by Judy Astley
‘I’ve been totally conned, that’s what. And the worst thing is, it’s all my own fault,’ Sara admitted. ‘Vanity and . . . OK, just stupid, ridiculous vanity. It got in the way of common sense.’
‘Doesn’t it always!’ Will chuckled. ‘There’s not one of us could swear that a bit of flattery doesn’t make the heart beat faster. What did you do? Do you want to tell me about it? And what’s all that about the name thing?’
Sara felt bad. She’d probably overreacted but she couldn’t help it. Mindy was quite a fun woman – they could have been good friends if this had worked out, and now she’d let her down badly by pulling out of the exhibition in a complete strop and taking her paintings back home. A little bit of her felt she’d behaved really childishly, like a small boy who takes his football home because the other kids won’t let him be in goal. If Ben had only been honest, she might well be in the gallery now, possibly even with Conrad to help her, talking about the best way to hang the exhibition. Why did all the seductive stuff have to happen? What kind of silly, girly idiot had he taken her for? She didn’t quite like to dwell on that, because when push came to shove, a silly, girly idiot was exactly what she’d been.
‘I’ve been a total fool. An absolute mug. The simple awful truth is, I met someone. I liked him. He liked me. Correction, I thought he liked me. I liked it that he didn’t know me as wife of. It made a difference, you know? I felt . . . that it was about me, for once. It felt good not to have him asking about what Conrad was like to live with, stuff about the celebrity portraits and so on, because people always do in the end. However much they start off as my friend, there’s always that curiosity. It’s usually fine; it settles once people work out that he’s just a normal bloke who likes to drink beer and watch Manchester United, but with artists, it’s a bit like rock stars but somehow more extreme. People think they’re other, as if they know some secret meanings to life that the rest of the population don’t, secrets that only come out in their work but must be lurking in their heads. It doesn’t occur to them that a painter just might be a bit fond of colour and brushes and the smell of turps, and that if their stuff sells then they might know perfectly well that they’ve got away with finding a fun way to make a living. It isn’t always about some mysterious “soul” thing.’
‘Oh darling, that was quite a rant!’ Will was laughing at her. ‘You’ve been building up to that one for a while, haven’t you? You barely drew breath!’ He squeezed the van past a bus on the Chiswick roundabout and swore under his breath at a motorcyclist plaiting his way too fast through the traffic. ‘So who was he, this man who liked you for you? I’m intrigued. Are you telling me you’ve been having a thing?’ He stopped the van at the lights and turned to her. He looked, she thought, rather as if she’d told him Santa wasn’t real. Shocked, maybe (am I so goody-goody, she wondered); but also rather excited.
‘No. Yes. No, not a thing, as you put it. I just got a teensy bit infatuated for a very short while, that’s all. Like a girly crush thing. It did seem to go both ways, though. Pathetic, isn’t it?’
She could hardly expect him to say no it wasn’t, she thought. She wouldn’t be saying anything about it if she didn’t also realize that Conrad had worked out exactly the truth of the situation. She wasn’t confessing to anything that wasn’t apparently blindingly obvious to both her husband and her mad sister.
‘God, I’m such a fool,’ she sighed. ‘Don’t take any notice of me, Will. I’ll be back to my normal self soon.’
‘Are any of us our normal selves when we get a bit swept away?’ He looked a little sad. ‘Don’t imagine it’s only you, darling. Bruno had a bit of a pash a couple of years back. Same sort of thing, a crush on someone he worked with. He thought it was mutual too, but it turned out the chap in question was about to get married and was playing out his last am I/aren’t I gay thing before the big day. He decided he wasn’t – I think it was left over from something he’d liked in boarding school. We got through it. I think it’s all right, really. Some people, ones like you and Bruno, they only stray within the fences. If you didn’t know you had something very secure at home, you wouldn’t feel safe having a wander. It would be way too dangerous.’
Sara laughed. ‘Is that right? Most people would say that if everything was ticking over perfectly OK at home, you wouldn’t ever go looking for anything else. But I wasn’t looking, I really wasn’t. Some things just come and bite you.’
She was pretty sure these were almost the exact words Marie had used about Angus. At the time, it hadn’t even remotely crossed her mind that she’d ever be using the same ones herself. How much more would it have taken for her to have been back in that Selfridges lingerie department, checking out silk knickers, but for herself, this time? She liked to hope it really wouldn’t have come to that. Now she wondered if she knew herself at all. A little flattering attention and she’d proved she was almost anybody’s. Maybe it was her age, after all.
‘You might not think you were looking, but you know last time we went out you were very concerned about Conrad. You thought he was going loopy. No wonder you jumped at the first chance of a bit of comforting distraction. I know I laughed about it at the time, but I probably shouldn’t have. Is he all right now?’
Sara thought for a moment. ‘ “All right” is probably close enough. When I’ve gone home and faced him with what’s happened today, then we’ll see. I’d so love to put the moment off. I’m teaching a bit later. I think I’ll go and hang about in Richmond for a bit. See if Stuart fancies a pub lunch, maybe.’
‘Look, we’re only round the corner from mine. Why don’t you come and have a sandwich and then go straight to work after? That way you won’t have to face him, or Stuart – because frankly you’ll be no company for him – with this till you’ve recovered a bit.’
‘Thanks, Will. You are a love. You don’t judge me and you . . .’ Her voice was giving way here. He patted her hand in between changing gear and pulled the van up in his driveway in a cute road just off Kew Green.
‘Of course I don’t judge you, Sara. It’s the casting the first stone thing, isn’t it? And besides, I’m a great believer in not saying “Ooh I’d never do that” about whatever it is, because sure as anything, the next minute you find yourself doing exactly the thing you swore you wouldn’t! Come on, I’ve got some fabulous Brie and some weird stripy chichi tomatoes. They were massively expensive, très designer. You’ll love them.’
Sara’s phone rang while she was in the middle of telling Melissa that yes, any liquid would do for interpreting the theme of Water, but she really thought it would be a good idea to think about it more before deciding Coca-Cola was easier, simply because she had the right shade of brown on her palette.
‘No, I know water’s colourless, but it does reflect,’ Sara pointed out.
‘But I can’t paint, like nothing? Can I?’ Melissa had poured water into a glass and was staring at it. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be much of a picture, would it? It would just be whatever’s around the actual water. I don’t think it would work. Not unless I went out and painted the river or something, boats maybe, or perhaps someone’s bird bath.’
‘You can’t do a bird bath. I’m doing a bird bath,’ Cherry chipped in crossly. She’d brought several blurry photos of her own garden water features, of which there were several, and she had passed these snaps round the class, telling them that her husband had been a keen admirer of Ground Force when it had featured Charlie Dimmock. He seemed to have added to their sixty-foot oblong patch just about every kind of fountain, bird table and spouting cherub that a garden centre could offer. Today, she had chosen to paint a grey fake-lead bowl with a dolphin leaping awkwardly, as if it had just realized it was going to land on something painful.
‘It doesn’t mean no one else can paint a bird bath.’ Pamela Mottram pointed her charcoal at Cherry. ‘It would be like saying that because Van Gogh painted a sunflower, that was it for everyone else. No flowers. You’re just being greedy. You do what
you like, Melissa. Take no notice of her.’
‘Actually, he did irises as well. And other plants. Fields and fields of them.’ Peter the Pedant said. ‘Not that it matters. We’re not on flowers this week. Unless you count the water in a vase. That might work. It could be nice and murky, Melissa, then you wouldn’t be painting nothing, as you call it.’
She knew it would be Ben before she even looked at the caller display. There was always the option of simply switching off, but she’d only spend the rest of the day running through in her head all the possible things she could have said to him. She made a gesture to Pamela to indicate she’d be just a couple of minutes, and went into the corridor. It smelled of school out there, which seemed appropriate, as she was feeling very like a silly fourteen-year-old just now.
‘Ben. What can I do for you?’ she said.
‘Sara! What happened? You ran out on Mindy! Why?’
‘Why? You ask why? Because I feel conned, Ben. I feel as if you were using me. Using the Blythe-Hamilton connection to launch your wife’s gallery. Why didn’t you say what you were up to?’
‘Because . . . well possibly because I thought you’d do exactly what you did. I promise you . . . truly, I didn’t set out to trick you.’
‘Did you always know who my husband was?’
The short silence said it all. He didn’t say ‘No’ quite fast enough.
‘No. I didn’t know for a while,’ he finally said. ‘But . . .’ his voice went low, seductive. ‘It was too late. I’d already fallen for you by then. And don’t tell me you . . .’
‘I can’t deny I’ve been a total idiot, but then you knew just how to appeal to my vanity, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘I should have known. I can’t believe I was so naive. You’re a journalist – all you had to do was google my name and it would come up as Conrad Blythe-Hamilton’s wife. And what about your wife, Ben? Where does “divorce” figure with the possibility of having a baby with her?’
‘Now I never said I was actually divorced.’ He sounded cool now, too cool.
‘No – that’s true.’ She thought back. He’d been quite careful with wording, hadn’t he? ‘Look, I think it’s goodbye, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I won’t pretend it wasn’t fun, being with you. I just feel a bit let down and it was all so unnecessary, you know. If you’d been straight with me from the off . . .’
‘If I’d been straight with you at all, we’d have missed some lovely moments,’ he said softly.
She could feel tears threatening again. She mustn’t let this happen, mustn’t let him get to her. You couldn’t stay friends with someone who used you like that, so it had to end on a bum note, not a good one.
‘Bye, Ben. And good luck with . . . well, everything. Enjoy Alma’s cottage.’ That was another thing; if only he didn’t live so close . . .
‘Ah . . . it was only rented, Sara. That was something else that you’d assumed – I hadn’t actually bought it. Caro and I are going back to Brighton.’
‘Right . . . well. Then goodbye.’ She hung up. And went back into the classroom. Conversation, thankfully, was still buzzing. They were doing fine without her input. It was quite restful, Sara thought, having them argue among themselves like this. Restful in that she could mooch about in her own subdued thoughts, but also unexpectedly exciting. They were so very involved in all this, she realized. Very stimulated by it. They deserved someone teaching them whose attention hadn’t been wandering in quite the way hers had. All their hard work, what was going to happen at the end of the term? Would they all just go their separate ways and forget about it? Pamela would go on to do a Life Class, possibly. She wouldn’t drift away. Melissa might do basic pottery, might not come back at all. Some of the other older ones would go on to the Next Thing, cheerfully embracing anything from line dancing to basket weaving, anything to keep them feeling that they were active and involved. They needed, here, something to bring them together at the end, to give them a chance to show off what they’d achieved with her, but for themselves. If she couldn’t have an exhibition, they could. She’d organize it – that was what the college entrance hall was for.
In the canteen at the break, Marie, leaning on an old ski pole for support, hobbled over to join Sara on their usual tatty sofa.
‘I know I’m not supposed to be doing more than lying on a sofa watching daytime TV, but I’d set them a murder scene to write for homework and I couldn’t resist coming in to take the class. Mike gave me a lift in. You should see what they came up with! Talk about gory – there are now one or two I wouldn’t go home on the bus with, that’s for sure. And it’s always the ones you least expect . . . Hey, you look a bit down,’ she said. ‘Love’s old dream getting to you? I hope you’re still having fun because I’m not, well not with Angus, not any more. I’ve given up on adultery. I called him in the end, told him it was fun but. We knew where we stood. Or lay, in our case, tee hee. How could I have been such an idiot as to risk what I’ve got with Mike? He’s been so brilliant since the foot thing. I’m going to treat him to my new underwear. I don’t know why I didn’t run it past him before, as it were.’ She was very sparkly, very cheery. Sara wondered if she’d ever feel like that again.
‘Mine’s over too. Bastard was conning me all the time.’
‘Oh. Well, frankly Sara, a certain amount of conning is always going to happen in Adultery World, isn’t it? Someone’s always going to be doing some cheating. You on Conrad, me on Mike. Angus on Mrs Angus. Doesn’t it go with the territory? Mind you, although it’s cheating, it doesn’t have to be ill-natured.’
‘No, I was being used. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Not now though, I’ve got an exhibition to organize. Not the one I told you about, one here. The art department is going to have an end-of-term show. I know they have before, but this is going to feature my very amateur lot.’
‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out, the man thing. But then you’ve got lovely Conrad, who adores you. We’re very lucky really, aren’t we?’
‘True. Some might say almost to the point of smugness!’ Sara laughed. ‘And it’s taught me a couple of things. I’m not quite as unfanciable as I’d assumed, just because I’m a bit older than I was. That teenage-type buzz was lovely while it lasted. Just . . . horribly wearing and horrible for poor Conrad, because I can’t kid myself he didn’t realize. I haven’t faced him yet . . .’
It was almost a repeat of the fairground day. After work, Sara left the college and there in the driveway once more was Ben’s Audi. The music this time was Aerosmith. She’d told him she liked that. Hearing it as she approached, she felt irritated, as if he’d set a stage for something and was playing to a pathetic sentimentality that he assumed she had. She didn’t want to see him, but it was going to be impossible to walk past the car and ignore him. He saw her and stepped out, into her path.
‘Ben, I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘Oh come on, Sara, please don’t be like this. Let me give you a lift home? Or we could go for a drink by the river . . . like that first day?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Ben. I don’t really think we can be friends, do you? Let’s just leave it.’
‘But don’t you think you’re being just a tad oversensitive here?’ He was looking very sure of himself, very much as if he was the one doing her a huge favour that she’d be an idiot to pass up. It was more than a bit annoying; it bordered on completely infuriating.
‘Look – what is it you think we’ve got? A romance? No. I can’t do that. I’m married. Happily married. Like you.’
One of his eyebrows went up, disbelieving. ‘Oh really? And how did your “happily married” thing come into play when we were rolling on the bed in Ikea?’ He was too close to her. She wanted to push him.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ she told him. ‘Now I’m going home and probably on the bus, thanks.’ She moved to go past him but he grabbed her arm.
‘Let go of her. Sara? Shall I take you home?’ Conrad’s Mercedes pulled up alongside th
e Audi. Pamela Mottram, walking past with Peter the Pedant, stopped and commented, ‘Good heavens, Sara, you do have an exciting life, don’t you?’
‘Conrad! Fantastic, let’s get out of here!’ Sara pushed past Ben, shoving him hard against his wing mirror. She hoped it had caught him in a very uncomfortable place. She climbed into the Mercedes and Conrad sped away from the college grounds.
‘Will came round,’ Conrad said. ‘He brought your paintings back.’
‘Did he say anything?’ she asked, feeling mildly sick.
‘He did.’
Conrad’s face wasn’t giving anything away. Sara hardly dared breathe. Was this going to be the end? She hadn’t exactly been thoroughly unfaithful . . . and yet she sort of had, in the smaller ways Conrad would consider truly disloyal. He pulled up in their home driveway and looked at her.
‘You are a pain, Sara. You’ve scuppered all my plans.’ He sounded sad, defeated.
‘What? What plans?’
‘My plans not to get to my seventieth birthday.’
‘You weren’t really serious, were you? About that? Once you said you weren’t ill, I thought you were just . . . oh I don’t know, attention-seeking or something. Just being . . . you!’ She felt a massive, terrible dread. He had been serious. She realized that now. He’d planned to leave her. She’d been diddling about having a minor fancy for someone and he’d been planning a forever exit. Which of them was the more disloyal here?
‘Whether I was serious or not doesn’t matter any more. I can’t go now, can I? How could I leave you to be preyed on by twats like that Ben bloke? I had him sussed the second I found out he was a fucking journalist. He’s been stringing you along. As you discovered.’
‘Yes, well. I’ve been a complete idiot.’ Sara wondered how many times she’d said this today.
‘We can all be idiots, Sara. I think I’ve been more than a bit of one lately, as well. Shall we call it quits?’