‘Jackson Pollock, eat your fucking heart out.’
Eight
On Monday morning, Sebastian lay in bed, the duvet pulled up to his chin. He knew he had behaved appallingly at the weekend and had undermined his wife at every opportunity. Of course, he knew what he should do was pick up the phone to Catkin and apologise. But she never accepted apologies graciously, she always made him feel worse, so there was no point.
The lunch party had disintegrated pretty quickly after his little one-man show. The only person he felt had been on his side was Penny, who gave his hand a squeeze and whispered ‘Well done’ as she kissed him goodbye. He and Catkin hadn’t even had a showdown. She’d merely packed up her things and called Tommy to take her back to the station early, her silence speaking volumes.
In the end, he had gone into the dining room and tried to clean up the mess as best he could, because otherwise Stacey would try to do it. She’d been quite happy to tell him what she thought.
‘Having a tantrum, were you?’ she’d asked him. ‘Well, I hope it was worth it.’
She made him feel thoroughly ashamed, but then she’d had six children, so she was used to bad behaviour.
The underlying problem, the reason he was being so utterly vile and antagonistic, was he still couldn’t think of a single thing to paint. Every time he squeezed a blob of raw umber or ultramarine or crimson lake onto his palette and started to dabble, he froze inside. It was all futile. He didn’t see the point. Catkin would tell him soon enough. The point, she would say, was cold hard cash. But Sebastian had never found money a motive. On the contrary, it was positively inhibiting. The success of Alter Egos, which he had meant to destroy but had ironically been such a triumph, had repressed him even more. And now he felt boxed in, claustrophobic, frustrated, angry - and of course he ended up taking it out on Catkin, because he was frightened.
He couldn’t admit it to anyone, but he hadn’t actually put brush to paper since that last exhibition. He had four white walls in a gallery waiting to be filled just after Christmas, the art world were holding their breath, and he had nothing, not even a germ of an idea. He spent his days lying in bed playing poker online, smoking a bit of weed, wandering down to the post office to collect the various magazines and newspapers he had on order - Q, Art Monthly, Sporting Life, Vanity Fair - in the hopes that one of them might stimulate him to have an idea, that one of them might contain an article or an image that might unlock his creativity. But so far they had only served to inhibit him further. He veered between feeling scathingly critical of other people’s work to thinking everyone else was a genius and he was a fraud.
When he was little, he had wandered the countryside with a tin of watercolours and a pad of paper, doing slightly surreal paintings of his surroundings: wild, exuberant work that showed no restraint, just raw talent. Looking back, that was when he had been happiest. When he had painted for the sheer pleasure of it, with no pressure, no demands, no expectations. And he was angry that the thing he loved had been tainted. When he looked at a blank canvas now, his head filled with questions: would it be good enough for the public? Would it be well received? Would it make money? Time and again he told himself those things didn’t matter, but of course they did. Catkin had spelled it out to him time and time again.
He lay in bed until midday feeling crippled with malaise. Why the hell was he such a coward? Why couldn’t he just march into the studio and get on with it? What was he so terrified of? He only needed to make a start, and he needn’t show anyone else, after all. But then Sebastian knew he was his own harshest critic, that to execute anything that pleased him even remotely would be a Herculean task, especially the way he was feeling.
Eventually, he managed to roll out of bed. He could hear Stacey dragging the Dyson round, eliminating all evidence of the weekend’s merriment. He decided to walk into the village. He had a craving for a Tunnock’s caramel bar. He wanted to feel its shiny red and gold striped wrapper, slide his fingers under the flap and unwrap it, then bite into the gooey, wafery concoction that would stick his teeth together. He wondered fleetingly about doing a series of paintings based on iconic British food products - Marmite, Ribena, Bisto - but of course Andy Warhol had got there first with his bloody soup tins. He could imagine the reviews already - ‘derivative, unoriginal, ersatz’ - and his heart sank. Everything had always been done before. It was impossible to pull something new out of the hat. He pulled on his parka with the fur-lined hood and stomped off down the drive.
He wandered back up the high street later, his booty in a plastic bag. A brace of Tunnock’s bars, a copy of Fur and Feather, a pouch of tobacco and a bottle of Panda pop. As he went past Myrtle Cottage, he wondered if Charlotte was inside, and whether she would mind an interruption. He needed to purge himself of his shame for the day before, and he felt strongly that although she didn’t approve of his behaviour, she wouldn’t judge him too harshly. He was drawn to her, and wondered if he could confide in her. He knew, after their conversation in the pub last week, that she could relate to his predicament, and he wanted to explain. He wouldn’t get sympathy from any other quarter: his wife, or his gallery owner, or his accountant, or his former tutor. To a man, they would tell him to grow up and not be so self-indulgent. He could always phone his parents - they were unconditionally supportive and always had been - but long-distance phone conversations were unsatisfying and what he needed was someone who genuinely understood his dilemma, so he could feel less bloody guilty.
She answered the door in a pair of outsize blue men’s overalls, her head wrapped up in a silk scarf knotted on top of her head. She smiled when she saw him.
‘Excuse my attire. I’m painting,’ she told him. ‘And before you ask, I don’t need any help,’ she added impishly.
Sebastian hung his head in mock shame.
‘I know, I know. I behaved like a wanker.’
‘You were being wound up.’
‘Do you think so?’ he said hopefully.
She laughed. ‘Don’t come to me for absolution,’ she warned. ‘But you can come in and talk to me while I work, if you want to get it off your chest.’
She stood to one side and ushered him in. He followed her into the dining room.
‘I wasn’t very nice to Catkin. I know I wasn’t.’
Charlotte picked up her brush.
‘She puts you under pressure.’
‘She does?’ Sebastian knew he thought this, but it was nice to know someone else had the same opinion.
‘You didn’t want all those people in your house.’
‘Well . . . only you and Pen.’
‘And Catkin didn’t want us . . .’
Sebastian slid onto the floor and sat under the window, then pulled his tobacco out of the bag.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
Charlotte shook her head.
‘She’s very ambitious, isn’t she? Catkin, I mean?’
‘She never stops. It’s full-on the whole time. She pushes herself, and she pushes me. And all she ends up doing is pushing us apart.’ He licked his cigarette paper. ‘You don’t want to hear all this.’
‘It’s the pursuit of perfection, isn’t it?’ Charlotte daubed globs of paint onto the wall and worked it in with careful strokes. ‘We’re just not satisfied any more, are we, our generation? We’ve got to have more. We’ve got to have it all.’ She stood back to view her handiwork. ‘If we could just be content with our lot . . .’
Sebastian looked at her through a plume of smoke.
‘So are you content with your lot?’
She looked down at him for a moment. ‘I was,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d told myself to be happy. That I might not have it all, but I had more than most. But then . . .’ She trailed off, then walked over to her pot of paint to reload her brush.
Sebastian didn’t say anything. He sensed that to push her would be crass. As she walked back across the room she gave him a small, sad smile, a smile that said that the subject was closed.
‘Do you think this colour works?’ she asked anxiously.
Sebastian surveyed the walls.
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘It’s like old parchment. Pale, antique gold. It’s nice.’
‘Good,’ she replied. ‘And you might as well help if you’re going to just sit there. There’s a spare brush.’
She nodded over to her trestle table. Sebastian got to his feet. Next to the brushes sat a pad of paper and a clutch of pencils. Charlotte had been sketching out her ideas for the cottage. Sebastian leafed through them idly, not really interested - her drawings were skilful, but the subject matter didn’t interest him in the least. Why would he care where the sofa was going, or what sort of lights she had planned? But as he put the pad of paper down, he found his fingers were itching. The longing to pick up one of her pencils and start to draw was suddenly overwhelming.
He cleared his throat rather awkwardly.
‘Um, actually . . . Would you mind . . . ? Would you mind if I sketched you?’
She looked at him, slightly surprised.
‘Go ahead.’
His heart thumped as he began to draw. He could feel it flow through him, the sheer unadulterated pleasure of drawing for its own sake, of drawing something because you wanted to. That deep down need to capture a feeling, a moment. The spirit of a person who moved you.
Charlotte carried on painting, feeling slightly awkward, but as she got engrossed in her work she eventually lost her self-consciousness. As the wall in front of her gradually lost its grubby paleness and took on the honeyed glow of the paint she had mixed, she felt an increasing sense of satisfaction. She wanted to finish the room today, so that it had a chance to dry properly overnight and she could see if the colour really did work. You could never tell until a room was finished, until every surface was covered. It could be either too insipid or too oppressive. Then again, it might be perfect.
For half an hour, the pair of them worked in silence, a comfortable silence, with neither of them interrupting each other’s flow. Then Sebastian put down his pad with a contented sigh.
‘Can I have a look?’ asked Charlotte.
He nodded, holding the pad out wordlessly, drained by the first piece of work he had done for months that hadn’t made him want to slash his wrists.
She looked at the drawing in awe. There were hardly any pencil marks at all. The charcoal had barely flirted with the paper. But there she was, looking back at herself, as clear as her own reflection in the mirror. She gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. What she hadn’t realised, and what Sebastian had made as plain as day, was how haunted she looked. Her expression was wary, her eyes guarded. She looked like the keeper of a very dark secret. Which, of course, she was.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s . . . incredible. But I didn’t realise . . . I didn’t realise I looked so . . .’
She wasn’t sure how to explain it.
‘I look as if I’ve got something to hide.’
‘You do.’ Sebastian nodded. ‘That’s the essence of you. That’s what I wanted to capture. You’re so . . . beautiful and pure on the surface. But there’s something underneath . . .’
She felt trapped, suddenly. She tried to smile, as if a smile would wipe all traces of the secrecy from her face.
‘It’s just stress, I suppose. Trying to get this place into shape.’
She could feel him looking at her again.
‘I don’t think it’s just stress,’ he said softly. There was a pause, and then he spoke again. ‘What is your secret, Charlotte?’
She stood very still for a moment, hands clasped in front of her face as if in prayer. It was so tempting to confess her murky secret to Sebastian. But if she couldn’t keep her own counsel, then she could hardly expect anyone else to.
‘I know there’s something,’ he persisted. ‘I can feel it in you. You’ve come here to run away from something. Haven’t you?’
‘Don’t interrogate me.’ It was a plea rather than a command.
‘I thought I might be able to help. Whatever it is, I’m pretty unshockable. No one ever behaves worse than I do.’
She had to smile at that.
Yet he knew. He knew there was something.
Equivocation, she decided, was the only solution. To offer him a tiny bit of the whole truth. She knew he wouldn’t give up.
‘OK,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘You want the truth? My husband and I couldn’t have babies. And . . . our marriage couldn’t take the pressure any more.’
There. She’d told him. Not a lie. Just a tiny kernel of the story. The beginning, really, of the whole sorry tale.
Sebastian looked aghast. She could see in his face that he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit, Charlotte. I wish I hadn’t asked. I never know when to stop.’
She looked down at the floor. He walked over to her and took her in his arms. Squeezed her tightly to him. She could feel the compassion roll off him, and she felt comforted.
‘Just tell me to fuck off the next time I start prying.’ His voice was slightly muffled in her ear. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Honestly. It’s just . . . I could see it all in your face. I wanted to know. Because I wanted to make it better. I really did.’
‘Well, now you know. And you can’t.’
Her head was on his shoulder. He took her hands in his and squeezed.
‘You’re very brave.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Coming here like this to start again—’
‘It’s just running away.’
‘So? There’s nothing wrong with that. Why stick around if it’s bad?’
He smoothed back her hair out of her eyes, and wiped the few tears that had trickled out from her cheeks. She felt strangely comfortable with him. Even though his gestures were incredibly intimate, they were in no way invasive. He held her in his arms again and they stood in the middle of the room, in the tightest embrace, neither of them moving.
Eventually, she pulled away.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I feel better for telling someone.’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘No, she agreed. ‘But I haven’t quite dealt with it yet. So I’d rather it wasn’t common knowledge.’
‘I won’t say a word,’ promised Sebastian. ‘I might be a tactless prick, but I know how to keep a secret.’
He dived for the carrier bag he’d got from the post office, rummaged about in it and produced the two Tunnock’s bars.
‘What about a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘And I defy you not to feel better after one of these.’
Later, Sebastian walked back up the road slowly, thinking about Charlotte. The incredible, sweet, brave girl with the broken heart had touched something deep inside him. What a self-indulgent little prick he was. There was a creature who really did have something to cry about, while his turmoil was totally of his own making. He felt thoroughly ashamed, but also intrigued by her predicament.
Having children wasn’t something he and Catkin had given much thought to as yet. It was obviously out of the question while she was building her career, but now he thought about it, he realised he had assumed it would just happen one day when the time was right. After all, Withybrook Hall was made for children. He had been so happy there. And he had taken it for granted that one day the old nursery would be filled with his offspring; that they would gallivant across the lawns and scramble up the trees. But it wasn’t going to happen as if by magic. And even then, what if they were presented with the same problems as Charlotte and her husband? Not that he was trying to turn Charlotte’s predicament round to himself, but it had jolted him out of his lethargy. The tangible sadness inside the girl, the brave front she put up, her fragility had woken him up.
As he turned in through the gates, and glimpsed the roof of his studio, his heart stopped for a moment. Usually, he would recoil at the sight of his prison. But today
, he hurried towards it, feeling in his pocket for the key. He couldn’t get the door open quickly enough. He hurled his bag of shopping to one side, pulled off his coat, ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath in.
This was the moment all artists waited for. The burst of inspiration that was more important than breathing. The tingle that slid along every vein and made you feel alive. It was in such incredible contrast to the moribund sensation Sebastian had been feeling for the past few months. How could he flip from one state to the other, just like that? It wasn’t something you could force, because God knows he had tried to force it often enough. But a single experience, a single moment, could help you slide from a stifling, barren restlessness to joyful exuberance.
Marriage and Other Games Page 19