Picture Imperfect

Monday 16th



I wake up feeling like I’ve had a really good night’s sleep. I drank a whole bottle of white wine last night, but I don’t feel like I’ve got a hangover. No Mark means no alarm going off at 0650. I stretch like a cat under the sheets and, without opening my eyes, scrabble around on the floor for my watch. Once it’s right in front of my face, I open one eye and see that it’s nine fifteen. I think this is the latest that I’ve woken up since I’ve lived with Mark. When he’s working he always gets up at the same time and at the weekends I have to get up early to do the housework and shopping. When Mark finally gets up, he tends to do ‘things’, instead of helping around the flat.

These ‘things’ are usually browsing the interweb for flash sports cars which he’ll never be able to buy and playing online games with people he doesn’t know, most of whom are probably half his age, if that. All these games are usually called things like Sword of Anguish, PlanetMaster3 or similar. Sometimes I wish he’d look at something more suited to a man of his age, like lesbian porn. I mean, even I’ve looked at lesbian porn.

After nakedly squirming around in the warmth of the bed for another fifteen minutes or so, I take the advanced step of opening my eyes and staring at the ceiling for half an hour, thinking about what I’m going to do today. The painting. I’ve got to try and finish that bloody painting.

If I could somehow discipline myself to do a certain amount of work a day instead of doing it when I felt like it, I’m sure I could get both canvases finished by the end of the week. Maybe even sooner. I’m OK once I’ve started; it’s motivation is the problem, or the lack of it.

The one I’ve already started on I call Canvas One. The one that is jeering at me in all its blankness, well, I’ve decided to call that Canvas Two. I guess being an artistic sort of person I could think up something more interesting for both of them, but I’m afraid that would colour the viewer’s perception when they’re hanging in The Tate Gallery next month I don’t think.

After I’ve had a very long shower using far too much Beautiful by Ēstee Lauder shower gel, I make some breakfast then have a second cup of coffee accompanied by a ciggy. Mark doesn’t like me smoking full stop, but he particularly doesn’t like me smoking in the flat. As he’s not here, of course, I think ‘sod it’ and light a second several minutes later.

I set up my art stuff and feel quite pleased that I can just leave it where it is and come back to it whenever I feel inspired. No tidying things up and clearing all away at five pm every day. This is what it must be like to have a proper artist’s studio (my biggest dream). You just do what you like. To celebrate my new found artistic freedom, I’m just wearing knickers and a t-shirt (not particularly rebellious I know, but it’s a start).

Once I’ve got Canvas One up against the hall wall, I step back (not very far, obviously) and have a look at it. I said they were huge canvases and they are indeed huge, both being seven foot square. Mark complained about them living permanently in the hall at first, but they soon became part of the furniture and he forgot about them.

I can still see the work I have to paint over and start dabbing it with a lovely red (called Alizarin Crimson, if you’re interested). I use a wide brush to get on as much paint as possible. I wish there was a more interesting reason, but there you are. The paint smell is getting me in the mood, and I attack the canvas quite aggressively. I don’t know why, but it seems the natural thing to do. I get into a good rhythm after a couple of minutes and just as I’m smiling to myself in a self-congratulatory manner, the bloody phone goes. This always, always happens.

I swear loudly and put the brush down, running into the kitchen and picking the phone up with my left hand as it doesn’t have any paint on it yet. I knew I should have put the ansaphone back on but I forgot.

‘I thought you weren’t in. You’re only in a flat. How long can it take to answer the telephone?’

It’s my mother. If she calls and you don’t pick up after two rings she takes it as a personal snub and gross insult.

‘Sorry. I was working.’

Why the hell am I saying sorry? It’s her that should be saying sorry for interrupting me. She sighs disparagingly at the word ‘working’.

‘Oh. Well I won’t keep you for long. Just rang up to see how you were. I haven’t been too good lately.’

Total made-up rubbish as usual.

‘Oh really? What’s been the matter?’

Wait for it…

‘Just feeling a bit down. I went to the doctor but he said there was nothing wrong. I think these younger doctors don’t get trained as well.’

‘You’re right. I think they’ve got the course down to six weeks now and they can do it online.’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you. So anyway, I take it you’re working on your painting.’

She says the work ‘painting’ in the same way she might say ‘extreme kitten torture’.

‘Yes. I’m really using this week to have a go at a couple of paintings that haven’t been going so well. Mark’s gone on holiday for five days, so…’

Damn! You stupid, stupid cow. That just slipped out without me noticing. Is there any way I can retract that statement before it’s too late? Could it be some sort of work holiday, where you still go to work but you do something different so they call it a holiday? I don’t think that even my mother would fall for that one. Does anything rhyme with ‘holiday’ or even just sound like it?

‘Mark? Mark’s gone on holiday, did you say?’

‘Yes. He’s was helping out a friend of his. It’s only for five days. Someone dropped out at the last minute so Mark has taken his place. It’s an old college friend of his. Danny.’

There’s a silence down the other end of the phone while my mother works out how this information can be used to her advantage and, if possible, how it can be used to manipulate me. I suddenly feel a bit silly that I’m only in knickers and a t-shirt. I need to be fully dressed for a possible demented psychodrama like this.

‘I see. Didn’t you want to go?’

‘It wasn’t that. The holiday was already booked. It means I’ve got a whole week, five days to get some work done without having to…’

‘Where is the holiday?’

Is there a chance to lie here? Would Greece sound too exotic and wealthy to her? Perhaps I could say that he’s just gone to Middlesex or something. He’s just gone on holiday down the road. Just around the corner. He’s staying in the local launderette. He’s having five days in the flat beneath us.

‘Greece. An island called Zante.’

‘I’ve never heard of it. Greece, eh? I’ve heard about the food there. And he didn’t want you to go with him? You and he have never been on holiday to somewhere far away like that have you. It must have cost a lot of money.’

‘It’s not that he didn’t want me to go with him. The holiday was already booked, I keep telling you.’

‘You don’t keep telling me. You only mentioned it once before. Danny did you say? Danny can be a girl’s name as well, can’t it?’

‘He’s not going on holiday with a girl!’

Well, actually he is. Two girls. But there’s no way on earth I’m giving her that little gem of information.

‘If you’d settled down into a proper career like teaching, you’d be able to afford to go with him. Instead, you’re wasting your time on painting ugly splodges that no one wants to buy. You’re not just wasting your time, you’re wasting your youth and you’re frittering away your life. You’ve already squandered your twenties messing around with this art thing and now you’re going to squander your thirties. Before you know it, you’ll be an old maid. No man wants a girl who sits around the house all day painting rubbish that a six year old could do. Mark is a good catch. He’s got a good, steady job. You could do a lot worse believe you me.’

I’m going to kill her. I swear I am.

‘Him going on holiday without you is the beginning of the end, you mark my words. How long did you say? Five days? It’ll be a fortnight next time and he’ll be taking some nice young girl with him who wants to settle down and get married. That’s the sort of girl that men want. Not David Hockley.’

‘It’s David Hockney.’

‘Who?’

My mind races back to the moment before I let the holiday slip out. I’m going to take a brief mental holiday in that moment. Things were alright in that moment. I love that moment and want to stay there forever. Maybe buy a rambling old house there and do it up. OK – mental holiday over.

‘If your father told me that he was going on a lovely expensive holiday without me, I’d leave him. I’d have packed my bags before he bought the plane ticket. Couples are meant to do things together. You’ve been living together for ages now. Why do you think you’re not married yet? Has he asked you? This is all your doing. We didn’t put you through university for your boyfriend to go off to Greece.’

Even though it was a student loan (which I’m still paying off) that put me through university, not to mention my holiday jobs, I can’t imagine the circumstances that would lead to your parents saying ‘We’ll pay for you to go to university, but there’s one condition. We’re not going to pay for it if you think there’ll ever be a time when you’ll have a boyfriend who will go off to Greece. If that happens, don’t think we won’t bring it up later on and make you feel really bad about it.’

She rants on and on. She even manages to drag Hamish into it, who I split up with years ago and whom she never met. I can imagine being found dead here, still listening to this conversation. The police will find a skeleton dressed in knickers and t-shirt with a phone clamped to its ear. I feel slightly nauseous now and I’m going to have to curtail her inane ramblings before I throw the phone out of the window and possibly jump after it.

‘Well anyway, mum, thanks for calling. Lovely to hear from you. I really have to get back to work now. Hope you feel better soon. Love to dad. See you later!’

And slam the phone down now.

I open the kitchen window, make a coffee and have another ciggy. Damn you Mark. That whole conversation was your fault and now I’m having a cigarette and that’s your fault, too.

After a couple of minutes, I take several deep breaths and get back to work. If the canvas was a lover, it would be saying ‘Please, darling! Not so rough!’ I do so much work on it that I have to go into my paint cupboard and get some more paint.

When I’ve had lunch (coffee, cheese on toast, Aero, fag), I stroll out to the hallway and take a look at my frenzied efforts. Actually not too bad. Pretty good, in fact. I decide to point up all the red streaks with black while the whole thing is still wet. This will give it an in-your-face chaotic dripping quality. It’ll stop being floaty and vague and become focussed and aggressive. That’s the plan, anyway.

I’m sure this all sounds quite mad and is incredibly difficult to visualise. The truth is, I’ve been fiddling around with this canvas for so long that I don’t know if what I’m doing is good, bad or indifferent. Maybe that’s what proper artists feel. Who knows? I don’t know any proper artists to ask.

So, then, it’s my fault that Mark has gone on holiday with his friend and the girls. If I had taken a different path in life, this would not have happened. I’m trying hard to put the whole thing out of my mind, but now it’s nagging at me even more. My bloody mother. What on earth is wrong with her? She shouldn’t be taking Mark’s side in this, if indeed there is a side to take. All the things she hates about the things I do and the choices I’ve made have now, as far as she’s concerned, culminated in my boyfriend, or partner or whatever he is going away on holiday for five days. It’s insane. Is he my partner? I hadn’t really thought about it.

I’m not even sure why we moved in together. I think he’d seen the flat, liked it, but it was a little too expensive for one person to rent. As we’d spent so much time around each other’s places, he suggested that two could live as cheaply as one. And they say romance is dead!

Is there something about my mother I don’t know? Did something happen to her years ago which made her like this? Is it a pathological need for grandchildren that has warped her mind or something? And anyway, all she’s ever done is be a housewife. It’s not that difficult to sit on your arse, clean the house and reproduce. What a disturbing image.

The last time she rang up, it ended up with me having to listen to up-to-date life achievement fables about five of my friends from school, none of whom I’d had any contact with for about fifteen years or so. I’d actually forgotten two of them even existed.

What follows are brief summaries of what these friends were up to, or had been up to.

1. Hilary Spinks. Got married at nineteen to some man seventeen years her senior called Ryan or Brian who owns two successful fruit and veg shops. He bought her some flash car/jeep/tank thing for her 21st. Had four children by the time she was twenty-five. All kids are now being privately educated.

2. Paige Gordon. Studied journalism but dropped out after two college terms. Married Aiden or Adrian who is a builder. They live in a huge house with a swimming pool. The house is conveniently near a CenterParc. Two children who both wear glasses. Aiden or Adrian had an operation on his inner ear three years ago. Paige now very religious, apparently.

3. Trinity Addison. Now Trinity Addison-Copely. A teacher. Married to Dominic, an art teacher (ha ha!). Dominic won some teacher award six years ago. They live in a beautiful flat which Dominic’s dad bought for them after they got married. Trinity’s hair is now auburn. No children but trying. Trinity had a mole removed from her face privately and it cost a fortune.

4. Alicia Scott. Has put on a lot of weight, but it looks good on her as she’s tall. Divorced. No children. New man in her life is called Brody (!) and is a high-flying executive in a pharmaceutical company which makes sugar substitutes. They spent two years living is Strasbourg and have a place there which is a listed building (or its Strasbourg equivalent).

5. Jocelyn Loveguard. Still single, but is the mistress of some wealthy provincial bank manager somewhere. He’s bought her a two bedroom luxury flatlet over a Thai restaurant in Slough and took her to Florence last year when his wife was in rehab. Had a boob job which he paid for. Her surname still sounds like a primitive contraceptive.

In case you were wondering, and it was causing you not a little anxiety, the two I’d totally forgotten about were Paige and Alicia.

Those are the sort of things that I have to aspire to. Those are what my mother thinks of as success stories. What’s a little strange is how my mother actually knew what these young women were doing in the first place, as if she’d followed their lives with the help of a private detective or had been stalking them for the last fourteen years. Surely those sort of details wouldn’t have been in the local paper, would they? Trinity Addison-Copely to have mole removed expensively, claims proud mother.

As far as I know, she had no contact with any of their parents when I was in school with them (none of them lived near us) and would only have heard of them if I’d mentioned them in some context or other. Maybe after a few years, all mums form some sort of club where they can brag to each other about their offspring’s success in this world. I can just imagine what it must be like:

‘How’s your Chloe doing?’

‘Very well, I suppose. She’s in university somewhere.’

‘Ooh. What is she studying?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Has she had a boyfriend who’s gone off to Greece yet?’

‘Not yet, but it’s pretty inevitable, we think.’

‘That’s what happened to Grace Copper’s daughter. She had a nervous breakdown, you know.’

‘What – Grace did?’

‘No. Her daughter.’

I wonder how Mark and the gang are doing. Will they have got on the plane yet? Probably. Mark told me the time they’d be arriving in Greece, but I’ve forgotten it. It doesn’t really matter to me what time they get there. Just as I’m about to go back to work, the bloody phone goes again. Right. That’s it. I’ve just about had all I can take from my mother today.

‘Yes?!’

‘Don’t take it out on me, dear, whatever it is.’

‘Oh. Sorry. Hi.’

It’s Rhoda, my agent. I squint at my watch. She never rings me up this late. Her working day starts, I believe, at ten in the morning on a good day. She has lunch at about midday, finishes it just before three, and then usually visits one of her young men. It must be something important.

‘Yes, yes. Anyway, I was wondering if I could pop ‘round and see you tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? I’m working tomorrow.’

‘It won’t take long. You won’t even have to put your brush down.’

‘No, I mean I’m working at the office. In the job I have to do two days a week. Remember?’

I try to keep a bitchy, bitter tone out of my voice when I tell her this. A sort of ‘if you were a better agent and sold my stuff, I wouldn’t have to work in some bloody office two days a bloody week’ tone. Bloody.

‘Oh yes. That. How about Wednesday?’

‘Yes. Wednesday will be fine. Any particular time?’

‘Morning?’ She says the word like she’s not exactly sure what it means.

‘OK, Rhoda. I’ll see you then.’

‘Lovely.’

Well what the hell was that all about? She rarely, if ever, visits me at home. Am I going to be dumped by her agency? Is she coming to tell me personally rather than over the phone? I try to think back to what she said and reinterpret it in a paranoid, unbalanced way. ‘It won’t take long.’ That was one of the things she said. Is it a ‘sorry, we’re going to have to let you go’ sort of ‘won’t take long’ situation? That would really, really be all I’d need right now.

I decide that that would be one too many things to worry about, put it out of my mind and get back to the painting. After spending over twenty-four hours with my own angry thoughts, plus a couple of unsettling telephone calls I didn’t particularly need, it’ll almost be a relief to get back to the bloody office.