Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

I muttered my agreement at his retreating back and closed the front door.

Carl was just putting a big platter of dabs on the table. ‘Why did you turn him away?’ he asked mildly. ‘I told you there was plenty. I thought you liked Will.’

‘I do, but he does take liberties,’ I said, perhaps a little grumpily. ‘In any case, there’s something I want to tell you.’

‘OK.’ He gestured me to sit down and help myself. ‘Fire away.’

‘You know I mentioned once before that I liked the idea of getting a job?’ I began tentatively as I ladled a dab on to my plate.

He nodded but did not say anything.

‘Actually there’s one going in the library,’ I went on. ‘Mariette seems to think I could get it if I wanted...’

I didn’t quite finish all that I had intended to say and there seemed to be a long silence before Carl replied. ‘Well, I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ he said.

My heart soared. If, upon reflection, his smile was strained, I did not notice it at first. I just knew I was beginning to really yearn for outside stimuli. But before I could tell him how delighted I was with his reaction, Carl started to speak again. ‘I’m just so sorry that it’s not possible,’ he said very quietly.

It was almost like a slap in the face. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked him haltingly.

‘Suzanne, you know very well it won’t be possible,’ he repeated.

‘I don’t. Why not? Carl, please, oh please, Carl.’ I heard myself imploring him.

‘Suzanne, how can you have a job?’ he asked. ‘You’d never cope and you don’t even have a National Insurance number...’

Worse than that, I realised I didn’t even quite know what a National Insurance number was.

Carl put down the forkful of dab he was about to put in his mouth, reached out with his hand to squeeze mine, and said again how sorry he was. He leaned across the table and kissed me gently on the end of my nose. For once I found him patronising more than anything else.

‘It’s not the end of the world, my Lady of the Harbour,’ he coaxed. ‘Anyway, aren’t I enough for you any more?’

His voice was gentle and teasing. Nonetheless, I heard myself reply very seriously and very honestly, putting into words thoughts I had never mentioned to him before: ‘Sometimes I do want more, Carl, yes I do.’ I touched his face with one hand in order to soften the blow of my words. ‘I just want a job and friends, the normal things, the ordinary things...’

Then I saw the pain flash across his eyes, this man who had given me a whole fresh start in life, a new identity. And fear. Maybe even fear. Carl, too, could be afraid, I knew that, although he seemed to have only one fear, really: the fear of anything disrupting our love and our life.

I could not hurt him. ‘It’s OK, Carl,’ I said, before he even spoke again. ‘I know you are right. I suppose I always knew it wouldn’t really be possible. Maybe one day, aye?’

Carl smiled and kissed me again. This time on the mouth. ‘Yes, darling,’ he whispered. ‘One day.’

I knew he didn’t mean it, though. And sometimes I wondered how long you could keep a secret.

A couple of days later Carl decided he would make bouillabaisse for supper and we paid a visit to our favourite local fishmonger. Steve was a young man with film star good-looks, totally incongruous in a fishmonger’s apron yet apparently enviably content in his work, who somehow contrived to be quite passionate about fish and frequently waxed lyrical about his product.

True to form he produced a monk-fish which he proclaimed to be particularly splendid. ‘Just look at the shine on that,’ he enthused. ‘You’ll not get a healthier looking fish than that one...’

‘Steve, I think I should point out that the fish is dead,’ Carl interrupted dryly.

‘Good Lord!’ countered Steve. ‘So it is.’

On the way home we dropped in at the Logan Gallery to visit Will Jones and find out how the sales of Carl’s paintings were going.

I was anxious about visiting Will for the first time since I had turned him away from Rose Cottage, but to my great relief, he was as friendly as ever to both of us. He didn’t seem to be harbouring any grudge at all and our visit to the gallery really cheered Carl up, because we learned that his paintings were selling exceptionally well. So well, in fact, that Carl invited Will to share the bouillabaisse with us that night as a kind of thank-you.

As ever, on the rare occasions when we actually invited him to our house, Will accepted with alacrity. He was something of a loner and I used to think that sometimes he might be lonely too, but neither Carl nor I knew much about his private life. We were always made very welcome at the gallery and occasionally Will entertained us, invariably most generously, at a local restaurant, but we had never been invited to his clifftop bungalow home out on the Penzance Road. We knew that he lived alone and he had told us that he had never been married. If he had a special woman friend nobody in the town knew of it. Indeed, Will seemed not to make friends easily and I always thought that one reason the three of us were so comfortable with each other was because none of us wanted to probe. I had once ventured to Carl that maybe Will was gay. Carl had laughed and asked me if I had never noticed the way the gallery owner looked at me. Nonetheless I was not entirely convinced.

Anyway, I was glad Carl had invited him partly because it eradicated my remaining guilt about the pink champagne incident, and I welcomed any diversion that might help take our minds off our worries.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough. Carl spent an hour or two framing his latest painting and I made a pretence of helping him. As usual, more than anything I just watched. Carl was so deft with his hands that it was a pleasure to watch him choose just the right colour and weight of framing material, and angle the beading so absolutely perfectly. When he had finished he started work on the bouillabaisse.

By the time Will arrived just before seven the whole cottage was full of an aroma of garlicky fish.

‘Delicious,’ Will said as he sniffed his appreciation and handed me a bottle of rather good white wine. We ate around the table in the downstairs room, curtains drawn and candlelit as usual in order to disguise its dinginess. But we had rigged up a single spotlight on the wall, which effectively illuminated my Pumpkin Soup painting.

Supper was excellent.

‘This bouillabaisse is as good as I’ve had in any restaurant,’ remarked Will.

‘What do you mean “as good as”,’ countered Carl. ‘How about “far better”, or “much superior” or something else along those lines...’

‘Why are great chefs always so arrogant, Will?’ I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What, Carl arrogant? A talented painter, a brilliant cook and he’s got you, Suzanne? What on earth has the man got to be arrogant about?’

‘And I’m stinking rich,’ said Carl, waving his arm around the dimly lit little room. ‘How do you like my mansion?’

Will grinned and put a hand over one of mine, which was resting on the table. ‘You two have quite enough riches,’ he said. ‘I would swap everything I possess, the gallery, the car, my house, for what you have...’

He spoke lightly enough and his tone was as theatrical as ever, but we had noticed before that Will was inclined to become a bit hyperbolic after a few glasses of wine.

Carl invariably responded with the easy teasing banter which came so easily to him. ‘That can be arranged, Will,’ he said. ‘When do you want to move in? I think you may have to raise the ceilings, though, and God knows how you’ll get on with my old van.’