‘I married,’ Grace said simply. ‘Not that my darling husband banned me from painting but he was a busy man with an important career, the children came along and,’ she shrugged, ‘the rest, they say, is history. I kept it up but have to confess only as a hobby.’ She sighed a little and finished her tea. ‘In my newrole as a mother Ialwaysencouraged my children to draw and paint and make. It’s so important when young, don’t you agree? I was so happy creating with them.’ She smiled. ‘Such wonderful times with the three of them elbow deep in mess at the kitchen table.’
Callie couldn’t help but reflect on her childhood, sterile and dull until she’d discovered art at Donna’s house. Her mother would never countenance a creative hour at the kitchen table. Wouldn’t dream of spending money on anything deemed so frivolous and, horrors, it would create far too much mess.
‘Not that it did any good,’ Grace continued, matter-of-factly. ‘My children turned into hugely important but strictly non-artistic business people. Their skills favoured their father rather than me.’ Her faded blue eyes twinkled. ‘But what can you do? I couldn’t force them to become artists.’ She winked. ‘And besides, they are terribly successful and now keep me in my old age and in the manner to which I have become accustomed. So I benevolently forgive them.’ She paused. ‘And press colouring sheets and stubby crayons into the hands of my tiny grandchildren. The genes will out somewhere and somehow!’
Callie laughed. ‘I wish I’d had a mother like you growing up. Mine didn’t value art in any way.’
‘Oh my dear. How ghastly.’
Grace’s sympathy was so sudden and heartfelt, Callie felt tears prickle. Had her childhood really been so awful? In some ways she supposed it had.
The moment was broken by Vinny bounding in from the garden. He barked, turned circles and then flopped at Callie’s feet, staring adoringly up at her.
Grace chuckled. ‘Youhavemade a conquest, dear Callie.’ Getting stiffly to her feet, she added, ‘And now, I must leave you good people to enjoy the rest of your day.’
Callie and Johnny rose and Grace lifted her cheek to him for a kiss. ‘Good bye, dear boy. So marvellous to meet you.’
Callie saw her to the door. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you.’ She meant it. The woman was someone she wanted in her life. ‘I hope you’ll be at the awards ceremony.’
‘Try keeping me away, my darling girl. Of course I will.’ She leaned in closer. ‘And don’t let anyone stop you making art. I can tell it’s in your soul and you’ve been heart starved of it. Don’t do as I did and let it simply become a hobby. Make it the very reason for existing, your life force!’ After this odd speech, she added, ‘By the way, I rather like your young man. I spied how he was looking at you. Maybe having to share a house hasn’t been too much of a hardship, after all.’
Fifteen
WEDNESDAY EVENING 14TH AUGUST
John Singer Sargent 1856–1925
Leading portrait artist of his generation. Discussion point: what do his portraits tell us of the feminine idea of beauty? Image versus reality.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
Callie took a pint of water up to her room. She was hot and sand-sticky, but after a shower and a long, indulgent pamper session that included a desperately needed conditioning hair mask, she felt fresher.
The view from the window drew her so she stood, breathing it in. The sun, edging lower into the west, cast mellow golden shadows onto the rooftops and the sea was a dappled purple. She wished her mood was equally tranquil but couldn’t stop thinking about what Grace Grosvenor had talked about.
She hadn’t plans for this evening and was glad. She hadn’t stopped since getting here and was tired. A glass of wine and a fat bestseller beckoned. Padding back downstairs, she wasrelieved to find Johnny had gone out and she had the house to herself.
Grabbing a bottle of white, a glass and a family pack of Doritos she snuck back upstairs and shut the door. For some reason she craved privacy. It was weird. She liked Johnny. She liked him a lot. Couldn’t deny his attractiveness and envied and admired his worldliness. But this evening she wanted to be alone.
Setting herself up on the chair in front of the open window she inhaled the gentle salty breeze, poured a glass and opened the crisps. Finding her place in her book, she began to read. Ten minutes later she slapped it shut in annoyance. Unable to concentrate, she stared out of the window at the darkening blueness and let her thoughts drift.
Why had her parents been like that? Why had they painted their walls a dirty magnolia, unrelieved by even one colourful cheap print. Why had they covered the sofa in plastic when they could easily afford to get it cleaned or replaced? Why had her mother pounced avariciously on the yellow-ticketed items in the supermarket? Why did her dad drive a meticulously maintained old car until it keeled over through exhaustion? Why did they keep the curtains on the front windows resolutely closed at all times? Why had they no friends, or hobbies, didn’t belong to any groups or clubs, scorned any overtures of friendship from neighbours and relatives? Why had they allowed so little joy into their lives?
The carefulness and penny pinching she could understand if they were badly off, but they sat on a fortune taking no pleasure out of what it could give them.
She’d said to Johnny she believed in pursuing any opportunity that came along but that was more wish fulfilment than truth. Yes, she tried to open up to as much as possible but, with a demanding job, a needy daughter and a mortgage to pay,she was limited as to how much she could actually do. Mostly, her time was spent head down getting on with the everyday, dull minutia of life. Like everyone else she knew.
Her friend Donna had four children. She spent her life taxiing the older ones around to their hundreds of clubs and social events, and potty training the youngest. She knew Donna loved family life, but she also knew it didn’t leave much time or energy for herself. Callie’s lips pursed as she sipped her wine. In contrast, Donna’s husband, a lovely, devoted husband in many ways, never seemed to struggle to find the time for his thirty-mile cycle rides every Saturday. And did so apparently guilt-free.
Was it true men were more able to compartmentalise their lives into next little boxes: family time, hobby time, work? Her thoughts strayed back to Johnny. His peripatetic lifestyle had only been possible because he’d stayed commitment free. Could she have had a similar life, if Frida hadn’t come along?
The contrast between her life and Johnny’s seemed more acute the better she got to know him, and it was beginning to make her feel dull in comparison. Callie loved her daughter with a fierceness that blazed and never regretted having her, but she often wondered what her life would have been had she not become pregnant so young.
But it wasn’t just that which preyed on her mind. There was something else too.
Discontent overwhelmed her, bitter and irrational. Reaching for her phone, she clicked on Donna’s number.
‘Callie, great to hear from you, babe. How are you doing in sunny Dorset?’
