All the Hopeful Lovers (13 page)

You, my beloved wife, have given me your loyalty and your love. But you’ve never whispered down the phone to me: ‘I want you to fuck me now. I’m waiting for you. Come home and fuck me.’

Yes, I know, I should have asked you to say it. If that’s what I want, why can’t I say so? Because, because. We men are so full of shame. These simple desires, these primitive desires, they have low status in civilized society, they represent an immature stage of human relationships. Which is bullshit. These simple desires are all the glory we’ll ever know on earth.

So that’s all it is. Call it making up for lost time. Or grabbing my chance of one last dance before the music stops. One first dance. But don’t call it sad. I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m just a man who has stumbled upon his heart’s desire and said yes.

How can I tell you any of this?

No, I must speak another language. How I’ve cheated you, how I’ve demeaned you, how I’ve hurt you. We’ll tell of all that has been taken from you and none of what has been added to me, because I shouldn’t have wanted any more. My crime is greed, because wasn’t I well enough fed already? I must be tried and found guilty and sentenced, and must be punished, and if I accept the punishment with true contrition I will in time be rehabilitated. And so the charade must be played out to the end because that’s what everyone deems right and proper. Everyone being all the women, who have no idea what goes on in men, and all the men, who know perfectly well what goes on but who lie, as they have lied for centuries.

You don’t agree? You, my imaginary male listener? So tell me: does your wife know you’d gladly, joyfully, pick up a hooker in a hotel lobby and take her up to your hotel room and fuck her and pay her and never ask her name? Does your wife know the only reasons you don’t do so are you’re afraid of being seen, afraid of it getting back to her, afraid of diseases? Nothing about how it would deprive her of your love, because it wouldn’t. Men are different. You know it, I know it, but we lie, don’t we? Oh no, we say, the prostitutes and the pornography, that’s for the sad old men and the sailors. Oh, and millionaire footballers and rock stars. Oh, and businessmen abroad. Oh, and politicians caught in sex scandals. Oh, and young men who get drunk on holiday when the sun shines. But not us, not the normal guys with wives, we’re too sophisticated and too mature and too complex to want something so elementary as a mindless fuck.

So we lie about what we want. And sometimes, if God relents and we get to do what we want, we lie about what we do. And then we get caught, and everyone’s life gets ruined.

How stupid is that?

The kitchen is cold. He realizes he’s shivering, has been shivering for some time. Better get back to bed.

All this ranting in his head has calmed him. He thinks he’ll be able to sleep now. But as he treads softly into the bedroom, back to his side of the bed, as he folds back the duvet, Belinda speaks.

‘Where did you go?’

‘Kitchen.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t sleep.’

He eases himself back into bed. The sheets have gone cold on his side. He must have been downstairs for some time.

‘Me neither.’

So they lie there, side by side, not sleeping. He could slip into sleep, he’s pretty sure of it, but now it would be a desertion. He can feel her unhappiness welling over.

‘I suppose it’s my fault,’ she says at last.

‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not your fault at all. It’s me who’s done it. I’m the only one to blame here.’

Which is nothing but the simple truth. So why does it sound like a line in some pre-rehearsed script?

Nothing for a few moments. Then:

‘So why did you do it?’

Her voice in the darkness so small, so bewildered, so hurt. The question that can’t be answered.

‘It was nothing. Really. Not any kind of a big deal at all.’

‘So why do it?’

‘Oh, God, I don’t know. Because I got a chance. Because I could, I suppose. Don’t you ever give way to temptation?’

‘Tom, this isn’t like having another chocolate or something. This is about me, too.’

‘Yes. I know that.’

‘So why did you do it?’

‘I suppose I thought you’d never know.’

‘You can’t have thought that. All the girls in the office know.’

So that’s how she knows. Until this moment he hasn’t asked himself who told her. It could have been so many. Everyone at the clinic seems to know.

‘Was it Karen?’

‘No. It was Lisa. She felt sorry for me.’

Lisa who’s always so sorry for herself. Kind, conscientious, lonely Lisa. Why would she want to hurt me?

‘You didn’t feel sorry for me,’ says Belinda. ‘You didn’t think about me at all.’

No, I didn’t think about you. Must I think about you all the time? Have I no life of my own? If you want to know the truth, Belinda, even if I had thought about you, it was too strong for me to resist. I knew I was being a fool but I still wanted it. I still do. Life is so short. Don’t grudge me this.

‘I don’t understand. What do you get from her you don’t get from me?’

Dangerous territory. Don’t go there.

‘Nothing.’

‘So why do it? I’ve been over it and over it and I just can’t make any sense of it.’

He sighs. This is to signal that he’s cornered. That he’s going to admit the real truth.

‘I don’t know. Maybe I felt I still have something to prove.’

There. That’s what she thinks is going on. I’m fifty-five years old, I’m trying to prove I’m still young again. What I can’t say is I was never young. I’m young now, with Meg.

‘What do you have to prove? That you’re still attractive to women?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Can’t you do that without screwing them?’

‘Well, up to a point.’

Silence. Here it comes.

‘Is it about virility?’

She doesn’t say it but he hears it: sometimes you can’t get it up with me. More than sometimes. Men are supposed to be keen on the mechanics. Fine. Go with that.

‘Could be.’

‘So does it work with her?’

Yes, it works with her. Every time.

‘More or less.’

That hurts. What was I supposed to say?

‘What does she look like?’

‘Just kind of ordinary.’

‘Ordinary? What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know how to describe someone.’

‘Is she pretty? Is she young? Is she sexy?’

‘Nothing special. I think she’s round thirty. Not especially pretty, no.’

‘God!’

Now Belinda’s crying again.

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘I just want to understand.’ She’s speaking through her tears. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘I don’t know what else to tell you.’

‘Why did you do it? Why did you do it? Did you think of me for one second? Did you say to yourself, ever, this will break Belinda’s heart?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Goaded, he risks a little truth.

‘Because it was nothing to do with you and me. Any more than playing a round of golf.’

‘Playing a round of golf!’

‘It’s just something I like doing that doesn’t involve you.’

‘What!’

She starts flailing at him with one hand, but feebly. She’s very tired.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve said I’m sorry.’

‘Well, it’s not fucking enough! You think you can screw your staff and say sorry and we just go on like we were before?’

No, Tom doesn’t think this. But oh, if only.

‘No.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

Grovel. Be punished. Show remorse. Oh, Christ.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Tell me why you did it!’

Round we go. How can I tell her? Sex is what we share. Sex made our children. How can sex be a pleasure, like a round of golf? That did not go down well.

She’s crying more and more. Oh, God, I don’t want to hurt you. Truly truly truly. Let me be the one who’s hurt. Sweetheart. Belinda.

‘It’s because I’m too old, isn’t it?’ No more shouting. This is a whisper between the sobs. ‘I’m all wrinkly now. That’s why you don’t want me any more.’

‘No, no, no.’ He reaches out an arm to touch her, and she rolls towards him, lets him hug her. ‘That’s not it at all. Not at all. You’re my gorgeous wife. Of course I still want you.’

‘I can’t bear it, Tom. Can’t bear it. I do what I can. What I can. I try to stay pretty for you. For you.’

Sobbing out her heartbreak. Now he’s crying too.

‘I’m the luckiest man in the world. Everyone says so. They envy me my gorgeous wife. You know I fell in love with you the first day I set eyes on you. I’ve never stopped loving you.’

‘Then why – why – why –’

‘It’s all over now. All over. Let’s not talk any more. We’re too tired, we’re not making any sense, it’s four in the morning. Plenty of time to talk tomorrow, and the next day, and all the rest of our lives.’

‘I don’t understand …’

Her voice muffled now, blurring into sleep.

‘There, now. Dry your eyes. We’ll come through this, I promise.’

‘Don’t leave me, Tom. Don’t leave.’

‘I’ll never leave. Promise.’

‘Even if I get old and ugly?’

‘I’ll be old and ugly too.’

‘Oh, yes. So you will.’

‘Sleep now, darling.’

And so exhaustion brings respite. He thinks he won’t sleep that night, but within minutes he’s asleep. The body more merciful than the mind.

Anthony Armitage has been planning his final show since he took possession of America Cottage. It’s to be a retrospective. Much of his work is in private hands but there’s still plenty left, unframed canvases that represent between them sixty-five years of his evolution as a painter. For several days now he has been going through them, picking out the best, and hanging them on the bare walls of the empty barn. He has a list of people he means to invite to the private view: past patrons, gallery owners, arts journalists, friends from long ago, enemies. Who knows how many of them will come? Perhaps none of them. Joe Nola is on the list. Now he adds Christina.

In a nod to the modern style, his show will also be what is called an ‘installation’. It will be a surprise; perhaps even, to use the word appropriated for another show many years ago, a sensation.

He can recall, as he handles each canvas, exactly what he was trying to achieve when he painted it. He can see the ambition and the excitement caught for ever in the brush strokes, but bolder than both he can see the disappointment. He stands holding a small canvas in his hands, gazing at the face of a now dead friend. He had been reaching for a certain quality of regret, he had glimpsed it and almost caught it, but in the end it had eluded him. This is his art, to make dabs of paint portray fugitive emotions. Human beings are so defended, so fragile, so heartbreakingly vulnerable. Titian saw it, and Velasquez: painting as a triumph of humanity. But who cares any more? Even the few who still deign to hold a brush care nothing for the truth of their subjects. Bacon, Freud, all they have to offer is their own inner pain. Can no one use their eyes any more? An entire tradition stretching back hundreds of years now lost. Worse than lost, despised.

Grunting with the effort, he stands on a chair to hang a work he began in 1965, and has returned to many times over the years. It’s a painting of his first wife Nell sitting on the little terrace of their house in Houlgate in Normandy. The glass in the windows behind her reflects the bright sea at which she gazes. She looks as if she wishes she could sail away over the sea. Nell hated the picture, she said it made her look old, but really she hated it because it made her look unhappy. That’s how people mostly are: unhappy, disappointed, sick, dying.

He climbs down off the chair and stands back to look at the painting.

It’s good. It’s alive. I could do it then.

When they came back from Normandy everything had changed. His work embarrassed people. Nell left, taking her unhappiness with her. You wait for the wheel of fashion to turn, you’d think forty years would be time enough, but instead the madness becomes institutionalized. The lunatics have taken over the asylum. The plump and cosseted middle classes long to be abused, to expiate their guilt. The old hunger for penance. The preachers in the pulpits won’t tell them they’re sinners any more, so art must do the job. Art must be hard and hurtful, and mysterious and unfathomable.

Oh, the villains. They have murdered beauty. They have taught the people not to see. Oh, the villains.

But I am old now, and usually drunk. For me the war is over.

He looks at Nell hanging on the barn wall and wonders if he ever loved her.

‘What a cunt you were, Nell,’ he says aloud.

A sudden imperious pressure in his bladder. Here we go again. No wonder old people stink of pee.

He goes out of the barn, moving slowly, in pain. Any kind of movement hurts these days. He takes painkillers but all they do is dull the sharper edges. The pain is deep within him, in the very marrow of his bones, in his back and his hips and his knees. They talk of treatment as if it were a malfunctioning of his body, but he knows the truth. His body has begun to die from the extremities. He is dragging an arthritic corpse after him wherever he goes. Which isn’t very far these days.

What is to be done? When he sits still the pain eases, but he can’t sit still for ever. There’s a subject for you: old man marooned in armchair. Still life. Or as the French call it,
nature morte
.

Standing between the elder trees, screened by the crumbling garden wall, he releases a thin but blessed stream into the winter nettles. Who’d have thought the old man had so much piss in him? One of the few pleasures not yet taken from him by the cruel years.

Then as he fumbles his flies into closure he sees a face staring at him through the branches. The face is pale, intense, accusatory: a teenage girl. As she sees him register her presence she turns away.

‘Wait!’ he calls. ‘Don’t go!’

Such a face! The face of a child who is also a woman, caught at that moment when the mask has not yet formed. Full of fear, free of concealment.

‘Please help me,’ he calls after her.

An unpremeditated cry, all he means is that he wants to have the use of her face, perhaps to paint her; but it sounds in the morning chill like a cry from the heart. And perhaps it is.

She stops and turns. A teenage girl in jeans and hoodie, her trainers caked in mud. She looks at him, unsure what he wants. Maybe he’s a crazy old paedophile.

‘I’m an artist,’ he says. ‘I paint pictures.’

Still she says nothing. Artists can be rapists too.

‘I paint pictures of people.’

‘Okay,’ she says. Giving nothing away.

‘Do you live near here?’

She nods her head towards the track. ‘In the village.’

‘I moved in here last month. I don’t know anybody.’

She nods, and takes a step nearer to her side of the wall. She gestures at the cottage.

‘Did you buy it?’ she says.

‘Oh, no. Only renting. Just for a couple of months.’

That seems to please her.

‘That’s okay, then.’

‘Do you want to see my paintings?’ he says.

She stares at him, suspicious again. Once that kind of offer might have held danger, or promise.

‘I’m eighty-two years old,’ he says. ‘I have severe osteoarthritis. I can’t see a thing without my glasses. I get out of breath if I climb stairs. You’re perfectly safe.’

A slow smile.

‘Okay,’ she says.

She comes in to the garden, closing the gate behind her. At first she stands in the barn doorway, reluctant to enter. He goes ahead of her.

‘See. My paintings.’

He offers the canvases for her inspection. She looks in silence, solemn as a critic. Her attention lingers longest over the portrait of Nell in Normandy.

‘You’re good,’ she says.

‘Yes, I am good. I’m very good. Or I was once.’

‘So what are you doing here?’

Fair question. Would a successful artist choose to live out his old age in a hovel under the Downs? Or even a failed artist?

‘It gives me all I want. Which isn’t much.’

He wants to paint her. The impulse which left him years ago has returned, like the final flicker of a dying fire.

‘What’s your name?’ he says.

‘Carrie.’

‘My name is Anthony Armitage.’

She goes on looking at his portraits.

‘You paint people that really look like people,’ she says.

‘Yes, I do. Sorry.’

‘Why sorry?’

‘That’s supposed to be the job of photography nowadays. Artists who paint people who look like people are called historicists.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It means we’re stuck in the past.’

She frowns, trying to understand.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘They’re all wankers.’

She blushes, then smiles. Such an awkward child, but beneath the clumsy surface there is an angry grace. The artist in him has awoken and is issuing the old dictatorial commands.

‘I’d like to paint you,’ he says.

‘Really?’ She’s surprised. ‘Why?’

‘Because you have a beautiful face.’

‘Do I?’

Now she’s astonished, but also pleased. Such a simple line, but it never fails. And he never says it unless it’s true. That’s how artists change the world. They see the beauty that is overlooked by the fashion of the day. Then others come to their shows and see in their turn, and so the truth of beauty is preserved. Except they don’t come, and the truth is lost.

‘Would you let me?’ he says.

He wants to start now, at once, before the impulse leaves him.

She agrees, without further discussion. Some simple decision takes place within her, and she delivers herself into his hands. He feels a surge of gratitude.

He sits her down in the front room of the cottage where the cool light from the window falls across her cheek, and sets up a hurried easel. She can’t stay too long, she says, her parents will worry. No more than half an hour. Her brother won’t worry, he wouldn’t know if she was dead or alive. She knows some people would be happier if she was dead, but who cares about them? Really who cares about people anyway? All they think about is themselves. You have to be able to cope with being alone, because that’s how you are in the end. You can have one million friends on Facebook but it’s all just a joke because not one of them would lift a finger for you if you needed them.

He lets her talk on, his hand moving rapidly, making an initial sketch in charcoal.

‘I’m not really beautiful, you know,’ she says.

‘Yes, you are.’ He studies her with the impersonal precision of a surgeon. ‘You have a clear high brow. Strong cheekbones. Your eyes are intensely expressive. Your mouth has a curve that echoes your brow. And you should never cover that neck of yours. Your neck is perfect.’

‘Oh,’ she says. She’s gone pink.

‘A remarkable face.’

‘But I’m not – I mean, really I’m not – I’m not anything.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he says, his charcoal flying. ‘You’re a pure form.’

‘Oh.’

She stays for an hour, long enough for the initial sketch to be laid down. She promises she’ll return. As she leaves she says, without looking at him, ‘Do you smash crockery?’

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘Why?’

He goes and retrieves the newspaper from the bin, and shows her the article about the work of Joe Nola. She looks at the picture of the recreated breakfast table. The coffee mugs. The cereal bowls.

‘That’s art?’

‘So they tell us.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘No, I mean why did you smash the crockery?’

‘I was angry. You have to do something.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose you do.’