Chapter 8 Nothing to Lose #2
There was no shame. She knew that. And she was lucky enough to live in a country that had offered a safety net, of sorts.
Amongst the pamphlets the police had given her, one had been for the local benefits office.
But she’d ignored it, along with the rest. Somehow she felt like there were others much worse off than her, others that needed their help more.
While she could manage, she would. Plus, would they even pay benefits to someone living in a caravan and without a permanent address?
She looked back at her phone. Perhaps she could do the Zero Per Cent Transfer Dance again? Surely there was bit of credit still left on one of her cards if she did a bit of tricky manoeuvring.
Maggie was just thinking this when her phone suddenly sprang to life and started ringing.
It was a WhatsApp video-call from George, one of her closest friends.
They’d met at art college and spent a year together before she’d dropped out and moved back home.
Still, they’d kept in touch and by their late twenties found themselves sharing a flat in London.
By this time George had discovered it was actually quite hard earning a living as an abstract artist and was working as cabin crew for a big airline, jetting around the world.
While she was getting experience in various galleries around Soho and Hackney, before finally moving out of the capital and opening her own.
Which, by the way, sounded very posh. An art gallery conjured up images of swanky locations and wealthy customers, but hers was a local neighbourhood gallery.
Sandwiched between an antique bookshop and Jeera’s Tandoori House, it was a small, but beautiful, creative space filled with local art of different mediums, all reasonably priced.
There were a few expensive paintings, but most of it was affordable.
After all, art should be affordable, shouldn’t it?
Why should only the rich get to hang nice pictures on their walls?
And over the years she’d built up quite a reputation, discovering new artists and working with them for months to curate a show, supporting local sculptors and ceramicists, hosting different exhibitions, events and workshops.
She was well known in the community and her gallery was a little hub of creativity.
She’d always loved art at school and dreamed of a career as a painter; getting into art college had been a dream come true .
. . But things happen, and it wasn’t to be.
Still, that didn’t stop her passion. The government seemed to think everyone needed to do maths and sciences, but arts were what made the world go round.
What made it all bearable, she always thought.
Maggie stared at the vibrating phone in her hand.
George was the only friend who ever called for a chat.
No one had time these days. Everyone texted.
Or left messages on various WhatsApp groups.
Most of her girlfriends were dealing with husbands and partners and kids and ageing parents and jobs and traffic and menopause and everything else mid-life threw at you.
Plus, much to her shame, she’d lost touch with most of her friends when she met Him.
Their love affair had been such a whirlwind, so all-consuming, she’d neglected her friendships.
Plus, He preferred it that way. He wanted her all to himself.
They didn’t need anyone else, He would always tell her.
At the time she thought it was romantic.
Just the two of them, in this great big love bubble.
She still couldn’t believe how naive she’d been.
Much easier over texts to pretend that she was doing fine, everything was OK and she was starting over in her new life like it was one Big New Exciting Adventure. The only person she didn’t have to pretend with was George. But still. She wasn’t in the mood.
Rejecting the call, she texted instead.
Sorry, I’m busy. Will call you later x
Ping. He replied straightaway.
Bullshit. Busy doing what? You’re unemployed and living in a field in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Call me back.
His text made her smile. George always had that effect, whatever the circumstances.
Loud, opinionated and self-deprecating, he was someone for whom the phrase ‘larger than life’ was coined.
But he was also deeply sensitive, with dark moods and a fragility witnessed only by those very close to him.
Maggie always thought that’s what made him such a brilliant artist. An ability to see beneath the layers, to glimpse light through the shadow and be able to draw it out.
Putting down her tea, she propped her phone against her mug and obediently video-called him back. Within seconds his wide smile was filling the screen, bright sunshine and blue skies making him squint against a backdrop of glistening skyscrapers.
‘Where are you?’ She could never keep track of George. Every time he rang he was somewhere different.
He swung the camera around so she could see the skyline. It was instantly recognizable as Manhattan.
‘New York. Got a night stop. Wish you were here. We could go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and look at Rothkos; it would be like the old days.’
‘I wish,’ she sighed, smiling. ‘Forgive me if I don’t swing my camera around. The inside of the caravan doesn’t have quite the same view as the Empire State.’
‘So, how’s it going?’
‘Fine.’
‘Liar.’
‘Are you just ringing to insult me?’
He laughed good-naturedly. ‘How long have I known you, Maggie?’
‘Too long.’
‘Exactly. Long enough to know nothing is ever fine. We’re either fabulous and fuck-worthy or depressed and knackered or in love or heartbroken or something, but we’re never just fine.’
Maggie smiled fondly at her friend.
George was a knee-jerk of exaggeration and drama. A working-class boy from Liverpool, he drank too much, loved too hard and always liked to joke about it. She was quieter, more rational, the sensible stooge to his funny man in the double act that was their friendship of over thirty years.
At least she was until recently.
‘OK, so I’m not fine. I just got shamed out of the local farm shop.’
‘Ooh, what did you do? Don’t tell me. You gave a carrot a blow job? You got down and dirty with an organic cheese? You did something filthy with a side of grass-fed beef?’
Maggie shook her head as he fired her with filthy puns. ‘Is this how your mind really works?’
George gave a throaty laugh. ‘Don’t look so shocked. We used to share a flat, remember?’
‘Don’t remind me.’ Maggie gave a pretend shudder. ‘Anyway, it was a lot more boring, I’m afraid. My credit card was refused and I didn’t have any cash to pay for my groceries. Actually, that’s not true,’ she corrected herself. ‘I had the cash, but they don’t accept cash these days.’
‘Of course not. It’s a cashless society.’
‘You knew that?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘In a field in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, apparently,’ she replied, repeating his words back to him. George looked sheepish.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’
‘Yes, you did, and it’s fine—’ She caught herself and they both smiled. ‘So, tell me, how are you, apart from being fabulous and fuck-worthy?’
‘Actually, I feel completely unfuck-worthy. Since I finished with Joaquim it’s been a total desert.’
Scraping his fingers through his shock of dark hair, he peered moodily into the camera. With his bright blue eyes and lantern jaw, George was the definition of handsome and he knew it. Still, it was an admirable attempt at modesty.
‘But the good news is I’m painting. I just got a commission.’
‘Wow, that’s great.’
‘You should start painting again.’
Maggie pulled a face. ‘Oh George, I haven’t painted for years.’
‘I know. Which is why I’m always nagging you. You were good.’
‘But not good enough. That’s why I sell art. Or at least used to.’
George waved the statement away like an annoying fly. ‘Well, now you could sell your own artwork. Look at it as an opportunity.’
Maggie gave him ‘the look’ that said to shut up and unusually for George he got the message.
‘So, any news about my namesake?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Nope.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘George is still missing. It’s been over a week.’
‘I thought a local reporter had some information?’
‘So did I, but turns it out it was about something else—’ She broke off.
To be honest, the last twenty-four hours had been spent trying not to think about it.
She was still reeling from the news that the man who’d blown up her life had been found – and all the emotions that stirred up – so she’d tried to push it to the back of her mind.
Compartmentalize. Isn’t that what they called it?
‘Someone else.’
‘Someone?’ George raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean, The Total Bastard Whose Name We Cannot Mention?’
‘There must be an acronym for that.
‘There is. It spells WANKER.’ George was still visibly furious. ‘Where he is?’
‘She didn’t say. To tell the truth, I didn’t let her finish,’ admitted Maggie. ‘She said she wanted to write some article about romance fraud . . . to interview me and confront him and expose everything he’s done. She wanted my help.’
‘Do it.’
‘You told me to forget about him.’
‘But this is your chance to nail that bastard. When Joaquim cheated on me, I wanted revenge. I couldn’t let him get away with it.’
‘But he did get away with it. I lost everything. What good’s it going to do now?’
‘Have you told the police? Maybe they’ll arrest him now.’
‘No, and I’m not going to. It’s just going to stir everything up again. I’ve moved on.’
‘But you haven’t really moved on, have you?’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve moved to the opposite end of the country.’
‘That’s called pulling a geographic.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘If you’d really moved on, we wouldn’t still be talking about him, would we?’
There was a beat as his words sunk in. He was right. And she hated herself for it.
‘I’m going to go now, George,’ she said, wanting to get off the phone. ‘Have fun at the Met. Take a picture of Courbet’s Woman with a Parrot for me.’
‘Think about it.’
‘Bye. Love you.’
‘Love you more.’
The screen of Maggie’s phone returned to her screensaver.
A different George. Ginger and furry, he stared out her reminding her again of everything that was missing, everything that was lost. A sharp pain stabbed in her chest. She felt both annoyed by the phone call and anxious.
It had stirred everything up again. Just thinking about Him gave her a knot in her stomach.
A panic. A fear. She’d survived the tsunami of emotions that had once almost drowned her, but she was scared.
What if the tsunami came back? What if she didn’t survive this time?
She got up from the banquette. After talking to George, the caravan felt quiet and claustrophobic.
She turned on the TV for a distraction. Some daytime quiz show appeared, bright and loud, its chirpy presenter chatting to the contestants.
She glanced absently at the screen, watching until it went to the ad break.
And now it was all those awful commercials for funerals and stairlifts and starving animals, cynically scheduled to tug at the heartstrings of the retired.
As if watching daytime TV wasn’t depressing enough.
Quickly reaching for the TV remote, she turned it off.
She felt restless. For so many years she’d had a purpose, a direction, a sense of control over her own life.
But now she felt cast adrift. Like she had no control.
And yet, if the truth be told, she was conflicted.
Part of her wanted to hide away in this caravan for ever, to let life wash over her and not put up a fight. To admit defeat and just give up.
On the side she noticed the business card left behind by the journalist. She picked it up, tracing her thumb over the embossed lettering. She thought about her own business cards. All gone now. Her phone beeped, distracting her. It was a text from George.
So I’ve been thinking . . . You know what’s brilliant about losing everything?
Trust me, there’s nothing brilliant.
That’s not true. It’s actually empowering.
How so?
Because now you’ve got abso-fucking-lutely nothing left to lose.