Picture Imperfect (2 page)

It could be worse, of course. I could be one of those
crazy old-style abstract artists who chuck entire buckets of paint at the canvas,
but this would be a difficult thing to do when you don’t have room to swing a
cat, and believe me, I would swing one if I could. They give me terrible
sneezing fits whenever I’m near them and I was once lightly scrammed on the
back of the leg as a child, if you can still be classified as a child when
you’re nineteen.

As it happens, I’m in the process of tidying up at the
moment as Mark is due back from work soon and doesn’t like to see the mess. He
doesn’t like the smell of oil paint, either, but there’s nothing I can do about
that. I’ve got one of those smelly things with sticks poking out of the top
that you get in the supermarket (Magnolia and vanilla flavour, I think) and
that’s as far as I’m going. Besides, I’ve always like the smell of oil paint.
It’s got a faint odour of bohemian living about it mixed up with a pleasing
whiff of a dissolute,
mis
-spent life in nineteenth
century Paris.

As
it’s
Friday, I give all my
brushes an extra-special clean and actually dry them off properly using extra
soft Velvet tissues and the hairdryer. I never work at the weekends. Mark
doesn’t like it.

Half an hour later, I hear Mark’s key in the lock and,
as usual, he opens the door really quickly, as if he’s trying to catch me out
in the middle of some unsuitable activity with a well-muscled artist’s model
(chance would be a fine thing). But he doesn’t have to worry about that because
a) I don’t use artist’s models, b) I couldn’t afford one even if I did and c)
If I was going to bonk one, I’d probably book both of us into a posh hotel for
an obscene weekend. Does that sound like I’ve been fantasising?

 
Mark is a little
later than usual, which is unusual for him. He is a creature of habit, which
is
a good thing and a bad thing. Don’t ask me to elaborate.

‘Hello, gorgeous!’ He walks over and kisses me on the
cheek and then, as if suddenly remembering that I’m meant to be his girlfriend
and that we sometimes have sex, on the mouth. He seems in an unusually good
mood and I’m wondering if he’s been promoted or something. What could you get
promoted to if you lecture in banking? Not having to lecture in banking ever
again under any conceivable circumstances for as long as you lived would seem
like a pretty good promotion to me.

He walks past me while reaching into his briefcase and
pulling out a bottle of wine. Obviously there is something to celebrate, then.
He places it on the kitchen surface and nods at it.
‘Thought
we could have that with dinner tonight!
Have you made anything yet?’

‘Not really. I’ve been working.’

‘Oh yeah.
Of
course.
D’you
want
to
get a takeaway tonight, then?’

A takeaway! It must be a promotion. Mark would never
fork out for something that could be made more cheaply at home. It would be an
act of insanity. What would be the point? Maybe he’s been asked to lecture in
banking and accountancy.

An hour and a bit later, we’ve polished off the wine
along with a
Murgh
Shakoti
,
a tiger prawn
Jalfrezi
, a vegetable
Sagwalla
, two
Pilau
rices
and a
Keema
nan
. I’m so full I can hardly speak. Luckily, Mark doesn’t
find speaking quite as hard.

‘So how’s the painting been going today?
Any progress?’

I try and think about what I’ve been doing on that damn
canvas. I go into such a trance when I’m painting that I often can’t
immediately bring to mind any specifics.

‘It’s been OK.
Um.
I’ve
painted over some bits I wasn’t happy with and…’

‘You’ll never guess who I bumped into today?’

I do a quick mental check. It’s difficult. I can’t
imagine Mark bumping into anyone.
The very idea of Mark
bumping into someone smacks of the unexpected, the unpredictable.
Randomly bumping into someone is definitely not a Mark thing. He sounds so
excited that I have to assume it was some major celebrity. I try to think of
who might be hanging around at a loose end in the area between Mark’s college
and the tube station.

Kate Moss? George Clooney? Monica
Bellucci
?
Bonio
from
U2?

‘I don’t know. Who did you bump into?’

Catherine Zeta Jones?
Benedict
Cumberbatch
?
Lady Gaga?
Rachel
Weisz
?

‘Only Danny Crump!’

Danny Crump. I knew it had to be someone big, but I
hadn’t been expecting Danny Crump.

‘Who’s Danny Crump?’

Mark looks at me as if I’ve just said ‘Who is Tom
Cruise?’ or ‘Who were The Beatles?’ or ‘What is The Queen?’

‘Danny! I must have mentioned Danny. We were at college
together. We used to go out drinking quite a lot. He was a real laugh.
Top bloke.
He wasn’t on my course, though. He did town
planning.’

Well that’s a relief. Two young students of banking
hitting the town at the same time - it’d definitely be overtime for the local
police. Mark continues to enthuse about The Crump. I notice he’s not making eye
contact with me.

‘I’m sure I must have mentioned him to you. We used to
have a great time together. Mind you, I haven’t seen him for maybe six or seven
years now, so he’d have been before your time.
Old Danny.
Old Danny Crump.’

‘What does he do now?’

‘He’s in town planning.’

‘Really.’

‘Anyway, we just bumped into each other in the street
and went and had a couple of jars.
Just had a chat about the
old days and so on.
Funny thing is, it was really good luck for him that
he bumped into me. He’s had a little bother with something and wondered if I
could help him out. He needs this big favour and I said I’d talk to you about
it.’

I can’t imagine what this could be. It certainly can’t
be money. I remember being at a wedding reception about eighteen months ago
with Mark. This friend of his – Alan, I think it was – asked Mark if Mark could
lend him five pounds, as he didn’t have quite enough money left for a mini cab.
Mark must have spent half an hour trying to work out some other solution for
his friend to get home that didn’t involve him lending him the five pounds. I’d
never seen Mark look so glum. Eventually, he relented, and I saw him drag the
fiver out of his wallet like it had been fixed in there with some
treacle/superglue/quicksand hybrid.

‘So what is it? What’s Danny Crump’s problem?’ I laugh.
‘Apart from being called Danny Crump, of course.’

‘Hey, don’t knock Danny. He’s a good bloke. He was a
good mate to me until we lost touch. We had a lot of fun together. We had this
great couple of days in Bristol a few years back.’

‘So?’ I’m getting a little suspicious here. Mark is
prevaricating too much. He’s talking up Danny like he’s going to move him in
with us or something.

‘Well, it’s like this. Danny was going on this holiday
he’d planned with this mate of his called
Callum
.
Greece. Little island called
Zante
. Somewhere on the
west coast, I think.
Never heard of it myself.
Lovely hotel, apparently.
Swimming pool,
the works.’

‘Yeah
yeah
yeah
.
Go on.’

‘So he’d got the tickets sorted out and the hotel rooms
booked and everything like that, then on Thursday, yesterday, something awful
happened.
Callum
came off his bike on the way back
from the pub the other night…’

That tells me all I need to know about
Callum
, then.
Callum
= major
dipstick.

‘…and he put his hand out to break his fall and broke
his wrist really badly. His hand, wrist and forearm are in plaster. Really
hurt, apparently.’

‘Oh dear.’
I must have precognition,
because I can see what’s coming. Mark has taken a week’s leave next week. We
were going to bum around doing nothing, maybe take a few day trips to the
centre of London. I was looking forward to visiting a few of the big art
galleries to get some inspiration. Mark doesn’t mind doing this as most of them
are free. I was probably going to do a bit of work, but nothing serious. There
were also a couple of movies we were thinking of going to see. I haven’t told
Mark, but I’ve already booked one of them. We even talked about going out for a
meal – an excuse for me to wear my (fairly) new LBD. I seem to be speaking in
the past tense for some reason.

‘So anyway, Danny’s really upset about it. They were
going with a couple of girl friends of
Callum’s
. Not
girlfriends or anything. Just girls who are friends, know what I mean?’

‘Yeah.
Just
friends of
Callum’s
who happen to be girls.
Girl friends
.
Two words as opposed to one.’

I’m helping him out here. I don’t know why. A little
voice in my head says that I should be making this as difficult as possible for
him.

‘That’s right! Anyway all the hotel’s booked and the
flights and all of that and it’s only really a five day holiday, leaving on
Sunday, coming back the following Saturday.’

‘Not long at all.’

‘That’s what I thought. Anyway, Danny asked me if I
could help him out, because he doesn’t really…’

‘Want to go on holiday with a couple of girls?’

‘That’s it! That’s exactly it! So he asked if I
wouldn’t mind taking
Callum’s
place. Like I said,
it’s only for five days, really. Everything’s sorted out and the whole thing
will only cost a little over three hundred quid, which is nothing. Do you mind,
angel?’

I’m trying to think of a response to this, but find I
don’t have anything at all to say. I can feel my brain racing around trying to
find some situation in the past that I can compare this to, but there’s
nothing, nothing at all. Did he just call me ‘angel’?

In desperation, I try to think of works of fiction or
films or TV shows where a situation like this has occurred, but there’s no help
there, either. What Mark has said sounds so reasonable and plausible that
there’s no possible dramatic response. It’s not a bad thing and it’s not a good
thing. It’s not nasty and it’s not nice. It’s just, well, there, like a neutral
thing floating in the air, looking down at me like The Cheshire Cat, willing me
to make some inappropriate girly comment.

Mark looks at me and an expression of worry flashes
across his features for about half a second. ‘So it’s just doing an old mate a
favour, really. I’m sure he’d do the same for me if I was in a situation like
that. You don’t mind, do you, sweetie? I mean, if I’m being honest, I could do
with a bit of a break, a bit of a holiday. I’ve been working my balls off for
the last three months since Gordon left. They still haven’t found a replacement
for him and I’ve been splitting his classes with Laura
Fearnsby
– you’ve met Laura - and to be honest, it’s starting to wear me down a bit.’

‘I’m sure it is. You have been tired recently.’ I could
elaborate on that last sentence, but I’m far too polite.

‘And I mean
,
we haven’t been
able to go anywhere together, have we. Not for a while. It’s so difficult at
the moment, the way your work’s going. But don’t worry, it’ll pick up, I’m
sure. Then we can go somewhere nice, perhaps.’

‘That would be good.’ This is such a surreal
conversation I’m beginning to wonder if someone spiked my coffee with horse
tranquiliser or something similar. It’s one of those exchanges where it’s
really hard work trying to think of what to say next and it seems like
everything is happening in slow motion.

‘So,
er
, when are you going?
What day? What time?’

‘Well the flight’s on Sunday at three-thirty, so it’s
not for a long time yet. I just thought I’d chill tonight and do all my packing
tomorrow. There’re a few things I’m going to have to buy. Perhaps we can go
into town together and get them.’

‘Yes. Sure.
In the morning or the
afternoon?’

Why did I ask that? Does it make any difference?

‘Morning’s probably better, I think. Don’t you?’

‘And when is the flight on Sunday?’

I’ve already asked that. Get a grip. I mustn’t make a
fuss. That would be so uncool. I’m still not sure how to react to this or how
I’m taking it. It’s weird. It’s beyond my experience. I certainly feel a little
strange and there’s a feeling like butterflies in my stomach. My mouth is dry.
I start to feel tears in both eyes and blink them back.

‘Shall I make coffee?’

‘Lovely, sweetheart.’

I go into the kitchen and prepare the coffee things. I
had to get out of that room and away from Mark for a few moments. I have to
compose myself. I’m aware that I’m frowning. As I’m spooning some coffee into
the
cafetier
é
,
my hand slips and the coffee goes all over the surface and the floor.

As I get a dustpan and brush to sweep it all away, I
notice that I’m grinding my teeth together, which is something I never usually
do. A few minutes later, I take a deep breath and take a tray back into the
living room. I put a smile on my face even though I don’t really feel like
smiling at the moment. I put the tray on the coffee table. Everything is still
happening in slow motion.

‘That was a great Indian!’ I say, as if it was a normal
Friday evening.