Chapter 34
‘I told you, Jasper,’ Amanda announces, pacing around with her phone clamped to her ear. ‘I’m taking care of Celia.’
‘But how long for?’
‘I’m not sure. There’s no set timescale on grief, you know? Or on recovery after being cheated on. So I’m just taking things as they come?—’
‘Three weeks you’ve been away now?—’
‘Not quite three weeks?—’
‘Let’s not quibble,’ he snaps. ‘You keep saying you’ll be a little bit longer and on it goes. What’s really going on here, Amanda?’
Her jaw tightens as he continues in this vein: about how she took off to Scotland with virtually no warning and how he was barely aware of ‘this Celia’ before her trip.
Amanda can understand that he’d forgotten she’d been at their wedding – their introduction had been hurried – but really!
Celia is her oldest friend, and Jasper expects her to be fascinated with the minutiae of his friends’ lives.
Amanda’s right ear is throbbing with it all as she moves to Celia’s living room window.
A bunch of people are out there now, milling around in fluorescent yellow tops.
At first she thinks it must be workmen, or people doing community service.
As far as she’s concerned, having to wear a hi-vis waistcoat-type thingie would be punishment enough for any crime.
Seeing them en masse like this is really hurting her eyes.
But then she realises it’s the litter pick crew, and now she spots Enzo, actually looking quite fetching in his, if such a thing were possible.
‘The thing is,’ she tells Jasper in her most patient voice, ‘when I came up here I didn’t know Celia’s husband had been shagging someone else.’
‘Well, no, obviously,’ Jasper huffs.
Amanda continues to watch the litter gang, specifically Enzo.
She knows Celia has been through hell lately.
But surely, making a new friend like him has to be a tiny compensation for catching Geoff with his pants down?
Shame there aren’t men like that in her life, accompanying her on walks and popping round with funny little boxes of biscuits.
Men who happily spend their Saturday mornings picking up filthy rubbish rather than moaning about how ‘abandoned’ they feel.
‘I’m sorry if you’re miserable,’ she says, trying to dredge up some sympathy now. ‘Honestly, I promise I won’t be here for much longer.’ There’s a pause, which Jasper is supposed to fill by saying, Good, because I miss you so much, darling.
‘Good. So you’ll be back in plenty of time for the install? I could do with your help.’
‘The install?’ she repeats. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Installing my exhibition.’ Obviously is the implication.
‘You’re having an exhibition?’ she exclaims.
‘Yeah!’ He sounds excited now, and she’s conscious of a tiny prickle of guilt.
‘Wow. That’s brilliant. How did that come about?’
‘There’s just been growing interest,’ he says, affecting a blasé tone now.
‘So…’ she starts, still taken aback. ‘You mean it’s a solo show?’
‘Yep, just little me, with gallery representation!’
‘An actual gallery?’
‘Yes!’ A dry laugh. ‘Don’t sound so shocked.’
Amanda exhales and sweeps back her hair with a hand. ‘A London gallery?’
‘Of course. Where else?’ As far as Jasper is concerned, no other UK city is worth bothering with.
This new information is a little overwhelming and now she wonders if she should have been more tolerant of Jasper’s ‘work’. Perhaps those potato prints are actually really good, and she was showing her ignorance in not appreciating them?
‘Well, I’m really happy for you,’ she says truthfully.
‘Thanks, babe.’ She can sense him smiling and this triggers another guilty twinge. ‘It’s a really great location,’ he adds. ‘It’s going to be a real breakthrough for me…’
‘So when does it open?’
‘July the fourth,’ he announces. ‘Private view, 7p.m.’
‘Independence Day,’ Amanda remarks.
‘Yeah.’ He chuckles. ‘The start of my new career as a fully independent artist. I’m cutting ties with Ollie,’ he adds.
‘Really?’ she exclaims. In recent times, Ollie has been her husband’s agent too.
Naturally, Amanda made the introduction, employing maximum charm in order to persuade him to take Jasper on.
However, whenever she speaks to Ollie, Jasper’s name never comes up.
It just lurks there on the periphery – the great unmentionable – like an embarrassing stain.
‘Yep, I don’t need him,’ he says breezily. ‘Time for a whole new chapter, darling. I’m ready to make that leap.’
Amanda turns this over in her mind: the fact that he no longer considers himself an actor (and it was Jasper-the-actor whom she’d fallen in love with) but a fully-fledged artist now.
Reluctantly, she decides that this is probably a wise move.
After all, he was only really cast for his pretty-boy looks.
She can admit to herself now that, on that cop show, he displayed all the acting ability of a bedside cabinet.
Conversely, being offered a solo exhibition in London is a huge deal, and she should be there with him, praising his splodgy vegetable prints and ensuring that he has an endless supply of Maris Pipers.
Although distinctly unkeen on being involved in the ‘install’ of the exhibition (she envisages hammers, nails, manicure ruined), she is not averse to being there at the opening night, glass of wine in hand.
Is there time to have her highlights done, she wonders?
Already she is mentally appraising her wardrobe back home, figuring out what she might wear.
Then she catches herself because of course, this will be Jasper’s big night – not hers.
Perhaps finally she can be proud of him. Does this mean there may be hope for their marriage after all?
She glances out again and sees Enzo’s daughter, grabbing at a drinks can with her litter picker stick.
What’s her name again? Something pretty and French, she remembers now.
Mathilde, that’s it. And here comes Enzo again with a rubbish sack.
It strikes her again how terribly handsome he is.
Not in a great-angles-for-camera way, just naturally attractive in real life .
She gets the feeling that it’s never occurred to him how good-looking he is.
Jasper is still chattering on about his art but Amanda’s attention has wandered.
Now Enzo is in conversation with a striking-looking woman with long crinkly reddish hair.
She hennas it, Amanda reckons. That trailing cheesecloth skirt too, and possibly her patterned shirt worn open over a vest. She’s 98 per cent henna, Amanda estimates.
If she’d had her on Look for a Lifestyle she’d have advised her to ease off on the plant dyes.
‘I feel terrible,’ Jasper announces.
‘Huh? What about?’ Amanda’s attention snaps back to her husband.
‘I haven’t asked how Celia is.’
‘She’s doing okay,’ she replies. ‘I mean, she’s a lot better than when I arrived.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Jasper seems to be considering this – that Amanda really has been needed here. ‘It might sound harsh,’ he adds, ‘but she will need to stand on her own two feet at some point. I mean, I think it’s amazing, how supportive you’ve been…’
Celia senses a small glow of pride. ‘I’m just doing what any friend would—’ She breaks off as her phone bleeps with an incoming call. She checks it quickly and sees her agent’s name. ‘Sorry, hon. Ollie’s calling me?—’
‘Just before you go. You will come back for my opening night, won’t you? Please , babe?’
Amanda bites her lip. ‘’Course I will.’ Then she accepts the call and clicks on her professional voice. ‘Ollie, hey!’
‘Hi, darling. Still in Scotland?’
‘Yep, I am. Why, has something come up?’ Please say yes, she wills him.
She’s hoping that the people who’d approached her some months ago have come back to him again, hoping for a yes.
She’d dismissed the new show on which people would confess their ‘crimes’ – such as using a housemate’s toothbrush to shift a stubborn mark off the loo – and to whom she would administer a ‘punishment.’ Disgusting bathroom behaviour?
That wasn’t her world at all. Now, though, she’d bite their hand off for that job.
‘There is something, actually,’ Ollie says.
‘“Crime and Punishment ” ?’
‘No, they’ve got someone else for that now.’
Ouch, that stings – but still, he said there’s something. ‘So, what is it?’ she prompts him.
‘A commercial,’ Ollie replies.
‘Oh, great!’ Adverts are generally extremely well-paid. She did a couple back in the day, at her career peak, for hair products and a skincare line. On top of the fee, she didn’t have to buy moisturiser for a year. ‘What’s it for?’ she asks.
‘It’s, er…’ Ollie clears his throat repeatedly, as if he has something stuck in it. ‘It’s for a funeral plan,’ he says with artificial brightness.
‘ What? ’
‘Listen, before you react, before you go off on one?—’
‘A funeral plan?’ Amanda splutters. ‘You mean to pay for a funeral before you’re dead?’
‘Er, I believe that’s the idea, yes.’
‘And you’re sure it’s me they want?’ Ollie must be losing it, she decides.
He has dozens of clients on his books, many way older than she is – from steel-haired gazelles to cuddly nana-types.
One particular twinkly octogenarian nabs all the best granny roles in the Christmas ads.
Rent-a-Nan. Is this Amanda’s future? With the money they pay she wouldn’t knock it.
‘Yeah, they really want you,’ he says.
‘But I’m forty-three,’ she reminds him snappily. Virtually a millennial in a good light!
‘Yes, but you fit their profile, darling.’
‘The funeral profile? How come, Ollie? I thought I was at that difficult in-between age!’
‘You are! I mean, you’re not. You’re not anything?—’
‘I’m not anything?’ With his gallery representation and one-man show, suddenly Jasper seems to be the one with the stellar career.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Ollie says hastily.
‘I just meant you’re not in any particular box these days.
And that’s a good thing, darling. Who wants to be boxed in?
It means you can stretch in any direction, which is all the better for your career.
It means we can put you forward for anything!
’ Why aren’t you, then? she fumes. ‘And this job…’ he goes on.
‘This coffin advert,’ she snaps.
‘ Funeral plan. Oh, cheer up, sweetie. It’s a great market to be in. Trends come and go but we’re all going to cark it someday!’
‘Ha.’ Amanda emits a mirthless laugh. ‘Well, there’s a cheering thought.’
He sighs audibly. ‘Will you at least think about it?’
‘I s’pose I’ll have to,’ she mutters.
‘Don’t take too long.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Oh, and I do hope things are… y’know.’ He affects a caring tone. ‘Not so critical up there.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Amanda frowns.
‘Your friend. Your friend who’s, uh…’
‘She’s fine,’ Amanda says quickly. ‘I mean, she’s getting better. Much better—’ She breaks off as Mathilde looks round in the street and spots her at the window. She grins and waves, seemingly untraumatized by having that hi-vis waistcoat forced upon her, the poor child.
‘Well, that’s great,’ Ollie enthuses. ‘Her treatment’s been successful then?’
‘It has,’ Amanda says, waving back and flashing a big smile. ‘She’s responded to it incredibly well.’
‘Modern medicine really is amazing,’ he marvels as the entire litter pick crew seems to pass Celia’s window now, all chattering loudly and full of the joys.
Maybe that’s a job Ollie could put her up for?
As a street cleaner? ‘Anyway, you’re obviously busy there,’ he says brightly.
‘Sounds like it’s all going on. Are you still on the ward? ’
‘The ward?’
‘At the hospital,’ he clarifies.
‘Um, no, they’ve let her come home.’ In fact, pretty soon she’ll be sitting in Glasgow’s coolest hair salon, being transformed.
Amanda wishes she’d gone with her instead of mooching around here to receive the shittiest job offer of her life.
If she were there now, her hair covered in foils, she’d have missed Ollie’s call and wouldn’t be feeling about ninety years old and a complete has-been.
She stomps through to the kitchen, fills a glass with water and gulps half of it down. Maybe I’m not drinking enough water, she muses . Maybe that’s why I’ve slipped effortlessly into the funeral market.
Something has switched around here, Amanda realises now. When she’d arrived it was clear that she was needed very much. And that had made her feel good – that she had a purpose again – because back home in London it had started to feel as if she weren’t needed very much at all.
Here she has thrown herself into being supportive in the only ways she knows how: by shopping for treats, and encouraging Celia to ditch those terrible sub-Primark drawstring trousers and nana slippers she was sloping about in – convalescence wear – in the aftermath of Caravan Day.
But now Celia seems to have made, if not a full recovery, then shown more obvious signs of gaining strength than the sorry-looking cactus that’s still sitting there on the kitchen table.
‘I’m glad things are going so well,’ Ollie enthuses. ‘So, about the commercial? What shall I say?’
Amanda slugs more tepid tap water, wondering if that press-for-champagne button will ever materialise in her life again, and bangs down the glass on Celia’s worktop. ‘Tell them I’ll think about it,’ she says.