Фиона Гибсон – The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018 (страница 5)

‘I didn’t even know this place existed,’ I tell him as we wander into the first gallery room.

‘Oh, I’ve been here a few times. It’s a charming little place.’

As we study the paintings – at least, I pretend to study them – a sense of awkwardness settles over us.

‘So, how’s it been so far?’ I ask lightly. ‘The whole, um, online thing, I mean?’ An older couple are perusing the artworks, and my voice sounds terribly amplified in here. Perhaps it wasn’t such a great choice of venue after all.

‘Oh, I’ve just started really,’ Ralph says. ‘In fact, you’re the first person I’ve met.’

‘Really? Well, I’m flattered.’ Silly thing to say, I know. He probably just hasn’t got around to meeting anyone else yet.

‘What d’you think of these?’ He indicates a row of small paintings, all in similar beigey hues. They are close-ups of various body parts – a forearm, a thigh, a rather septic-looking finger – each bearing a plaster.

‘Not crazy about them,’ I admit. ‘It’s all a bit medical, isn’t it?’

Ralph chuckles. ‘Yes, it is a bit. The permanent collection’s much better – let’s go take a look.’

We stroll through to an airier room filled with bright, splashy abstracts which are far more pleasing with their cheery colours. Ralph makes straight for a still life depicting a wobbly yolk-yellow circle on a sky blue background.

‘That’s quite striking, isn’t it?’ I remark.

He nods. ‘Yes, it was always Belinda’s favourite.’

‘Belinda?’ I give him a quizzical look.

‘My wife,’ he explains.

‘Oh, right.’ This floors me even more than the hair colour shock. From our email chats, I learnt that Ralph enjoys reading thrillers, cooking Asian food and jaunts to the south coast: reassuringly unremarkable stuff. One cat, no kids – ‘Just didn’t happen for me’. However, although a couple of relationships have been mentioned, no wife has popped up in our communications. I study the painting, wondering how I’m supposed to respond. Really? Well, I can see she has excellent taste … Or, How about showing me more paintings Belinda loves?

Now I can barely concentrate on the art at all as a terrible thought hits me. He said wife, not ex-wife. Surely, if they were separated or divorced, he’d refer to her as his ex. I mentally scroll back to the email where Ralph mentioned his situation, relationship-wise: ‘I’ve been on my own for just over a year …’ Not single, but on his own. Plus, the painting was Belinda’s favourite; past tense. Which can only mean one thing: Belinda is dead.

I throw Ralph a quick glance as he finally tears himself away from the yellow circle painting and moves on. Is this why he suggested meeting at the Nutmeg Gallery – because Belinda loved it here? It makes sense, too – the vintage profile photo, I mean. He’s still so deranged with grief, he couldn’t get it together to find a more recent one – or perhaps she was in all of them, hugging him. God, how tragic. This is probably the first date he’s been on since she died.

As we drift into the next room, I run through possible ways of broaching the subject sensitively: So, erm, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened with Belinda? Is Belinda still, er … ‘around’? Neither sounds quite right.

Ralph starts to stroll around, hands clasped behind his back as he gazes thoughtfully at the artworks. It’s not paintings in here, but a collection of grubby old baskets with bits of frayed rope attached, dotted around on the parquet floor. On closer inspection, because I’m trying to appear suitably fascinated – and not like some heathen who only likes paintings of thatched cottages or kittens – each of the baskets has a small item inside. Nothing precious or beautiful, but the kind of stuff you might have crammed in the cupboard under the sink: rubber gloves, a bottle of Cif, a pair of rusty Brillo pads sitting snugly together as if they might start mating.

Although I know I should be open-minded, just as I’m trying to be open-minded about Ralph, I’m starting to think we should wrap up the art bit now and head to the cafe. That unmentionable thing – Belinda, his dead wife – hovers between us, but right now, with the elderly couple still lurking close by, isn’t the right moment to bring it up.

‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ Ralph remarks.

‘Oh, er … yes, very.’ Be positive. It was his idea to come here and the poor man’s bereaved. ‘What d’you think it’s all about?’ I ask.

My stomach growls as he gazes around. I was too intent on getting ready – black and white spotty dress, patent heels, full face of make-up and a ruddy blow-dry – to think about lunch and now it’s gone 3 p.m.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I think it could be interpreted in lots of ways.’ He pushes back his neatly cropped hair. ‘I don’t want to sound pretentious. You know how people can be about art …’

‘Oh, yes,’ I say, warming to Ralph a little now, but wary of over-warming to him out of pity. ‘It’s all cleaning stuff, isn’t it, trapped in baskets? So I think it’s about that terrible hemmed-in feeling you have when you’ve got the kitchen nice and shiny and then everyone storms in and messes it all up and you think, Christ, it’s like Groundhog Day – bloody endless.’ I smile, feeling pleased with myself.

‘Oh, I don’t think it’s quite that.’ He chuckles patronisingly.

I sense my cheeks reddening. ‘No, well, I was joking. To be honest, this kind of art isn’t really my—’

‘I think,’ Ralph interrupts, ‘what we’re seeing here is a comment on the permanence of the enclosed objects, juxtaposed with the impermanence of the lobster pots—’

‘Oh, is that what they are?’ I glance at a galvanised bucket in the corner with a mop propped beside it. Are they part of the art as well, or did the cleaner just dump them there?

‘Well, yes, what did you think they were?’

Rustic storage solutions? Quirky hats? As I’m not a fisherman I had no idea … ‘Um, I knew they were something nautical,’ I fib, not that it matters, as Ralph doesn’t appear to have heard me.

‘… And as you’d expect, they show distinct signs of weathering due to the erosive effects of the sea. And what the artist is alluding to here is …’ I phase out, ceasing to listen for a few moments. ‘… Then again,’ he chunters on, ‘it could be more about the concept of cleanliness, of sterility in a world literally milling with germs and bacteria …’ He stops and blinks at me. ‘Do you think?’

‘Yes, that could be it,’ I remark, wandering towards the small white card on the wall, hoping that’ll settle things once and for all. But all it says is:

I AM NOT A CRUSTACEAN by Thomas Trotter, 1991

Lobster pots and household objects

Which tells us nothing more, apart from the fact that the artist was born in the nineties, suggesting that he has never acquainted himself with a Brillo pad in any kind of useful way.

Now, close to the exit, Ralph is surveying a small pile of brownish tweed fabric lying on a wooden plinth. ‘Another Thomas Trotter piece,’ he observes. ‘Hmmm … what’s this one saying?’

I look at it dispassionately. It’s saying: What were you thinking, not even finding out if he’s a widower or not? And now, because you pity the man, you’re frittering away your precious Sunday afternoon with someone who insists on throwing around fancy words, which would be fine, maybe, in other circumstances. But who says ‘juxtaposed’ on a first date? Actually, I fancy going straight home and juxtaposing my arse with the sofa, thank you very much …

In fact, if it wasn’t for my kids, I wouldn’t be here at all. They’re the ones who forced me to join datemylovelymum.com in the first place. ‘Me and Cam were talking, Mum,’ ventured Amy, my fifteen-year-old, fixing her wavy dark hair into a no-nonsense ponytail. ‘We just thought you should … get out more. Do stuff. Enjoy yourself.’

Christ, they were worried about me. Didn’t they think I was managing, holding down my full-time job in the beauty hall of a department store, whilst keeping things ticking along at home? I wasn’t keen on the implication that I was anything less than a vision of contentment.

Cameron, who’s seventeen, pitched in. ‘We just thought you should, er, try one of those dating things …’

‘Like Tinder?’ I spluttered.

‘No! God no. Tinder’s for our age. There’s others – ones for older people. It’s what single women your age do. They have no way of meeting people any other way.’

‘But I meet people all day,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s my job—’

‘Yeah, we know about that,’ he conceded. ‘It’s called traffic stopping …’

‘But actually,’ Amy cut in, smirking, ‘it’s taking innocent people hostage and forcing them to sit on your stool so you can plaster them in foundation.’

‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘I tie them up and gag them. I never told you that part.’

Cam tossed his choppily cut brown hair back from his handsome, angular face. ‘Stop changing the subject. We’re not talking about customers at a make-up counter. We mean, you know …’ He winced slightly. ‘Meeting a man.’

‘Oh.’

‘And we’ve already written your profile,’ Amy added, her dark eyes glinting with amusement.

‘What? All this plotting and scheming’s been going on behind my back?’

‘Yeah, it was fun,’ she said, grinning. ‘Stu helped us.’ So my oldest friend – currently our lodger – was in on this too? The traitor!