The Ted Dreams (3 page)

I had been freaked when Robbie had invited Cynara to our wedding. She wouldn’t wish us well: she’d be jealous and angry. I certainly would be in her place. Robbie had gone with Cynara to the party; she’d been wearing his ring, but he’d left hand-in-hand with me, the merry widow. I’d been going through a for-God’s-sake-I-need-a-fuck
phase, and didn’t care what others thought. I’d been conscious at the time of a fair amount of whisperings and nudgings, but the sense of cosmic inevitability, the across-a-crowded-room syndrome, had been overwhelming. Eyes met eyes, hand met hand, and that was it.

‘Don’t worry about it, Philly,’ Robbie had said, once the first flush of primal urge had been assuaged. ‘Cynara’s just a bed buddy. You’re different. ’

‘But what about her engagement ring?’

‘Oh, that. It was given to her by her late husband.’

‘No way an engagement to you?’

‘Good God no. I’m totally free. I wouldn’t want to marry Cynara. She’s good fun but she’s mostly high as a kite.’

Fun or not, I still didn’t want him inviting an ex-girlfriend to my wedding.

‘But everyone thinks she was having an affair with Ted,’ I tried to explain. ‘It isn’t true, but they’ll think I’m having my own back by marrying you.’

‘You mean
you
think that, honey; nobody else does. It’s your hormonal dysphoria speaking. What do you want other people to think? That you’re the one who’s jealous and angry?’

Of course he was right and Cynara came to our wedding and behaved perfectly well, just as she had at Ted’s funeral. Then she had been suitably and calmly sad – as one would be when a friend and business partner has died, not when a lover has been snatched away by a cruel fate. I hadn’t, by the way, sent her an invitation. She just turned up.

Cynara had come into Ted’s and my life some eighteen months before he died. The young widow of a very rich old man, she had been an occasional customer at the art gallery we ran in Cork Street. We sold fake artworks by reputable forgers. You might not think there was much of a market in these, and it was indeed beginning to dwindle when the economy picked up. We had been worryingly undercapitalised until Cynara came to the rescue. She had invested £200,000 and saved our bacon. She was younger than me, not even thirty – a lissom, leonine thing (she’d started out as a dancer) long-legged, slim-hipped, with a great mane of reddish gold hair. She was all the things I wasn’t – impeccably dressed, manicured and shod, charming, at ease with herself and the world. I could hardly be expected to like her, though her interest in fake artworks was genuine enough. Some of her husband’s artworks – Vermeers, Picassos, Monets, Van Dykes – had turned out to be forgeries, or looted masterpieces which had to be returned to their rightful owners. Ted had been able to help and advise. They could pool their knowledge, enthusiasms, and above all their business contacts.

Ted was fascinated by Cynara, of course he was, while ruefully recognising that she was out of his league: ‘She’s top totty; she goes for Alpha males; I’m arty bog Irish, Beta plus, don’t worry about it, Philly.’ But of course I did, a bit. Cynara spent more and more time in the shop, sold her own stock out of her house in Holland Park, and was soon buying and selling along with Ted. And then when Ted died she bought out my ten per cent stake at a knock-down price and started buying work by young artists which sold well and with a much higher mark-up.

On my part it was hardly a close or very genial acquaintance. Ted died on Christmas Eve. I’d met Cynara in the gallery on several occasions before that event. She turned up at his funeral in January. I saw her in March when I signed away the gallery, and then not again until September when I went to a private view in Cork Street – my friend Ali the Nigerian sculptress – and Cynara was there, cynosure of all eyes, her escort a handsome young neuroscientist from Harvard. Ali’s sculpture was all grey and stone and tasteful; Cynara was in primary colours: a sleeveless Prada silk dress in bright red and strong green, a pale blue bag, thick white-wool knee-highs, pink flats, and a superb diamond on her finger – on the arm of this tall blond American. He took one look at me and I at him and we bonded there and then. He came back to my house; the children were out; he stayed the night. We were married a month later. It was madness.

Robbie did ask Cynara to the wedding. But being in a generous mood I’d attempted a kind of apology for having so crudely snatched her boyfriend.

‘Cynara, I do feel rather bad. One doesn’t usually behave, so, well, impetuously, at a private view.’

‘Oh darling, one simply does, sometimes,’ she said. ‘I totally adore you, you know that. And you’re so much Robbie’s type. I never was. And I was so very fond of dear Ted.’

I puzzled about that rather, but one does not waste time pursuing subtleties at one’s own wedding reception. She gave Robbie a rather full and prolonged kiss on the mouth with her slightly pouty collagen lips, and then a little slap on the cheek which I suppose indicated forgiveness and the righting of wrongs. Otherwise she behaved unremarkably. She had even, if rather obviously, dressed down so as not to outshine me; that is to say she didn’t wear crimson-soled Louboutin platform pumps but a plain navy silk dress which might have cost £25 or £2,000, how could one tell, and perfectly ordinary flats like my own. Her legs could stand them, mine couldn’t really. The ceremony had been a very quiet affair at the Camden Register Office near King’s Cross. Robbie’s boss, and a clutch of his work colleagues came along, my two former research employees Carole and Luella, Ali the sculptress, and my grief therapist Bambi Bennett. That was all. Afterwards we all went and had an Indian meal.

Bambi had been most disapproving. She thought that after one relationship ended you should learn to live on your own before you tried again. I thought this was nuts: a recipe for loneliness and boredom. Some people like to pretend sex isn’t crucial, but a kind of optional extra to one’s existence. Maybe it’s a therapist thing; they tend not to be sensuous people, but great advocates of sensible thinking. Bambi denied the reality of loneliness, saying one had rather to see it as ‘aloneness’, as if that were something to be desired. But at least she came to the wedding, if under protest.

Our twins, Maude and Martha, did not come, nor did I pressure them to do so. It was too soon after their father’s death. My urgencies – sex and comfort: love, even – were not theirs. All they could see, along I fear with many others, was that the baked meats were barely cold, their widowed mother was remarrying and it was an insult to their father. I told myself that they had finished their college courses, got their degrees and left home: what happened in their old home scarcely mattered. They shared a flat in Camberwell. Both had, so they said, found jobs with the Arts Council. Their new lives had started.

When they came to visit they might have a stepfather sitting at the end of a table where once their beloved father had sat, but he would be a stepfather who would help fund their first steps onto the housing ladder – which was rather more than their real father would have done. I would hereafter be no kind of emotional burden to them. Could they not be glad for themselves, if not for me? But no.

Martha.... Marriage is for the procreation of children, Mum.

Maude.... And best done in your twenties.

Martha.... Our friends will refer to you as the cougar.

Maude.... A cradle snatcher.

Robbie was thirty-nine, four years younger than me. I had the twins when I was twenty-two. Children can be very difficult. When they’re born you think you will have them for twenty years or so and that’ll be it – but it’s not the case. They have you for ever. Maternal guilt and anxiety doesn’t abate with time, not does the child’s resentment against the parent: you didn’t make their life perfect and you can never be wholly forgiven. Just as one can’t forgive one’s own parents. My birth parents put themselves out of court, mind you, by my father shooting my mother; my adoptive parents did their best but brought me up to believe that truth and reality were dangerous things. At least the ghost of my birth mother had the grace to sit on my bed and croon to me; my adoptive mother went into the good night after the merest smile, the touch of a blessing: if my birth father said goodbye I did not catch it – he had blown the top of his head off; and my adoptive father went without saying anything – but then he had been drinking. And Ted – Ted just walked off into the dark wood without so much as a look behind, as if I had been no part of his life at all.

The twins were polite to Robbie, but were no longer wholly trusting of me. They had always seemed to make common cause with Cynara, when she first turned up in the gallery.

Maude.... She is so good with clothes, Mum, and she knows everyone who’s anyone.

Martha.... She’s going to help us find jobs when we leave college.

Maude.... She says never, ever, use soap and water on the face: it dries out the skin.

Martha.... All the kinds of useful things she knows about and you don’t.

And even after Ted died they’d go round to see her from time to time. They’d turn up at the gallery and she’d leave early if she could and take them round the corner to the Ritz for hamburgers. The twins would call me up to let me know and invite me to come along, but I always said I was busy. Perhaps that was stupid and narrow-minded of me. Was I the one at fault? Their new lives had started.

I picked up the phone one more time and got through to her at the gallery straight away.

‘Hi, Cynara,’ I said, ‘This is Phyllis Whitman, remember Phyllis, Ted’s wife?’

‘Ah. Oh yes. Of course. Philly. How could one forget? White witch Philly.’ I felt an acute pang of jealousy, which ran like a shiver from my crotch to my scalp. Stupid, unsophisticated me. Second husbands have ex-girlfriends; first husbands have no doubt confided and joked with women other than their wives. I told myself Ted was well dead; what had happened when he was alive between Cynara and he was hardly of any consequence. Everything fades into the mists of time, anyway. But white witch Phyllis? Ted had sometimes described me to the children as ‘your mother the white witch’, but as a kind of intimate family joke.

It’s what he’d call me when sometimes I seemed to know what was going on behind my back with the children – the way surely any mother does. But Ted liked to see it as magic. And it was true that once or twice a mug I disliked – too garish or too vulgar – had leaped off the shelf and plunged to its destruction, just when I was saying so. I’d have put it too near the edge, that was all. Or the garden tap once or twice ran red like blood, but it must have been rust; or a letter ready for the post disappeared and then appeared in another place, the silly things that happen in households from time to time. But now ‘white witch Phyllis’, and from the mouth of Cynara? How could Ted have blabbed so? Yes, they’d had an affair.

‘That’s the one,’ I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. ‘Phyllis the white witch. The one who married Robbie.’ One point to me. ‘I know this is out of the blue and I may be the last person you want to see. But could you have lunch with me?’

‘Okay,’ she said, not ingratiating, not dismissive. ‘When?’

‘Today?’ I was pushing my luck.

‘We’ll say my local at one, then.’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘What’s happened? Fallen out of love already? Darling, I do so hope not!’

There was something instantly appealing about Cynara. She was up for anything. The elderly art collector who had married her and left her all his money and his collection had made a good choice. She exuded energy and good cheer: she was charming, clever and without apparent malice; she kept her word, and had an eye for art – and had to all account nursed her old husband devotedly through his terminal illness. Just as Ted had made a good choice in accepting her into the business. She was not the gold digger I had assumed her to be. Ted had been praising me, not mocking me, when he called me a white witch. But why was I thinking like this? A second ago I had been thinking just the opposite. What was happening to me? Somehow I must get my moods under control – these sudden swings between hate and love, fear and over-confidence, between unreasonable trust and unwarranted suspicion.

But what Cynara had said was true. I’d indeed fallen out of love with Robbie, just like that, like some silly girl, and within the hour. I clung to this understanding as a drowning woman might cling to a log swirling down some swollen river in Ted’s dark forest. I must not dismiss Robbie as some silly boy: he might well be an actual danger to me. Why else the shiver up my spine, why else was I calling up Cynara, the least likely of all allies, looking to her for help?

The Caprice in St James turned out to be Cynara’s local. (Ted used to go to The Tavern in Shepherd Market for beer and pork belly.) She arrived ten minutes late, wearing a reddish gold
faux
-leather dress which matched the colour of her hair. I couldn’t decide on the make. Jason Wu? True, I once spent a month as an intern at
Vogue Italia
but new couturiers spring up like wildfire in a drought and one has better things to do than try and keep up. I had decided not to compete, in any case: what was the point? Cynara outclassed and outranked me so totally that the best I could do was look anonymous. I wore a five-year-old M&S sensible spotted blue-and-white dress, and no doubt looked like one of those PR people, or even a dresser, who’s got into the shot by accident, whose job is to be a foil to the glamorous while looking mildly pleasant and supportive.

Cynara ordered fish and chips for both of us, which she said were the best in London. I was grateful. My instinct when worried is to eat everything in sight, and I was indeed nervous.

Over our vodka martinis I said I had a few things I needed to get clear in my head: I was sorry I had dragged her out on such short notice.

‘Robbie texted me,’ Cynara said, ‘to say if you were in touch I should take you to the Caprice for lunch, but on no account to say too much. I texted back nobody tells me what to do and I’d say whatever I fucking felt like. These boys think they can get away with murder. We girls must stick together, don’t you think?’