Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

I realised this was a joke and dutifully laughed with her. A waiter appeared and told us our table was ready. Glad for the reprieve, no matter how short, I let him lead us into the restaurant proper.

The table was set in a corner. I saw this with dismay, and looked around for a less secluded one. There were several, but I could think of no reason to ask to move. We sat down, and my embarrassment was compounded when the waiter lit the candle in the centre of the table. There seemed to be a conspiracy to create a romantic mood. I wondered how I could have thought that the restaurant was not intimate. Now it seemed all too much so. I felt like announcing to everyone in the room that we were not a couple.

The waiter handed us each a menu. “Now, before we go any further, I want to make it clear that this is my treat,” she said. “No arguments.”

Preoccupied, I had not been about to make one. I realised I should at least go through the motions. “No, I’ll get this.” I made an effort to be gallant. “It’s the least I can do after letting you down this afternoon.”

She held her hand up. “No, I shan’t hear of it. I invited you, so this is on me.”

“No, really—”

“I tell you what, you can get it the next time.”

My smile froze. The words settled uncomfortably into my stomach, precluding any thoughts of hunger. Next time. I felt a clammy sense of claustrophobia. I managed to mumble some sort of acquiescence and pretended to study the menu, staring at the calligraphic lines without reading them.

When the waiter returned I ordered the first thing my eye focused upon. I had no appetite. I agreed readily to my host’s choice of wine, and prayed it would not be long in coming. I badly needed a drink. I felt rigidly self-conscious, my tongue lying in my mouth like a wooden club. Fortunately, I was given little opportunity to exercise it anyway.

She prattled on through the meal, requiring only the occasional word from me to sustain her monologue. I was given an unstructured mishmash of her views, her family, and whatever else happened to occur to her while she was speaking.

I also learned that she did not have a husband.

“George that’s my husband always used to say that any man who didn’t play golf had to have a serious character defect. That was his excuse anyway, whenever I used to go on at him for spending all his spare time at the club. “Margaret, you should be thankful,” he’d say. “Some men have mistresses, some men are alcoholics, some men are gamblers. All you’ve got to contend with is a white ball and a few acres of grass.”

She laughed. “He was right, of course. When I was widowed for real, I found out that being a golf widow isn’t half so bad.”

I realised that this was one of the points where I was expected to say something. Reluctantly, I asked, “When was that?”

“When was I widowed? Oh, over two years ago. Don’t worry, I’m over it now. There’s no danger of me blubbing or getting maudlin, or anything. Bit of a blow at the time, of course. Car crash. Right out of the blue. But life goes on, doesn’t it? I’d got the business to keep me occupied, and it wasn’t as if the kids were young and needed looking after. Mind you,” she laughed, “at times like this afternoon, I sometimes wonder.”

As she spoke, she leaned across and briefly touched my arm. It took a vast effort of will not to move away. “But listen to me, I’ve not stopped talking yet,” she went on. “I must be boring you silly. You must tell me to shut up if you feel like it.”

“No, that’s quite all right.”

“What about you, anyway? I’ve been so busy gabbing I’ve not given you a chance to say anything about yourself. You’re still quite a man of mystery. I know what sort of car you drive, but that’s about all. Are you married?”

The suddenness of the question burned my face. Her head was tilted, inquisitively. “No. No, I’m afraid not.” I felt myself being backed into a corner.

She gave a little nod. “No, I didn’t think you were. No ring,” she explained, nodding at my finger. “And you didn’t seem the type.”

She smiled, looking at me very directly. I had no idea what the married type looked like, and did not care. I busied myself taking another drink.

“Rather a nice wine,” I said.

“Yes, it’s not bad, is it? Although I must admit, I don’t know the first thing about wines. I’ll drink any old plonk, so long as it’s not like vinegar. I’ve not got a very discerning palate. I know what I like, but that’s about it.”

That last sentence seemed imbued with all sorts of unpleasant connotations. I realised I was sitting tensely, and made an effort to relax. Perhaps some of my awkwardness communicated itself, because there was a lull in the conversation, the first of the evening. Our plates were empty; there was nothing else to occupy us. The silence grew. I searched for something to say, but came up with nothing. I was on the verge of making another comment about the wine when she spoke.

“So. How did you get into the art business?”

Glad to leave the awful quiet behind, I gave her a condensed version of my early life. She listened attentively, and I shut my mind to everything else except my narrative. At least it was a safe subject.

“I’d no idea you were once a starving artist yourself,” she said. “I expect you still paint for your own pleasure, don’t you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Not even occasionally? Don’t you miss it?”

I had never really considered it before. “No, not really.”

She seemed surprised. “Was it a conscious decision? I mean, when you were disillusioned about being an artist, did you think, “Right, that’s it,” and pack your brushes away?”

“Not exactly.” I thought back. “I just stopped.”

“Oh.” She dismissed it with a smile. “Well, I expect you don’t have much time anyway, these days. Still, if you have any of your old paintings, I’d love to see them. Perhaps they’re better than you remember. You never know, you might feel inspired to take it up again.”

I felt a jolt of panic at the hinted intimacy. “I don’t have any. I threw them all out years ago.” It was the truth.

“You threw everything away? Oh, what a shame. I bet you regret it now, though, don’t you?”

I had never thought about it. But now I was glad I had. I gave a non-committal shrug, feeling my tension return stronger than ever. The waiter appeared and removed our plates.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have a dessert,” she said. My heart sank. She studied the sweet menu. “I think I’ll try the pavlova. I know it’s loaded with calories, but I don’t care. How about you?”

I had no appetite, but it seemed easier to have something than not. It would give me something to do. “Yes, the pavlova sounds fine.”

“You should see some of my daughter’s work,” she said, as the waiter brought the dessert. “Not the stuff she’s doing now, so much, although her tutors seem impressed enough with that, but some of her earlier pieces. Of course, I can’t claim to be any expert, but I think it’s pretty damn good.” She gave an apologetic laugh, and suddenly her hand had reached out to touch me again. “I bet I sound just like any other proud mother, don’t I? Oh, well, it can’t be helped. I suppose I am.”

The hand was taken away. She went back to her pavlova. “Still, if I do say so myself, she has a definite talent. You’ll have to meet her sometime, so you can make up your own mind.”

I gripped my spoon. The feeling of claustrophobia was stifling. She went on, blithely tying me to her.

“Damien, on the other hand, can’t draw for toffee. Absolutely hopeless. In fact, I’m not sure what he wants to do with his life. I don’t think he does, either. I love him dearly, but I do wish he’d hurry up and settle down to something. Or with someone, even. He’s the eldest, and I’ve said to him if he doesn’t hurry up and produce grandchildren soon, I’m going to be too old to enjoy them. Only kidding, of course. He’s got the travel bug, and he’s got to get that out of his system before he does anything else. Mind you, if nothing else, he has got some amazing slides of the places where he’s been. I know other people’s photographs are normally boring, but some of these are absolutely breathtaking! In fact, you must come over sometime while he’s still here and have a look at them.” She smiled. “You could even risk my attempt at a curry, if you like. That’s my latest thing, since he’s got back from India. What’s the matter?”