The Last Weekend, page 24
‘Have you got a paper round or something?’ asked Annie.
Maura raised her eyebrows. ‘Why would I get a paper round?’
‘Because you said you were working, but you’re not telling me what kind of work.’
‘How does that lead to a paper round?’ asked Claire.
‘You stay out of this,’ said Maura.
‘Whatever it is, you’re obviously ashamed of it,’ said Annie. And she caught the flash of pain on Maura’s face that told her she’d found something truthful. ‘We’re meant to be your friends. Whatever you’ve done, you can tell us.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong. At least not in the way you’re thinking.’
‘You’ve lied to people,’ said Claire. ‘That’s wrong.’
Annie glared at her. ‘Claire, seriously, I will use the last of my strength to strangle you if you don’t shut up.’
‘Is it the job you’re doing that you’re ashamed of, or not?’ said Annie. ‘Are you a stripper in your spare time?’
‘Maura doesn’t need to be paid to take her clothes off,’ said Claire.
Annie saw Suze discreetly take Maura’s hand, and wondered whether it was a gesture of support or to prevent Maura from killing Claire. She was now more worried about Maura than angry with her. Maura looked defeated.
‘What kind of work—’
‘Bad work,’ said Maura. ‘Artwork. I’ve been trying to paint and draw my own stuff again.’
A long silence fell as they took in the news.
‘Is that it?’ said Suze. ‘What an anti-climax.’
‘No, it’s amazing,’ said Annie. ‘But why didn’t you tell us? I don’t understand.’
Maura looked disconsolately at her feet and flumped down on the sand. Everyone else joined her. ‘After the twins, I was depressed. Or maybe just low, anxious, or hormonal. All of those things, actually. And I never stopped feeling tired. Most mornings I’d wake up with the cataclysmic disappointment of not still being asleep. Like I couldn’t quite face the day. Then it was into clearing up the kids’ breakfast bowls, getting them to put their shoes on and dragging them kicking and screaming to school, then trying to make some money by moving monkeys and vines around my computer screen. And then it’d be time to pick up the kids again. There was nothing left of me. I kept telling myself I was going to be more than a shitty graphic designer and bad mother but it looked less and less likely every year.’
Maura blinked and looked at the sand, gathering herself for a moment. Suze put her arm around her and kissed her head.
‘Me and Dex would have terrible rows where I’d scream at him about how unhappy I was because I’d lost my confidence, lost myself … and then he’d scream back saying only I was responsible for finding myself. But then one day he said that maybe a few hours on Saturday afternoons would give me a chance to think about what I wanted. I don’t know. Maybe he felt sorry for me. Maybe he just wanted to end the argument so he could go back to his own work. But I said yes to it.’
Dex hadn’t been lying. He really had tried to help her. Annie thought back to her conversation on the beach with Dex and how he’d called Maura ‘a damaging person’. Was this what he’d meant?
‘I went and sat in a café and tried to draw. There was one idea I’d had that I’d thought about over and over, so I started drawing that and I didn’t want to stop. But I didn’t want to tell Dex what I’d done because I didn’t want him to kill it.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Suze.
‘With his opinion. I just wanted time to see if I could make something of it. So I told Dex I needed to take a break every weekend. I had a little bit of money left in my savings so I rented a shitty lock-up around the corner from us. I told him I was mostly hanging out with you, Annie. I’m sorry. It was easier than telling him the truth.’
‘So all that stuff about the kitchen table and hummus in your keyboards and not having anywhere to work was bullshit?’ said Claire.
‘Let her talk,’ said Annie.
‘I’d had this image in my head of an angel with wings made of wire, with all the feathers punched out of them, leaving only their outline.’ said Maura. ‘I kept drawing this angel in different states of disrepair. But then Dex found one of my sketchbooks. I’d left it on the kitchen table. Stupid of me.’
‘What did he say?’ said Suze.
‘That the image was too dark and twisted to be on a greetings card.’
‘What did he say when you told him it wasn’t a greetings card?’ said Annie.
‘I told him it was a private commission from a company client, and Dex said the client had awful taste. He said it looked like an album cover for a goth band that never charted.’
‘What a bitch,’ said Suze.
‘Yeah, but he didn’t know it was my idea.’
‘But he knew it was your execution, your work,’ said Annie.
Maura looked like she was about to cry.
‘After that, I still went to the garage on the weekends, but I felt so flat that I just watched Bear Grylls on Netflix all day. I’ve watched a lot of television.’
‘It was just Dex’s opinion,’ said Annie. ‘He’s probably wrong.’
‘Yes, the successful artist is probably wrong about art,’ said Claire.
Suze threw a shell at Claire’s head.
‘The thing is,’ said Maura, ‘even if he was wrong, I can’t use it anymore.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Annie.
‘A few weeks before his show, we were in the kitchen and I asked him about the timings for the first night of his exhibition, because I hadn’t had an invite and Dex hadn’t given me any details. Even Fucking Beige Paul got sent one. I know, because he wanged on about it on the family WhatsApp group. I needed to book a babysitter. But Dex was like, I don’t think you need to be there, you know what those things are like. They’re boring. And Alfie went and got something out of the drawer. There you go, Mummy. He handed me a card invitation, being helpful for the first time in his life. But I was nearly sick when I saw it.’ Maura gazed into the distance like she was reliving the moment. ‘It had one of Dex’s pieces as the main graphic. And an angel with its wings punched out laid over the top.’
‘Maura, what the fuck?!’ Suze looked genuinely shocked.
‘I ran up to his studio where all his canvases were, getting ready to be shipped off to the gallery … and all of them – every single one – was covered in my punched-out angels.’
‘FUCKER,’ shouted Suze, standing up, hands over her mouth.
‘My God,’ said Annie.
‘I heard him running up the stairs after me, so I locked the door. And I was like: You arsehole, when were you going to tell me?’ Maura was crying now. ‘You told me my angel was boring and derivative and then you fucking stole it. And he was screaming through the door saying I was mad. Then I smashed everything up. Broke the frames, kicked the canvases in and splattered them all in paint.’
‘Hang on,’ said Suze. ‘The whole show was smashed-up canvases. I thought that was the point of it?’
‘Yeah, he even took credit for that. He didn’t say anything after I vandalized it all. Just left the house and came back ten days later with a van and picked up the pieces – what was left of them. I thought he’d cancel the exhibition, but he went ahead and put them on the walls like I’d left them. The only thing he changed was the title of the exhibition. He’d called it The Bitch.’
‘I want to snap his neck,’ said Suze.
The wind was blowing now, all of them shivering on the sand.
‘I went to the opening night,’ Maura said, ‘and Dex gave me a glass of champagne like nothing had happened. Then I went round the room looking at it all, realizing that the angel was his now.’
‘You could tell people the truth,’ said Annie.
‘Who would believe me? Dex would rather call me a liar than admit he stole it off me. And he’s the artist now. I’m a nobody.’
‘We’d back you up.’
‘He’d destroy me before he backed down. I don’t want to put the kids through that.’
‘You could still work on the idea though? Do it in your own way. Make it your own again?’ said Annie.
‘Then I’d just be Dex’s talentless wife, ripping him off. Anyway, it’s dead for me now. The whole thing.’
‘He turned you upside down like a piggy bank and shook you empty,’ said Suze. ‘He just couldn’t take it, babe. You were always more than him.’
‘He didn’t know, though, did he?’ said Claire quietly. ‘You didn’t tell him it was your idea. You said it was a private client commission. He probably thought he was ripping them off, not you.’
‘Claire, that’s not helping,’ said Suze.
‘It’s true though.’
‘Dex didn’t tell her what he was doing,’ said Annie.
‘Maybe he didn’t think that he needed to tell her?’ said Claire. ‘He said it was a rubbish drawing and you let it stand. How was he meant to know it was actually something you’d created?’
‘Don’t be such a moron,’ said Suze. ‘He knew he’d ripped her off. That’s why he didn’t want her to see the exhibition.’
‘I know we’re all meant to be calling Dex a monster, but I don’t think he did anything wrong,’ said Claire. ‘Did you even ask him about what he’d done, before you smashed up all his work?’
‘No.’
‘So I don’t think it was his fault. I think it was yours.’
‘Claire, fucking pick your moment!’ Suze looked around for another shell to throw at her.
‘I am. I’m picking my moment right now.’
Annie, Suze and Maura all turned to Claire.
Claire’s face was cold when she spoke to Maura. ‘It always has to be someone else’s fault, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘You lied to him about where you were going and what you were doing. When he found your sketch, you lied to him again and told him it wasn’t your idea. Then you smashed up his work without even talking to him about it. But somehow everything’s still his fault.’
‘She didn’t show him her sketchbook. He opened it without asking her,’ said Annie.
‘And he was still ripping off work that she’d done, even if he thought it was for a client,’ said Suze. ‘That’s not OK.’
‘No, sorry, but I think you’re full of shit, Maura. The only person who tells you the truth is Dex. He told you it was on you to change your life, which is true, and when you asked for time on the weekends he gave it to you. How is he the villain here?’
‘How sweet that you’re defending him,’ said Maura, with a voice full of acid. ‘You’re so desperate for him to like you, it’s pathetic.’
‘What’s pathetic is being married to someone you don’t like and who doesn’t like you either.’
‘I’d rather be married to Dex than Karl. Agonizing over the scatter cushions and lawns. Fuck me, that’d be worse than anything Dex could manage.’
‘Guys, this isn’t helping,’ said Annie.
‘Oh, piss off, Annie!’ Claire shouted.
‘Claire, please. I know everything’s hard because of the situation, but you have to remember we’re best friends!’
‘We’re not.’
Annie felt like she’d been slapped.
‘We haven’t been real friends for a long time. I’m not even sure if we ever were.’
‘Is this to do with Dex? Because people make mistakes,’ said Annie.
‘The kiss with Dex was a symptom. The illness is you lot. And you, Annie, you’re the worst.’
Chapter 28
Martin
9 a.m. Sunday, 30 August
Sandpiper Cottage
After the rounders game, there was nothing communal about Saturday night at Sandpiper Cottage, apart from the children who sat snuggled up, side by side, in front of the TV, eating mounds of chipolatas and ketchup. There were no other shared meals, teas, drinks, board games or anything else. Martin’s chickens grew cold and greasy white on the counter, picked at here and there by whoever was passing, a white china bowl of wilted salad next to them that no one touched. The couscous was forgotten about. Other than the TV, the only sounds that poured through the house that night were running water from the shallow baths and murmured negotiations over pre-sleep Weetabix. Then bed for all, and silence.
When everyone was up and awake on Sunday, and Dex had still not emerged around the time that second coffees were being drunk, Martin decided to check on him – an uneasy knot at his chest, not knowing whether Dex had departed for good, in anger and shame, got stoned and lost himself in the woods, or worse.
Martin knocked hard on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer, finding a grey and swollen-faced Dex wrapped up like a burrito in his duvet.
‘Come on,’ said Martin, both relieved that Dex was not missing and irked that he wasn’t pulling his weight yet again. ‘The women will be back for elevenses in two hours. Time to get up and into the day. We seem to be in a good weather hotspot for once, so we’re going to make hay. The kids need entertaining, we’ve a roast to prep and you’ll want to gen-up on the rules for pétanque because that’s this afternoon’s activity.’
Dex peeked over the covers. ‘I can’t face anyone. Really I can’t. And I can’t play pétanque.’
Martin felt a flicker of compassion. ‘I’ve got something you can crack on with. Hop to it. No need to pick an outfit. Just chuck on a T-shirt.’
‘I should probably put some boxers on, too.’
‘Fine. But hurry up.’
The kitchen smelt richly and reassuringly of ground coffee. Outside there were tentative rays of sun in their microclimate, though beyond them the storm clouds still hung over the water. Inside the house, everything was both clean and in its place – Martin had made extra sure of that in the early hours. He wanted the women to walk back into an oasis of harmony and calm so that they could focus on processing their feelings about Annie’s news.
Karl held court at the kitchen table, handing out paper and pens to Alfie, Freddy, Em and Walt with Graham in his highchair, slamming his tray table with a full bottle of milk like a judge with a mallet.
‘Come on, mate,’ said Karl, returning the bottle to Graham, who’d batted it onto the floor for a third time. ‘It’s no good. He’s not eaten a scrap. I think he wants to know when Mum’s coming back.’
‘Two hours and counting!’ said Martin.
Karl laid his hands down on the table. ‘That, I can handle. Now, chaps. The aim of hangman is to avoid getting strung up by the nuts.’
Walt’s face stretched in horror. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘Murdered.’ Karl made a slashing action across his neck, as Walt’s face stretched even further. ‘So someone chooses a word and the other person guesses what it is. Every time you don’t get a letter, you make another bit of your man with a stroke of the pen which will take you one step closer to death. But guess the word and you get to live. Good luck!’
And with that, Karl got up from his chair with a scrape – leaving the kids with their pens and paper and no further instructions – their young faces painted with either ambivalence or confusion because they’d not learnt how to spell, write or read properly, else a mask of terror because they were traumatized by Karl’s description of the game.
‘Yikes,’ said Martin. ‘We’ll be untangling the horror of that game for nights to come.’
‘What was it you wanted me to crack on with?’ said Dex, his face hanging low and lifeless.
Martin gave him a serious look, as if he was peering over a pair of imaginary spectacles, and opened the counter drawer slowly to reveal a gleaming carving knife. He took it out, performatively slowly, and raised it to Dex, motioning for him to take the handle.
‘Christ, mate,’ said Karl under his breath. ‘Seriously?’
Dex’s eyes welled up with tears. ‘Is that really what you think I should do?’ He blinked. ‘Wouldn’t pills make less mess?’
Martin’s face crumpled in mild disgust and he nodded at the colander. ‘No, you idiot. Hull the strawberries, why don’t you? And then slice them finely, please?’
‘Good, excellent. Sure. It’s just that the way you got the knife out of the drawer, so slowly by its handle and …’
‘It’s called health and safety, Dexter.’ Martin noted a new grit in his own voice and he liked it. ‘Have you ever made pancakes?’
‘I don’t eat breakfast.’
‘You might not, but your kids do. So—’ Martin waved his hand over the counter like a magician ‘—mix your dry ingredients. Instructions about weights and method are on that piece of paper.’
Dex looked down at the packets of flour and sugar and baking powder, the sifter and bowls and scales as though he was about to cry.
‘Come on, mate, it’s not hard,’ Martin said gently.
‘I’ll be his assistant,’ said Karl, nodding to Martin, opening up packets and passing them to Dex for weighing.
‘You need to make a well, Dex,’ said Martin. ‘To chuck the wet ingredients in once you’ve mixed the dry ingredients. And then you need to stir until you’ve got a really nice and shiny batter that can sit for a while, during which time you can sizzle up that packet of bacon over there.’
Dex sniffed. ‘Is this my punishment? Make me cook until I drop down dead?’
The men went to work in silence, pushing around packets and ingredients until the time came for Dex to fry the bacon. When the oil looked hot enough Dex laid rashers down in a series of lines, like pan pipes. The oil spat in quick and tall jumps, one especially enormous spit landing on the back of his hand.
‘Ouch! Fuck!’ Dex jumped backwards, holding his hand to his chest like an injured bird.
Karl looked up from his work unloading the dishwasher while Martin shoved Dex’s hand under a cold running tap, gathering up bandages and ointment from the drawer he’d crammed them in when they arrived.
Dex sniffed. He was attempting to staunch the tears running down his face with the back of his arm, to no great effect because one hand was under the tap while the other was held out as if he’d injured that, too.
