The Reunion (23 page)

At home he waited for Bridget to call. Rachel and Sam
were in good spirits, their school examinations had kicked off successfully. The
three of them were eating raspberries and yoghurt when the phone rang.

“It’ll be for me,” David declared, taking hold of the
receiver and dashing out the room. He took his prompt sheet out his trousers
pocket as he walked. “Hello Bridget, I’m just going upstairs.” He went into his
bedroom and closed the door behind him.

“Hi David. Sorry I’ve been out of contact for a couple of
days. We’re launching a new artist and he’s obsessive about how his work’s
displayed. He keeps changing his mind.”

David had thought long and hard about his first
statement. He’d revised it several times before coming up with something light
and humorous, but also filled with passion. It was perfect.

“You know how fond of you I am, Bridget. I don’t care how
many men you’ve murdered – I still want you!”

There was a pause without laughter from the other end of
the line.

David broke the silence. “Bridget? Are you there?”

“I expected a little more sensitivity, David. It wasn’t
easy plucking up the courage to tell you.”

“It was a joke.”

“Not a very funny one.”

“Oh.”

“I spend a lot of time thinking about what I’ve done and
the last thing I need is that sort of comment. Apart from my father you’re the
only person I’ve ever told, I hope you appreciate that.”

“Yes I do.” David was frantically scanning his prompt
notes in search of something to improve the atmosphere. He reached a line that
would do the trick.

“I’ve done a lot of research about the café. It’s really
exciting.”

“Don’t change the subject. Do you get what I’m saying? I
can’t have you joking about what happened. Not now, not ever.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” This statement was off script.
In fact the piece of paper with his notes had dropped to the floor and might as
well stay there. Probably for ever because this was shaping up to be a final
conversation.

There was an awkward silence, David speechless. Bridget
introduced a glimmer of hope. “Look, let’s meet up to talk things through,
it’ll be easier than a telephone conversation.”

David was barely listening. The unstoppable march towards
a relationship had come to an abrupt end and he would be informed of this when
they met. He tried to sound upbeat. “Good idea, I’d like that. When?”

“Sometime this weekend. You’re going to have to come here
though because I can’t leave Kay. She’s gone down with a temperature. Something’s
going round at school and if that’s what she’s caught it’ll take a week to
clear.”

“Poor thing,” David said, in the hope that Bridget might
appreciate the concern for her daughter. “Do send her my love. When’s a good time
to come over?”

“What about Saturday evening?”

“Great, I’ll see you then.” He was squeaking not speaking.
While wondering what to say next, Bridget ended the dialogue with a curt ‘bye’
and put the phone down. He listened to the ringing tone for a while.

It would be a mammoth under-exaggeration to state that
the conversation hadn’t gone particularly well. Even the word ‘disaster’ wasn’t
strong enough. He’d completely misjudged the capacity for humour and as a
result had in all likelihood antagonised Bridget beyond redemption.

Drinking two thirds of a bottle of Soave helped him
sleep.

He woke up convinced that his immature one-liner had ruined
everything with Bridget. A second thought was laden with disloyalty and deceit
– he needed to foster the relationship with his first reserve just in case. He was
becoming a rake, a cad. He’d reached an appalling layer of Jabulani’s onion.

Ashamed of this thought, nevertheless he was particularly
nice to Mary that week. He complimented her on her dress sense, made her coffee,
brought in a packet of Waitrose luxury Belgian chocolate biscuits, and worked
hard to get all the budget sums right. Mary responded with plenty of smiles and
some platonic physical contact that seemed anything but platonic. It’s amazing
what message a hand placed on an arm can give, especially when the hand lingers
and caresses.

Following the confused week of mixed messages that flowed
between him and Mary, David was relieved when Saturday evening arrived and he
could set off to see Bridget. He was torn between whether to plan what to say
or be spontaneous. Since his usual approach of planning had failed so miserably
during the telephone conversation, he opted for playing it by ear though starting
with an apology. He’d follow this by being friendly, but not too close until he
could assess Bridget’s mood. And in the unlikely event of her being forgiving,
he’d discuss the café.

Bridget greeted him at her front door with a warm smile
followed by a kiss, a quick one but still worth savouring. Then she took hold
of his hand and led him into the lounge. He sat. She remained standing, looking
down at him.

“A big apology David, I was dreadfully curt the other
night. I’d been working twelve-hour days with my boss and the sodding artist driving
me mad. I was exhausted and then I got home and discovered Kay was ill. I had
to be at work the next day and had no idea who’d be able to look after her. In
the end Andy skipped school to assist.”

“Don’t even dream of apologising, that has to come from
me. I was an absolute idiot saying what I did and I’m desperately sorry.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. So we’re both sorry then.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

She sat next to him. “Well, you haven’t got me yet, have
you?” She leaned across and they kissed, a longer exchange than the one at the
door. She poured out two glasses of wine then sat back, a little apart from
David.

“We shouldn’t be doing this kissing, should we?”

“Why not?”

“Because you need to tell me what you think about
Roland’s murder.”

“Bridget, I’ve thought a lot about that. Were you right
to do it, were you wrong?”

She interrupted. “That’s easy to answer. Murder is
wrong.”

“Yes, I agree. I started thinking of different grades of
murder, but came to the conclusion that was ridiculous. I don’t know the
details of how badly Roland treated you, but what’s done is done and I want to
help you move on.”

Bridget smiled. “And then you’ll be able to tick off the objectives
on your bloody list.”

“Yes, you’ve sussed me out, that’s the only reason. Actually
I’ve made another list.”

“Shut up!”

David started talking about the café as he handed her a
piece of paper.

“You really have got another list. I thought you were
joking.”

“This one will help, it’s the key decisions I’ll need to
make.”

Bridget came up with practical questions related to
money. How would he get the finance to set up?

“I might offer the house as collateral,” he suggested.

“Are you able to do that if Jane is a co-owner?”

“I’m not sure, I’ll need to discuss that at the bank.”

Bridget poured herself another glass of wine. “More?”

“I’m not staying tonight am I?”

“No, best not with Kay at home and unwell.”

“Then I’d better abstain.”

For a short while they sat in silence, nestled together
on the sofa. Having her lying against him was such a relief bearing in mind his
earlier anxiety. But she was so still that David wondered whether she’d fallen
asleep. Then she sprang up. “This café idea. Might you want a partner?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m fed up with my job and wonder whether you’d be
interested in taking me on. I think I could help.”

“Well, of course yes, I’d love that. But what’s up at
work? I thought you enjoyed the gallery.”

Friday’s experience had placed another nail in the
coffin. “This isn’t art,” she’d declared as she looked at the new exhibits.

“Don’t be a dinosaur, Bridget,” her boss Bradley had
proclaimed as they regarded the frame housing an opened condom stretching
towards a scrappy ink sketch of a vagina. “It evokes the degenerate pursuit of
short term self-gratification in the twenty-first century.”

“You don’t really think that, you can’t.”

“Actually I read it, it’s how Sean Holloway describes the
piece.”

Bridget had first met Sean when they were setting up the
exhibition and he was a pretentious ignoramus. ‘The condom work has to go next
to the crushed plastic bottles’ he’d declared. ‘The two materials are in
harmony. Surely even you can appreciate that.’

Sean Holloway was flavour of the month, an artist of
working class origin who hadn’t lifted a pencil or paint brush for his first
twenty-five years. Then he was arrested for graffiti offences in Sidcup and the
art critic in the Sunday Times claimed there was an intense energy in his art. For
some reason a minor art college offered him a place based on the newspaper
article, perhaps attracted by the lure of publicity. They kicked him out after
less than a month, hinting that he was a talentless no-hoper. Despite that rejection
he started to sell and the bandwagon rolled.

“He can’t draw, he’s useless,” Bridget persisted. “Abstract
artists must go through the discipline of drawing. You know that, Bradley.”

“It doesn’t matter what we think, we’re a business. I got
these works for a great price and I bet we sell them before the end of the
month.”

Bradley was wrong thinking they would sell within a month
if the first day was anything to go by. At that rate they’d be gone within a
week. And good riddance!

At just after 1.00 pm on Friday, the opening day of the
sale, a young couple had come in. He was dressed in a pin stripe suit with
powder blue shirt and silver tie. She had on the casual clothes of the young
and rich, a pseudo destitute look with skimpy, scruffy jeans and frayed leather
jacket. The designer labels gave the game away.

“I’ve heard you’ve got some Holloways in. Let me see them,”
the man asked with something approaching a Cockney accent. Bridget took an
instant dislike to him and had a strong urge to tell him off for not adding ‘please’.
She led them to the ten or so exhibits on display. His first sighting was the
condom artwork and he roared raucously.

“Bugger me; come ‘ere doll. Look at this!”

Bridget, who was not a snob, cringed at the
‘ere.
Was
it the remnant of a past at odds with his new found City wealth or the attempt of
a posho to be seen as one of the lads? Doll was manicuring her nails. She
looked across. “Blimey.”

“Fuck me, and this one,” City boy exclaimed, looking at a
diaphragm surrounded by speckles of red and to its right, a poorly drawn
cartoon of an erect black penis. “These are great,” he exclaimed. “Aren’t
they?” he ordered rather than asked his girlfriend.

The young woman glanced up again, irritated by the
disturbance. “If you like them,” she muttered as she lifted a lipstick out her
handbag, “get them.”

“How much are these things?” he asked Bridget. The prices
were listed along with the titles and artist’s name underneath the works. Perhaps
he was illiterate; she couldn’t bear the man. She pointed at the labels before
summoning enough false enthusiasm to speak. “Have you seen this sculpture,
sir?” She had directed him to the bottles. “If you decide on the condom you
must get this – the two materials are in perfect harmony.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean, they are kind of similar. Bit
pricey though,” he added, having taken the trouble to read the large print
labels. They were £24,000 each. “Would you do a deal if I bought both?”

“This is an art gallery not a supermarket. We don’t do
deals.”

Bradley was by her side. “Apologies sir, Bridget is
having a tough day. We can take 10% off if you purchase both.”

The deal was done with Bridget loitering in the
background and Bradley casting dark looks. She adjourned to the small
kitchenette and had her Marks & Spencer avocado and pine nut sandwich,
tropical fruit cocktail and cranberry juice. Bradley ignored her when he came
in for his own lunch.

As soon as she stepped back into the gallery another customer
came in, an older man with a thick mane of salt and pepper hair. Bridget
thought his smile was a leer and kept a physical distance.

He was another of the pin stripe suit brigade, though not
as style conscious as the previous customer. His polka dot tie clashed with the
navy and white striped shirt. Why bother purchasing art if you’re devoid of
aesthetic taste, she would have liked to have asked him.

“Rumour has it you’ve acquired some Holloways in this
treasure trove.” He had a booming pompous voice. “Oh there they are.”

He brushed past her and walked across to the Holloway
area, now with red stickers on the corners of the sold works. “Two already
gone, eh?”

“Yes, though in my opinion nowhere near the best,” she
said, resigned to drumming up sales to boost her commission. They approached an
appalling attempt to draw a table on which rested a syringe and a flattened can
of Red Bull.

He examined the information below the work – this one was
priced at £31,000. Since it was no more skilfully painted than the others,
Bridget could only assume price was set based on size. It was working out at
about £50 per square inch – maybe she should point that out to customers to
demonstrate value for money!

“I think they’re awful but they are shooting up in value,
eh,” the polka dot man said. He took out a Filofax and turned to a page with
jottings. Bridget glanced across and noted dates and prices. March £12,000. July
£21,000. December £26,000. “I’ll take it,” he said. “It’ll be up to over forty
by the end of summer, eh.”