A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  I parked squarely outside the wine bar that Sheila had assured me the other day was just the place—“Just opened, luv, and right poncy it looks too”—and regarded it nervously. It did look poncy. With its smart, bottle-green livery and “Moulin Rouge” written in loopy gold scroll above the two bow-fronted windows, it looked chic, smart, and expensive; just exactly how I didn’t feel right now.

  It was a full five minutes before I steeled myself to get out of the car and walk through the door. Inside it was dark and dimly lit, and I had to adjust my eyes to the cavernous depths. The walls were painted a dark matt red, and bentwood chairs were grouped around polished wooden tables dotted about the room. A long mahogany bar ran the entire length of the left-hand side, and behind it a pretty girl with a shiny dark bob and a cupid’s-bow mouth was polishing glasses. Aside from that, the place was empty. She smiled.

  “Can I help?”

  “Yes, I…is the manager in, please?”

  “I am the manager.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, I know, I should be drinking café cognac in my little back room reading Paris Match while someone else does this, but due to sluggish business I’m also the washer-upper, glass polisher and general dogsbody.” She grinned.

  I grinned back, relaxing slightly. “I know the feeling. I mean, the dogsbody one. My name’s Imogen Cameron, by the way. I’m an artist.”

  It was an old trick, but she looked suitably impressed as she offered me her hand.

  “Hi, I’m Molly. Should I have…?”

  “No, no,” I said humbly, instantly regretting my bravado, “you won’t have heard of me. But I was just wondering—well, someone said you occasionally have local artists’ work hanging in here, and I wondered if you’d consider taking mine?”

  There. It was out. “Oh, right. Who said that?”

  “Sheila Banks.”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Sheila Banks! Well, you’ve been misinformed. I’ve never had art here—haven’t been open long enough—but if Sheila sent you, I’d better take a look. Don’t want my legs chopped off, do I?” She balled her cloth and tossed it down on the bar. “What are they, watercolours?”

  “No, oils actually. Rather large ones. They’re in the car, I’ll—”

  “Oh.” She stopped, looked disappointed. “Might not be our sort of thing then. Watercolours tend to go best, apparently. Cheaper, I suppose, and I think people find them more accessible.” She must have seen my face fall. “Tell you what, let’s take a look. She came out from behind the bar, slim and elegant in a white shirt and black jeans, a long white apron tied over them. “You go and get them, and we’ll spread them out on this big table here.”

  Of course, by the time I’d made various trips to the car and struggled back with them, puffing and panting whilst she’d looked on wide-eyed, they wouldn’t all fit on the table, so we ended up putting them on the floor around the room, propping them against the dark red walls. There was another, smaller room through a low archway at the back and Molly took a few in there, which I thought was encouraging. I then waited an agonising few minutes, what felt like the longest few minutes of my life, as she walked around them all, biting her thumbnail; really looking at them properly, head on one side, squatting down to get a better look, peering closely, then moving back to get the perspective. Finally she straightened up, turned and smiled.

  “I’ll take them,” she said. “What the hell, they’re huge, but they look great. And even if the customers don’t go for them, I like them. They certainly go a long way to brightening up my bar.”

  What I wanted to do was leap up and punch the air and shout “Yesssss!” before jumping, footballer style, into her arms, but I managed to restrain myself and gasp “Thank you!” instead.

  “What shall we say—sixty forty on the price tag if they sell? To you, of course.”

  I gaped. I hadn’t got as far as that. “Perfect,” I said dazed. God, I’d have given her ninety per cent; would have agreed to anything if she did but know it. We then spent the next ten minutes writing prices on sticky labels—rather high ones, I felt, but who was I to argue?—and putting them on the frames, and then Molly went upstairs to borrow a hammer and a fistful of nails from her builders who were working in her flat above the bar. When she came back down, we set about hanging the pictures there and then. As I passed nails up to her, I felt as if I was walking on air.

  “No time like the present,” she’d declared, halfway up a ladder and banging one in, taking a painting from me and hanging it carefully above the low archway. “And it’s not as if I’ve got any bloody customers!”

  We hung eleven in all, and one, my largest and favourite, a Parisian street scene, we put right behind the bar under a convenient picture light. As I stood back and surveyed it, nestling there amongst the bottles of Martini and vermouth, then turned slowly round and took in the rest of my work, above tables, over the archway, a couple in the back room, all cheaply framed but at least on walls, and not in an easel or stacked away in a wardrobe, I felt such a rush of pleasure I was nearly sick.

  “They look great,” said Molly in surprise, turning about. “Really—you know—professional. And they transform the place. Looks like a proper French café now.”

  It did. What had been a dark, gloomy bar with north-facing bow windows, now looked cheerful and atmospheric, like a nineteenth-century Impressionists’ retreat. One could almost imagine them in here, in fact, in their smocks and berets, smoking their Gauloise, knocking back their pastis, bitching about Toulouse-Lautrec, before bustling back to their easels in their garrets.

  “You need some of those ashtrays,” I said suddenly. “The yellow ones, triangular, with something written—”

  “Pernod! Got some—I just haven’t put them out.” She dashed behind the bar and tore open a box. Polystyrene bobbles spilled everywhere, and we then had a very jolly time dealing out the ashtrays, one to each table. She hesitated.

  “What I really want is candles. You know, in bottles, with the wax dripping down the sides, but it’s so tacky and seventies, I just wonder…”

  “Why not?” I said staunchly. “This is a retro French café, isn’t it? You’re being intentionally kitsch.” She looked at me a moment, and then, in another, she’d whipped a whole load of waxy bottles from a cupboard behind the bar where she’d clearly stashed them, uncertain as to what they said about the proprietress.

  “Let’s light them,” I said decisively, taking a few from her and popping them round the room, adrenalin making me bossy.

  “What, at lunch time?”

  “Well, it’s a gloomy old day, and people will see them flickering invitingly through the windows. Might lure them in.”

  We lit the whole lot in the end, and even put a few on the bar, and then, with the place glowing soft and sumptuous in the candlelight, my paintings shimmering magically in the flickering flames, Molly went to the fridge and took out a bottle. She popped the cork expertly.

  “Come on, we need a drink. Even if no one else in this sodding town does.”

  I laughed and we moved to perch on stools at the bar. Molly poured us each a large glass of Chablis, and as we sipped companionably she told me about her hopes for this place; about her dream of bringing a little bit of Paris where she’d worked for some years to this small market town; about her sleepless nights as she’d borrowed more and more money to open it, about her bank manager’s misgivings, and about her despair as the clientele walked resolutely by to the Dog and Duck. To console her I told her about my own gnawing guilt that I wasn’t a real artist at all, just a dilettante fake—unwise perhaps, since she’d just taken eleven of my pictures—but she seemed to take it in her stride, and we were on the point of going beyond work to our more personal lives—which, in my case, fired by two glasses of wine on an empty stomach would probably have gushed forth torrentially—when we were saved by the bell. A t
inkly one over the door that Rufus would have liked. A young couple stuck their heads round. The man looked apologetic.

  “Oh. We didn’t know if you were open yet, or—”

  “Yes! Oh, yes, we are.” Molly nearly fell off her stool, just managing to save herself, as she slipped, with a ravishing smile, behind the bar. “What can I get you?”

  I drained my glass, shooting her a wink, then, gathering up the solitary landscape we hadn’t been able to find space for and attempting to leave some money on the bar which Molly refused with a firm “On the house,” I went out into the street.

  The air was still and calm, and a soft rain was falling, so light it was almost a mist. I stood there for a moment, relishing it, letting it cool my cheeks, flushed with wine and success. I’d found a home for my pictures. I’d found a new friend—who, if I was honest would probably turn out to be more of a soul mate than Sheila. I’d had a good day. Not the first since I’d been here, but the best for a while. Still smiling foolishly and with my warm glow threatening to reach furnace proportions, I tossed the solitary picture in the back of my car, and headed off out of town.

  Thank you, Mr. Pat Flaherty, I thought, gripping the wheel tightly and raising my chin as I swept off down the narrow lanes, cow parsley brushing the sides of my car. Thank you very much indeed. If you did but know it, you’ve given me the very kick up the backside I needed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The barbecue at the Latimers’ started badly. I was getting ready upstairs, dithering between a long floaty skirt or some smart linen trousers—I’d been caught out last summer when Eleanor had asked us to an informal barbecue and there’d been two hundred people there, complete with marquee, caterers and hog roast—and was just wondering if what I actually needed was a tiara, when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Damn. I was hoping to get the answer machine.”

  “Hannah? Why, what’s up?”

  “Er, well. You’re not going to be awfully thrilled.”

  “You’re not coming?” My heart gave a quick, guilty flip. Not being responsible for my family might help enormously today.

  “Oh, no, we’re coming. But Dad’s coming too.”

  “Dad!” I sat down abruptly on the side of the bed.

  “Yes. Now don’t go ballistic, Imogen. I couldn’t help it. He rang, you see, reminding me it was his birthday—”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Exactly, and had I remembered that we might meet for a drink, which of course I hadn’t, so I said, oh, Dad, I’m awfully sorry, we’re going out to lunch. And then of course I put the phone down and felt awful, so I rang Eleanor to say, actually, so sorry, we won’t be coming, I’ve forgotten Dad’s birthday, and she said, bring him along, the more the merrier.”

  “To which you replied, oh no I couldn’t possibly,” I growled dangerously.

  “Well, of course I did, but she wasn’t having any of it. She said he must come, and bring his girlfriend too, and that she’d got enough food to feed a battalion and—well, what could I do?”

  “You could have insisted, that’s what!” I yelped. “God—Mum, Dad, Dawn—please don’t tell me Purple Coat, too?”

  “Well, I don’t imagine he’ll leave her behind, do you?”

  I shut my eyes. “No, I don’t imagine he will. Well done, Hannah.”

  “There’s no need to be like that,” she said testily. “It wasn’t my fault and, if you must know, I’m feeling pretty lousy myself today and would rather stay at home.”

  “Sorry,” I said meekly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Chronic constipation and stomach ache, since you ask. I’ll see you later. And don’t forget a card for Dad.” And with that she put the phone down.

  Marvellous, I thought as I pulled on the floaty skirt and quickly slicked on some lipstick. My sister was honing her sanctimoniousness under the aegis of my father’s birthday, when the simple truth was that Dad never celebrated. For reasons best known to his vanity, he never wanted to be reminded of the passing of the years, was almost offended if you rang and offered birthday greetings or presents, yet this year, had chosen to come out of denial and celebrate at the Latimers’. Perfect.

  “Aren’t you ready yet?” Alex yelled up the stairs.

  “Coming!”

  I grabbed my bag and pashmina and went down. Alex, fresh from the shower, looked like he’d stepped out of the Sunday Times Style magazine: pink shirt, pale cotton trousers, blue cashmere sweater slung casually around his neck, his blond hair swept back from his forehead. A Man in his Prime, the caption read.

  “Come on, darling,” he said impatiently. “We were due there twenty minutes ago.”

  “I know, but no one’s ever on time for these things. I’ve just got to find a card for Dad.” I rifled around in the kitchen drawer—a futile gesture—found a piece of plain white paper, folded it in half and pressured Rufus into making one. As he wielded his felt pens at the table, the phone rang again. Alex rolled his eyes to heaven and left the room.

  “Hello?” I snapped, anticipating another family member.

  “Yeah, it’s Sheila here, luv. Have you got Tanya’s snake?”

  “Her what?”

  “Her snake, only she’s lost it, an’ Rufus was at our place Friday, wasn’t he? It crawls in people’s bags an’ that.”

  “Oh! Er, hang on. Rufus, have you got Tanya’s snake?” I hissed. “No, but check my book bag.”

  “You check your book bag!” I said, appalled.

  “What the hell is going on?” thundered Alex, coming back into the kitchen, jingling coins in his pocket in irritation. “Rufus, haven’t you finished that card yet? Who’s on the phone?”

  “Hannah,” I lied.

  Alex hadn’t quite warmed to Sheila yet. The one and only time he’d met her, he’d come home from work unexpectedly to find her and her brood filling the entire cottage and eating us out of fishfingers. “I am not running a mini welfare state!” he’d seethed to me afterwards.

  “She er, left something here the other day. Wants to wear it. I’m just going to look.”

  “Can’t it wait?” he roared as I took the stairs two at a time.

  I nipped into Rufus’s room. Book bag, book bag—ah. I snatched it from the bed and, holding it at arm’s length, peered in cautiously. Just the usual exercise books and pencils. Oh, hang on—swimming bag. I picked it up off the floor and gingerly teased out his wet towel and trunks, then realised, with horror, that there was something slimy lodged in the bottom. Lip trembling, I ran to the bathroom, tipped the bag upside down in the bath and shut my eyes as…out it dropped.

  “AARGHH!”

  I was still shaking when Alex came in. “Swimming goggles,” he said, hooking them out. “Are these what Hannah wanted?”

  “Yes,” I breathed, opening my eyes.

  “To wear today?”

  “Er…”

  “Like Biggles?”

  “N-no. Tomorrow. A fancy-dress party.”

  “Thank Christ for that. Your sister’s dress sense is eccentric at the best of times. Can we go now, please?”

  By the time we’d all tumbled out of the cottage—deciding to walk, on the grounds that we could both have a drink which I badly needed—we were indeed late. Actually, I was secretly pleased. If Eleanor had loads of people coming, I reasoned, raking a brush through my hair as we hurried along up the track, we could just creep up on the fringes and mingle discreetly, and hopefully Dad and his entourage would do the same. I lunged at Rufus’s curls with the brush, but he dodged and I put it back in my bag, taking a deep breath to steady the nerves. As we strolled up the hill, the unseasonably hot sun shimmering on the buttercups, Rufus scampering ahead, I thought, that to an impartial observer, we must look like the perfect little family. A terribly handsome man with his not altogether ghastly wife—rather losing it round the
hips but still with youth on her side—their russet-haired son blowing dandelion clocks as they went. And we were the perfect little family, I thought, sneaking a sideways glance at Alex.

  He gave me a quick smile, making an effort to forget his irritation. “All right?” he said gruffly.

  “Yes, fine. And you?”

  “Of course.”

  My heart began to beat fast. Too formal. Far too formal for the perfect couple. Where was the reconciliatory arm around my shoulder? The nuzzling in for a quick make-up kiss? Oh, everything has to be perfect for you, Imogen, doesn’t it? Well, only because I’m nervous, I reasoned, although I shouldn’t be, because actually, I’d decided in the bath last night, I was being completely neurotic about Eleanor Latimer. I’d had a bit of a Damascene moment as I lay there in the bubbles, and in fact it was my own little crush on Daniel Hunter that had done the trick. Married people did have crushes, you see, but it didn’t mean anything. Not a thing. And it wasn’t the first one I’d had, either. No, there’d been that French chap who sold olives in the market at Turnham Green; the one with the silky blond curls and the blowtorch smile; lovely hands. God, I’d bought olives from him for weeks, practically lived on them, and one night, I’d even dreamed about him. About his hands. Had woken up in a muck sweat imagining them gliding up my jumper, cupping my bare breasts—“Oh!”

  “What?” Alex had woken up blurrily beside me.

  “Bad dream!” I’d gasped guiltily, clutching the duvet under my chin as his arms encircled me.

  “No monsters in this bed,” he’d said sleepily, nuzzling into my damp neck, my pulse racing. “Go back to sleep.”

  But I’d lain awake thinking—how awful! An erotic dream! I’m married! But…was it so awful? Or was it, in fact, perfectly normal? And was it just the same for Alex? A bit of harmless fantasising? A perfectly natural crush that the two of them had on each other? And would it help, I thought, now, as we waded through the buttercups together, if I joked about it? Said things like, “So, lunch at your girlfriend’s today, Alex—can’t wait!” To which he’d laugh, scratch his head sheepishly and reply, “Yeah, I suppose I’ve always had a soft spot for her.” And I could joke around with Piers too, say, “Crikey, Piers, the heat from those two—phew!” (Fan myself.) “We ought to join forces, you and I.” (Link his arm.) “We’d make a good team!” And he’d throw back his head and bray delightedly. Yes, that was the way forward, that would defuse the situation, and good heavens, if the roles were reversed it was exactly what Eleanor would do, wasn’t it?