by Isabel Wolff
‘Astronomy.’
‘Oh yes. It’s my…passion,’ he said as he sliced a courgette with a trembling hand.
‘So do have your own telescope then?’I enquired innocently.
‘Yes. It’s in my room. You can have a look at it if you like.’ ‘Ooh, no, no, no, I wouldn’t do that. I mean, I wouldn’t go in your room.’
‘That’s okay. I don’t mind if you do—I’ve nothing to hide. It’s a three-inch refracting telescope rather than one of the more modern reflectors, but the optics are really good. It has a magnification of 150,’ he added proudly as he got out a frying pan. ‘It belonged to my granddad—he used to run the Leeds observatory—it’s old but it’s excellent.’ He opened the fridge and took out a beer. ‘I feel like a drink. How about you?’ I felt guilty about having mistrusted him so I nodded.
‘Thanks. That’d be nice. So where do you do your…starwatching?’ I asked as he got down two glasses.
‘The best place is Norfolk—I used to go there with my grandparents. You can do it in London, but you have to choose your spot carefully because the sky-glow’s so bad.’
‘The sky-glow?’
‘The light pollution. That awful tangerine glare. I’m involved with the Campaign for Dark Skies,’ he went on as he poured out my beer. ‘We ask local councils to install star-friendly street lighting which throws the light down, where it’s needed, not up. It’s tragic that people living in cities don’t get to see the night sky—they miss so much. I mean just look up,’ he said suddenly. He switched off the light, plunging us into darkness, and I peered up through the conservatory roof. Through the glass I could see five, no…eight stars twinkling dimly against the inky night and a sliver of silvery moon. ‘City folk miss so much,’ he repeated as I craned my neck. ‘How often do they see the Milky Way and the Pleiades, Orion’s belt, or the Plough? You don’t even need a telescope to be an amateur astronomer. You can see so much just with your eyes.’
‘So that’s why you didn’t want me to complain about the street lamps?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ And that explained why Theo went out when it was dry and clear, not when it was wet. ‘Actually this area’s not too bad for observation,’ he continued as he turned on the light and the stars vanished, ‘which is why I like living here. That little park at the end of the road is quite good for example.’
‘Holland Gardens?’
‘Yes. I’ve taken my’ scope there a couple of times. There are no tall buildings around it so you get a big piece of sky, and I’ve a filter which cuts out the glare. And my friend Mark has a large garden so sometimes I go round there. I ring him and say “Are you up for it?”’ he added. ‘That’s what we amateur astronomers say. It’s our little in-joke. Are you up for it?’ He shook his head and laughed. So he wasn’t the Milky Bar kid after all—he was the Milky Way kid.
‘What a…fascinating hobby,’ I said with a relieved smile.
‘It’s more than that. I’ve been writing a book. I’m doing the final edits at the moment—the page proofs have just come back.’
‘A book? What’s it called?’
‘Heavenly Bodies—’ Ah. ‘—A Popular Guide to the Stars and Planets. It’s coming out in May. But I’m under terrible pressure timewise which is why I needed to live somewhere quiet.’
‘And where did you live before?’ I asked as he sliced the aubergine.
‘I told you, with this friend of mine, Mark.’
‘But you said that that was temporary; that he was helping you out—so where did you live before that?’
‘I lived in Dulwich…’ The knife stopped in mid-air and he repeated, quietly, ‘I lived in Dulwich. With my wife.’
‘Oh,’ I murmured, trying not to look astounded. ‘You, er, didn’t say you were married. You look so young.’
‘I’m not. I’m twenty-nine. I was married for five years. But I didn’t tell you because…well,’ he stopped. ‘Because it’s too painful and to be honest it’s not relevant.’ Now I remembered his boss’s odd remark, when I’d phoned for a reference, about Theo having had ‘a hard time.’
‘Why did you…’ I began, with a sip of beer. ‘No, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’
‘Why did we split up?’ I nodded. ‘Because I disappointed my wife.’
‘Really? Er…how?’
‘She felt I was letting her down. She’s a solicitor at Prenderville White in the city,’ he explained. ‘She’s very driven and successful, and she expected me to be the same. She wanted me to put everything into my accountancy career to match her success, but I couldn’t. I did all the exams but by then I’d become far more interested in astronomy than in spreadsheets. So I left Price Waterhouse and took an undemanding book-keeping job so that I’d have more time to write my book. Fi said I was being self-indulgent and that I should knuckle down to my career. She kept on and on and on about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back. So five months ago she said she wanted out.’ Poor bloke. There were tears in his eyes. ‘That was her actually, just now, on the phone,’ he explained, his voice quivering. ‘I’d forgotten to give her my keys. To be honest, I find it painful even talking to her. I mean, I can see why she felt as she did. I can understand why we broke up. But understanding is different from feeling isn’t it?’I nodded. It certainly is. ‘I’m still deeply attached to her. In fact,’ he added, with another swig of beer, ‘I do this silly thing. I—’ he lowered the bottle, ‘promise you won’t laugh?’
‘I promise.’
‘I sleep with one of her old nighties.’ Ah ha, I thought. So it wasn’t my Cross-Dressing leaflet he needed but Relationship Breakdown instead. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added with that lopsided smile of his. ‘You hardly know me and here I am, showing you my emotional underpants.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I said, and I didn’t—people often tell me personal things.
‘Anyway, that’s my sad tale,’ he concluded with a grim smile. Then he suddenly said, ‘How about you?’
‘How about me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. You mean, my story?’He nodded. ‘Well…do I have to?’ I added slightly irritably.
‘Yes,’ he said rather bluntly. ‘Fair’s fair.’ That was true enough, so I quickly gave him the bare bones.
‘So that’s why you’ve only been here a short time?’ he said as he poured in more olive oil.
‘Yes. I needed to make a clean break.’
‘But why do you think your husband had the affair?’he asked as he got out a wooden spoon.
‘Because he felt like it I suppose.’
‘But there’s usually a reason,’ he said as an aroma of Mediterranean vegetables filled the air. ‘I mean people don’t just have an affair for nothing, do they?’ he added.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You’re a fucking nightmare!’ yelled Rudy in Ed’s voice. ‘This marriage was a mistake!’ Shit.
‘That silly bird,’ I laughed as I pulled down the cover. ‘He probably got that from the afternoon play. Anyway, I’m sorry you’ve had so much unhappiness,’ I said.
‘Well, ditto, but life has to go on. That’s why I like cooking,’ he added. ‘It’s relaxing—it helps me unwind.’
‘So you like astronomy and gastronomy,’ I pointed out, and for the first time that evening, he smiled. ‘What are you making?’ I added.
‘Ratatouille—would you like some?’
‘Oh, no thanks.’
‘I’ve put some of my cookbooks on the shelf,’ he added, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘except…’ I went over to them and began shuffling them about…Jane Grigson…Sophie Grigson…Ainsley Harriot…there. Alastair Little…that was better: Delia Smith…Rick Stein.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m just tidying them up.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I like books to be in alphabetical order—and CDs—it’s better. Don’t you
ever do that?’
‘Er, no.’
And I was about to point out the benefits of having a properly alphabetised system when I heard the clatter of the letter box. On the mat was yet another flyer from the Tip Top Tandoori House and two from Pizza Hut. I picked them up, and went to throw them in the waste paper basket by the hall table when a sound from next door made me stop. It was muffled at first, but becoming louder now. I stood there, rooted to the spot. For it was the sound of suppressed, but anguished weeping. My heart expanded. Poor Bev.
Chapter 6
I stood there transfixed with pity, not knowing quite what to do. If I’d known Beverley better I’d have phoned her up, or made some excuse to go round. But I didn’t feel I could intrude, not least because whenever we’ve met she’s presented such a strong, cheerful face. If she knew I’d heard her crying she might well have been mortified. And then I’d felt awful in case doing the Daily Post feature had made her feel worse. Seeing it in black and white like that, with everyone reading about ‘Tragic Bev’ and her accident, and about her boyfriend leaving, and about what an outstanding sportswoman she’d been. Perhaps she’d regretted being interviewed. Perhaps that’s why she was in tears. That thought made me very depressed, but as it turned out, I was quite wrong; because the next afternoon she phoned me to say that Ricky had liked the piece so much he’d offered her a regular slot.
‘He called me this morning to tell me, Rose—on a Sunday! He wants me to write a weekly column—he thinks it’ll lift the Post’s circulation.’
‘It probably will.’
‘But I’m terrified, Rose, I’m not a journalist.’
‘So what? You’re very articulate. You’ll do it well.’
‘But he wants me to write it in Trevor’s voice.’ Ah. Now that could be hard to pull off. ‘Will you read the trial pieces before I submit them and tell me what you think?’
‘Sure.’
So the following Thursday evening we went down to the Bunch of Grapes at the end of the street and Bev showed me her two sample columns. I’d worried that the tone might be a bit twee or sentimental, but it wasn’t at all. Far from it. It was endearingly blokey. I thought they were great.
Bev’s pretty ropey in the mornings, but I’m quite chirpy, I read. I give her a lick to wake her up, maybe a bit of a cuddle, then root about under the bed to find her slippers, drag them out with a minimum of slobber, and we’re away.
‘This is brilliant,’ I giggled. ‘Ricky will love it.’
Bev goes down for breakfast in the stair lift, then I have a tiny snooze while she has her cup of tea. But I’m on red alert. I can be snoring my brains out but the second I hear her move, I’m up.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I said, ‘you’re a natural.’
‘But that’s just how he’d speak, isn’t it, Trev?’
It wasn’t always like this, I read on. Ooh, no, to begin with it was dire. It was, ‘Trevor do this, and Trevor do that,’ and I’m like, ‘Sorry? What did your last slave die of?’ Drove me nuts. But then I felt a bit guilty because maybe I could have been a bit more helpful, but bless her, Bev’s a forgiving little soul and we’re mad about each other now.
‘If it comes off I’m going to give the fee to Helping Paw,’ Beverley added as we drank our Becks. ‘I got quite a big insurance payout after the accident so I don’t need the cash. And it’ll be a great opportunity to publicise the charity, speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ll come to our first big fund-raiser—it’s just before Christmas?’
‘Of course I’ll come,’ I said.
‘It’s a ball. Fancy dress,’ she added. Fancy dress? Oh shit! ‘But it’s not ordinary fancy dress,’ she explained as she slipped Trevor a pork scratching. ‘It’s in a marquee at The Courtauld, everyone comes as a work of art, and the best costume gets a prize. Fancy another pint?’
‘Wouldn’t say no to a half.’
‘Okay, Trev, our shout.’ She wheeled her chair to the bar, Trevor barked for service, then she passed him her purse. He stood up on his hind legs then placed it on the counter while the barman took the cash. Then Beverley carried each drink in turn back to our table, whilst Trevor collected her change.
‘I bet he drinks Carling Black Label,’ said the barman with a guffaw.
‘Nah, he’s teetotal,’ Bev replied.
So thanks to Beverley, Ricky’s happier so there’ve been no ‘bollockings’ for a while. But my workload’s piling up what with pre-Christmas depression; well I’m feeling pretty gloomy myself. I spent last year’s in a blissful romantic blur; I’ll spend this one alone and semi-divorced.
‘Christmas…suicidal,’ said Serena perkily as she logged the letters yesterday. ‘Christmas, just can’t cope. Christmas, want to kill myself,’ she went on briskly. ‘Christmas, I wish I was dead…’
‘Okay, Serena, I get the picture.’
‘Mind you, I think Christmas is going to be pre-tty grim for us this year,’ she went on serenely as she tucked her hair behind one ear. I looked at her when she said that and realised that she’s suddenly going rather grey. ‘I mean, it’s such an expensive time,’ she said with a shudder. Well, yes, but she and her husband both work. ‘And you see Rob’s been a bit traumatised since his little accident,’ she went on delicately, ‘so he’s been missing his targets; and what with the school fees…’ her voice trailed away. ‘Still!’ she exclaimed brightly, ‘mustn’t complain! There’s always someone worse off then yourself isn’t there?’ Was that a slight twitch in her right eye?
At lunchtime I phoned Henry about the ball and he said he’d come; ‘as the Mona Lisa!’ he added with a guffaw. The twins were equally game.
‘Sounds like a lark,’ said Bea, ‘and we might pick up some clients. Yes, we’ll definitely be up for it.’ Up for it…? Yes, I thought, why not? And I’d be doing Theo a big favour by inviting him—after all the poor bloke’s depressed.
‘A ball?’ he said when I spoke to him about it the following Thursday. ‘Sounds very posh, but yes. That might be…fun. Thanks for asking me,’ he added politely.
‘That’s okay; and it’s in a good cause.’
‘I’ll put it in my diary right now.’ As he groped in his jacket pocket he pulled out various bits and pieces including his mobile phone. I looked at it lying on the kitchen table and realised that it’s exactly like mine. It’s a Motorola 250 Timeport with the same galvanised silver case.
‘Courtauld…twentieth December,’ he muttered as he scribbled away, ‘that’s only three weeks off. I’ll come as a modern portrait so I don’t have to wear anything too barmy. How about you?’
‘I’m not sure. I might go as Damien Hirst’s bisected cow. It’s called “Mother and Child, Divided” so it would be very appropriate in my case,’ I added with a bitter laugh. Theo gave me a puzzled look. ‘Or maybe I’ll play it safe and go as Tracey Emin’s unmade bed.’
‘I think you’d look good as the Botticelli Venus,’ he said suddenly. I felt blood suffuse my face. ‘I mean,’ he stammered, ‘with your long red hair—that’s all I mean.’ Suddenly the phone rang. I picked it up.
‘Hello?’ I said. There was silence, then stertorous breathing. ‘Hello?’ Oh not again! I slammed the phone down then hit 1471. Number withheld. Of course.
‘Problems! problems!’ yelled Rudy.
‘You’re telling me,’ I replied.
‘Are you all right, Rose?’ said Theo.
‘Oh I’m fine, it’s just that I’ve got this nuisance caller.’
‘What a drag. My wife had one of those once. She never said a thing, she just put the phone down. Drives them mad.’
‘That’s what I do.’
‘Then with any luck they’ll stop.’
Whoever it was went quiet on me for a few days, so I for got about it and in any case I was very busy at work. Plus I had my phone-ins and I went on Kilroy to discuss ‘Couples Reuniting’ and I had to give a talk to the Bath W.I. So what with all that I hadn’t had time to plan my outfit—and by
now the ball was only ten days away. What on earth should I wear? Looking through my Pre-Raphaelites book I had a stroke of inspiration. I decided to go as Flaming June, by Lord Leighton, as I shall be Flaming Forty that month. Plus the girl in the painting’s got hair rather like mine, though she’s much more pneumatic than me. Beverley said she was also desperate about her costume so on Friday night I took my art history books next door. Trevor lay by her chair, contentedly sucking the head of his toy gorilla while Bev and I looked at the plates.
‘Do you fancy Baroque or Rococo?’ I asked her as I flicked through my Gombrich. ‘You’ve got a lovely high forehead so maybe Renaissance would be more your style…’ I gazed at the Raphael Madonna clutching the infant Jesus tightly to her and felt the familiar stab in my heart. ‘Maybe you should go for Gaugin,’ I went on, as she picked up another book. ‘You’d make a lovely Tahitian maiden or perhaps Impressionism’s more your thing. How about—yes!—a Renoir bathing beauty in frilly swimmers—no, on second thoughts you’re too slim. Or a Joshua Reynolds—or a pretty Gainsborough—what do you think, Bev? Bev?’ I looked up. She was crying. ‘Bev! What’s the matter?’ I grabbed her hand.
‘I should go like this,’ she wept, showing me a pitiless Breughel portrait of a beggar with mangled limbs. ‘Or maybe I should go as that screaming Munch, or as a deformed creature from a Hieronymus Bosch.’
‘Beverley—don’t,’ I said. ‘You’re lovely.’
‘That’s not true! I’m a cripple,’ she wailed. ‘I’m a fucking cripple, Rose: a Raspberry Ripple.’
‘Bollocks! You’re beautiful.’
‘Not any more. Everyone thinks I’m so brave,’ she sobbed, her face red and twisted with grief. ‘Brave Bev. Battling Bev. But I’m not like that inside. I’m not like that at all. Don’t tell anyone this,’ she confided with a teary gasp, ‘but I get so upset sometimes.’
‘Do you?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she murmured with a sniff. ‘I do. But I can’t help it because I know I’ll never—uh-uh—walk, or run again: I’ve got to sit down for the rest of my life. And I tell people that I’ve—uh-uh—got over it—but the truth is I haven’t and I never will!’ I thought again of the suppressed sobbing I’d heard through the wall and of the hockey sticks she’d burned on the fire. ‘And all these paintings of these lovely—uh-uh—women with their—uh-uh—lovely, perfect, strong legs…’