Move Over Darling

by Christine Stovell

  ‘You okay?’

  Since her good luck fairy had clearly taken the day off, it wasn’t surprising that her wish to be alone so that she could bury her head in a pillow and cry her eyes out hadn’t been granted, either.

  Ruby, dressed to go out in tight leather trousers and a short, white tee shirt, stopped checking her hair in her hand mirror to give Coralie the full benefit of her bright, beady-eyed gaze.

  ‘I’m still trying to decide,’ Coralie said, taking off her evening shoes and sitting on the sofa bed next to her. There was no point at all in rushing into the bathroom to change when it was obvious to them both that she was still wearing the clothes she’d gone out in. ‘It’s been a night of seduction, conflict and tragic resolution.’

  ‘That Carmen, it’s a hell of an opera,’ said Ruby, padding out to the kitchenette and returning with two cans of Coke. ‘What about you and Gethin?’

  Coralie choked out a laugh and pressed the cold can to her cheek. The shock stopped the laughter spilling into tears. ‘He’s giving up on the portrait and donating a painting to the charity auction instead.’

  Ruby chewed her gum, thoughtfully. ‘He’s not finishing the work?’

  Got it in one, Coralie agreed silently. Finishing work clearly wasn’t Gethin’s strong point. ‘He’s got the exhibition to think about now. That’ll keep him busy.’

  ‘He’s always busy,’ Ruby said cheerfully, stretching her legs and admiring the black nail varnish on her toes. ‘There are a lot of beautiful women to paint in Manhattan.’

  Boy, did that make her feel good. Coralie plucked at her dress whilst her blurred vision cleared. Since she had company she’d have to wait until she was in the shower to cry her eyes out now.

  ‘And by the time he’s finished painting them, he’s sick of the sight of them,’ Ruby added, strapping up her studded gladiator sandals, before picking up her jacket. ‘Don’t look like that,’ she said laughing at Coralie’s disapproving expression. ‘It may be an intense relationship for a short time, but it’s only paint. It’s not love or death. He’s not inviting anyone into his studio promising them a big white dress, two kids on the porch and a happy ever after.’ She seemed to be about to leave but stopped and cocked her head on one side. ‘So he’s really not going any further with your portrait, eh? That’s different.’

  Inside the smart Chelsea gallery that evening, Coralie was surprised to find Ruby had been looking out for her.

  ‘I can always say you had a headache or something,’ she suggested.

  Coralie shook her head and swallowed hard. She almost preferred the rude Ruby incarnation to the one suddenly taking pity on her; perhaps clearing up after Gethin outside the studio as well as inside was one of her regular duties? She was brazening out the evening in her favourite peach-printed cocktail dress and kitten heels. All she had to do, she thought, whipping out her compact mirror, was to retouch her painted-on coral smile. Gethin might have drawn a line under their relationship, but she was determined to make her exit in style.

  Her courage nearly deserted her when she looked around the stark room and saw what everyone was wearing. Any colour within the range grey to black seemed to be the dress code for the evening, she noticed, wondering how many variations of grey there were and feeling like a fruit display in her brightly coloured dress. If Lady Gaga was going to put in an appearance, as Ruby had suggested, she would certainly liven the place up.

  Ruby grabbed a drink from a passing waiter and handed it to Coralie. ‘Get this down you quick,’ she advised, watching her with a trace of pity. ‘I’ll see what’s happened to Gethin.’

  Coralie decided it would be better to soak up the paintings, rather than draining her glass. Even if her relationship, if it could be called that, with Gethin was a non-starter she hoped that his work would leave a lasting impression. Would his style have altered much since the surreal glamour of Last Samba before Sunset? And which of the pictures, she pondered, would he send to Penmorfa’s Hall Management Committee?

  But, as she moved round the room, it occurred to her that she would probably have felt more comfortable back in a boardroom discussing figures than taking a view on the kind of figures before her now. Where were all the abstract paintings when you needed them? With every beautifully depicted curve of back, buttock and breast Coralie yearned for a landscape drawing to break up all the flesh.

  ‘Oh, look! A brown painting,’ she overheard a well-dressed elderly lady confide to her young male companion. ‘I’m looking for a brown painting to go in the new apartment.’

  Coralie examined the brown painting and noticed a pattern emerging through the umber, cinnamon and walnut tones. It was a bit like looking through a wooden blind, because the artist was looking through a wooden blind at …

  ‘Oh my!’ exclaimed the elderly lady, spotting it too. ‘Am I looking at someone’s ass?’

  Having wondered if it was fair to form a true impression of Gethin as an artist from the ubiquitous reproductions of his most famous painting, it seemed to her that the works on display were quite lazy, as if Gethin had taken the easy route and returned to the same old theme. No wonder he’d found her difficult to paint. Plenty of people seemed to like them though, since the gallery was becoming increasingly full. And with the buzz of so many fans clamouring to talk to him, Coralie judged she had all evening to frame a tactful opinion.

  She was just beginning to relax when a row of fashionably thin women parted like corn waving in the breeze, only the force parting them was Gethin strolling towards her.

  ‘Coralie! Thank God, you’re here!’ He took hold of her arm and started to steer her away. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t come. Can we talk?’

  ‘Don’t wander off, Gethin, you’re wanted,’ said a glacial-looking, Grace Kelly look-alike, grabbing his elbow.

  Again, thought Coralie, feeling somewhat mollified when he shook his arm free and stood his ground.

  ‘Laura, this is Coralie Casey, my guest from Wales. Coralie, Laura Schiffman, Pamala Gray’s Senior Director.’

  ‘How lovely to meet you,’ Laura chimed, scanning her face, presumably against a mental check list of the great and good on the guest list, then turned back to Gethin. ‘Pamala would like to speak to you. Now. You will excuse him won’t you, Coralie?’

  That rather suggested she wasn’t on the VIP list.

  ‘Let me walk you round instead,’ Laura insisted, erring on the diplomatic side, just in case. She dragged Coralie away, whilst Gethin, his mouth set in a tense line, marched off the other way. Two attractive gay men waved to him as he passed.

  ‘Show of hands,’ she heard one of them say, as a young woman walked in wearing a black gown that revealed most of her ample assets. ‘Do we think those are for real?’

  ‘Gethin’s spontaneity is unsurpassed,’ said Laura, pointing at a turgid-looking painting of a bored couple. ‘Everything he turns his gaze towards transcends the ordinary.’ She kept rubbing the back of her hand where a rough, red patch of skin was blooming angrily. ‘Must have exhausted everything in Duane Reade trying to fix this one,’ she said, seeing that Coralie had noticed it.

  Coralie fished in her bag and found a small pot of her Happy Hands cream. ‘Try this,’ she said, offering it to her, ‘it’s very gentle, mainly beeswax and almond oil, but it’s very soothing.’

  The other woman looked doubtful. ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘I make them myself,’ Coralie added, meaning to reassure her but seemingly causing further alarm. Laura smiled bravely and rubbed the tiniest amount on her sore hand. No doubt it would be washed off as soon as she could get to the ladies’.

  When Gethin reappeared, he was engulfed by well-wishers. Although he caught her eye several times, he never quite seemed to be able to extricate himself for long enough to talk to her. In a way, it made it easier for her to remain detached. What was there to talk about now? Apart from the charity auction? Her only worry, judging from the number of people at the reception, was that the exhibition migh
t be so successful that all the paintings would sell.

  Ruby appeared, flushed with heat and excitement, but her face dropped when she saw that Coralie was on her own.

  ‘I’ll text Gethin from the airport tomorrow. Don’t disturb him now, he’s still busy,’ said Coralie, staring at his back whilst the next potential candidate to commission a portrait flicked her long hair at him.

  Ruby looked so tearful when she opened her arms to give Coralie a stiff hug and wish her well that it almost set her off, too. She was pushing through the crowd when Gethin grabbed her arm.

  ‘Just hang on, will you? My driver will take you home.’

  ‘What, all the way to Penmorfa? He must have quite a car.’

  Gethin’s brow creased and he swore softly under his breath. ‘Look, I know I’ve messed up really badly,’ he said, following her towards the door. ‘I’ve never been unable to paint a woman before. I was scared I was losing my touch.’

  ‘Your touch is fine,’ she assured him. ‘But your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He bent his head and seemed to be struggling for words. ‘Please wait. When I’ve finished here, we’ll find a place to talk.’

  ‘About what?’ she said, feeling her chest tighten. ‘This is as good as it gets. You live here and I live in Penmorfa. There’ll never be a place for us.’

  He let out a long sigh and stared at the ceiling and when he looked at her again, the blue-black eyes were wretched.

  ‘What?’ She caught her breath.

  ‘Try not to think too badly of me when you look back on this.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Coralie gave a short laugh and was surprised to feel her anger slipping away. How could she remain angry when he’d turned the key and given her a glimpse of what life could be like without the fear and guilt?

  Smiling, she reached up to hold him for one last time. ‘I’ve finished looking back. From now on, I’m only moving forward.’

  She closed her eyes as his warm, rough jaw touched her cheek and kissed him goodbye. No looking back, she reminded herself. And kept walking.

  Someone was making a heck of a racket in his head, thought Gethin, coming to on the sofa where he’d cosied up with a bottle of Jack Daniels the previous evening.

  ‘Open the fricking door!’ someone was bellowing. Ruby; he’d recognise her dulcet tones anywhere, but how had she got inside his head? He levered himself up and then wished he hadn’t, especially when the hammering went on. A door chain rattled, more distant, but still loud enough to set his teeth on edge. Then another voice, a deep juicy drawl, added to the cacophony.

  ‘Hey, lady! Keep the noise down, will ya?’

  Gethin groaned; the apartment opposite belonged to a now-reclusive actress who’d been a huge Hollywood star in the eighties. Whilst the actress had withdrawn from public life, she and her minder regularly starred in his. Generally it was via a billet-doux from his landlord, accusing him of some imaginary infringement of his tenancy agreement. Occasionally, like today, the minder would put in an unwelcome cameo appearance and invite him or his guests to remain silent on the landing, or tiptoe on their way out down the stairs. When the time came to move on, Gethin was going to buy himself a vuvuzela and play them a farewell salute so they’d always remember him.

  ‘Butt out of this, buddy,’ Ruby snarled, ‘before I give you something to complain about!’

  ‘Oh yeah? That’s really funny! Come on then, surprise me.’

  Okay, that was enough. Ruby could talk the talk but the guy across the corridor was built like a truck and the medical bills would be enormous. For the guy. Gethin got up, opened the door and pulled his bristling assistant in before she got carried away and started swinging punches.

  ‘How dumb are you?’ she roared at him, making him wince.

  ‘Not so dumb that I pick a fight with a guy three times my size.’ He grinned.

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ she sneered, trying and failing to push her face in his, ‘I forgot. You like to humiliate them into submission, don’t you?’

  ‘Eh?’ The Jack Daniels wasn’t helping him here. He edged his way back to the sofa and lay back and looked at the ceiling as if it could give him a few clues as to why Ruby was so mad.

  ‘You moron!’ Ruby threw off her khaki jacket and sat down heavily beside him, cruelly bouncing the springs. The tee shirt she was wearing proclaimed her to be very, very happy. The one that said she was very, very mad was probably in the wash. ‘You know, snubbing Pamala Gray in her own gallery was a terrible idea.’

  Gethin would have shaken his head only it hurt too much. He had done that, hadn’t he? But when the art dealer had clicked her fingers at him to get his attention, as if he was one of the waiters, just as he was beginning to realise that Coralie had walked out of his life for good, he was damned if he could switch off and obediently come to heel.

  ‘But, hey, I guess when you’re a big shot, you can afford to behave badly once in while.’

  Gethin breathed out. ‘I’ll send flowers.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Ruby snorted. ‘So what are you going to do about Coralie?’

  ‘What did you want me to do?’ He wrenched himself up. ‘Propose to her?’ Self-disgust was making him tetchy.

  She shook her head, and the white spikes of her hair quivered. He had some sympathy with them. ‘You dragged the poor woman all this way on some flimsy pretext about painting her portrait and you didn’t even manage that?’

  ‘It wasn’t working,’ he said flatly. ‘She wouldn’t relax; what kind of portrait will it make?’

  Ruby sneered at him. ‘Hey, you’re the one with all the talent; don’t blame the sitter. Or maybe you were so busy trying to get her to relax, that you lost sight of the fact you were supposed to be painting her.’

  Gethin shuffled under her intense scrutiny, trying to get physically if not emotionally comfortable. ‘I tried the usual tourist stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, sex and the city – but not the official tour, right?’

  ‘I liked you before you turned into my mother,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Your mother would be ashamed of you!’ Ruby said, her voice shaking. ‘If you’d used your eyes last night you’d have seen how brave Coralie was being and taken pity on her. What the fuck were you thinking of? Couldn’t you see how much she was hurting? Or maybe you were too busy thinking about the f—’

  ‘Careful!’ he warned.

  ‘Well,’ she remonstrated, ‘anyone could tell she wasn’t like those other women, the ones who hope you’re going to screw them when they commission a portrait.’

  ‘Don’t.’ His head was hurting too much to listen to this stuff.

  ‘Or what?’ Ruby shook her head. ‘You’ve been running away from getting involved all the time I’ve known you. Anyone would think you’re afraid of making a commitment. Then someone comes all this way to be with you and you let her slip through your hands.’

  ‘The only thing I know I’ve got in common with her is Penmorfa and we can’t even agree about that! Nothing flourishes there except gossip and that includes Sweet Cleans. I’ve seen more incomers fail at their idealistic attempts to start a new life in the country than you’ve had hot dinners. I’m right about that business, you wait and see.’

  ‘Gee,’ she said sarcastically, ‘that’ll keep you warm at night. What’s wrong with you? You’re not getting any younger, you know. You’ll end up a lonely old man.’

  Like his father. Gethin narrowed his eyes at her. ‘When you’ve quite finished chewing my ear, there’s a hot shower waiting for me.’

  Ruby sniffed at him. ‘Yeah, and you could do with it, too. You’d better freshen up because it’s gonna be a long day.’

  Gethin raised his eyebrows. Pamala Gray, he supposed. And a large slice of humble pie.

  Ruby looked at him beadily. ‘Have you seen what the critics are saying about your show?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  In her parents’ house in Surrey, where sh
e had broken her journey for a few days, Coralie smiled as her mother returned to the living room with a box of chocolates. ‘I must say, darling, it’s been lovely having you back,’ Susan Casey said, sitting next to her.

  Coralie leaned back against the deep cream-and-gold cushions. It was a comfortable room: soft neutrals with touches of gold and pale pink, tasteful landscapes on the wall and Carol Klein’s Life in a Cottage Garden bookmarked on the glass coffee table. She ought to at least try to relax. A quick phone call to Alys should have taken care of her immediate concerns and staved off some close questioning. And yet … No, it wouldn’t do to dwell on what wasn’t to be. Coralie made a conscious effort to make the most of her brief respite. She watched her mother affectionately, noting that she’d added a few copper lowlights to her regular colour as a nod to what was once flame-red hair.

  ‘It’s been very quiet since you’ve been gone,’ Susan said, laying one hand lightly on Coralie’s knee.

  ‘I’m not dead,’ said Coralie, the sudden almost-tears spilling into a splutter of laughter. ‘And I’m only a drive away.’

  ‘A long drive,’ her mother said reproachfully. ‘Your dad finds the motorways tiring now. We’re neither of us getting any younger.’

  ‘Mum, you’re fifty-four and regularly attend Pilates classes!’ Coralie frowned at her. ‘You’re hardly a candidate for Dial-a-Ride. Besides, you and Dad are perfectly capable of tracking down obscure graveyards, so you’re not exactly housebound.’

  ‘You make us sound like a couple of body-snatchers,’ her mother grumbled. ‘It makes a good day out, that’s all. It’s far more meaningful to see a moss-covered headstone than simply looking online.’

  Tracing their ancestry was a hobby her parents embraced with equal enthusiasm, although, thankfully, they were less inclined to regale her with blow-by-blow accounts of their discoveries these days.

  ‘Well, I think we have more time to talk now. We can speak to each other at any time of the day,’ Coralie said, hoping to avert the Too Far Away conversation or the inevitable discussion about the family tree. With so many of her cousins adding twigs to it, her mother was growing more concerned about the future of their own branch.