‘Oh. Right. And I’m supposed to be pleased about that, am I? That my naked body is going to be slapped across all their brochures? That I’m Supine bloody Five?’
‘That is the title of the study,’ he replies loftily.
‘I know it’s the title!’ I bark.
He says nothing. I can hear him puffing again.
‘So?’ I hiss. ‘You wanted to speak to me. What about?’
‘About the documentary, of course.’
This was becoming tiresome. I couldn’t think of a single thing about it that would be of interest to me. ‘So?’ I said again. ‘What about it?’
‘Well, they want your number, obviously. So I wanted to check if it was OK to give it to them.’
‘Mine? Why?’
‘Because they want to interview you, of course.’
‘Interview me? What on earth for?’
Which is, patently, a very stupid question, as his little sigh of irritation suggests. They want to interview me about the carnality of the creative process, of course. They want to interview me about the erotically charged atmosphere that is inherent in the form. Obviously. They want to interview me, basically, about Stefan and me. They want to interview me about shagging.
Tuesday 18 June
Which pretty much puts the lid on things, really. Didn’t Tracey Emin crochet a tent or something, sometime? With all her sexual adventures embroidered in the lining? And didn’t some French guy make an installation once? Of tins of his own excrement, arranged in a pile? So is there a place in the art world for me? Somehow, I think not. Not that one, at any rate. Doesn’t matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, it turns out it’s not quite the world I imagined. And the thought of spending the next three years of my life holed up in a classroom (lecture room? studio? creative space?) with people like Stefan and his blobs and his supines is beginning to fill me with a nagging unease. I know it’s a generalization, and I know there are probably going to be plenty of perfectly ordinary people there, doing perfectly ordinary art, but how many? How many, really? For the first time since I embarked on my career as an artist, I feel like a dinosaur. I feel like I’m old. I don’t want to be made to feel old.
But before I can address the small question of my entire life-plan rethink, I have to address the more pedestrian matter of taking Joe to the hospital to have his plaster removed. As we sit at the lights on Allensbank Road, I realize that in less than a week I’ll be picking up my new car. Less than a day and he’ll be able to drive this one. I wonder what will happen in the meantime. Will I still borrow his? Or will he hire one for me? It will be strange not driving the big pussy any more. Strange and a little sad. Not so much because I’ve been given an opportunity to drive a car most people can only dream of. It is just a car, after all. Not a lifestyle. Not a life. But I’ve grown quite attached to it. It’s like a warm comfy armchair that just happens to move. I’ve driven a fair few miles in it now, and we’ve kind of got used to each other’s little ways. I even fancy that Joe has got used to me driving. At least he isn’t trying to do it for me any more. I curl my fingers fondly over the steering-wheel. The leather is soft and warm to the touch. The walnut behind it is gleaming.
I become aware of a sound. It’s Joe. And he’s laughing. ‘Hello-ee?’ he says softly. ‘Er … the light has changed, Lu.’
Joe, strangely, seems to have stopped being off with me. Although I haven’t seen much of him since I dropped him home on Friday, what encounters we’ve had have been increasingly confusing. He has been talkative. Friendly. Normal, even. I am sure this is partly because he has heard from his insurers that his precious no-claims bonus is safe after all (this is of some significance - I have seen his premiums), but even so, I’m not sure I like it. It makes me anxious again.
‘By the way,’ he says now, as I pull into the drop-off bay at the outpatient entrance, ‘I talked to Iona earlier. She’s back in tomorrow, so I—’
I pull on the handbrake. ‘Iona? Back in work? Already?’
He nods. ‘Dai came home yesterday. All’s as well as can be expected. She doesn’t want to take any more time off. So—’
‘But how? I mean, doesn’t she have to stay home and look after him for a while?’
‘I’m sure that in an ideal world that’s exactly what she would be doing. But she needs to get back to work, doesn’t she? It’ll be weeks before Dai’s fit enough to work again himself - assuming he even wants to, which is by no means certain - so she needs to get back.’
‘But surely she wants to be able to take—’
‘And no. She’s not interested in taking any more time off, Lu. I have offered her that option, and she’s going to reduce her hours. Do three mornings a week. It’s what she wants to do, Lu.’ He looks at me pointedly, as if to forestall my disapproval. Am I really such a bag? Am I really so judgemental?
‘Joe, I wasn’t—’
‘Look,’ he says, turning in his seat and checking his watch, ‘I’d better get to my appointment. But the point is that I’ve - well, I’ve got to go to France again on Thursday, and as Iona’s going to be back, I was wondering if—’
‘Thursday?’
‘If you’d drive me there, yes.’
I stare at him, confused. I don’t recall him mentioning this before. But then I realize why not. Of course. His arm. ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘You’re just about to have your plaster taken off. You can drive yourself there, can’t you?’
But he looks sheepishly at me. ‘Apparently not. Not for another week. I have to give it time to settle before I start using it properly. I’ve got to have a couple of sessions of physiotherapy to build up the muscles. Anyway,’ he goes on, ‘it’ll be just the one night. I know it’s going to be a hassle for you, but it is fairly important, Lu.’
‘This Thursday?’ My heart does a little jink-a-jink, quite without my permission. Which makes me feel all cross with him again. ‘Joe,’ I retort sternly, ‘it’s hardly fair, is it? I mean I can’t just expect Del to drop everything and look after Leo again for me. She might be busy on Thursday. She might—’
‘I know, I know, I know,’ he agrees, nodding. He has, I note, adopted a rather baleful expression. An expression I assume is designed to carve a little chink from my own stony one. And he changes tack. ‘Jean Paul won’t be there, if that’s what you’re worrying about. It’s the Blois survey,’ he adds, as if to convince me. ‘And, like I say, Lu, it is fairly important. Very important, in fact. Please?’
‘But couldn’t you fly this time?’ I suggest. ‘Couldn’t I take you to the airport or something? I’m sure I could manage that.’
He climbs out of the car. His plaster has become rather raggedy over the weeks, and the edge where it meets the base of his fingers is fluffy in places and moulting. I wonder what sort of shape his arm will be in when it’s released.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ he concedes, crouching down to speak to me through the open passenger door. The sun is behind him and his face is in shadow. With his dark brows and white teeth and the scar, he looks like he should be on the high seas. ‘I could fly,’ he agrees. ‘Of course I could. But I’d rather not. I can’t speak French, can I? Look, the thing is, I have to spend some time with someone pretty important there, who does speak some English, I’ll admit, but who most of the time I can’t make head nor tail of, and, well - would you at least think about it? Would you at least ask Del?’
I watch as he strides off towards the outpatient entrance, broad-shouldered, purposeful. And then he swivels suddenly, and jogs back towards me. I slide down the window and look enquiringly at him. ‘Almost forgot,’ he says, fishing in his trouser pocket. He pulls something out and passes it to me. I take it. It’s three packets of Pokémon cards. ‘For Leo,’ he says. ‘I was in the sweet shop this morning. They’d just had a new batch in. And I remember you telling me they’re like gold dust, so I thought I’d grab him a couple of packs before they all go.’
I’m so touched by his thoughtfulness that I don’
t know what to say. ‘Oh, he’ll be thrilled, Joe,’ I manage. He taps his hand on the car roof and moves away again, waving.
‘See you,’ he calls out. ‘And don’t forget, Lu. Del.’
I drive on to my class feeling all agitated again. It’s the last Impressions of the Impressionists tonight, and I had imagined this point as being something fairly special. The end of my apprenticeship back into study. The end of the springboard. The take-off point for my brand-new career. Instead, it just feels like any other Tuesday. I don’t seem to care much any more.
We’re in the museum again this evening. To do the whistle-stop tour that I recall Stefan mentioning a few weeks back, of our impressions of the works we’ve been studying this year. I’m still half an hour or so early, and there’s a heavy shower looming, so I go inside to look around for a while.
Almost without meaning to I find myself at the far end of gallery sixteen, drawn, as ever, to my favourite picture, letting it coax me into its exuberant planes. And, as always, marvelling at its strong, vibrant colours. Feeling awed by its richness, its compelling sense of place. The way the characters in it are so brimming with life and vitality. What are they running away from exactly? I wonder what the artist decided as he painted it. Did he have some idea of where they were running to? Did he have a plan for them? A happy ever after? I do something I’ve not done before. Not on my own. I sit down in front of it. Cross-legged on the floor. For a moment I’m lost in silent contemplation. But when someone else wanders in, I feel silly and self-conscious. I can’t even do that without feeling out of place. And I find myself wishing I was back in Joe’s house. Just me and him, and this beautiful painting. The man and the woman, hand in hand, in the foreground. Which one is which? I’m quite sure Joe would know.
And even surer that Stefan would have some half-baked, metaphysical, nonsensical views about it. Interpretations that would be completely at odds with my own. After class finishes, I go straight down to the cloakroom, leaving him to accept the fond farewells the class are anxious to bestow upon him. I wonder if it’s like this every year. The nubiles and hopefuls all got through slowly, leaving, come term end, just the male and the elderly, and the ones he’s got lined up for seduction next term. And as if by magic, once that thought has occurred to me, I’m joined by Cerys, pink and breathless from her jog down the stairs.
‘Did you hear?’ she says, in reverential tones as she unloops her jacket from the coat stand. ‘Stefan’s going to be on the television.’
I push my arms into my own. My cynicism is beginning to dismay me. ‘Is he?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says excitedly. ‘He just told us. They’re doing a documentary about him. Oh, we’re so lucky to have him for a tutor. I’m definitely enrolling for Renaissance, Renaissance next term. Are you? I’m sure it’ll be really exciting.’ She hefts her heavy bag under her heavy arm. ‘Did you see that article in The Times last week, by the way? He’s got one of his paintings in that new Oxo club in Cardiff Bay, you know. It’s mega.’
I don’t bother to correct her. I even think I prefer it.
‘And there’s been lots of interest in him,’ she prattles on breathlessly, as we make our way back out to the stairwell. ‘It’s going to be on BBC2, you know. And not just BBC Wales. All over Britain.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s nice. You’ve seen the painting, then?’
She nods enthusiastically. ‘Not the original. But there was a picture in the article. He’s so talented, Lu. We’re amazingly lucky to have him.’ I nod. So why worry, eh? She hasn’t noticed. She hasn’t noticed it’s me at all, and we’ve been sharing gallery space for months now. I mentally strike it from my list of things to fret about.
We take the stairs back up to the main hall and start heading across it. I go to push the revolving door but she lingers. ‘Oh. Not going just yet, then?’ I ask her.
‘Nah,’ she says, looking faintly uncomfortable. ‘Not yet. Err … meeting someone. You know.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Well, I’ll see you around, then. Best of luck with everything.’
‘Oh, you too,’ she says happily. ‘Good luck with college.’
Outside the museum the sun is still high in the sky. But a lot of rain has fallen: the pavement is strewn with wide puddle mirrors, in which high raggy clouds scoot through deep iris ponds. The air is humid and thick and smells intensely of leaves. I breathe deeply. It makes me feel a little light-headed. I look back to where I’ve come from. And there they both are.
Arm in arm, giggling. Supine Six, then. For certain.
Good luck to her, I think. Good luck to both of them. I feel suddenly, unaccountably, free of it all.
Except freedom, like Welsh cakes, is sooo overrated. One bite and you find yourself thinking, This it? Thanks to my father’s legacy, I have sufficient money in the bank right now that I could do pretty much anything I want to. Anything. Take Leo on a six-month tour of every theme park in America if we felt like it. Or a world cruise. Or we could build an extension. Or buy a new house. Or a holiday cottage in Tenby, like Del has. But I don’t feel like it. I had everything planned and now, all of a sudden, I’m not even sure I should have left teaching. At least there I had a framework to rail against. At least, as a teacher, I could daydream a bit. Now I’m not even sure what I’m dreaming for, really. The notion of ‘Doing Art’ seems rather pointless.
‘Well, I think you should embark on a career as a nude model,’ suggests Del. As it’s such a lovely evening, she’s insisted that Leo and I stay for supper, and while Ben footles round the kitchen making kebabs for a barbecue, she has fetched out some deck-chairs and made up some Pimm’s. She pours me one, lobbing in big nuggets of fruit. I want to hug her. ‘You could put an ad on the university noticeboard,’ she goes on. ‘Sure you’ll get loads of enquiries once the TV thing goes out.’
‘Stuff that!’ I retort. ‘I told him exactly where he could shove his bloody TV show, I can tell you. As if! No. I’m going to get an OU prospectus and have a bit of a rethink. The courses don’t start until February, so I’ll have plenty of time to decide what to do. I think they offer an arts foundation course. I might do that instead. Or something else, maybe. We’ll see.’
She graciously doesn’t make a told-you-so face at me. ‘And in the meantime? What happens when you finish working for Joe? Are you going to get another job of some sort?’
I look across the garden, to where Leo and Simeon are sitting cross-legged on the lawn with their carefully catalogued piles of cards. ‘Some sort’s about right. Oh, I don’t know. I’m not going to worry about it for the moment. I’ve decided I’m going to book a holiday, actually. A proper holiday. Just me and Leo. I’m going to blow a disgraceful amount of money and take him to Disneyland.’
I imagine Leo’s face when I tell him we’re off to Disney at long last. Life’s been a slog for him too. In all sorts of ways. The idea of doing so makes me feel suddenly excited. Why didn’t I think of it before? Why? Such a little treat, really, but he’d never even asked. And I, all the while, was so busy with my grand schemes, my grand plans - with me, in fact - that it never occurred to me he deserved a few too. I feel overwhelmed with love for my son.
Del nods. ‘That sounds like the best idea you’ve had in a long time,’ she observes. ‘You could do with a break. You both could. And you’re right. What’s the rush? You may as well just sit tight at JDL and bide your time till you’ve made some decisions. Lily’s not due back till the autumn, is she? And you’ll have your new car next week and everything will get back to normal. Or what passes for normal in your case, at any rate.’ She grins. ‘I’m sure Joe would be pleased.’
‘Which reminds me,’ I say, as if I’d forgotten, ‘Joe’s asked me if I’ll drive him to France again.’
‘Well, that’s nice,’ she says. ‘When?’
I take a sip from my glass. It tastes of summer and green lawns and weekends and birdsong. A happy drink. I swallow some more. ‘This Thursday.’ I sigh, recalling Leo’s gift.
‘But I wish he hadn’t. I don’t want to go.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because I don’t. It’s a hell of a journey, Del. And besides that, it’s really not fair on you.’
‘But there’s no problem with Leo,’ she says. ‘I’ll have him for you. You know I will.’
‘I know. You’re an angel. But it’s not the point.’
‘And you love driving.’
‘That’s not the point either. I just think that the sooner I extricate myself from the situation with Joe then the sooner I’ll be able to get my head together.’
She laughs. ‘The day you get your head together pigs will start sprouting wings. Besides, you have to.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. It’s what he’s paying you for, isn’t it? You did agree to the job in the first place, after all, Lu. Seems a bit mean to let him down. It could be something really important.’
I nod. ‘He says it is.’
She sips her own drink and considers me for a minute. Then says, ‘Extricate sounds a bit dramatic. Why extricate, exactly?’
‘Because it’s doing my head in.’
‘Hah!’ she says. ‘You sound like a fifth-former.’
‘I feel a bit like one. I’m all jumbled up about him and it’s bad for my health. Chin-chin.’ I raise my glass and take another gulp of Pimm’s.
Del does likewise. ‘Only because you won’t do anything about it,’ she says.
‘What’s to do? It’s a complete non-starter.’
‘Because of this Jeannine woman.’ It’s a statement, not a question.
‘Partly, I guess.’
‘Wholly. I know.’
‘Actually, no. It’s not just that, Del. I mean, yes, that is a big factor from my point of view. But …’
She shifts her weight in the deck-chair. ‘Why is it a big factor? Either he is or he isn’t seeing her. What difference does it make? Does that not make him eligible? Have you decided you’re only dating virgins these days?’ She’s smiling, but there’s an edge of exasperation in her voice.
One Day, Someday Page 29