“Would you like me to get you a cab? Or I could drive you home, if you prefer.”
My eyes watered at his kindness. This man, who looked old enough to be my father, was being sweeter to me than anybody had in a long time. More so than my own parents, who by that point had pretty much disowned me.
“I can’t leave until later. Somebody will notice.”
He smiled and it was the first time I realised how handsome he was, in spite of his age.
“How about you come and sit with me? I can hold your hand and talk you through any panic attack. I’ll protect you.”
That had been the start of it. He did everything he promised; escorted me all night, held my hand when I started to shake. He even managed to coax me onto the dance floor once. When he dropped me home that evening, barely flinching when he saw the run-down squat I was living in, he’d taken my number and promised to call me the next day.
He was a man of his word. He always has been. What he lacks in passion he makes up for in loyalty.
Over the next six months, he courted me assiduously. Spoiled me with flowers and gifts, took me to beautiful restaurants and upmarket art galleries. And though I liked all these things—who wouldn’t—it was the way he treated me I liked the most. He made the decisions and looked after me like I was his second daughter.
For the first time in a long while, I felt happy. Safe. Within six months I was spending more time at his house than mine. We were married two years later.
I haven’t had a panic attack since.
2
We take a cab to the gallery so Simon can have a drink. As much as he loves driving his Jaguar, he likes a glass of wine more. I hate driving through London, even at night.
“Elise called me this afternoon,” Simon says as we make our way through the wet streets of Soho. “She thinks she’s found you an artist.”
“Really?” My grin is genuine. Elise has never been my biggest fan, but she loves her father, so she tolerates me. I don’t mind; I think I’d feel the same in her position. To the outside world I’m no better than a gold digger—a trophy wife.
“Apparently he’s just come back from the States. Not a student either; an honest-to-God artist.”
My eyes widen. “Is he going to have time to teach at the clinic?”
“Elise says he’ll do it. He’s not short of cash. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Beth.”
When the cab stops outside the gallery, Simon gets out first. He opens an umbrella before helping me climb out. His chivalry took some getting used to when we first got together. I was more accustomed to boys, then. Ones who took more than they gave.
In spite of our best intentions, the showing is in full swing when we arrive. A waiter stops in front of us and holds out a tray full of drinks, and Simon takes two glasses, handing me a white wine, while he sips the red.
“Not bad.” He takes another mouthful. “Elise did the right thing and ordered the good stuff.”
I don’t reply, sipping my wine instead. Since he’s the one funding the whole party, why the hell wouldn’t she order the good stuff?
Simon stops and talks to a group of friends. They’re all around his age, mid-fifties or so. I stand dutifully beside him, smiling when he introduces me, ignoring their raised eyebrows and pointed stares. They look at me as if I’m a money-grabbing bitch. I want to tell them I rarely spend his money. I have my own salary, paltry as it is, and my own bank account, too. It’s not his money that ever attracted me to him. It was his protection.
I swallow the bile collecting in my throat. The paintings on the gallery walls call to me. I drift over to them, getting as close as I can, admiring the composition, the colour, the brushstrokes. I could lose myself in their beauty for hours. I’ve always loved art. I’m not a great painter, but I am an admirer. Not quite a connoisseur.
“What do you think?” Elise’s nasal, upper-class voice whispers in my ear. I turn to her and smile.
“They’re fantastic. So beautiful. It’s killing me not to touch them.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. I’ve just sold this one for forty thousand.”
I don’t know why I’m shocked. I’ve been with Simon for long enough to know the sort of things the over-rich spend their money on. I can’t help thinking of what we could do with that kind of money in the clinic.
“I bet the artist’s happy.”
She smiles. “He is. And so should you be, because I’ve persuaded him to teach at the clinic.”
My breath escapes in a rush. Mister forty thousand is going to teach our class? Our deprived, jaded, undernourished kids? I don’t know whether to be pleased or apprehensive.