblown one and it collapsed on top of him, and Laura feels it is important that he should be the one to put it right again. Looking after Grass? Well, that’s supposed to be Dolly’s job, time-shared now with Guy who leaves notes with cartoon drawings of himself pushing Grass up the hill to his farm, or messages purported to be written by Grass complaining about the facilities in his yard. This chore was forced on Guy a few weeks ago by Hedley’s behaviour. Bored with banging in fence posts for her field when he wanted to be off with Gina, up for the weekend to stay with him, Hedley announced one Sunday afternoon, ‘Actually, I don’t want to be responsible for this goat any more when you’re not here. I’m going to have Grass butchered.’
‘You can’t,’ protested Laura.
Dolly burst into tears and rushed from the room screaming, ‘You’re a heartless bastard, Uncle Hedley, and I’m going to become a vegetarian from
now on.’
Fred, hearing her as he came in, shook his head in amazement, and held up his ferret until he was looking into her glistening black eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Vice, I won’t let that crazy veggie anywhere near you. She might spike your roadkill with tofu mix.’
Laura, forced out of her most enjoyable perusal of a plant catalogue by Dolly’s slamming and sobbing, sighed, steeled herself and rang Guy to ask if he knew a goat sanctuary Grass could be sent to. Guy’s suggestion that he could time-share the goat himself was one of rare nobility. ‘And if we get bored of each other I can put her in that paddock Hedley made you,’ he had pointed out.
It is hard, Laura admits to herself, dressing with out speaking and carrying the Teasmade past the glowering Inigo, to keep him on the pedestal he likes to occupy, when others are acting with so much more generosity of spirit.
By the time Laura has given everyone breakfast, and helped Dolly make an outdoor milking parlour for Grass, the morning is half over. Guy telephones,
‘Hi, Laura, I’ve finished sorting the junk; I thought you were probably a bit too busy to fit it in. I’ve been up all night making plans.’
He sounds brittle and not himself. Laura takes her phone upstairs and looks out of the window at her vegetable plot bright with marigolds, borage and vivid green pyramids of peas, trophies from a plant sale for a neighbouring church.
‘What’s the matter, Guy?’ She notices she hasn’t removed the labels, and wanders out into the garden, still on the phone.
He laughs wildly. ‘Oh, Celia has won. She wanted to keep the name of the business – my business – for her disgusting sugar-beet potions. She’s done what she hoped to – she’s taken something that matters hugely to me, just out of spite. I’ve got to find a new name and frankly, I’d like to jack it all in.’ He sighs, miserable and bitter.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Laura, and something inside her deflates, leaving a sense of loss that makes her want to sob.
‘Anyway, I’m going out to Greece for a bit to look at some farms there. I’ll see you in a few weeks. I’ll miss you, Laura.’
Laura switches off the phone, and walks back to the house, not liking the gloom that has settled on her with this call. What should she do now? She’s been pretending it’s fun to be useful, organising this table-top stall, when in fact it’s been fun to hang around with Guy. If only Inigo would take more of an interest in what she has done here. Guy understands; and Guy is leaving. Inigo just doesn’t care about the Gate House as a place. Nothing exists for Inigo unless it’s related to his work. With a pang of guilt she recalls his cry that she isn’t interested in his work any more. Keen to make up for this, Laura sets off down the road to find him. He has been gone for some time, armed with a digital camera and a notebook. She meets him on his way back; Inigo is bouncing with good humour.
‘This is good,’ he shouts to Laura. ‘The village is so primitive. The inhabitants are so friendly.’
Laura winces. ‘You could just call them people,’ she suggests.
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous and politically correct,’ he roars. ‘Now then, let me have a look at this milking business.’ He marches over to Dolly, who is browning her back in a purple halter neck while Grass stands in the shade of a large silver canopy. ‘That’s my light reflector,’ protests Inigo.
‘I know, it’s really good for getting a suntan,’ grins Dolly.
Instead of making a fuss, Inigo crouches to film Dolly’s hands as they flex around the long hot udder. ‘God, it looks like a pair of those bloody sweet potatoes, or maybe brown parsnips,’ he mutters. ‘It’s the weirdest shape I’ve ever seen.’
‘Poor Grass, don’t listen,’ says Dolly, who has entered a halcyon phase with Grass since she stopped being shut in her shed and became a free, laidback goat with a field.
Later, Inigo finds Laura harvesting a row of salad leaves and dreaming of opening a salad bar in the village with Guy.
‘It’s great,’ he says, stepping over her neatly edged beds to hug her, all the fury of the morning forgotten now. ‘I’ve got a new project. It’s called Nanny State and it’s opening with the milking shots really close up. I’m going to explore udders, breasts and milk.’
‘Oh are you? Great!’ says Laura, speaking enthusiastically to hide her guilt, and actually thinking it sounds a bit kinky at this early stage.
‘Yes. It will be my entry for the National Academy Award this year. Where’s Hedley? I need him to take me to look at some cows’ udders.’
Chapter 19
Thrusting her feet into a teetering pair of heels, Laura winces. It would appear that her feet have put on weight during the summer. She wriggles her toes and, for good measure, her bottom, and stands on tiptoe in front of the mirror, leaning forwards to try and see her whole reflection. The top bit, her face, is fine, but Laura is uneasy about everything else. The black chiffon dress she has chosen is meant to wrap over, leaving a delectable cleavage and the occasional flash of leg, but no amount of wrapping in either direction achieves the desired effect; Laura is either entirely exposed as if she is wearing a porn star’s nightdress, or hidden up to her chin with suffocating fabric.
How can this be? Last time she wore it, it worked. That was the summer evening she and Inigo drove to London for dinner with Manfred. Laura was reluctant on that occasion because she was discovering the joy of jam-making, a form of cooking which seemed so different from creating meals that she lost her inhibitions and entered into it with gusto and success. That success has clearly not rolled over into dressing, Laura thinks crossly now. Pulling the ties, turning herself sideways, holding her stomach in, she observes her reflection critically. It’s no use, the dress, chosen because it is her celebration outfit, has sensed her doubt. It will not fall into place for this party and persists in making her look like a folded pancake.
Inigo’s selection as Artist of the Year by the National Academy will be announced this evening at a party in an old test-tube factory in East London. Inigo already knows the result because Jack, his agent, had a mole in the selection committee, and has used this knowledge to ensure television coverage of the announcement and the beginnings of a sponsorship contract for Inigo with a rubber company. Even now, Inigo is sitting in a limousine hired by Jack, heading for the party along with Carl the rubber magnate and his long-legged blonde assistant who, now Laura comes to think of it, was wearing a successfully draped wrap-around dress with tassels falling provocatively across her thighs as she wriggled up to make room for Inigo in the car. Laura wonders, belatedly, what they do with their rubber.
Inigo, suave in his giant fly dark glasses, managed to shake hands and appear urbane climbing into the cream leather interior of the car, despite Zeus, who escaped from the house and hurtled to the car to join his master in keen pursuit of fun and adventure. However, Zeus failed to achieve the necessary momentum to get him into the car, and could only stand on his hind legs, tongue lolling, pleading to be lifted in. Laura, in her dressing gown getting ready, ran out to fetch him, biting the inside of her cheek hard to stop herself giggling at the absurd spectacle of so much power confounded by so little a dog. Inigo and his entourage drove off with much back-slapping and the clamping of large wet mouths (Carl’s and Jack’s) around cigars. Laura is very glad to be travelling separately and hopes to be able to find the announcement of Inigo’s triumph properly thrilling by the time she gets there.
To be frank, the news that Inigo has won a giant silver-plated painter’s palette and a lifetime’s free entry to any of the Academy’s shows doesn’t thrill her to the soul. It is not, after all, the first time that Inigo has received this particular accolade; indeed, the palette from his previous success ten years ago would still be cluttering up the basement had Fred not added it to the jumble of items at the table-top sale a few weeks ago in Norfolk. Venetia Summers’s mother Araminta bought it, as far as Laura remembers, for one pound fifty, to give to her friend the vicar.
‘Rev Trev will love this,�
�� she had enthused, handing over her money to Fred. ‘It’s like a communion plate but bigger. I think there could be a chance that he’ll use it for the collection on busy Sundays. I don’t suppose you’ve got a lovely goblet to go with it, have you? So nice for a drop of wine now and then.’
Laura smiles at the memory and has to force herself back to the present and Inigo’s big celebration. With every new success, the gulf between them is widening. Inigo’s world is his work, and it is no longer Laura’s. He was always going to be extremely successful, and Laura thought that was all she wanted. For a while, Inigo’s work defined her as much as it did him. But now satisfaction is increasingly to be found in her vegetable garden. She is even beginning to enjoy cooking; it creates such a good send-off for the things she has grown to be praised and then eaten. Inigo himself admits that Laura’s broad bean soup is peerless.
She peels off the wrap dress and wriggles into a plunging, saucy milkmaid outfit with a low-cut bodice and frills around the hem. Made of bright yellow and pink floral crepe, it is jaunty and rustic-looking. Inigo loathes it because it is not streamlined and elegant; Laura loves it because it is cheerful and makes her feel curvaceous, like Betty Boop. The addition of a coat should stop Inigo making unpleasant comments.
Leaning into the mirror, Laura drags a crimson-dipped brush across her bottom lip and closes her mouth to stain the top lip too. She can summon little enthusiasm for the evening ahead; it would be a lot more fun to be going to the pub in Crumbly with Guy and Hedley and having a game of pool. Probably with Araminta and the vicar. Laura blinks at her reflection, and picks up her bag from the small chair beneath the window. There is a thump on the bathroom door and muffled cursing; it is Dolly.
‘Mum, Mum, Fred’s hogging the computer looking up ferret rubbish. He’s been doing it for hours – can you come and get him off?’
In the tiny pause where Dolly draws breath, Laura answers, ‘No, I can’t. I’m going out.’
Green Grass Page 19