The Price
Now I am cabin’d, cribbed, confined, Sarah thought suddenly, as the familiar Frost theme tune started and David Jason’s face peered out quizzically through the bars. The words circled round her head, her mind snagging on them like a broken tooth.
The imagery startled her. No, she reasoned, trying to concentrate on the storyline which seemed disappointingly familiar, that’s ridiculous: Macbeth’s cry is one of thwarted ambition. My surrender is entirely willing.
A future of love, companionship and security, not something to be sniffed at by a fifty-four-year-old long-term divorcée, a little weathered and tending toward the matronly. The unbidden phrase however unsettled her. Finally, utterly distracted, she mentioned it to George beside her sofa. Her favourite armchair had long since been relegated to the far corner.
He sat up, the warmth of his body as she shifted away an immediate and painful loss. ‘You really feel that?’
His obvious distress dismayed her, ‘Not exactly. I’m not going to knock off my best mate and seize the throne. I meant it metaphorically, I suppose.’
He picked up her hand with its still unfamiliar diamond ring and, gently smoothing the paint-flecked skin, and tightly, ‘Are you having second thoughts?’
Sarah paused before replying. The option of throwing herself into his arms seemed once juvenile and too easy. She angled her body towards him on the couch. This really wasn’t as comfortable as her old armchair. ‘No. Not second thoughts. But thoughts, yes. Of course I am thinking about it. It will mean a great deal of change. I’m used to calling all the shots, remember.’
‘I thought you liked change.’
‘I do like change. But change can be anything from a new car to a new life. I think this is a bit more than the latest model.’
‘Are we talking cars or men?’ She withdrew her hand. ‘Are we having our first quarrel?’
He bent down to pick up the bottle and refilled his glass, checking first that hers was still full. ‘Quarrel? Aren’t we a bit old for that? Quarrels are for incontinent youngsters, not boring old farts like us.’
She bridled. ‘Speak for yourself. All I’m saying is that this feeling, this sensation, is bothering me.’ She knocked back a slug of wine. He looked at her for a moment, then leant across to kiss her on the lips. She could taste the wine on both their breaths. It was good wine. It was a good kiss.
‘Sarah, I want to make a life with you, make you happy. As happy as you make me. Isn’t that enough?’
‘It’ll just have to do,’ she said in an attempt at levity, instantly regretted, as a look of pain flickered momentarily in his eyes.
‘Sorry. Sorry. Fatal personality flaw: when in a corner, opt for facetiousness. More wine?’ And getting up to go into the kitchen, she managed to both apologise inadequately and then trivialise the apology. Oh dear, she thought, rummaging noisily through the wine rack, at our age this love business is harder than I thought.
George materialised beside her and took the corkscrew from her hand. She let him. A year, a month ago even, she wouldn’t have, but now…it felt good to be cosseted. Leaning back against the work surface, she watched him deftly ease the cork from the bottle, pour a glass and hand it to her. ‘You not having one?’ George shook his head. ‘No, not if we’re off first thing.’
The glass, halfway to her lips, came to a halt. ‘Tomorrow? Are you going to run me to the station?’ ‘No I thought we’d drive.’
Carefully, she put the glass down. ‘Darling, I’m going to take the train. I’m meeting Mandy at Waterloo.’
‘Yes I know. I just thought it might be more convenient to have the car?’
‘In London? Don’t be daft. Anyway…’’ Sarah wasn’t quite sure how to frame this, but she wanted to be quite clear. ‘You’re not coming.’ That sounded rather peremptory, so she added, ‘Are you?’
George frowned, looked almost affronted. ‘Darling, we’ve loads of things to get for the wedding. You haven’t even decided on your dress yet.’
Sarah thought fast. ‘George, I haven’t seen Mandy for ages. We weren’t thinking of going shopping. There’s an exhibition on at the Tate we thought we’d like to see and then-‘
‘Great, I saw that in the paper. I thought you and I might pop down. But of course Mandy will be most welcome. I hadn’t realised she was into art like us. Well, like you, I should say. I’m just a new recruit. I’m really looking forward to meeting her.’
Sarah smiled inwardly, and sighed. It wasn’t worth upsetting him. He was a dear, dear man, generous to a fault, loving and considerate. And if he really couldn’t bear to be parted from her for a day, shouldn’t she be flattered?
He put his arms around her. ‘I can’t believe this, sometimes. How quickly it’s all happened. The way everything just fits.’ Perhaps, thought Sarah, tonight was not the best time to retreat to her studio until the early hours.
If Mandy was surprised when her old friend appeared at the barrier with a tall, smiling stranger, she didn’t show it. Within minutes George had a woman on either arm as they strolled to the taxi rank. He was in his element.
‘What a treat. Not one but two gorgeous women for the day. Mandy, I’m relying on you to get this wretched creature into something classy for the big day. Left to her own devices, she’d be in jeans and a t-shirt. Probably spattered with paint.’
Sarah was about to defend herself when she caught sight of Mandy’s flushed face wreathed in a coquettish smile. Really, she thought, middle-aged women are such suckers. Her irritation increased as George slyly winked at her friend. Pulling her arm away, Sarah said rather brusquely, ‘Can you hang on a tick while I nip to the loo?’
‘Here?’ said George, as if the station toilets were only slightly more salubrious than an open sewer. ‘Darling, please, lets go to a hotel and you can use the facilities there. We could have coffee.’ Mandy brightened immediately. Sarah felt her hackles rise. ‘Two minutes,’ she said and shot off across the concourse.
When she returned, Mandy and George were getting on famously. What on earth was Mandy doing with her handbag, plaiting the strap like a love-struck schoolgirl? Piqued, Sarah strode past them towards the taxis, saying over her shoulder, ‘Tate first?’ Hurrying after her, George said mischievously, with a glance at Mandy, ‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, didn’t realise you were back. Your friend is distracting me.’
Mandy gave a rather shrill laugh and screwed up her face into an expression Sarah had never seen before and certainly didn’t wish to see again. She repeated her suggestion.
Was it her imagination, or did Mandy’s face fall a fraction? Sarah leaned towards her. ‘I said, shall we start with the exhibition?’
Mandy looked up at George. What was she expecting, guidance? Sarah let out and exasperated breath, ‘What? Don’t you want to go?’ Mandy dragged her eyes away from George’s face and looked confused. No, worse than confused, helpless. ‘I thought George said we were going shopping.’
‘Coffee first,’ said George determinedly and ushered them both into a cab. Sarah capitulated. Coffee would be nice, she admitted. Coffee, then the exhibition.
‘What a lovely day,’ said George, loading the bags into the car boot at the station. ‘Isn’t Mandy delightful? Pity about the exhibition. Still, we can pop down next week perhaps. And that dress is going to look fabulous on you. Does look fabulous on you. No, you look fabulous in it.’
‘Thanks’, said Sarah ungraciously. Five hours in Harrods and Harvey Nicks. Her feet throbbed as if the devil himself were prodding her with his fork. Catching sight of the dress’s price tag, she had felt almost sick and had to walk away - dragging Mandy - when George presented his credit card. As for the underwear, the negligee, the shoes…there was no denying they were lovely, but all that money…
George settled into the evening traffic and leaned across to squeeze her hand.
‘I thought tomorrow we might start looking for somewhere to go on honeymoon. You know, get some brochures? Look on the Internet? Anywhere you fancy?’
Gingerly, Sarah eased her feet in her shoes and stared out unseeingly at the Hampshire countryside flashing by. ‘Cornwall,’ she said, picturing crashing waves, seagulls wheeling above tiny harbours, wild moors, the sky. Her hands itched for her brushes.
‘Cornwall?’ said George, incredulous. ‘In May? I meant somewhere special. Anywhere. Your heart’s desire.’
‘Cornwall is my heart’s desire,’ said Sarah. ‘I love it.’
George skilfully manoeuvred the car past a tractor and then pulled smoothly into a lay-by. He switched off the engine and turned to Sarah.
‘Darling, listen to me. I want to give you everything. I can give you everything. I know you’ve had to be careful in the past, but, honestly, you don’t need to worry anymore. I can give you material things, whatever you want, but you give me so much more. Love, laughter, a sense of belonging. Mine’s a poor return for all of that. I won’t say you’ve got me to look after you now, because, God knows, you’re not a woman who needs looking after.
But I want you to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. I just want to spoil you to death.’ He started up the engine and drove on home. Sarah sat very quiet, the soles of her feet on fire.
They settled on safari. It looked beautiful in the brochures.
The wardrobe in the spare bedroom bulged with holiday clothes. Expensive holiday clothes. Sarah’s scruples seemed to have taken a holiday themselves. The prudence of an impoverished artist’s life, under the influence of George’s generosity and encouragement, gave way with alarming ease to excess.
(‘Manolos, Ma! Oh my God, can I borrow them?’ said Katie.) Sarah hadn’t painted anything for weeks, too busy planning the quiet family wedding that had grown somehow into a sit-down meal for three hundred with band, marquee, MC (‘An MC, ma? You’ll be playing bridge next!’) extravagant floral displays, co-ordinated linen and tableware and fireworks at midnight.
Caterers, entertainers and florists tramped through the door day after day, weaving round groups of awe-struck, breathless friends, many of whom George had reintroduced to her life after trawling through old address books. They were astonished at the new Sarah, chic, sophisticated, as astonished, as she was herself. They all loved George.
‘Isn’t he scrummy?’ the women whispered behind their hands. ‘God, how lucky is Sarah?’
Mandy, an early convert, felt herself especially privileged, dispensing scraps of gossip whenever Sarah was out of the room. ‘Lost his first wife. Cancer. Tragic, Met Sarah at the theatre. Coup de foudre. Amazing.’
Yes, it was, they all agreed, amazing. Some of them were unable to suppress the tiniest, meanest niggle of envy that Sarah, who had always been so, well, ordinary - talented, undoubtedly, but no fashion plate, let’s face it - should be the lucky recipient of such largesse. Of such devotion, too. For heaven’s sake, the man absolutely doted on her. And didn’t he fit in well? They eyed their own men with veiled resentment.
Sarah looked round her newly decorated sitting room. It pained her to admit it, but George had done a far better job than she would have. Everything was quietly expensive, discreetly tasteful. It spoke of money, subtly spent. She still wasn’t sure if she liked what he’d done with her paintings, concentrating them all on one wall. She always felt her work needed room to breathe.
‘I’ve invited the Harpers over for supper on Saturday,’ aid George, handing her a champagne flute. ‘Thought it would be good to catch up with them.’
Sarah had to think for a minute before she could place them. Good lord, she hadn’t seen Cynthia for years, not since they had been at art school together in London. As for her husband - Eric was it? – She wasn’t sure they’d ever met.
‘Right,’ she said uncertainly.
George smiled, misreading her hesitation. ‘No need for you to worry, darling- I’m cooking. The Smiths are coming too. And Mandy and Phil, of course.’
Sarah frowned, ‘I’d no idea you knew the Smiths.’
George gave her a wry look. ‘I told you. I rang them out of the blue the other week, to introduce myself. Thought I ought to get to know all your friends. You know, beforehand. And your family. After all, soon they’ll be my friends and family too.’
‘Mmm,’ murmured Sarah, sipping her drink.
‘Your sisters are such darlings, aren’t they?’ said George, settling down beside her. They’d had them both over, Connie with her husband and Phyllida with her latest, a marine biologist she’d picked up in Crete. Predictably George had charmed them all. ‘You don’t know how lucky you girls are,’ he said at one point, as Phyllida was recounting a childhood anecdote.
Everyone looked at him askance. ‘To be part of a family, I mean,’ he explained. ‘Only child, me. And Susie, my first wife, well, she was orphaned when she was ten. We had no children, of course, sadly. And somehow, travelling as much as I did, I never really had time for friendships. Until now.’ He reached out to take Sarah’s hand. ‘That’s why I can’t believe my luck, finding Sarah. Being welcomed into her family, meeting all her friends. Just can’t get enough of it.’
Sarah squeezed his hand in return, moved. Her sisters looked on with envy.
Now George was ferreting around down the side of the sofa. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you, my darling,’ he said, lifting up a sheaf of papers. ‘I know we’ve just had the house done out for the wedding, but I thought, maybe, when we get back from Africa, we might consider this…’He flourished a glossy brochure featuring a huge house in luxuriant, manicured gardens.
“Good heavens,’ said Sarah, ‘isn’t that…?’ ‘yes, Bridgefold House,’ said George on a note of triumph. ‘Just come on the market. Popped in to see it this morning. It’s got a fantastic view across the valley, beautiful studio for you, six bedrooms...'
‘Six!’
‘...and only a quarter of a mile away. Still near all your friends, and big enough to entertain whenever we want to. I thought, you know, new life, new house. Really be able to stamp our character on it.’
‘But I like it here,’ Sarah cried, unable to stop herself. ‘I love it. And we’ve just spent all that money.’
‘That’ll only add to its value, darling,’ said George. ‘And, forgive me, but this is very much your house, with memories and your history. I want somewhere we can both make our own. Does that sound so very unreasonable?’
Mandy phoned. ‘How’s it going, you jammy so-and-so?’
‘How’s what going? My love life, the wedding, my work?’ ‘Whatever’
‘Fantastic, sorted, non-existent, in that order.’
‘You’re not working?’ Mandy sounded surprised. Concerned.
‘Oh you know, bit and bobs. But no, not really. Too much going on. I feel a bit mean shutting the studio door and leaving George to his own devices.’
‘God Sarah, that doesn’t sound like you. Up with the lark and working feverishly until someone dragged you away to force some food down you. Remember?’
‘Yes,’ said Sarah, ‘yes I do.’ The line hummed with silence.
‘Perhaps,’ said Mandy gently at length, ‘you should lay down a few ground rules?’
George couldn’t have been more understanding. Sarah couldn’t have felt meaner.
‘Darling of course you must work. It’s what you do. It’s what you are. I’d never forgive myself if I thought that I was responsible for stopping your creativity. God, I don’t want you thinking you can’t paint when you want to. And I so love watching you work.’
They agreed Sarah would paint ton Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Once the wedding was over. To seal their bargain, George bought her a bright red sports car.
The marquee billowed gently in the soft breeze, as dawn broke over the garden. The birds sang her wedding day anthem. It felt strange to be standing alone at the bedroom window, the house to herself. Strange but restful.
George, proper as ever, was staying the night with friends (‘So quaint,’ said Katie. ‘Give him a big kiss from me. See you tomorrow. Love you Ma.’) Sarah’s dress hung on the wardrobe door, beautiful, perfect. Wispy clouds hung in a china blue sky.
A sudden hunger overtook her and, throwing on an old dressing gown, she hurried down the stairs and out into the garden, past the great white ship moored on the lawn and down to the studio at the bottom of the garden. She pulled open the familiar oak door, anticipating the heady mixture of smells, paint, canvas, dust. Emptiness greeted her. Not a trace of her work or tools remained; the floor was swept clean around the massive packing cases, each stencilled in George’s careful hand: Studio, Bridgefold House.
Sarah closed the door. The garden lay silent in the pure morning air, but for the dying noted of the dawn chorus. She walked slowly across the dewy grass, up the newly carpeted stairs, into her luxurious bedroom, pulled out a sweatshirt and jeans from the bottom of her wardrobe and slipped her bare feet into a pair of shabby deck shoes.
Her wedding dress swayed on its hanger as if affronted by the disturbance. The keys to her battered old car still hung on the rack in the kitchen. She grabbed them, slipped an apple into her bag, and then, crunching across the gravel, slid into the driver’s seat and headed west.
