Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (18 page)

She can find someone else to kick around.

I have a third glass of wine and decide it’s time to tell Lizzie the truth about Colin and me. No more pretending we’re just casual lovers.

Better practice my speech.

Sands Point

May 2011

By the time we touch down, I’m almost word-perfect. I’m also losing my nerve. The wine has worn off and I’m worried about Lizzie’s reaction. She’s not going to like learning she’s been left out of my loop.

I’ll go straight home and call her tomorrow.

No. Get it over with. Now.

So when I reach the village I hang a right and drive out to Lizzie’s.

Fergus is in the barn, cutting wood. “Hey Jill,” he calls out. “Nice trip?”

“Fabulous.” I wave at him and climb the steps into Lizzie’s back porch. I can see her through the window, bent over the kitchen table working on a crossword, glass of wine at her elbow. She looks up and grins.

Maybe this won’t be as bad as I fear.

“You’re glowing,” Lizzie says. “I guess you had a good time, huh?”

“The best.”

“Then sit down and tell me all about it.” She points toward her glass. “Want some?”

“God, no.” I sink into a chair. “I’ll pass out if I drink any more.”

I’ll also forget my speech. Stalling for time, I pick up Lizzie’s cow-shaped
salt-shaker
and fiddle with its cork. How will she react to my news? I feel like a shit for having lied to her. Well, not exactly lying. More like not giving her the full story. Lizzie’s a dear and I love her madly, but she’s got a bee in her bonnet about Colin. She doesn’t think he’s serious. Okay, time for me to set her straight. Maybe I’ll describe Cornwall and Claudia’s cottage first, then make her laugh over my delusions about Alexandra’s portrait, and after that, I’ll—

Lizzie reclaims her cow. “Come on, Jill. Stop messing about. I’m waiting.”

Something, jetlag probably, hijacks my script. “I’m going to tell Elaine to take her work and shove it.”

I don’t know who’s more startled by this. Lizzie or me.

She recovers first. “You’re joking, of course.”

“Dead serious.” I flourish Colin’s check. Wave it under Lizzie’s nose. God, did I really do that? What the hell’s gotten into me?

“Ten grand,” Lizzie says, nodding. “Very nice, but it won’t keep you for more than a few months. You need to work and right now you need Elaine’s business.”

“Not any more.”

Lizzie sighs. “Jill, you’re having an affair. I bet your feet haven’t touched the ground all week. But what happens when reality steps on your toes? What if Colin decides he’s had enough? Or you do?”

“This isn’t an affair.”

“Looks like one to me.” Lizzie glances at Colin’s check, lying beside her crossword on the table. “Jill, this is exciting and glamorous and right now I’m envious as spit because you’re having all this fun while I’m stuck here with—”

Fergus’s chainsaw fires up.

Lizzie closes the window, turns to face me. “Jill, I’m—”

“We’re getting married.”

She jerks as if I just slapped her. “What?”

“Colin and I are going to get married.”

“On the basis of a weekend at the beach and ten days in Cornwall? Are you mad? This is a cruise-ship romance. You barely know this man.”

“I’ve known him all my life.”

Not exactly true, but I’m in no mood to split hairs.

“You knew him as a kid,” Lizzie says. “A teenager. Thirty-five years of life have happened since then. His mother committed suicide, his father abandoned him, he had a shitty marriage, and now he’s living with a woman he doesn’t love.”

She doesn’t know the half of it.

Better not tell her about his ex-wife and Nancy. That’d really send her up the spout. Lizzie looks at me. I glance away, try to stop the flush that’s creeping up my face. Dammit, she’s right, but she’s wrong, too. Yes, all that shit happened, but—

Lizzie grabs me by the shoulders. “He’s changed. So have you. It’s called getting older.” Her voice softens. “Okay, so when did this turn serious?”

I hesitate. “At the beach.”

“In Cornwall.”

“No. Here.”

Lizzie lets go of me. “Back in March?”

“Yes.” My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it myself.

The atmosphere in the room shifts and I feel as if I’m in the eye of a hurricane. High winds have already blown through—trees are down, the power’s out—but you know the worst is yet to come.

“Why, Jill? Why?” Lizzie says. “Why did you plan a wedding behind my back?”

She points to the fridge where a Union Jack magnet holds a postcard of Land’s End I sent her last week. Colin and I stood on the rocks and waved at her.

“I suppose this means you’re going to live in England?” she says.

“Colin’s coming here.”

“I don’t believe it. I don’t fucking believe it.”

“It’s true. He is.”

Her blue eyes glitter with tears. Her dear, sweet face twists with pain. I barely recognize her.

“No, Jill. Not that. What I don’t believe is that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

I went to the mall without telling her. Bought luscious underwear. I was right about those Calvins. They looked stunning on him.

“I suppose you told Harriet,” she says.

I shake my head.

“The boys?”

“They have no idea.”

“Great, Jill. The most important people in your life are the last ones to know.” Lizzie glares at me. “So, when did Colin break the news to Shelby?”

Again, I hesitate. “He hasn’t. Not yet.”

She pins me with a look. “But he
has
asked you to marry him?”

Forever, Jilly. For the rest of our lives.

“No.” The word slips out before I can stop it.

“Then what the fuck are you thinking about?”

The closest I’ve come to a ring are those circles Colin drew in the sand. I step toward Lizzie, hold out my arms. I want a hug and I bet she does too, but she backs away.

“We don’t need words to tell us we belong together,” I say.

Lizzie groans. “Just because you’ve had the greatest sex since Claudius’s wife screwed half of Rome doesn’t mean squat if he doesn’t leave Shelby, and it means even less if he doesn’t ask you to marry him.” She gives an obscene little laugh. “Or are
you
planning to ask
him
?”

“You’re out of touch. Lots of women ask men these days.”

“Jill,
you’re
the one out of touch.” Lizzie grabs her wine, takes a slug. “Remember your pet peeve? Middle-aged men and trophy wives? Well, this is
my
pet peeve, Jill. Strong women who turn to mush the minute a man scoops them up.”

“Colin hasn’t—”

Lizzie narrows her eyes. “He’s transformed you from an independent, confident woman into a nineteen-fifties housewife. I’m surprised you’re not wearing heels and an apron.”

“You’ve no idea what it’s like for me, do you?” I say. “You have a secure job, a devoted ex-husband, and your mortgage is paid up.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“The hell it does.”

“Jill, be reasonable.”

My self-control snaps like frayed knicker elastic. I’m too tired, too bloody tired and too bloody mad to care any more. Why can’t Lizzie see it
my
way for once? Why does she have to be always right, and me always wrong?

“Stop raining on my parade,” I yell. “I’ve found a man I love who wants to take care of me and you’re fucking jealous.” I grab onto a chair for support. “You’ve always been jealous. I’m thinner than you. Younger. You couldn’t hold onto Trevor so you’re taking it out on me.”

There’s a dreadful silence, punctuated by a chainsaw.

“I think it would be best,” Lizzie says, in a voice I’ve never heard before, “for you to leave before I say something I’ll really regret.” She presses her hands on the table and leans forward, head down, not looking at me. “I can’t cope with you any more.”

My temper needs a time out. “Lizzie, I’m sorry.”

“Now, Jill. Go away. Now.”

Choking back sobs, I stumble onto the porch. I lean against the wall, shivering and breathing hard. My heart’s pounding so fast I’m afraid to open my mouth in case it leaps out.

Behind me, the door opens part way.

“You forgot this.” Lizzie thrusts Colin’s check into my hand. “Your fee for services rendered.”

The door closes and I hear the lock click into place.

Sands Point

May 2011

Tears blur my vision and I run a stop sign at the end of Lizzie’s road. Almost hit a guy walking his dog. What the hell have I done? Why did I make such a balls up of telling Lizzie the truth about Colin and me? I knew this would happen. I should’ve gone straight home. Slept on it and told her in the morning.

Heart pounding, I grip the wheel and turn onto Bay Street. A crowd in evening dress lingers on the sidewalk outside The Contented Figleaf. Waiters circle with trays; ribbons and posies dangle from umbrellas. Silver balloons hang from the branches of a dogwood tree. Someone’s anniversary? A graduation?

A wedding?

My car mounts the curb. Bounces off.
Clang.
Metal strikes the ground and I catch a glimpse of dull chrome as my last hub cap rolls into the gutter. I pull over and sling it in the trunk. Slam the lid. A boy on a bike rides by and gives me a funny look.

Somehow, I get myself home without further mishap. I fall into bed and thrash about like the guy in that TV commercial whose shitty mattress has him tossing and turning all night. Red-eyed and exhausted, I get up at eight and spring Zachary from the kennel.

He’s gone before I even unpack.

Clients call with more work than I can handle and my days are filled, but sometimes sadness catches me off guard. It seeps in the window, slides beneath the door. I close my eyes and see Lizzie’s face etched like an old china plate from myriad days in the sun. I remember the way her lipstick always leaks into the small lines above her mouth, no matter how often she blots it, and I feel her arms squashing me into her heavy bosom whenever I need a good cry.

I told her she was fat. Inexcusable.

Guilt hands me the phone.

“Lizzie, I’m sorry. Please—”

A gentle click and the line goes dead.

If she’d slugged me in the stomach, I’m sure I could’ve breathed more easily. I stagger from my office to the living room and collapse on the couch. I look around for my cat, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Desperate for something to hug, I snatch up a pillow and bury my face in faded green velvet.

Harriet calls to ask if I had a great time in Cornwall and to regale me with details about the second-grade play I missed. Anna was an ear of corn. Spoke her lines like a pro, and do I have any idea how many egg cartons it took to make her damned costume? How much crepe paper? I admit I don’t have a clue.

Should I tell her about my fight with Lizzie? No, I’m still too raw, too confused. What about Colin’s check? Ditto, because if I tell Harriet it’s now hidden at the back of my sock drawer, she’ll rant and rave about putting it in the bank.

For services rendered.

Lizzie’s wrong. I haven’t given up my independence. I don’t need Colin’s money to survive, nor do I need Elaine’s business. I’ll find other clients. So, for now, I’m leaving the check where it is. If I don’t cash it, I can’t spend it. And if I don’t spend it, I’ve proved I don’t need it.

End of discussion.

Colin rings up. His dog is failing and he’s dreading that last trip to the vet. And no, he hasn’t found the right time to tell Shelby. But he will, soon. He promises.

Dammit, what the hell is he waiting for? Is he scared of confronting her? I know all about that. I spent years watching my father tread on eggs around my mother. I asked him once, why he let her push him around. His face turned kind of gray and I thought he was going to throw up. I never asked again.

Armed with clippers and gloves, I pull weeds, hack at the wisteria, and find a spot for my little clump of thrift that survived its journey from Cornwall inside a plastic bag at the bottom of my suitcase. I scrub mold off the patio furniture and stamp out the burrows that run like varicose veins through the lawn. Mole control is Zachary’s job.

Where the devil is he this time?

My garden will have to wait. I throw down my tools and head for the beach to look for my cat. No sign of life at the Graingers. No dogs either. They’re an odd lot. Nobody in town seems to know much about them. Tom doesn’t appear to have a job and if he does, it’s something he does on the quiet. I study his multi-million dollar house. Its soaring rooflines and cantilevered decks must’ve given some poor builder a migraine. The back is mostly glass and there’s a green market umbrella propped up beside the double sliding doors.

A flicker of movement catches my eye. Curious, I step onto the boardwalk that runs between the dunes and up to his deck. Sunlight glints on the glass. Another movement. I walk closer.

Something’s in there. Trying to get out. Not a kid or a dog—

Zachary?

How long has he been locked up? A few hours? Days? Weeks?

A rag doll, sprawled like a hit-and-run victim, lies on a picnic bench. I pick it up and sit down in its place, holding the doll in my lap. I stare at my cat. He prowls back and forth, tail vibrating like a compass. Miaowing. What am I supposed to do now? Break a window? Call the fire department? They hold a dim view of rescuing cats.

Doors open and slam shut. Voices call out.

I drop the doll on the bench and retreat to the edge of the deck. A dog barks and Zachary stops pacing. The door slides open and my cat streaks out, shoots past me, and leaps off the deck into the bushes. I make a move to follow him.

Behind me, someone says, “Can I help you?”

Whirling around, I come face-to-face with Tom Grainger’s wife.