One Day, Someday

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  Stefan nods gravely again. ‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘Uh-huh. I’m into your drift, here, Tia. We’re talking juxtaposition, aren’t we?’

  Ah! I know that word.

  She nods enthusiastically. Evidently she does too. ‘Exactly, Stef.’ Stef? ‘Juxtaposition it is. Which is where your paintings come in, of course.’ Paintings? What paintings?

  She spreads her fingers, and flicks them one by one. ‘I’m going weighted voile panels. I’m going canopy. I’m going minimalist window treatment. I’m going glass finials. I’m going light. I’m going shadow. I’m going maximum contrast. I’m going Utilitarian stroke Embarras de richesses. I’m basically going Jewel Colour, Tate Attitude. Yes?’

  Oh, yes. I see. Like it says on her pad.

  I don’t know what they are talking about.

  10.52 a.m.

  But my not knowing what they are talking about is obviously an irrelevance.

  After we’ve removed - sans Tia and Stefan, who have gone off to look at said paintings - every last vestige of the US eastern seaboard from Del and Ben’s bedroom and relocated it to the various rooms, gazebos and storage boxes that the Roomaround crew decide will best facilitate the unhampered progress of TV persons through dwelling (which has its own curious protocols and has already necessitated the temporary removal of Del and Ben’s front garden gate) we have to shoot the paint bit.

  The five tins - which have been arranged on some newspaper in the middle of the bedroom floor - are from one of those manufacturers who have cottoned on to the fact that people will often pay a little bit more if informed that the shade of their choice is an almost exact match to one that was last seen distempering the walls of a late Edwardian toilet in Chippenham. Tia, who has armed herself with a large screwdriver, bids us come and squat expectantly around them.

  ‘Right,’ she says, after someone important-looking called Sheena has irritably silenced the six other people in the room - who are scrubbing and sandpapering and barking each other’s shins with step-ladders. ‘I think you’re going to like this.’ She prises open the lids with deft jerks of her hand and smilingly - she already has a book out on the subject - exposes her colourist’s credentials.

  There are three shades of pink. One of purple. One of turquoise.

  ‘Lovely,’ I say.

  ‘Perfect,’ observes Stefan.

  Tia grimaces. ‘Oh, cut,’ groans Sheena.

  ‘I’m going to have to stop you if I may,’ she says, batting the man with the sound boom away and joining us on the floor. ‘The thing is, sweeties, we need a little more reaction.’ Tia is nodding her agreement. ‘Teensy bit of shock, perhaps? I mean, like you were expecting something a little quieter, perhaps? The odd expression of doubt and anxiety maybe?’ She nudges Stefan. ‘Conflict. The punters expect it, sweetie. Makes for better telly.’

  Stefan adopts a petulant expression. I am beginning to realize he sees himself as one of these people, and being called ‘sweetie’ by a woman with a light meter and a pencil in her hairdo does not make him feel very ‘in’.

  ‘But I like them,’ I say. ‘They will like them.’ In fact, Ben won’t much care as long as no one interferes with his aerial point, and as for Del, well, pink is so her. If it had occurred to Del to decorate her bedroom in chocolate wrappers I’m quite sure she would have. And she’s been very canny. She’s droned on about ‘naturals’ at every opportunity, in the confident expectation of a slick double-bluff. Looks like it paid off.

  ‘Well, whatever,’ says Tia, popping the lids back on again. ‘But you do get the drift, guys, yes?’

  11.07 a.m.

  ‘Ooh, I really like that one. Don’t you, Stefan? But I’m not sure about that one. It’s a little … um … bright, isn’t it? I mean, I know you can’t tell till it’s on the wall, but, ooh, I don’t know … hmmm … don’t you think - oh, my God! Oh, my GOD! Is that turquoise? I’m dead.’ Et cetera. This is really very silly.

  12.26 p.m.

  Lunchtime. And I have found a Welshman.

  ‘Oh, but you must know it! Just past Carmarthen. You take, let me see now, the road up to Pontwelly. It’s about five miles past Rhydargaeau, just south of where the Duad meets the Gwili. Lovely place. Just the one pub. And the chapel, of course. My great-great- uncle Trevor’s buried in the churchyard, as it happens. Dreadful bronchitis. Collier, of course. Finished up with lungs like two festering cess-pools. Enough phlegm to plaster a wall.’

  Lunch is in two sittings, presumably so we can’t get together and develop any mutinous tendencies, and we are to be the first. The van, from which a not unpleasant smell (up to now, at any rate) of gravy and onions is emanating, is staffed by a genial man in his sixties, called Frank, and a brace of young girls who look as if they’ve been misrouted from the Blue Peter studio. The menu is liver and mash or mixed vegetable mornay. I note that they very kindly microwave Stefan’s Tupperware box of couscous.

  But note it from a distance. Because Stefan is sitting on the bank with Tia Slater. And I am sitting with Will, who does the carpentry (Roomaround is big on carpentry) that is deemed not exciting enough to merit any footage, but that is nevertheless essential if Damon’s to have sufficient time to misinterpret Tia’s sketches, get bolshy with Kit and do phallic things with his jigsaw. Will, who used to be a set maker for the BBC, and who is a sort of session musician of the TV home-improvement world. Will, who needed me to come in his van with him, in case he got lost on the way.

  As did Tia, of course. It can be no more than a ten-or fifteen-minute stroll from my house to the sports field but as one is never too far from a shower in Cefn Melin it was decided that walking was too much of a risk factor. Tia, naturally, needed a navigator in her little yellow sports car, and Stefan was quick to volunteer. Her two-seater little yellow sports car, moreover. I’m not feeling very happy with Stefan right now.

  While I’m waiting for dessert, she slides across with their empty plates and helps herself to a cup of hot water, into which she dangles a little herbal tea bag that she has taken from a pocket in her toolbelt.

  My banana fetches up. She smiles a little smile. ‘Oh,’ she coos, ‘you put me to shame, you do, Lucy. And two roly-polys, please, Frank.’

  7.37 p.m.

  Do not care that Tia Slater has the hips of a twelve-year-old boy. Do not care that Tia Slater has a BAFTA for services to B and Q paint sales or whatever. Do not even care that Tia Slater has a way with a wood chisel that has grown men weeping. But care very much that she has developed an interest in the Abstract Expressionists. Because Stefan is now going out.

  ‘What, now? Where?’ I ask him, shocked.

  We had spent most of the afternoon painting. Del’s bedroom is now pink and purple with a smart turquoise dado rail, and my hair is similarly hued. At five on the button Sheena announced that they would ‘wrap’ for the day, and within thirty minutes every last one of them had gone. The house is now empty and quiet and cool, and though the whiff of gloss paint is almost all-pervasive, the scented candles I’m lighting will soon deal with that. I am laying the table. I have plans. I have planned our evening meal. I have planned our evening. I have planned our night.

  He looks at me guiltily as I blow out my match. ‘Back to mine,’ he says, and for a moment I think he means for the night. ‘But not for too long,’ he adds, hurriedly, obviously seeing my expression. ‘Just that I have to pick up some more board and paints. Brushes as well.’

  I don’t know quite what sort of creations he and Tia have planned for Del’s bedroom, as their discussions on the subject have not included me. But as they are to comprise the Tate Attitude component, I doubt they’ll be watercolours of steam trains or rabbits.

  He is fishing in his holdall for his bike light.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I chide. ‘I’ll drive you. It’ll take for ever if you go by bike.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, no,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worrying.’

  ‘No. I mean, I’d rather c
ycle. Need the exercise.’ How? Why? We have barely drawn breath all day. ‘And I might, well, try to pull something new together while I’m there as well. I’ve got a couple of unfinished canvases that I want to take a look at so …’

  All this for Del and Ben’s bedroom? Why? ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind waiting. We can eat later, can’t we? It doesn’t make any difference to me.’

  In fact, I am rather warming to the idea of spending a quiet hour or two back on Stefan’s lumpy sofa. Watching him work. Sipping something. Feeling slinky. But the expression on his face wipes the smile right off mine.

  ‘Look,’ he says. And his tone leaves no room for discussion. ‘It’s better that I go down on my own, Lu. Really. And the sooner I get away the sooner I’ll be back, won’t I?’

  ‘If you’d rather,’ I say forlornly. ‘I just thought …’

  He reaches out suddenly and pulls me to him roughly. ‘Come here, my lovely lady,’ he growls, hands clasped firmly against my bottom. ‘You,’ he says, ‘really don’t get it sometimes, do you? How on earth can I concentrate on work with you there, eh?’

  He shuffles me backwards till we meet the kitchen doorframe then kisses me hungrily for several minutes. The stubble on his chin scratches my face. His breathing becomes increasingly ragged and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to make love to me now, right here, against the door. But he pulls away. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘I’d better go if I’m going.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

  ‘I must. Don’t worry about dinner. Just keep yourself warm for me.’ He nods upstairs. ‘I will be back in an hour.’

  Thursday 17 May 7.48 a.m.

  I wake to the sound of raindrops pattering against unfamiliar surfaces, and wonder where I am. But when I open my eyes they are greeted by the familiar view from Del and Ben’s spare-bedroom window: the towering horse-chestnut, heavy with candles of creamy blossom, glossy leaves running with rain.

  I remember. Stefan. Of course. I turn my head. The bed is empty except for me, but there is an indentation in his pillow, and when I slide my hand across the sheet, there is a reassuring warmth. But not that reassuring. Where the hell did he get to? I track him down eventually in the garage. He is painting. Miles away. Doesn’t hear me come in. I’m fearful of speaking in case I make him start. I don’t want to make him cross. So I cough, very lightly, instead. He turns.

  ‘There you are,’ I say. I’m still in my Tigger nightshirt. I feel suddenly silly. ‘What time did you get back last night?’

  He had called me, just after nine, to apologize. Said he’d become rather engrossed but that he wouldn’t be much longer. I’d gone to bed, finally, at midnight, when my eyes wouldn’t stay open any more.

  He shrugs. ‘Don’t know. Didn’t look at a clock.’

  ‘You should have woken me.’

  He’s still painting. With small, dabbing strokes. The paint is the colour of blood. His hair is held back with a length of pink ribbon. ‘No, I shouldn’t,’ he says. ‘You were sleeping like a baby.’

  My first night in bed with a man for God knows how long. My first night in bed with him. And I didn’t even know he was there. And I was in a silly nightshirt.

  ‘This morning, then.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  I move across the garage towards him. The floor is icy beneath my bare feet. ‘I wouldn’t have stayed asleep for long, I can tell you.’

  He stops painting now and points the tip of his brush at me. ‘Is that so?’ His eyes move the length of my body and back. He winks. ‘Tell you what, then, why don’t you go make us both a cup of tea while I finish off here, and then we’ll take it back up to bed?’

  The doorbell goes just as the kettle starts whistling.

  ‘Lovely day for it, eh?’ observes Will.

  12.47 p.m.

  As it has stopped raining, I have been detailed to go into the garden and cut five shades of voile into what looks like the entire mainsail assemblage of a nineteenth-century tea clipper. I have been allocated the far gazebo, and have a sheet of not-very-helpful instructions from Tia: they are both obscure and obscured, having had a half-cup of coffee spilt on them. There are midges everywhere. The scissors aren’t sharp enough. The day is deteriorating fast.

  Tia is inside, filming with Stefan. A bit, apparently, on his paintings, about which everyone - everyone - has been droning all morning. I know this is accepted behaviour. I know TV people tell everyone everything is lovely all the time, but nevertheless it is getting on my nerves. I’m sure I shouldn’t feel like that. But I do.

  Africa trots across the garden towards me ‘How’s it going?’ she asks. ‘Tsk! What terrible slippery stuff this is!’ She scrutinizes the drawing and tsks again. ‘This is going to be the bed canopy, right?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘All these triangles and rectangles and so on fit together, do they?’

  ‘In theory.’

  She parks the drawing under a pin-pot and pulls a pair of scissors and a tape measure from her dungarees. ‘Typical Tia,’ she says, finding the bag with the purple voile in. ‘Never can do anything straightforward. You’ve to sew this as well, have you?’

  ‘Oh, I hope not. I’m completely useless with anything involving a needle and thread. I think she said she would.’

  ‘ I would, more like.’ She laughs. ‘Anyway, no matter.

  Sure it’ll look great once it’s up there. You think your sister will like it?’

  ‘Actually, yes. Yes, she will. For definite.’

  Her scissors slice effortlessly through the fabric in front of her. ‘And your man’s paintings? Quite a contrast, eh?’

  ‘Er, Del’s not really into abstract art,’ I tell her.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Me? Oh, yes. I love it.’

  1.11 p.m.

  I don’t know quite why I said that, because the first thing I see when I go back inside to track down the girl who put the sewing-machine to bed for the night is the red creation Stefan was working on this morning, propped against the inside of the front door. And it is just a red rectangle. That’s all. Big deal. Now the sun looks like staying it’s gone quiet inside. Damon is busy in the garden making the fretwork wardrobe doors that Tia intends backing with pink satin, and much of the crew have gone to shoot stuff at my house, before we all break for lunch. However, there is still activity upstairs. Someone, I know, is sorting out some concealed ceiling lighting, under which our patchwork canopy will go. I head up the stairs in search of sewing-machine clues.

  There seem to be people moving about in the loft, and as I mount the stairs I peer upwards hopefully. But then I hear something else. The sound of conversation in the main bedroom. It’s Tia’s voice.

  There is a large trestle just inside the open door, on which stands Del’s chest of drawers. So from my vantage-point, three stair treads from the top, I can only see her from the legs down. She is standing in front of the window, sideways, and Stefan is standing nearby. They are considering his paintings, obviously.

  ‘No,’ she’s saying. ‘I don’t agree. I think the Förg needs to go on the back wall. See the way the shadow falls there? That diagonal from the dormer? I think that’ll work better.’ I take a step, but then wonder if Bill and Co. are quietly filming, out of sight across the room. Best not to interrupt.

  His feet move back a pace. ‘Yeah, but here,’ he says, ‘you’ll get the benefit of the downlighter on it. Which, given that this is a bedroom, makes it a much more practical bet. Night, remember. People go to bed at night.’ He moves back to where he was.

  I hear Tia laugh. ‘In Cardiff they might do.’

  Stefan laughs too. ‘I meant mainly. I meant to sleep.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says, ‘but what about when they’re not sleeping, eh? You don’t think the right atmosphere - the right evocation, even - is every bit as important at those times too?’

  She takes a step in his direction and crouches in front of the painting. Suddenly I can see right to her shoulde
rs. Her corncob hair falls in a heavy loop down her back.

  Stefan moves too, crouches beside her. His jogging bottoms are doing him no favours, I note. ‘Oh, I’m all for the right evocation,’ I hear him murmur, standing again. He seems to be leaning to look out of the window. I see him turn. ‘But summer’s lease hath all too short a date …’

  Oh, my Lord. He’s at it. He’s bloody at it! I’m transfixed now. Horrified. Rooted to my stair tread. She says nothing, but stands up as well. Then they turn, face each other and sort of meet in the middle.

  There are no cameras here. No big furry boom head. I slip silently down the stairs.

  3.46 p.m.

  I have no evidence. No real evidence. I saw nothing - heard nothing - that counts as such.

  ‘Getting there,’ observes Africa who, true to her word, has spent the last hour turning the heap of voile shapes into a large swathe of shimmering colour. Tia and Damon are fixing it up now. Stefan is screwing crystal knobs on Del’s cupboards, and the room is once again full of people and coffee cups and step-ladders and mess. And I am trying very hard to be jolly.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ I agree. ‘Way, way better than I imagined it would.’

  Tia pauses in her pinning and glances down at me. ‘Shame on you, Lucy.’ She laughs. ‘You should have a little faith. You should trust me more. I’m a designer.’

  5.20 p.m.

  Funny to be back in my own house again. It feels like I left it ages ago. Africa, who is most insistent that we do not open our eyes until instructed to do so, shepherds us over the front step and into the hallway and has us wait with her there until the sound check is finished. ‘This is it,’ she whispers, squeezing my hand. ‘Bet you can’t wait to see it.’

  I’ve decided I really rather like her. I can hear Kit Davis-Donovan’s voice coming from the kitchen. I can feel someone brushing my hair.