Marriage and Other Games (2 page)
Sebastian could hear a voice calling him from far, far away. He stirred, looked up, and saw his wife gazing down at him. She smiled, and it lit up her face. Why was she looking so excited?
‘Darling, you’re a genius,’ she was saying. ‘They’re going to love this!’
‘What?’ Sebastian sat up, wondering how something so pure could give him such a blinding headache. He kicked the bottle of vodka out of the way in a temper.
Catkin waved her hand around the room.
‘It’s such a fantastic statement: the artist destroying his own work so nobody else can. They’re going to be queuing up.’
She looked round at the desecrated paintings in awe.
Sebastian scowled. She was so much cleverer than him. She always had been. It was typical of her, to sweep in and diminish his gesture, turn it into something it wasn’t. She was refusing to recognise his mental anguish. She was supposed to be horrified by what he had done. She was supposed to rush to his side, console and reassure him. But here she was, jumping up and down with glee and declaring his act of defiance, his attempt to destroy six months’ labour, as an artistic triumph.
Of course, Catkin never had a bad day, or even a moment’s doubt, about her ability. That’s why her star was in the ascendant; a meteoric rise that had, as yet, showed no sign of reaching its zenith. Sebastian knew he had been perched on his for some time, and it was a long way down from where he was sitting, which was why he was transfixed with fear, dissatisfied, filled with self-loathing and lacking in confidence. And why it was easier for him to destroy his work than let it be judged.
Catkin, however, was clearly not going to allow him the luxury of wallowing in his perceived imminent failure.
‘The process of wilful self-destruction,’ she proclaimed from the centre of the room. ‘The ultimate artistic statement - nihilistic, perhaps, yet undeniably profitable.’
‘Where do you get all this shit from?’ Sebastian slurred.
‘You, darling.’ She beamed triumphantly. ‘And it’s all bollocks. We know that. Which is why this is going to be your most successful exhibition yet.’
‘But they’re ruined. I can’t sell this lot.’
He’d shot more than a dozen paintings from his chair. Some of them had gaping holes. Others were merely sprinkled with shot. Madonna’s Big Mac had been blown to buggery, while Jordan had escaped with a gentle peppering. The studio hadn’t got away so lightly. Chunks of plaster had come off the wall and a Velux window had been blown out.
Catkin took off her hat and twirled it on her finger. The sharp edges of her signature Sassoon bob barely moved as she shook her head.
‘In the words of Andy Warhol,’ she said, ‘art is whatever you can get away with.’
She was quite right. Three weeks later, Sebastian’s exhibition opened. Every painting was sold before the rapturous reviews could even be read in the papers. And for those who couldn’t afford the real thing, there was a fake rifle range, where punters could line up and take pot-shots at limited-edition prints, then take them home. Interactive art; DIY destruction.
It was a triumph.
Sebastian came back to Withybrook Hall considerably richer, then sank into an even deeper depression.
Two
T
he girl sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the dress hanging in front of her. Slippery black silk trimmed with lace and jet beads, it had puffed sleeves, a high neck and a trailing fishtail skirt. Although it was designed to reveal no flesh whatsoever, it was nevertheless dramatic; a frock not be ignored. And as she contemplated the outfit, a strange feeling came over her. A feeling she remembered from a long, long time ago.
he girl sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the dress hanging in front of her. Slippery black silk trimmed with lace and jet beads, it had puffed sleeves, a high neck and a trailing fishtail skirt. Although it was designed to reveal no flesh whatsoever, it was nevertheless dramatic; a frock not be ignored. And as she contemplated the outfit, a strange feeling came over her. A feeling she remembered from a long, long time ago.
It was excitement. Excitement at the prospect of getting dressed up and going out for the night. She’d thought she’d felt the sensation earlier in the hairdresser’s, when Yves had teased her unruly blonde curls into an elaborate and uncharacteristically elegant chignon. She hadn’t felt like herself at all, but Yves had told her she looked sensational and he never lied. She’d trusted him for years. Besides, as he pointed out, as hostess of the ball, she had to look the part. Nevertheless, she hoped no one thought she was taking this new look seriously; that she was taking herself seriously. She didn’t do serious. She was bubbly, vivacious, as fizzy as a bottle of champagne that has been rolling around in the boot of a car before being opened.
On the surface, anyway.
She stood up and walked towards the mirror. Her strapless bra and tiny pants shimmered silver under the lights. She ran her hands down her body and felt an unfamiliar flicker deep inside. She frowned, puzzled, then smiled. Her reflection responded by smiling back at her with dancing eyes and a mouth as pink and soft and sweet as Turkish delight.
‘Charlotte Briggs!’ she exclaimed in delighted recognition. ‘Long time no see. And welcome back!’
It was as if someone had flicked a switch and brought her back to life after she’d been cryogenically frozen. For the first time in ages, she felt like herself. How long had it been? Two years? At least, she calculated rapidly.
She and Ed had resolved on New Year’s Day to give the treatment a rest. It had been such a hideous ordeal. The blood tests. The probes. The injections. The nasal sprays. The scans. Nausea. Headaches. Weight gain. Mood swings. Hot flushes. Swollen breasts. And all the time pretending to the world at large that everything was fine, because it was so much easier than people asking you (or very obviously not asking you, which was worse) if you’d had any luck yet.
They hadn’t had any luck. Twelve thousand pounds later - though it wasn’t about the money; of course, it wasn’t about the money - and her womb was as empty as it ever had been, a cold desolate space deep inside her that was destined never to incubate. And they hadn’t even had the benefit of an explanation. That would have made it so much easier to bear - a trump card to produce when asked why you had no children at the age of thirty-three when you had been trying since your honeymoon night. Which people knew only too well, because she had always proclaimed that she wanted shitloads of babies. At least three. If not five.
Unexplained infertility. What a cruel diagnosis. It provided no comfort whatsoever. Because it didn’t actually give you a cut-off point, a reason to give up. It didn’t let you draw a line, so it was entirely up to you to take a deep breath and say ‘enough’ when you couldn’t take it any more: the relentless cycle of hope, expectation and disappointment.
No wonder that among it all, Charlotte Briggs had got lost. The sweet-faced sparkly eyed girl who found it easy to make friends, and keep them, had slipped away quietly somewhere. Oh, she’d been able to pretend. Charlotte could chat incessantly when called upon, she could get any party started, she made strangers feel at ease, but her heart wasn’t in it. It was a carefully calculated cover-up designed to deflect suspicion. She didn’t want questions or pity, so she’d kept the mask in place. Underneath, she’d been desperate and distraught, engulfed by a terrible sense of claustrophobia as each month slipped by and she realised that her dream was never going to come true.
She had thrown herself into her work, to give her life momentum and meaning. The consultant had told her to ease up, even take some time off, but the prospect of doing nothing had appalled her. How was sitting staring at the walls supposed to help? Instead, she had doubled her workload, thereby minimising the amount of time free to spend bemoaning her lot. She fell into bed each night exhausted, and slept too deeply to dream of tiny fingers and the sweet, shallow breath of the infant she was yet to conceive. Weekends were spent socialising, preparing for and recovering from cocktail parties, brunches, nights at the opera, days at the races. Corporate freebies, which both she and Ed enjoyed as part of their work, he as a consultant in the incomprehensible but profitable world of spread-betting, she as an interior designer to the filthy rich. Not the merely wealthy footballers and pop-stars and supermodels who peppered the pages of the tabloids, but the silently, stealthily super-rich who had been quietly invading London courtesy of the tax breaks and wanted no publicity, just total discretion.
Now it was June, six months after they’d decided to stop the IVF, and it must have taken all that time for the hormones and drugs finally to leave her body, for tonight, as she stood in front of the mirror, she caught a glimpse of her true self again. There was a gleam in her eye and a radiance to her skin. Her hair was glossy. She felt . . .
Happy?
Perhaps that was too strong a description. But somehow, in the past few weeks, she had moved on. She had come to terms with the fact that she and Ed would probably be childless. She wasn’t ready to consider other options yet. The prospect of adoption brought with it a whole new set of dilemmas and ordeals. If she needed anything it was a break, a chance to enjoy herself again. And that’s what she was going to do. She was tired of putting everything on hold, tired of her mood being dictated by circumstances beyond her control. She was going to grab her life back with both hands.
In that one moment, she felt as if she could cope again.
She and Ed met six years previously. One of the senior partners in the firm he worked for was moving his wife and family from New York to London, and wanted the Chelsea town-house they had bought decorated from top to bottom. Ed had been charged with overseeing the project, rather inexplicably as he was the first to admit he didn’t have a clue about ‘housey stuff’ - as long as he had a comfy sofa to stretch out on and a big telly to watch the rugby and reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, he was happy. But for some reason the partner seemed to trust his judgement, and so Ed had dutifully gone to Breathtaking Designs, the company Charlotte worked for, to see if they could help. Charlotte’s boss, a garrulous Dubliner called Connor, had assigned the project to her.
She went to Ed’s office in the City to give him their pitch. As soon as she saw him, she knew it was going to be an uphill struggle to win him over. In his blue and white striped shirt and gold cufflinks, jumpy with endless cups of Americano, he was offhand and fidgety, his eyes constantly flicking over to his computer. He could not be less interested in what she had to say. He only had eyes for the figures on the screen as he assessed, presumably, his profit and loss. Charlotte didn’t have a clue about spread-betting, but it clearly engrossed Ed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually, in as firm a voice as she could manage, ‘if I’m wasting your time, perhaps I could leave the designs here for you to look at when you’re under less pressure?’
He looked at her, startled, obviously not realising how rude he had been.
‘Shit, I’m terribly sorry. This isn’t my field, that’s all. And we’ve got deals going down all over the shop. Please - accept my apologies.’ He put a freckled hand over his silver mouse, clicked, then gave her a disarming smile. ‘The computer’s off. I’m all yours. Really.’
She took a deep breath and started again. This time, he really did seem to be paying attention. Soon, she had scattered his desk with a bewildering array of swatches and paint charts. He listened, fascinated, as she described the thinking behind what she called the storyboard. He scarcely understood a word she said, yet he was completely captivated by her passion as she spoke of fabrics - georgette and moiré and chenille - that he had never encountered, in colours that seemed to come out of a fairy story. All the time her fingers were fluttering over the samples she had brought, stroking the material, urging him to feel them so he could appreciate their softness, their weight, their luxurious finish. He obeyed, just to please her, but he took in none of the detail.
All he knew was that his senses had suddenly been hijacked by this creature in the pea-green corduroy jacket with the diamanté swan brooch on the lapel, and the almost-but-not-quite transparent chiffon skirt, and the lilac suede ballet shoes. It was her he wanted to touch, so he could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, hold her close and breathe in deeply whatever it was she smelled of. Violets, he thought; something sweet and flowery and old-fashioned but unbelievably haunting. He tried to hold the scent in his head, so he could recall it later. Her voice washed over him: slightly breathless and slightly clipped, it was from another age. Jenny Agutter in The Railway Children. No one spoke like that any more, surely?
He was spellbound. He was used to women in immaculately cut suits and sheer tights and court shoes who never showed a chink of femininity, let alone vulnerability - tough ball-breaking risk-takers whom he admittedly admired, but who considered sex a competitive sport and who never showed a softer side. He’d slept with his fair share, but had never taken a relationship to the next level. He couldn’t imagine being married to any of those women. Why would you marry one of them? Not for their home-making skills, or their maternal instincts, certainly. Not that he was sexist, but what would be the point?
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