Nick Laird - Glover’s Mistake

To EJ

Cover Page

Title Page Glover’s Mistake Nick Laird

Dedication To EJ

Three in the morning Three in the morning

The club

Nutter

The intricate machinery

With a capital A

Collective nouns

The drogue

The recycling box

Like road maps, abandoned

The first person plural

Two in the afternoon

Buddha’s bogus smile

Sixties fittings

What all these people did

All about frustration

Reconciling everything

Jeroboam or something

Pyrotechnics

A red jewel sparkled in her navel

Invisible presences

Exactly what an image does

The republic of no one

Around about one

I carried you

Natural disaster

Menus

Stalwart

Flicking between channels

A series of short rises and swinging stops

Landfill

A toast to Mrs Glover

Where one might pin a medal

Disegno

Variegated bruise

Daggers, crosses, hearts and bells

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

At the kitchen table he’d turned a page of Time Out and there was her face. He’d been so shocked that he’d started to laugh. She was still beautiful—though squinting slightly as if she’d just removed a pair of glasses. Did she need glasses now too? He snipped out the inch-long update with nail scissors, folded it and filed it in his wallet. The exhibition, ‘Us and the US’, featured several British and American female artists, and it opened in three days.

When he reached the drinks table and lifted a plastic tumbler of wine, he noticed, with unexpected anger, how the suits had real champagne glasses. Money grants its owners a kind of armour, and this crowd shone with it. They were delighted and loud, and somewhere among them was Ruth. He headed towards her work and hovered.

There.

She did look good; older, of course, and the hair now unnaturally blonde. Her nose was still a little pointed, oddly fleshless, and its bridge as straight and thin as the ridge of a sand dune; one lit slope, the other shaded. A tall man in a chalk-stripe suit held forth as she twisted the stem of her empty glass between forefinger and thumb. Her unhappy glance slid round the group. As one of the men whispered into her ear she turned away, and her eyes had the same cast as in the lecture hall, when she would gaze longingly over the heads of the students towards the exit.

‘Hello, oh excuse me, I’m sorry, Ruth, hi.’

David used one elbow to open a gap between the speaker and Ruth, and then slotted himself neatly into it.

‘Hello.’ The voice was lower than David would have guessed but instantly familiar. She still dressed in black but the materials had been upgraded. A pilous cashmere wrap, a fitted silk blouse.

‘You taught me at Goldsmiths, a long time ago now.’ He was staring too intently and looked down at her glass.

‘Oh, sorry. Of course, yes. What’s your name again?’

She presented her hand and David shook it firmly. He said there was no reason she’d remember him, but she repeated the name, making an American performance of the syllables: Dav-id Pin-ner. The three men had regrouped, and Chalk-stripe was still mid-anecdote. Ruth touched David’s hand for the second time.

‘Shall we find a drink?’

The queue was five-deep around the table. David knew he should stand in line for both of them, letting Ruth wait at some distance from the ungentle shoving, but to do so would be to lose her immediately to some suit or fan or journalist. Then Ruth stopped a waitress walking past, a black girl with a lip ring carrying a tray of prawns on Communion wafers.

‘Can I be really brazen and ask you for some wine? Would that be okay?’

She appraised them: David left her unconvinced, but Ruth, five foot five of effortless poise, carried them both easily. The wealthy expect and expect, and are not disappointed. When the waitress smiled in confirmation, her lip ring tightened disagreeably against her lower lip and David had to look away.

‘If you just let me get rid of these…’

He was nervous, and kept pushing prawn hors d’oeuvres into his mouth before the present incumbents were swallowed. Ruth picked a white thread from her shawl and said, ‘But what do you do now? Oh, I’ve lost your name again. I’m just terrible with names. I forget my daughter’s sometimes.’

David, chewing furiously, pointed at his mouth.

‘Of course…God, Goldsmiths.’

She said it dramatically, naming a battle they’d together fought in. After swallowing, David repeated his name and said he was a writer. This was not particularly true, at least not outside his private feeling.

‘Huh. So I managed to put you off art. Or maybe you write about it? Is this research?’

David thought she was very gently making fun of him. ‘No, I teach mainly, though I have reviewed—’

She shifted register and dipped her head towards him. ‘Look, I’m sorry for sweeping you off back there. The baby brother of my ex-husband had decided to explain to me how exactly I’d fucked up his life.’

‘God, I’m sure you could do without that.’

The immediacy, the easy intimacy, was surprising, and it had startled him to hear himself repeating God in the same dramatic way she’d said it. Did she mean she’d fucked up the ex-husband’s life or the ex-husband’s brother’s? He could imagine how she might unmoor a man’s existence.

‘You don’t have a cigarette, do you?’

‘Oh, I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here.’

‘They won’t mind. They’re all very…Ah, here we are. Darling, you’re an angel. A punk-rock angel.’

The ‘punk-rock’, David thought, showed Ruth’s age.

‘It was kind of you to come and see the exhibition, you know. I managed to lose touch with everyone I knew at Goldsmiths.’ Her dark eyes cast about the room. David waited for them to settle on him and they did. ‘It was a very difficult time for me…coming out of one thing, moving into another…Maybe you heard about it.’

David pursed his lips and nodded. He had no idea what she was talking about. Her tongue was very pink and pointed.

‘For so many years London was somewhere I just couldn’t come to, and now I’ve taken this residency here for a whole…Oh, stand there for a second. I don’t want to have to deal with Walter yet.’

Ruth edged David a few inches to the left.

‘Who am I hiding you from?’

‘Oh no, I’m not really hiding. He’s a friend. Walter. The Collector.’

‘Sounds sinister.’

‘Oh, it is. ’ She swept her wine glass in a small circle for emphasis. ‘When Walter buys you, you know you’re in demand. And he keeps on buying you until your price is high enough and then he dumps your stock and floods the market. Or’—the glass stopped in its circuit—‘until you die, and then he plays the investors, drip-feeding your pieces to the auctioneer.’

‘A bit like a banker.’

‘He used to be. I think he still owns a couple.’

David glanced around the room. He wanted to see him now. He needed to get a good look at the sort of man who owned a bank or two. Instead he noticed the grey-haired man in the chalk-stripe approaching them. Hurriedly he asked, ‘So are you based in New York?’

‘Ah, there you are. Richard Anderson’s looking for you.’

‘Richard Anderson?’