Colouring In (8 page)

I was awake much of the night, thinking of her, of Gilbert, of Dan. In my confused reflections only one thing was clear to me: I did not want Carlotta to become too close to Gilbert. I wanted him for
my
friend: mine and Dan’s. Horribly selfish, that: Carlotta needs him far more than I do. For all her toughness in the business world, she’s extraordinarily insecure when it comes to men. Most of her disasters have been because, too eager to gain their love, she’s gone at them too fast – offered everything. She never believes me when I say men don’t want everything: they only want selected parts. I hope her foolish plan won’t lead to another disaster. Perhaps, devious woman that I am too, I had better warn Gilbert. Tell him, simply, if he doesn’t want to be engulfed, he should keep his distance.

This morning, I don’t know why, I went down much earlier than usual to the post box. Usually all I get is bills and junk mail. But there was a real letter among them in a grubby envelope. Not what I’d call ‘educated’ writing.

I sat down at the kitchen table – the place where I’ve received so much bad news over the years, and very little good – and opened it. Just a couple of lines, it was.
I know your sort
it said.
I know what you’re playing at Gwen. There are forces out there who know more than you think. You should take care. Yours, Gary.

I read it over several times. Chilled, I was. If it had been from anyone else I would have thought that it was just some crank, and probably thrown it away without another thought. But from Gary… What was he on about? Was it a threat? Was he saying he knew something about me that he could use to hurt me? Was there any such thing? I tried to think. I’ve made a lot of bad mistakes in my life, but as far as I know there’s nothing wicked I’ve done, nothing I’m ashamed of. All the thinking put my head in a whirl. I saw my hands were shaking. I didn’t fancy my cup of tea though I took a sip or two to get down a couple of aspirin. Perhaps I should speak to Gary next time I see him lurking. Trouble is, he’s always just out of hearing: I can’t shout across the street, and if I approached him he’d be off quick as anything. It’s horrible of him. I’ve got my life up together, straightened it out, I’m as happy as anyone could be, given all the circumstances: I mean Ernie’s not a bad son and, though Jan’s a rotten daughter, I still love her, she’s still mine… And now this dreadful man comes and unsettles everything. Haunts me, threatens me, takes away the feeling of safety.

At one point during the morning I found myself so upset I decided to ring Mrs. Grant. But then I quickly went against that idea. I’ve never talked to Mrs. G about anything much in my life, for all our closeness. Besides, it would be too long to explain, the background. She’d be horrified by my story of having taken up with Gary in the first place. No: I couldn’t bother her with all that, not on a Saturday morning, busy with taking Sylvie swimming and so on. Mr. Grant back from abroad, Mrs. G getting muffins out of the freezer and the sun coming in through the windows. I can see it all. Their house is always in my mind. It’s not a place I want to bother with my problems.

Still accosted, I am, by an unusual restlessness. Perhaps in middle age one takes longer to re-adjust. It will all be better when I’ve decided what to do. Next week I’ll sit down and seriously consider the offers that are coming in. How do these companies suddenly know I’m on the market, back in London? All very odd.

It occurs to me Carlotta, who assured me she’d be in touch immediately about her decorating plans, hasn’t rung. Tremendous relief, actually. I’m not up to her barrage of suggestions just yet. So I’ll carry on with the rackety old fridge and oven for a while: only ring her when things actually collapse.

What I feel like is a peaceful evening with Isabel. Which reminds me, Dan is in Rome. I said I’d ring her. If I don’t do it now, Dan’ll be back. I’ll make my way to the Garrick for lunch, then go hunting for a car. It’d be fun to roll up to number 18 in a Lamborghini, see Isabel’s face. I know she thinks Dan’s taste in cars is fairly unadventurous. What would she think about mine? I’m prepared to be berated.

I don’t like it when Papa isn’t here on Saturday morning. He usually drives me to pick up Elli, then drops us at the pool. At breakfast this morning Mama said Bert had rung and was coming round this evening. Again? I said. I mean I like Bert, but I wanted a nice evening with Mama playing games and stuff. But she was extra kind – to make up for having to share her, perhaps. She let me have a fantastic new yummy ice-cream for lunch, and said Bert – why does she always call him
Gil
bert? – might be coming in some swanky new car, and if he did we’d all go for a ride in it. So? – I mean, that’d be cool. But no car would be as good as Papa’s BMW. Then she said, perhaps we should take our chance and go and get those new
trainers
(she didn’t even purse her mouth) you’ve been going on about. Cool, I said. Thanks. Whatever’s got into her? She walked about humming, and chopped stuff for salad into very small bits. Sometimes she’s so weird.

I heard an unusually melodious hooting of a horn outside. I looked out of the window. Parked outside the house was a great bird of a car, vast and silver. If it had raised invisible wings and risen into the air I wouldn’t have been surprised. It carried on with its cooing noise, like a plaintive dove – surely no warning to errant traffic. I laughed. There was a moment’s silence, then Gilbert got out of the car. From his puffed up gait and jaunty swagger I could see he was tremendously pleased with himself.

He explained he had only just managed to get the beast in time – and, what’s more, he hadn’t paid for it. No: it had been
lent
to him for the weekend to try out. He’d already been to Windsor and back and then had had a very entertaining time trying to get to grips with the inbuilt satnav. ‘What made them trust you?’ I asked. Gilbert just shrugged, suggested it was his honest look … Oh,
and
he had left a deposit large enough to fill the boot with Chateau Mouton Rothschild 84 …

He couldn’t wait for Sylvie and me to test it. The inside was a cave of bleached leather. Sylvie climbed into the back. Having been thoroughly snooty about the whole idea of this ride when I put it to her earlier, she was now clearly in some awe, but trying to hide her perfidious reaction. Her loyalty to Dan’s BMW is total.

I swung into the front seat. Gilbert shut the door from the outside. It made that soft clunk that’s the nature of really expensive car doors, the re-assuring noise of leather slippers on stairs. Then we were off – Hyde Park, Constitution Hill, St. James’s Street, Regent Street and back down the Marylebone Road to Shepherd’s Bush. Wonderful: I suddenly understood Dan’s thing about cars, though his BMW had never actually inspired me with this feeling. Gilbert said as soon as it became his – and there was no question of it being returned – he would take us for a spin on some motorway very early one morning so that we could get an idea of its speed – ‘Might even let Dan have a go at the wheel,’ he added. When we got home he asked Sylvie her opinion. ‘Cool,’ she answered, ‘… but nothing compared to ours.’ She’s so predictable.

She didn’t want to eat with us. I gave her a tray of supper to take up to the television. When I went to say goodnight to her later, her lights were turned out and she was asleep, or pretending to be. Odd. Her moods are constantly fluctuating. Her age, I suppose. But Gilbert was probably relieved she didn’t join us for supper. He’s not brilliant at conversation with children.

He was the one to bring up the subject of Carlotta. She hadn’t rung, he said, and was somewhat relieved. So, I thought, she was putting her plan into action. And my prediction was right: Gilbert had absolutely no idea that in the silence she saw him as
dangling
. ‘What do you make of her,’ I asked, ‘after all these years since your childhood?’ I pillowed this question very carefully.
What do you make of?
is somehow less crude than the straightforward
what do you think?
Less blunt, less challenging. Usually produces a more considered reply.

Bert shrugged, gave a flick of a smile that indicated he wasn’t much interested in the subject of Carlotta, but he’d do his best before we moved on to more compelling matters. At least that was my initial interpretation. A second later it occurred to me he had become smitten by Carlotta in the two evenings they had been together, and I was the last person to whom he had any wish to confide his feelings. A blade of ice ran down my spine.

‘Well, of course, she’s changed out of all recognition – hardly surprising. Better looking. Much better looking. Lively, noisy, doesn’t know when to keep quiet. But plainly a good friend.’ He could quite see my fondness for her, he said. Though what exactly it was that drew us to each other, he had still to decipher.

He said all that so easily, so honestly, it was hard not to believe he spoke anything but the truth. A silence fell between us. I finished my glass of wine, loathe to ask more questions. Then he said, very quietly: ‘but she’s not my type. So please, you and Dan – please don’t go trying to match-make. It wouldn’t work … for either of us,’ he added. ‘I’m sure she’s not got designs on me. I’m not nearly exciting enough. I’m not cutting edge – can a man be cutting edge?’ We both smiled, laughed, and the almost indecipherable moment of awkwardness was dispelled. ‘I don’t think we had any ideas of match-making,’ I said with what was meant to be a kind of mock affront. ‘Obviously it wouldn’t work. Much though I love Carlotta, she’s something of a control freak. You’d be consumed. She’d exhaust you. She’d…’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said. And re-filled my glass.

There was a long silence between us. My head spun with alternatives. Where to go from here, I wondered? I’d become too heated about Carlotta. Too disloyal. Had he noticed? The subject of her should definitely be closed, or he might say something I had no desire to hear. Eventually I asked whether he would like fruit, cheese, anything? ‘What I’d like,’ he said, ‘is to see your work.’

To see my work? I heard my own gasp. ‘But nobody ever wants to see masks in progress,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing much to see.’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see the place where you spend your days.’

‘Mornings only,’ I corrected.

I could not remember anyone else ever following me up the stairs eager to see my studio, my work. It was both a pleasing and an alarming prospect. Very few people are interested in someone else’s work if it’s not in their own field. I understand that. There’s something rather alien about being a curious spectator, asking questions, knowing the answers are unlikely entirely to clarify. I never ask Carlotta about the nature of her work: in truth it doesn’t interest me. She certainly doesn’t ask about mine, though on occasions, when she’s seen a mask downstairs waiting to be delivered, she comes up with extravagant praise that means nothing to me. I never ask Dan more than functional questions about his business because that holds little interest for me, either. I’d like to enquire about his writing, but know better than to do so. Writers, artists, musicians, shouldn’t be interrogated. Their work is their answer. I believe that firmly. I suppose it’s all right to question someone like me, a simple craftsman, on how we do it: ‘I pick up a minuscule bead with a pair of tweezers, dab it in a speck of glue.’ To questions about technique I’ve given such answers, and I don’t mind, because I know I will never be asked what it’s all about to me. I doubt anyone would ever guess the maker of masks finds herself
marinating
her masks with hopes and fears – unease at times, and vast happiness at others. I knew that Bert would never ask questions about that side of things, so I felt quite safe. But puzzled. And a little… Had I drunk a glass more than usual? Why was my heart so beating?

I opened the door. Went to my work table, switched on the shaded light. There were many other lights I could have put on – ready for the rare occasions I can get away to work in the evening – but I did not want to. I think I must have wanted Bert to be a little puzzled by what he saw … mystified. I think I wanted him to sense, just very faintly, what I try to do.

I turned and saw him standing in the doorway. His arms hung at his sides. His fists were clenched. Even in the dim light I could see his knuckles, two small arcs of white pebbles. I didn’t look at his face – not wanting, just yet, to see his reaction. But I saw him swallow, and take a cautious step into the room as if he was treading water.

I fell in love with Isabel at that moment.

That moment when she switched on the light and turned to me, not meeting my eye, and stood by her table slightly quivering as if touched by the merest breeze. In the imprecise light I could see nothing clearly, but was aware of swarms of empty faces, their hollow eyes upon me. Many of them sprouted plumes and ribbons and clumps of frothing materials sparkling with crystals no bigger than a wren’s eye, and beads. I was aware of bright, glorious colours struggling against the dimness of the room. I felt a sense of curious life, there, a kind of soaring, as in music.

‘This is all it is,’ Isabel said at last. God knows how long we had stood in petrified silence. It may only have been a second or two. ‘There’s nothing much to see,’ she added.

That was not true. She knew it was not true, but it didn’t matter. I nodded, not knowing what to say.

I hadn’t expected any of this, of course. In the single evening spent with Isabel, Dan and Carlotta, I’d felt a kind of ease with her, a joy in her presence and her laughter. But perhaps that was just in comparison with Carlotta, for whom I felt nothing but vague gratitude for her offers of help. This evening, in the car, Isabel’s delight had stirred me a little further. But I swear the drive was no more than a confirmation of my liking. Had I thought there was any danger of being assailed by more potent feelings for my best friend’s wife, I would never have agreed to spend this evening alone with her. And indeed at supper all was normal. Quiet, enjoyable. She talked a lot about Dan. She loves him. They’re as happily married as any couple can hope to be – I sensed that. We talked about the changes I’d been finding in London since I left. She gave me news of mutual friends.