Be Careful What You Wish For (21 page)

‘Aren’t you having anything?’ Lionel has noticed that I’m not eating and frowns. ‘I hope you’re not going to turn into one of those dyslexics.’

‘You mean anorexics,’ I whisper, as a couple of incredibly thin models waft past and shoot us both a glance. ‘And, no, I’m not. But talking of weight, Ed thinks
you
could do with losing a few pounds . . .’

‘Oh what does he know,’ pooh-poohs Lionel. Defiantly reaching for a mini-quiche he looks at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. ‘Honestly – you should try one of these. They’re delicious.’

As he tries to sidestep the subject, I’m half tempted not to let him. Maybe Ed’s right: Lionel does seen to be carrying a little more weight than usual, and maybe he should cut back on his wine. I watch him quaffing his merlot, which the ‘nice waitress’ got for him. But then again, he is enjoying himself. I decide against it. Sod it. Let him have his fun. I’ll talk to him about it later, but in the meantime—

‘I thought we were here for the exhibition, not the food,’ I point out.

‘So we are, so we are.’ He throws the waitress an apologetic look and flicks open his pamphlet like a Spanish dancer opening a fan. ‘Righty-ho, then . . .’ He steals another mini-quiche from the tray, pops it into his mouth and throws a huge arm round my shoulders. ‘Let’s go look at some art.’

It turns out to be quite an interesting exhibition and for the next half an hour or so we walk round the different ‘installations’ while Lionel tries valiantly to explain to me the symbolisation of a washing-machine that’s been taken apart and strewn all over a roll of dirty shagpile carpet.

I don’t get it. I’m a complete heathen when it comes to that sort of thing. Not that I haven’t tried. I’m a fully paid-up member of Tate Modern, and I’ve been to the Saatchi Gallery a few times, but I’m just not inspired by a cow in formaldehyde – unlike Turner’s ‘storm’ at the National: I can stand in front of that picture for hours, mesmerised by the sheer emotional force of the colours and textures.

Ironically, I blame my bias on Lionel. Growing up with a father who cocooned himself in his studio made me believe from an early age that there was something magical about painting. Sometimes as a treat Ed and I were allowed to enter his secret world before we went to bed. We’d sit on his oil-splattered lap, inhaling the smell of turpentine as he told us weird and wonderful stories about painters who had cut off their ears or made telephones out of lobsters. We loved all that gory stuff, and adored Lionel’s bedtime stories.

But we also knew they were our little secret. Mum would have killed him if she’d ever found out it wasn’t his rendition of
Cinderella
that made us go to bed so quietly and wide-eyed.

‘So, how are things?’ he says, noticing my glazed expression and abandoning his explanation of how the washing-machine is a metaphor for global warming spinning out of control.

‘Pretty good, actually.’ I’m happy that, for once, I mean it, and am not simply saying it to ease his fatherly concern. ‘We’re booked to do a huge society wedding in a few weeks which is great for business. Jess has met a man she seems really into. I’m renting out my spare room to an American for a few weeks to help with the bills . . .’ I look sideways at his face, trying to gauge how he will react to my next bit of news. ‘And I’ve met someone.’

Without flinching Lionel continues to gaze at the installation. ‘Would that someone be a fellow?’

‘His name’s James,’ I say, trying to sound normal and act as if it’s no big deal, while I’m struggling to stop the smile that’s threatening to take over my face, which is what happens every time I think of him. Which is every few seconds. ‘He seems really nice.’

‘
Nice
?’ repeats Lionel. ‘Nice is such a wishy-washy adjective. If it were a colour it would be a pastel.’

We played this game as children: Ed and I have always associated words, numbers, objects and even people with colours – probably something to do with having an artist for a father. Unsurprisingly, considering our personalities, it was always different for each of us and we would argue about it furiously.

‘OK, in that case . . .’ I’d planned to play down my feelings for James, but now I change my mind. ‘What about “wonderful”?’

‘Aha, now you’re talking,’ Lionel looks at me approvingly. ‘“Wonderful” is about as bold an adjective as you can get. As a colour it’s bright red.’

‘You mean green.’

‘Nonsense! I can see it now, written in vermilion.’

‘No way. It’s more a British racing green,’ I argue, thinking about the colour and realising it’s a lot like James. ‘Classic, sophisticated, understated.’

The middle-aged couple next to us throw Lionel and me a puzzled glance and I notice we’re now standing in front of a huge purple sculpture.

‘Green?’
Lionel shakes his head. ‘Never!’

‘Well, it’s definitely not red.’

Gesticulating widely, my father gasps with exasperation. ‘How on earth can you possibly think that wonderful . . .’ He trails off and stares at me as if he’s seen a ghost. ‘Did you say
wonderful
?’

‘Uh-huh,’ I nod.

‘Oh, my goodness . . .’ A wide smile breaks across his face. ‘Heather darling, that’s marvellous news.’ In a celebratory mood he grabs two more martinis from a passing tray, passes me one and demands, ‘You must tell me all about him.’

Which, of course, is what I’ve been dying to do all evening. Without further prompting, I take a gulp of my cocktail to grease my vocal cords, and describe how James and I met, how I’d secretly fancied him for ages and been delighted when I discovered he’d been secretly fancying me too. How he used to work in the City but left five years ago to establish a property business with clients as far afield as Australia, and his plans to set up an office in America in a few years’ time. This is all business-type stuff that I would never dream of boring my friends with, but which greatly interests my father who, despite his Bohemian outlook on life, can be incredibly traditional when it comes to the type of man he wants to date his daughter.

I also tell him James is handsome, funny and incredibly well-mannered, that we’ve already been on a couple of dates and that he’s going to cook me dinner later this week. I tell him practically everything. Well, nearly everything. I don’t tell him that I keep wondering why James didn’t ask me to stay over last night. How the kiss on the sofa was lovely but left me wanting more, and that although I’ve spent months wishing I could meet a man who was interested in my brain, not just my body, I’m now having doubts.

‘Hmmm, he seems like a great chap,’ says Lionel, as I draw breath, and we move in front of a sculpture of a naked torso made of knitting needles. ‘However, one thing concerns me.’

I guess immediately what it is. ‘Oh, no, you don’t have to worry.’ I remember my father’s horror when Daniel wouldn’t have a sherry with him before lunch. ‘He’s not AA. In fact, he’s quite the sommelier.’ Turning my attention back to the sculpture I can’t help noticing how the artist has made full use of differently sized needles. Absentmindedly I think of Rosemary, an avid knitter, and wonder what she’d make of it.

‘I’m not talking about wine, darling, I’m talking about sex.’

I blush hotly.
‘Lionel,’
I groan, and glance around to make sure no one overheard.

As I expected, he ignores me. ‘You haven’t mentioned it,’ he persists, without the teeniest smidgen of embarrassment. ‘And that worries me.’ Parental concern is etched on his face. ‘Well?’

Now, I know this is highly unusual. Most fathers hate to think that their little girl has grown up and I’ve heard countless stories from female friends about their jealous fathers threatening to beat up any boy they found in their bedroom. But my father isn’t like most fathers. As an artist he has a very open attitude to the human body.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, it’s fine. He’s being the perfect gentleman,’ I say briskly. And somewhat defensively. ‘Which, after Daniel . . .’ I allow my voice to trail off pointedly. Lionel knows all about Daniel. After we broke up I’d spent hours on the phone, crying mostly, yet Lionel refused to judge him. Instead he listened tirelessly until one night when he told me gently, ‘Life is full of experiences, Heather. One has finished, but that only means another is about to begin.’

I’d wanted to sob, ‘Is that how it was with you after Mum died? Is that why you married Rosemary?’ but I’d choked back my angry tears and tried to appreciate what he was telling me. After all, it wasn’t Lionel who’d betrayed me, it was Daniel. Right?

‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Lionel is nodding understandingly. ‘You don’t want another cad, do you?’

‘Cad’ conjures up images of Nigel Havers in a pin-striped suit being all charming, and I can’t help smiling. ‘Two-timing bastard is how I usually refer to him.’

Lionel lets out a roar of approval. ‘And so you should,’ he declared abandoning his neutral status for once. ‘In my day if you were found cheating on a girl the father would have gone after you with a shotgun.’ Draining his glass, he shakes his head. ‘But it was all very different then. There was an unspoken code of behaviour we had to follow. When I met your mother, I had to ask her father’s permission to court her.’

‘Were you nervous?’

‘Dreadfully. I shook like a lily.’

I try to imagine this bear of a man shaking with nerves, but it’s impossible.

‘Your grandfather was frightening,’ he goes on. ‘Many suitors had fallen by the wayside before I came along, I can tell you.’

‘You must have been in love.’ I laugh.

‘From the moment I saw her,’ he says quietly, squeezing my arm and looking at me in the way he does sometimes when we talk about her.

We fall silent and move to the last exhibit, a series of black and white cubes. But I don’t really see them. I’m still thinking about my parents, trying to picture them in their early twenties when they first met. Lionel’s right: it
was
different back then, but there’s something about my relationship with James that feels like theirs. It’s almost as if he’s courting me. First our date at the restaurant, then the cinema, and now his promise to cook me dinner. Yet we’ve still only kissed. Today it seems unusually chaste, but back then it was obviously normal to take things slowly. And so much more romantic, I decide. Mum and Dad would have fallen in love long before they fell into bed.

Reassured by this thought, I turn to Lionel and, unable to resist, ask, ‘Tell me, how long did you and Mum wait? You know, before . . .’

‘Wait?’ He looks at me in astonishment, then guffaws.

‘Oh, my word, no. Your mother and I were at it like rabbits on our first date.’

Forty-five minutes later I’m standing on James’s doorstep, finger on the doorbell, stiletto heel tapping agitatedly.

That’s it, I’ve had enough.

Or, to be more precise, I haven’t had any. Not even a whiff. Unlike my parents. I mean,
please.
You know there’s something horribly wrong when you’re having less sex than your parents.

‘Hello?’ Finally I hear James’s voice on the intercom. He sounds sleepy. I look at my watch: it’s late. He was probably already in bed. ‘Who is it?’ He yawns.

‘It’s me, Heather,’ I say. So what if he’s sleepy? I’ve made a decision. Sod waiting. Sod getting to know each other. And sod him respecting me in the morning.

‘I thought you were doing something tonight.’

‘I’ve done it.’

There’s a pause, before: ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ I fib. Well, you can hardly call abandoning your father at an exhibition, jumping into a cab and turning up at your boyfriend’s house in a sexual frenzy fine, can you? ‘Can I come up?’ I demand forthrightly. And a bit drunkenly. Maybe those apple martinis were stronger than I thought.

‘Of course.’ There’s the sound of the door being released. I push it open and flick the light switch. A large brass chandelier illuminates the hallway and I dive for the stairs, taking two at a time. My heart’s thumping and I can feel the blood rushing through my veins, my eyes dilating, head spinning, groin aching.

Turning the bend I see James waiting for me in his doorway, a vision in a white waffle robe, the kind you get in swanky hotels. He frowns when he sees me. ‘Heather, what’s wrong? You seem—’

I silence him by sticking my tongue down his throat. He doesn’t try to resist. It would have been useless, anyway. I’m drunk. I’m horny. I haven’t had sex in nearly a year. The poor bloke doesn’t stand a chance.

 

‘
A
nd then he said to me, “Jessica, you make me want to be a better man.”’

The next morning I’m in a yoga class with Jess. After a seemingly never-ending and – for someone who needs a half-hour’s stretching before touching their toes – torturous round of sun salutations I’m resting in what the instructor describes as ‘child’s pose’. In other words, I’m face down on a mat.

I take a deep breath. It’s so hot; sweat is sticking my forehead to the mat. I close my eyes and try to imagine I’m on a beach in Goa, or lying in the garden in Cornwall – or anywhere but here, packed like a sardine among dozens of sweaty bodies at the Sacred Movement Centre in Notting Hill, listening to Jess. ‘Isn’t that a line from a movie?’ I hear myself ask.

When Jess called earlier, announcing that she was back from her trip to Sydney and reminding me that I’ve been promising for weeks to go with her to Bikram yoga – ‘it’s amazing, they heat up the room to about ninety degrees so you can reach these really deep poses’ – I felt my
chakras
tie themselves up in a knot. Exercising? In ninety-degree heat? For two hours? I felt exhausted just thinking about it. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got a mock-Tudor wedding at Hampton Court that starts at three,’ I replied, relieved that I was booked to take photographs of a bride and groom dressed up like Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Which shows how much I hate yoga.