Wish Upon a Star (48 page)

Palms, bamboo and bananas, and a fig tree in a big pot … Dense foliage and warm, slightly steamy, air.

Matt banged on the glass a few times like a deranged moth, shouting, but I disconnected, picking up a brush and carrying on painting the tiny, naked, cowering figure at the heart of the rampant forest. It looked like Steve, the handsome young gardener at the park, and something threatening was
definitely
lurking in the undergrowth.

Probably me: I often have lustful thoughts about him when I go there to sketch in the greenhouse, but in reality there’s not enough cover to drag him behind even were he willing – and it’s one of those ironic twists of fate that as you age you lust after fewer and fewer men, and those are the very ones who wouldn’t look twice at you. When my last birthday date-stamped me forty, I knew the writing was on the wall.

I really should have sown my wild oats before I got married, because I fear it is now too late.

Sometimes, too, I wonder if my body wouldn’t have rejected each pregnancy if they hadn’t been fathered by Matt? Now I know he’s an alien, perhaps our genes are incompatible?

Too late for that, as well.

Much later I resurfaced to the sound of a familiar loud thud and yelp as Flossie (my spaniel) attempted to walk through the glass door again. But at least if she’d come out of hiding it meant Matt had finally gone.

Flossie is not big on brains, but she
has
grasped that Matt hates her, and it’s safest to keep out of his way. Of course she forgets sometimes, especially when overcome by greed, like yesterday morning when she was drooling over his feet at breakfast, and he kicked her when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Afterwards I went up to the bathroom and gave
all
my big silver rings a vigorous cleaning with his toothbrush and a bit of powdered floor cleaner. The rings came up a treat and I expect his teeth did, too.

Flossie now sat in the dining room outside the conservatory door, looking dazed. (But this is not unusual.) She wagged her tail happily when she saw me coming.

The breakfast debris still littered the table, and Alien Nation had left a note pinned down by the teapot that said he’d had to call a taxi, and if he missed the connection it was my fault.

There was also the name and address of the solicitor who would explain everything to me.

I wish someone would.

Why do I never seem to grasp anything until a couple of years after it’s happened? I never know where I’m going, only where I’ve been.

As Joni Mitchell says, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. I only know what I had to start with.

Or do I only know what I
think
I had to start with? Or did I have what I thought I had, but somehow swapped it for an alien? Could living with me for so long have
turned
him into an alien?

He was right about one thing – he’s changed, but I don’t think I have very much.

Clearly, that was my mistake.

I took stock of my innermost feelings and discovered there weren’t any: I’m a blown egg, all shell and void.

You might hear the sea if you put your ear to me, but that’s about it.

Lay awake all night with my mind doing hamster-in-wheel impersonations, then came groggily down this morning to find a letter from Matt’s solicitor.

Isn’t this indecently fast? The letter said that since Matt and I were in agreement (
are
we?) and there were no children of the marriage, I didn’t need to have my own solicitor: just sign on the dotted line when asked to, and don’t make a fuss.

The only good thing Matt’s sudden bombshell did was make me look at him and realise that he
had
turned into this alien, and an elderly one at that. Otherwise, who knows how long it would have taken for me to realise that I was beginning the slow trek through that long, rocky hinterland before fifty, hand in hand with a grumpy old man? (And as Sherpas go, he’d have been no Tensing.)

A day or two later Matt phoned, his usual bossy self, and basically instructed me to just do as I was told, and he would see me right financially.

That will be a novelty.

And there was definitely an underlying threat there …

I’ve finished the painting: miniatures of looming menace my speciality.

When I lived on the moors among all those vast spaces I painted long, narrow landscapes where tiny figures were set like random jewels. But once transposed to the claustrophobia of a city (even one as beautiful as York), I began painting ever-smaller canvases in which the minute figures cower under threatening jungle foliage.

They sell quite well through Waugh-Paint, a local gallery. Vaddie Waugh, the owner, says it’s because they’re so small that they’re easily portable. Or maybe people just like having something small, dark and threatening hanging on their walls?

I haven’t told anyone about the divorce yet because it doesn’t seem real. And anyway, there’s only really the family to tell, and frankly I don’t want to phone home and confess that not only have I failed in the motherhood stakes, I’ve also failed as a wife.

The solicitor
has
explained everything to me, but it all slid away from my grasp immediately. All I understood was that financially we are up Shit Creek without a paddle, so there’s no point in my fighting for half the house or a huge chunk of maintenance. The maintenance Matt does propose giving me is a pittance, though combined with my painting earnings I expect I’ll survive: Remittance Woman.

I know I won’t be able to keep the house, but the only thing I regret is my conservatory. I’ll have to return home to the Parsonage at Upvale – but where can I put my jungle? I can’t paint without it any more.

I suppose I’ll have to find some kind of job, and a house of my own if I can afford it, because much though I love going home, it would be difficult to do it permanently after having my own place for so many years. I
could
live on my painting, but it would not pay a mortgage.

Having looked around the house, it’s totally amazing what Matt removed without me noticing before! Still, I don’t wish to keep ninety-nine per cent of the household contents anyway, since they were never my choice, and in fact are as alien to me as Matt now is.

Perhaps it could all go to one of those auction houses that take anything, though I suppose I’d better ask Alien Nation if he wants to keep any of it first – if he ever phones again. He’s gone from checking up on me every other night (although after all these years he must know I’m either here or in Upvale), to one solitary, admonitory phone call.

A couple of weeks after the discovery that Matt was an alien, I opened the door to a most unwelcome visitor: Angie, raddled bride of Matt’s best friend and colleague, the revolting Groping Greg.

‘Angie! What are you doing here? I thought Greg’s contract didn’t end for another three weeks?’

Of course, had I known she was home, I wouldn’t have opened the door without checking who it was first, from the upstairs window.

She pushed a bundle of magazines and a box of chocolates into my arms. ‘These are for you,’ she said in the hushed tones of one visiting the sick. Then she trailed past me into the house exuding a toxic effluvium of sultry perfume and nicotine.

If you dipped Angie into a reservoir it would turn yellow and poison many cities.

I followed her into the living room, where she draped herself into one of the minimalist white leather and birch chairs. She looked surprisingly comfortable, but then, she’s all sinew and leather herself.

‘I had to leave Greg out there and come home early, because the cleaning service said we had weird noises in the attic. But anyway, after Matt told us about the divorce, I just
knew
you’d fall apart! And since you’ve got no friends except us, I said to Greg, “I’d better get back and help poor Charlie.”’

Angie is not, and never has been, my friend. I disclaim her as a friend. Her presence is about as welcome to me as a tooth abscess.

‘I’m not falling apart,’ I assured her, which I wasn’t, because nothing lately seemed at all real. I wasn’t sure if I’d been living in a dream world for years and just woken to reality, or vice versa. Sleeping Beauty in her jungle. ‘Actually, I feel more as if I’m imploding – hurtling inwards on myself. There’ll be a popping noise one day, and I’ll have vanished, like a bubble.’

‘You poor thing! There, I knew I was right to come back. But look on the bright side, darling – you and Matt are having a
friendly
divorce, so it will go through really fast. Then he’s going to pay you maintenance, although I don’t suppose you’ll need much because you’ll just go back to that insane-sounding family of yours. Did you see your sister, Anne, on the news last night? There were bullets flying around her head, and she just kept on talking.’

‘Emily – my older sister – has second sight, so she knows Anne’s invincible to bullets. And I don’t know why you say my family’s insane. Matt was keen enough to marry me once he found out who Father was, even if he can’t wait to get rid of me now.’

‘Anne, Emily – and your brother’s called Branwell, isn’t he? What were your parents trying to do, breed their own Brontës?’

‘Yes – well Father was, anyway. He thought if he recreated the hothouse environment and we
didn’t
become literary geniuses, or
Branwell
became the literary giant, it would prove his point. You know – like in his book:
Branwell: Source of Genius
?’

From her puzzled expression, clearly she didn’t know.

‘And Charlie’s short for Charlotte, of course. When the experiment palled on Father he sent us all to the local school, and although Em didn’t mind being known as Effing Emily, I got very tired of being Scarlet Charlotte the Harlot. My family always called me Charlie, anyway.’

‘Weird!’ she muttered again. ‘I suppose you
will
go back there?’

‘I’ll have to, but I can’t just return as if the last twenty-three years never existed.’

Though, mind you, when I do visit home it feels as if I’d never left. Everything’s the same: Em running the place and striding the moors composing her lucrative greeting-card verses, Gloria and Walter Mundi haphazardly doing the housework and gardening, Father writing his infamous biographies and installing his latest mistress in the Summer Cottage, Bran and Anne turning up on visits.

And the moors. Nothing ever changed on Blackdog Moor except the seasons, that was what made me feel so safe there and so very
un
safe here in York.

‘You can get a little job, can’t you?’ suggested Angie. ‘You’re not too old.’

‘What as? Besides, I might make enough from my paintings if I exhibited more.’

‘A London gallery, that’s what you need.’

I shuddered. ‘Oh, I couldn’t go to London! All those people and the noise …’

‘Don’t be such a wet lettuce,’ Angie said impatiently. ‘It’s time to stop being such a shy, mimsy little wimp once you’re past forty.’

I gave her a look. I may be reserved, stubborn and quiet, but I plough my own furrow, as she should know by now. I’m an introverted exhibitionist. Why should I like crowds? I’m simply not a herd animal.

No one could accuse Angie of being mimsy or shy. She’s at least ten years older than me, but her hair is dyed a relentless auburn, she wears eyelashes like tarantula legs, and her face has had every cosmetic art known to science applied to it at one time or another. Her body is lean, brown, and taut, except for the crêpe-paper skin.

Flossie wandered in from her basket in the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at Angie and sneezing violently, before climbing onto my lap and regarding my unwelcome visitor with the blank expression only Cavalier Queen Charlotte Spaniels can assume. I’m convinced they are the result of an early failed cloning experiment.

‘At least there are no children to dispute custody of,’ she said, staring at Flossie.

I’d learned not to look upset when people say this sort of thing to me, as if I hadn’t desperately wanted children. ‘No, there is that, and Matt has always hated Flossie, so we won’t be disputing over
her
.’

‘So everything’s all right? Matt says the first part of the divorce will go through in a couple of weeks, and six weeks after that, it’s finalised. Isn’t it quick?’

‘That’s because I didn’t contest anything – I haven’t even got my own solicitor – and we can’t go for mediation because we’re in different countries.’

‘Matt says you don’t
need
a solicitor, because the house is in his name, and remortgaged to the hilt anyway, and there are lots of debts, so there isn’t much to share. But I’m sure he will be generous with maintenance. You’ll be fine.’

‘Yes, though I do suspect any mildly generous impulses he has now will dwindle away, like in
Sense and Sensibility
.’

She looked blank.

‘You know, Angie, where the widow and her daughters were going to be looked after by the son who inherited everything, only the allowance sort of dwindled away to the present of the odd duck?’

Angie isn’t much of a reader. She carried on staring at me with her mouth open for a full minute.

‘The odd duck?’

‘Not literally, in Matt’s case. How could he send me a duck from Saudi? Or Japan, which he’s supposed to be going to next. What an awful lot of students want to learn English.’

‘Just as well – and Greg’s been offered a Japanese contract too. I quite fancy it.’ She looked around her vaguely. ‘What are you doing with everything? You can’t take it all back with you to Upvale, can you?’

‘No, but I wouldn’t want to anyway – I’ve never thought of most of the furnishings as mine. They’re all Matt’s choice, and most of them were already here when we married. There’s very little we chose together. Unless Matt wants any of it, I expect I’ll sell it. There are places that come and pack it all up and take it to an auction for you.’

‘Yes, but I don’t think you get much for it. Doesn’t Matt want it stored?’

‘Apparently not. He must have been plotting this long before he came home for his last holiday, because he’d already removed all his personal stuff into storage without me noticing.’