The Art of Friendship (23 page)

‘Have you ever considered opening this up? You know, extending the gallery through here?’

Patsy shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve never needed the space.’

‘It wouldn’t take much to do it up, Patsy. Everything’s in good shape. All it needs is a lick of paint.’

Patsy shrugged.

‘You know the way you were talking about diversifying?’ said Clare.

‘I was and then this thing happened with Laura and, well, I haven’t really given it any more thought.’

‘Do you know what I think would be wonderful?’

‘What’s that?’

‘A café. This would make the most fabulous café.’ Clare stepped into the middle of the room, between a broken chair and a pile of boxes. She threw her arms wide and turned around slowly. ‘You could have pictures for sale all round the walls, and serve homemade scones and cakes. And tea and coffee in old-fashioned china cups. People would love it.’

Patsy laughed and took a step forwards. ‘The thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Me, running a café?’

‘You’d be great at it. You know you would. You’ve such a lovely warm way with people.’

‘Now you’re embarrassing
me
,’ said Patsy, smiling broadly.

‘It would get a lot more people across the door, and then you could sell them all the other things you talked about before – bags and jewellery and handicrafts. And it wouldn’t cost much to do it up. Look, this wooden floor’s relatively new.’ Clare pressed the floor with her toe.

‘The previous owners had that laid just before I bought the place. And it’s not had much wear and tear since.’ Patsy folded her arms, looked at the floor, at the cupola, at the smooth, bare walls. ‘I wonder why I didn’t think of that before. This town could do with a decent coffee shop.’

‘Bet you could get your catering stuff second hand from some business that’s gone bust.’

‘That’s a cheery thought, Clare,’ said Patsy and raised one eyebrow.

‘I’m only saying that you could do it without investing very much. You could buy second-hand bone china – nobody wants it nowadays. You could pick boxes of it up for next to nothing at auction. Even the loo’s in good nick.’

Patsy tilted her head to one side, considering. ‘I suppose I could get Martin to do most of the work. It’s not like he’s got anything else to do at the moment.’ She paused and sighed. ‘Though emotionally I don’t think either of us are up for a project like this at the moment.’

‘I understand,’ said Clare. Her enthusiasm evaporated like a popped balloon. ‘Well, it’s maybe something to think about once things with Laura are…are resolved.’

Patsy gave her a tight-lipped smile. ‘At the moment it’s hard to think of anything else. It’s the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think of when I’m drifting off to sleep.’

Clare went over to Patsy and put her arms around her. Then she pulled away and said, ‘I’m grateful to you for tonight, Patsy.’

Patsy shook her head. ‘I’ve enjoyed it. It’s true I wasn’t really looking forward to it but it’s given me something else to focus on. And I’m so pleased it was such a success. Come on, let’s lock up and go home. It’s late.’

Outside the gallery on the all but deserted street, Clare turned to Patsy and said, ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure, honey. What?’

‘Is Bronson gay?’

Patsy chuckled. ‘You need to ask? He’s as bent as they come, love.’ And she sauntered off towards her car, her hips swinging like a metronome.

When Clare came through the back door the kitchen was in darkness and the phone was ringing. She stood on one of Josh’s toy cars, it scooted out from under her foot, and
she only managed to save herself from crashing to the floor by grabbing onto the towel rail by the door. By the time she’d righted herself and got her breath back, the phone had stopped. Either Liam had taken the call in another room or whoever it was on the line had given up rather prematurely. She glanced at the clock; it was after eleven thirty. Very late for a phone call. She felt suddenly sober.

There was no-one downstairs – all the lights were out and the front door locked for the night. Clare crept upstairs and, anxious to see Liam, went straight to her bedroom door without looking in on the children. She put her hand on the doorknob and paused. She could hear Liam’s voice from inside, low and soft. He was talking on the phone. But to whom? Someone from work? Not at this time. His mother? His sister? Not unless…unless there was something wrong. Her heart fluttered and Liam spoke again, his voice a murmur. She relaxed. If there was something wrong, he wouldn’t sound like that.

She turned the door handle, opened the door and went in. Liam was sitting up in bed, bare-chested as usual, propped up by two pillows behind his back. The phone in his hand was pressed against his right ear. As soon as he saw her he froze, his mouth slightly open. But this lasted only for a few seconds, no more. He quickly removed the phone from his ear, and hit a button on the handset, presumably ending the call. He cleared his throat and set the handset on the bedside cabinet as though it was suddenly too hot to hold.

‘Who was that?’ she said, walking over to her side of the bed. She sat down with her back to him and kicked off her shoes.

‘Someone from work.’

Clare frowned. ‘Awfully late to be phoning you at home.’ She got up and put the shoes in the wardrobe.

‘Did all your paintings sell in the end?’ he said, not understanding that her comment was actually a question. But she let it go. She was glad to talk about the exhibition.

She closed the wardrobe door then sat on the bottom of the bed so that she was facing him. ‘Bronson bought the very last one,’ she said and smiled when she thought of what she’d achieved. She brought her hands together and squeezed them against her chest, thrilled with her success. ‘Isn’t it fantastic? It means my first exhibition was a complete sell-out. ’

‘That’s good.’ He sounded uninterested.

‘To tell you the truth, I think that’s why Bronson did it. Just so I could always say that my first exhibition was a sell-out.’ She wondered all of a sudden why Liam hadn’t bought the last picture. It would’ve been a bit of an academic exercise of course, with the money coming out of the household finances and going straight back in again. But it would’ve been an act of support, of solidarity.

‘Good for him.’

She could tell that Liam was annoyed. She stroked the silken bedspread with the flat of her hand. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to introduce you to Bronson.’

‘You didn’t introduce me to anyone,’ said Liam, picked up a book, and pretended to read.

‘I know and I’m sorry. It was just so manic. All these people wanted to talk to me. Do you know that the Director of Arts Development for the Arts Council was there? She seemed very interested in my work. She gave me one of her business cards.’

‘You hardly spoke to Kirsty,’ he said from behind the book.

‘That’s not true. She arrived with Janice and Keith right at the beginning and I spoke to all of them, for a little while anyway. Janice and Keith bought two pictures, you know.’

Liam closed the book abruptly and dropped it on the bedside table. ‘So you made time to speak to everyone but me?’

‘Oh, Liam, it wasn’t like that. And you know it. Tonight was a social occasion for the guests but very much a working one for me and Patsy. We were rushed off our feet getting people drinks, selling paintings and networking.’ She looked down at a loose thread and plucked at it. ‘I was disappointed that you didn’t stay behind and have a drink with us at the end. It would’ve been nice. And you could’ve met Bronson then.’ She looked up at him, with a small, conciliatory smile on her lips.

‘I wasn’t asked,’ he said bluntly.

The smile fell from her face. ‘You don’t need an invitation. You’re my husband, for heaven’s sake.’ Why was he being so infantile about this?

‘Well, it’d be nice if you acted like it now and again.’

He was hell bent on finding fault with her tonight. It was almost as though he was determined to maintain distance, his prickliness like an unassailable electrified fence.

‘And it’d be nice if you acted like my husband now and again. You left just as soon as you could.’ She paused, took in his pained expression. ‘You’d no interest in being there tonight, had you, Liam?’

Liam expelled a puff of air through his nose. ‘I’ll tell you what interests me,’ he said. ‘How you couldn’t make time to talk to me and yet you were all over Bronson Gaffney like a rash.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. She would not allow Liam to make her feel as though she had done something wrong. ‘I was just being sociable. He’s very well connected. He introduced me to some important people – people who might be able to help further my career.’

‘And that’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?’

The partial truth of this statement made her blush. ‘I have been a bit preoccupied lately,’ she admitted, and stared at the closed curtains. Bringing her gaze back to Liam she added, slightly hopeful, ‘Are you jealous?’

He frowned, as though giving this great consideration. Then, his features relaxing again, he said at last, ‘Maybe I am.’

Her heart lifted. ‘Bronson’s gay, Liam, didn’t you know?’

He let out a soft sigh. ‘I wasn’t talking about Bronson.’

She cocked her head to one side, wary. The conversation was slipping away from her into unfathomable territory.

‘If I’m jealous of anything,’ he went on quietly, ‘I’m jealous of you. Your life. Your freedom.’

Clare fought the immediate instinct to defend the injustice of this statement. Her life, ruled by the demands and routines of two young children, was anything but free.

‘You’re doing what you want to do, Clare, raising your children and painting. And good for you,’ he said without rancour. ‘I struggle to remember what that’s like. I feel as though I’ve spent most of my adult life doing things to please other people. First Zoe and now…’

‘Don’t include me in the same sentence as that woman.’

He folded his arms, bowed his head. ‘I do admire what you’ve done, Clare. I admire your focus and your determination and your passion. But…’ His voice trailed off.

‘But what?’ said Clare, her pulse pounding in her head, every sense suddenly alert to the danger she sensed now lay ahead.

‘I think what I’m trying to say…what I want to say is this. We don’t seem to have much in common any more.’ The words came quickly, rushing out like water through a breached dam.

‘I see,’ she said. She felt light-headed and suddenly afraid. She sat in silence, his words ringing in her ears, while her heart pounded against her chest. She must get him back from the brink. ‘I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Liam,’ she said carefully, feeling like she was trying to pedal backwards, trying to undo something that was tightly knotted – she wasn’t exactly sure what. ‘I know the last few months have been difficult for both of us and I do appreciate the support you’ve given me.’

Liam’s chin dropped dejectedly on his chest.

‘But it’s over. I earned over a thousand pounds tonight, Liam. Isn’t that great? I know it’s not a lot really, not for the amount of hours I put in, but think what we can do with the money. First off,’ she said and looked up at the ceiling, ‘I’m going to buy a new light fitting for this room. Do you know that I hate that paper shade with a vengeance?’ She forced a smile. If she could just get the conversation back on familiar, practical territory all would be well.

‘You have mentioned it once or twice.’

He was coming round. She could tell. Encouraged, she went on. ‘And how about we put the rest towards a summer holiday? We could take the kids…’

‘Clare,’ he said, and there was something about the way he jerked his head up that made her stop in her tracks. His gaze was unflinching, his blue eyes like the sky on a sunny winter’s day. ‘You know the way I said that I was speaking to someone from work?’

Immediately her gaze fell upon the phone on the bedside table. ‘You weren’t?’ she said and held her breath.

‘No, I was.’ She let her breath out. For a minute there she imagined that he was going to confess he was seeing someone. What a silly notion. She realised how thoughtless and self-centred she’d been. If someone was calling from work at this
time of night, it must be something serious. And there she was giving Liam a hard time about the exhibition, when he was dealing with some crisis at work. ‘Who was it?’ she said and settled her hands on her lap, ready to listen to some long, convoluted tale about office politics.

‘Gillian Spencer.’

‘Oh yes, I remember her. I met her at the office Christmas party, didn’t I?’ She was a glamorous woman, younger than Clare, with a slim figure and blonde hair. Clare remembered her white silk shirt open at the neck and a sharp black business suit. They’d talked briefly. ‘She was friendly enough, as I recall.’

Liam said nothing, just continued to stare at her, his mouth a thin pale line.

‘What did she want?’ said Clare and when this did not elicit an immediate reply she added, ‘Is something wrong at work?’

Liam shook his head.

‘What, then?’

It took him a long time to speak. ‘She needed someone to talk to.’

‘About work?’ said Clare.

‘No. The call was personal.’

‘Personal! What’s she doing calling you? And at this time of night?’

‘I told her to.’

It seemed as though everything in the room froze for a few moments, like in a photograph: Liam motionless in the bed, his arms still folded defiantly across his chest. Clare, holding her breath, felt momentarily removed from her body as if watching the scene from above. Then she began to tremble and her voice, when she spoke, was reedy.

‘Isn’t she married?’

‘Yes.’

‘And her husband doesn’t mind her phoning other men at half eleven at night?’

‘They’re separated.’

Clare shivered, suddenly chilled. ‘Liam, are you trying to tell me something?’

‘I honestly don’t know.’

She stared at him, speechless, for what seemed like a very long time. ‘Are you having an affair with her?’ she said and braced herself for his answer.

‘No.’

She closed her eyes and said, ‘Then what, if anything, is going on?’