We All Fall Down (6 page)

‘Yes.' He didn't look up from the newspaper.

‘They've sold two.'

He dropped the open newspaper onto the bed. ‘That's amazing.'

‘Well, don't sound so surprised.'

‘I'm not. That's really fantastic, darling. Well done.'

‘And this will make you laugh. One of their customers called me and said she'd like to buy
Interiors 3
– you know, that large abstract I did a few months ago.'

‘With all those circles and rectangles?'

‘Well, it's a bit more than that.' Almost indignant. ‘Those circles and rectangles, as you put it, mean something, you know. But, yes, that's the one. Only she wants it in green.' He looked surprised. ‘It's predominantly red at the moment, if you remember, and she's saying it won't go with the colour scheme in her living room.'

He rolled his eyes. ‘I hope you told her to take a running jump.'

She looked annoyed. ‘No, I didn't, Hugh. Why should I? I told her it wasn't a problem. I thought you'd be pleased I'm making some money from my art. You go on about it often enough.'

‘I am pleased, darling. That's not what I meant. I was sticking up for you. I thought you wouldn't be happy to change your original concept just to suit some stupid woman's colour scheme.'

‘It doesn't bother me. Why should it?'

That summed up his wife's artistic ambitions so perfectly, he thought; the amateurish compromise that so readily overrode the declared professionalism. He'd tried hard over the years to take her painting seriously, but comments like that, about repainting canvasses to suit a buyer's colour scheme, had slowly undermined his faith. Although Hugh was the first to admit he wasn't an expert on art, he'd never seen any real signs of talent in his wife, yet that didn't stop him from encouraging her. He believed that if someone felt strongly enough about being an artist (or a writer or a composer), then they should make every sacrifice to pursue their interest, even if they only regarded it as little more than a hobby. The world was overrun by people who talked about their artistic ambition, yet never did anything about it, and he was beginning to suspect Kate was one of them, that she was no more than a dabbler. Being an artist was just another part she played, like being a mother, possibly even a wife. She liked the thought of being an artist, and liked to see herself as one. It gave her a certain cachet among her friends. She carried her Moleskine notebook, the kind Picasso had used, around with her because she obviously felt it endorsed, or added weight, to her artistic ambitious. He simply felt it to be disingenuous, even pretentious. Canvasses became the articles of clothing with which she bolstered her self-esteem, no different to the paint-spattered smock she wore when dropping in for coffee at a friend's house. ‘Jeez, I look daggy,' she'd say, and he could see that she thought she looked cool. He could forgive her all these things, and really there was nothing to forgive, but it was the pretence he sometimes found hard to cope with.

‘I don't think it matters what colour the canvas is, to be honest. The concept doesn't change. That's what's important.'

He nodded and smiled, deciding it was best not to pursue the matter.

‘I've said I'll get it to her in a month.'

‘Will it take that long to re-do?'

‘More like a couple of hours, in fact. But it will make her feel she's getting her money's worth if I tell her it'll take that long.'

‘How much are you selling it for?'

‘Two and a half thousand.'

He laughed. Although it wasn't something he'd have been comfortable doing, he had a sneaking admiration for his wife's business sense. He picked up the newspaper again. A minute later she rolled over towards him. ‘Don't you think you should congratulate me properly?' She was looking up at him, smiling. She reached up and pulled his head down towards her. They kissed. He pulled back. ‘What about Tim?'

‘He'll be happy enough in front of the TV,' she whispered.

The newspaper slid off the bed. He pulled her nightdress over her head. He pressed both of her hands into the pillow, forcing his body against hers. She stared up at him, mouth tight, defiant, but he could see the enjoyment in her submission. He kissed her hard on the mouth, again forcing himself on her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. He wanted to hurt her. Minutes later, she pushed him off her, onto his back. She climbed above him, straddled him, breasts tantalising close to his face, as she took him in her hand, eyes already distant, biting her lower lip, then placed him
there
, where she wanted. He closed his eyes as she sank down onto him.

Afterwards, she said, ‘We haven't done that for a long time.'

His lips brushed her forehead, sweaty and plastered with hair. ‘Ready to go again in five minutes?'

‘Don't boast.' She laughed. ‘Anyway, I couldn't. And I don't need to either, thank you very much.' She kissed him briefly on the lips, then rolled sideways onto the bed, turning her head away from him to stare up at the ceiling. They listened to the faint jabberings of cartoon characters on the television downstairs. It was then that the thought came to him. Maybe it had arisen from when he was looking up at her contented smile as she knelt astride him, or maybe it was the words she'd said. Momentarily, he was tempted to say nothing because, if his suspicions were right, he knew they would argue, and was it worth spoiling their morning – which was going so pleasantly – over this?

‘Kate …' She would notice the hesitancy and the fact he'd called her Kate, not Katie or darling. He knew that, knew that he wanted her to notice those things because then she'd realise he was being serious. She grunted an acknowledgement. ‘You're still taking the pill, aren't you?'

She continued to stare up at the ceiling, but a moment later swung her head round to look at him. ‘Why?'

‘You know why.'

She stared up at him, defiant, silent. She pushed him away and sat up. She was facing the end of the bed, her back half to him, hugging her knees, breasts flattened against her thighs. ‘No.'

‘What do you mean, no?'

‘What do you think I mean? I mean no – no, I am not taking the pill.' And she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and crossed to the chair where her dressing gown was lying. Her body was still good, still firm and slim, and even though he'd seen it thousands of times he still liked looking at it.

‘Kate!' He wanted to remain reasonable, not to shout, but he was also desperate and angry. He felt pressure inside his head that should be allowed to explode. Putting on her dressing gown, she turned on him. ‘I told you I was going to come off it.'

‘You told me you were
thinking
of coming off it, and I said we would talk about it.'

‘It's not your decision to talk about.'

‘Of course it is. We're a couple, aren't we? Don't couples discuss these things together?'

‘Couples are supposed to consider the feelings of their partners, that's all I know. And you never do that, Hugh, never. You never think about me, only yourself. So what's the point in talking? Tell me that.'

They were both aware of Tim downstairs. Without ever having discussed the matter openly together, they seemed to have reached an understanding not to fight in front of their son.

Kate stood at the bottom of the bed. ‘I want another child. I've told you that so often, but you refuse to hear me.' Her voice was concentrated, low, precise.

‘I have heard you, I –'

‘Tim is over three now. Even if I became pregnant today, the gap would be at least four years. I don't want it to be any longer than that. It wouldn't be fair on either of them.'

‘Four years, five years, it doesn't make that much of a difference.' He suddenly tried to be placatory, to outflank her rather than go head-on.

‘It does.'

‘We have to wait, Kate. Just not now. Wait for a year or two.'

She finished tying her dressing gown cord. She stood before him, her hands on her hips, staring at him. Her eyes were cold. She could have been a three year old in the playground, confronting a playmate. The only thing was, she wasn't playing. She was deadly serious, he knew that only too well. She almost spat the words at him. ‘I want … another child …
now
.' She folded her arms across her chest. ‘If you're going to force me to live in this godforsaken spot, I want to fill some of these bedrooms. That's why I've come off the pill. You have to fuck me, Hugh, then we can have another child. That's how it works.' She was blinking back tears. They could have been tears of anger, of sadness, of frustration, he didn't know. But they alarmed him.

‘We will have another,' but stubbornly, mistakenly still insisting on trying to get his own point of view across – ‘just not right now. You have to go back to work. You have to get a job. It's what we agreed. I need your help to pay off the mortgage.'

And suddenly she unfolded her arms and released her fury, leaning towards him, gripping the bedstead, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward like some demented gargoyle on the gutter of a cathedral, spouting venom. ‘I want one now,' she screamed at him. ‘Now! And fuck the mortgage. It was your decision to move into this …' Struggling to find the appropriate word. ‘… this
mansion
, and to saddle us with this huge mortgage. It was nothing to do with me, so don't try and make out that it was.'

He was pathetically grateful they weren't still living in their terrace house in Crows Nest, where neighbours could hear every word of an argument. Here, only their son could hear. He leapt from the bed and, still naked, went to his wife. She allowed him to prise her gently from the bedstead and put his arms round her. She lay against him, but stiffly, unyielding. She was breathing heavily. He guided her round to the side of the bed and they sat down next to each other.

‘Mummy?' A little voice from downstairs.

‘What is it, Timmy?'

‘Can I have some toast?'

‘I'll be right down and get you some toast.'

They listened, but their son said no more. Her head sank forward onto her chest. He took his arm from round her shoulders, and they sat side by side, hands resting on their laps, without speaking. He knew the issue was still there between them. Nothing had been resolved. He wondered if one of his sperm was heading towards an egg at that very moment, how awful that would be. He closed his eyes as if to prevent such a possibility, but could still picture the bodiless cartoon head, with its long whip-like tail, wriggling its way along the fallopian tube.

Finally she spoke – quietly, head still bowed. ‘If I go back to work now, I'll never have another baby, and you know that. It'll never happen.'

Why had they never discussed this before they were married? Why did they have to discover this fundamental truth about each other now, many years after their wedding? Surely they should have sorted this out long ago? He felt this dull ache, an anger brought about by what he perceived as the unfairness of the situation. How was it that he alone was lumbered with paying off their mortgage? She'd promised him that she would return to work to help them out, to share the burden. He wouldn't have taken on so much debt otherwise. She was being totally unreasonable. But he didn't know what to say, what he could say, without bringing on another outburst. She wasn't going to listen, anyway, that was obvious. She refused to listen to anything he said. He knew how stubborn she could be. She was like her father in that respect.

She stood up, her back to him. She ruffled her hair. As she walked towards the door – on her way, doubtless, to get her
only
child a piece of toast – she stopped momentarily and turned around to say, ‘I'm not going back on the pill.'

As she left the room, he wanted to shout after her, ‘I won't fuck you then!' Instead he fell back on the bed, almost winded.

* * *

The rest of the day, Saturday, passed in an uneasy peace or, more accurately, suspended hostilities. Everything lay below the surface, simmering away quietly without requiring anyone to tend, or even pay attention to it. Rather than a husband and wife, they were more like two people in an office, one of whom has been unfairly promoted over the other. There was resentment and anger on both sides.

At breakfast, with Tim sitting between them like some tiny, intricate safety valve, she said, ‘You haven't forgotten that Jodie and her new man are staying tonight?'

He had forgotten. He groaned, but inwardly, aware that his feelings on this particular matter – the entertaining of her best friend – were best left unstated. ‘When do they arrive?'

‘Sometime this afternoon.'

After breakfast, he started to prepare the French windows for painting. Tim played happily on the lawn nearby. A couple of times he ‘helped' his father, both of them holding a paintbrush, moving it backwards and forwards across the woodwork. Crouched beside his son, holding him steady with one hand, the other clasping his son's tiny hand on the brush handle, watching his intense concentration, the tip of his tongue emerging then retreating from the corner of his mouth like some shy, pink creature, Hugh was almost overwhelmed by the feeling that this was the dearest person in his life. He rested his head against his son's head as they painted, embracing the solidity of the small body.

Kate brought a sandwich and a cup of tea out to him for lunch. ‘You're not going to be still doing this when Jodie arrives, are you?'

‘Should be finished, but I don't want to leave it half done.' She went inside with Tim without saying anything else.

He was tidying up a couple of hours later, stacking everything away in the garden shed, as their guests arrived. They were all in the kitchen when he went inside. ‘Jodie, lovely to see you.' As he bent to kiss her on the cheek, he wondered if she could detect the insincerity in his voice. ‘My, this makes a change, Hugh. It's usually Kate who's covered in paint.' They stared at each other briefly, each with forced smiles, Jodie possibly wondering what her best friend found attractive about Hugh, and Hugh possibly wondering what his wife found attractive about her best friend. ‘We do look like we've been busy.'