in front of him. James could see a folded piece of paper and made out a name, ‘Finn Hutchinson, 2013’ with multiple kisses. Pupils were painting her this early in the term? He peered more closely. If he acted like a jealous spurned lover, that’s because he was one.
Listening to her moving about on the floor above, James pulled the drawing out. It was textured, thick cartridge paper, the sort you get in art supply shops.
He unfolded it and stared at a charcoal outline of his naked wife, legs hooked over the arm of a sofa, arms thrown back, staring at him unrepentantly from heavy lidded eyes, hair pooled in serpents behind her head.
This could, of course, be another Eva tribute. Nevertheless, something told James this had been sketched from real life, notably the accuracy of the detail.
For as long as he’d known her, Eva had favoured a bikini wax that left only a vertical, cigar-shaped strip of hair. The small smudgy line between the thighs was a sure sign that the artist was gifted with first-hand knowledge. The smoking gun pubes.
James left the portrait unfolded on the table and leaned against the wall, breathed out, and folded his arms.
Feeling nauseous, deathly cold and yet in control, he measured each minute she remained upstairs as an eternity.
When Eva walked in, James took savage pleasure in the moment of grisly silence as she pieced the scene together.
‘You went through my things?!’ she blurted. There it was. If any doubt remained that this was a memento from her new man, her reaction sealed it.
‘You left your bag open. What is it?’ James asked, dully.
‘It’s a drawing. You’ve seen them before.’
‘You’re going to lie to me? Even in the face of this?’
‘How am I lying?’
‘Because this isn’t from anyone’s imagination, Eva, it’s you. Do you think I can’t recognise my own wife?’
A pause. Her face dropped, her shoulders heaved and she started to weep. Frustratingly, James felt automatic guilt at making her cry. He knew he was being manipulated and his fury broke.
‘No, don’t cry! You don’t get to cry. You’ve done this to me, to us! How the fuck do you think I feel? Do you think I deserve to find out you’re having an affair via a doodle of your tits?’
‘I’m not having an affair!’ she said, blearily.
‘What word would you prefer?’
‘I knew you’d make this about Finn when it’s not.’
‘Oh I think it’s a bit about Finn now you’re shagging him, don’t you? How long has it been going on?’
When they first split, he’d asked her if there was anyone else and it was no, no, no – absolutely not.
Eva shook her head. ‘Nothing happened until we’d separated.’
‘Hah. Right. You obviously finished things to start this. Thanks for the Bill Clinton definition of honesty.’
Eva shook her head vigorously. ‘No.’
‘Is that too straightforward for you? Does trashing our marriage have to be about higher, spiritual needs than you being into someone else? That would be so ordinary,
James had built up to shouting and Eva was wiping at her cheeks, head bent, hair falling forward over her eyes. It wasn’t remorse, it was a tactic to make James the villain of the piece and he wasn’t having it.
‘Who is he?’
‘He did some life class modelling. We’ve become closer recently …’
‘How close? This close?’ James gestured with his hands apart. ‘Or let me guess. This close,’ he put his palms together.
Eva shook her head and sniffled.
Wait. Finn. Life modelling. She’d talked about him. She’d met him at a launch, with her restaurant PR friend, Hatty. He’d offered to model for her students and she’d said they couldn’t afford him.
Then a few weeks later there’d been a giggly, supposedly disparaging tale about how this ‘Abercrombie & Fitch type’ had swaggered into school to pose, dropping his robe and flirting with the blushing A-level students.
James remembered saying, ‘What, flirted while flopped out? I have to admire his confidence.’
Eva had demurred with talk of strategically placed towels, and said something about how he was an up-and-coming who was signed with a major modelling agency.
James realised now that cocky Finn had made rather a big gesture in working pro bono.
Eva had gaily wondered which of her sixth formers might have a fling with him. James now detected the sleight of hand, with hindsight: it was Eva he’d met, before he posed. It was a gesture to impress her.
‘How old is he, Eva?’
‘Twenty-three.’
James put a hand over his forehead. ‘Twenty-three? What the—? You’re into kids now? Harold and Maude?’
‘Oh that’s right, start running him down and making your James jokes. Let’s not discuss this in a mature way.’
‘How do you expect me to behave? Did you think I’d be calm and reasonable in the face of finding out you’re sleeping with someone else?’
He nearly said how would you feel if the situation was reversed, then realised that question might not do him any favours.
She shook her head in a patronising way, as if it was James who had something to be ashamed of.
It was at this point that Luther decided to interrupt, the treacherous scruff-sack making distressed yowling sounds at Eva’s feet. She scooped him up and made extravagantly soothing noises, as if it was James breaking up happy homes and cat’s hearts.
‘I’m not having sex with him,’ Eva said, without much conviction, over Luther’s giant feather duster of a squirrelly tail.
He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Put that thing down, will you.’
Eva bent and dropped him.
‘We meet for coffee. I’ve only been to his flat once. To pose for him. He’s interested in art.’
‘What the …? I’m supposed to believe that you then put your thong back on and shared Muller Corners? And by the way, tell him not to give up the day job. You look like Richard Branson
