Serena had always been the one looking after the garden. It was now into her husband\u2019s hands, but all he did was experiment hoping nothing died on his watch.<\/p>\n
When the gallery people arrived, he was in the garden pruning the rose tree, extra vigilant and focused; accidents can happen even with gloves on.<\/p>\n
At the sound of the bell, he took off his gloves and slapped them on the ladder. He rushed into the kitchen, and quickly to the front door.<\/p>\n
A ravishing young woman hugging a netbook was staring at him. He made sure his hands were clean and shook hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cI’m Grace, I\u2019m a little earlier.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure, come on in. Serena isn’t home. You can proceed as scheduled.”<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t mention it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI love Cuckfield. The grass, the cows, a delightful atmosphere.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, the cows are here for the grass.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her face lost some of its animation realizing the client\u2014her client\u2019s husband\u2014was not the enthusiastic type.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust a sec.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe must get the van parked in front of the house close to the gate, you know, so we can easily turn and load the paintings as I get them down. Is that okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure, go ahead. Is the driver coming in as well?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, he needs to keep an eye.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSerena\u2019s stuff are all in the attic.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGreat, I have a list of everything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRight, cause I wouldn\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe are going to have a videocall with Serena at some point before I leave. You know, security, to put you and her at ease.\u201d<\/p>\n
Serena’s husband nodded. He was a little stunned at how his wife was able to pull this through.<\/p>\n
Grace stepped into the kitchen-living space after him.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHow about some tea?<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you. Black with cream and sugar.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSerena always had it that way. I rarely drink tea. I\u2019ll join you though. I prefer coffee. Black. The real thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut it\u2019s so bitter.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s an acquired taste.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I sit over here?\u201d showing him one of the stools.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course, please.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLovely stools.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI hand-picked those stools myself when we bought the house. Italian. From Tuscany.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you from Tuscany?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cVery good,\u201d she said after the first sip.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He offered a hand to carry the paintings downstairs, but she kindly refused, saying the driver would help if needed. She did everything on her own. From the attic, down the staircase, through the living room, out the door, and into the van. Each painting carefully packed.<\/p>\n
In the living room there was a gigantic mosaic panel. It was right across the kitchen, exposed to the light coming from the door that opened to the terrace.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd this one? I was certain Serena would want it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot on the list, I can double check\u2026 yeah, nothing else to be picked up, and there\u2019s no mention of a mosaic,\u201d she announced, staring at her netbook.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat’s the only mosaic she’s made.”<\/p>\n
“Right. Remarkable piece of work,” her gaze drawn to the panel growing more intense, almost frozen. She gazed at the work with admiration as if something inside her was throbbing.<\/p>\n
“I suppose you must get going.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe paintings are quite delicate; we\u2019re not expected to rush.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, have a sit then. I\u2019ll bring the teapot and there\u2019s tiramisu.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLovely, thank you.”<\/p>\n
\u201cYou work at the gallery?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, we are contractors. We specialize in artwork transport.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGood for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was a mocking hue to his voice that Grace began to detect. But she thought she could be wrong. The guy obviously wasn\u2019t artistically sensitive.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, Serena will finally have an exhibition?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know. Even if I did, I\u2019m not really at liberty to say.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, sure.\u201d<\/p>\n
Enchanted by the mosaic, she seemed to ignore the tea, the tiramisu, and her host.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe circles\u2026 how wonderfully filled-up, piece by piece,\u201d she remarked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHave some tiramisu, please, it means lift me up,\u201d he said cutting a piece and handing the plate to her.<\/p>\n
\u201cAh, thank you. We all need a lift me up don\u2019t we.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI confirm I didn\u2019t make it myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
She chuckled.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey seem to be hay rolls. Aren’t they? The colors indicate it.\u201d<\/p>\n
“It looks like it. Rich mingling of the yellow palette with occasional golden ones, glittering like that especially when the light comes in. It\u2019s in the best possible position to captivate light. It\u2019s like a living organism. I\u2019m speechless\u2026 is it an old work of Serena’s?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAh, it took three years I think. If she had kids, it would have taken a lifetime, she used to say. She started it when we got back from Tuscany.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFrom the time you bought your leather stools?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, we got the stools during that trip. Serena saw an actual hay roll done in mosaic along the road, open space sculpture, up on the hills in Tuscany, took a picture of it, was so stunned. I think it was towards Volterra.\u201d<\/p>\n
He turned his head briskly towards Grace who was moving steadily as if counting her steps toward the mosaic.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t understand why Serena didn’t ask to have this packed too,\u201d he said and went back to the couch. She turned away from the panel and approached him but didn\u2019t sit.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt happens all the time. Artists have their favorites, work that\u2019s too personal to be exposed or sold. As for this, not being a painting but a mosaic, it probably will not do if she is going to exhibit her work. And I should think it\u2019s too heavy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI understand.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her phone beeped.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, thank you so much for everything. Ah, we are supposed to videocall Serena.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease go ahead.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The day Serena finished the mosaic they had dinner together. No remark of his was going to deter her from feeling happy the mosaic was finally done. Her most precious work. She cooked one of the meals that were safe with him. Spaghetti with pesto sauce.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been thinking, you know, if we could hire someone to clean the house, at least for a couple of months until I make enough paintings for the exhibition. I can manage the garden, but the house is sometimes too much work. I\u2019m not wired for that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCome on, how does Clarissa manage with kids and dogs, working full-time?\u201d<\/p>\n
“Well, we don’t know Clarissa’s circumstances. Women who work outside the house, are much better at housekeeping. They love scrubbing. I don\u2019t. It\u2019s not in me.”<\/p>\n
“Not in you. But you have to. And Clarissa is good at housekeeping, yes. She finishes her shift and goes home to clean. Simple. She cooks and then goes to sleep.”<\/p>\n
“Are you sure no one helps her? And why would you believe every word she says?”<\/p>\n
“I can judge from the food she brings to work. Her pasticcio is heavenly. I’ll get the recipe. Once she made a pistachio tiramisu. Delicious. And she’s not the only one.”<\/p>\n
\u201cThese women are made differently, they express themselves wiping stains off, for me that’s taking a step closer to death,\u201d her voice sad like a falling rose petal. But she controlled herself as she spoke her mind, finally not scared of him and his condescending remarks.<\/p>\n
\u201cPasta with pesto. How difficult was it? Boil the water, throw in the pasta, you buy the sauce.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019d like to make pesto at home using the basil from the garden.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy bother if you can buy it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow about some wine?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTake out the Lambrusco if you haven\u2019t finished it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI haven\u2019t touched it this time. I\u2019ll have ginger.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow do you drink that bitter stuff?\u201d<\/p>\n
She handed him his glass and poured her drink.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou never told me what the painting is about.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt’s not a painting.”<\/p>\n
“But?”<\/p>\n
“It’s made with mosaic tiles. Remember that huge delivery?”<\/p>\n
“How would I know? You had a fabric over it for nearly three years. You keep the door locked.\u201d<\/p>\n
“It’s been hard, and it took a lot of courage. Mosaic isn’t my thing. I found someone at the Chapelfields workshop who gave me some tips.”<\/p>\n
“Of course you did. But no one to give you tips on how to make your man happy.”<\/p>\n
She let the fork down and picked up her glass from which she had a long stressful sip. Having promised herself not to respond to him anymore to avoid further damage, she changed the subject. Her face, however, was tense, evidently tense, and her breathing deeper. She wasn\u2019t raising her voice, not this time. She had digested enough rudeness during their marriage by filtering it, leaving out the unpleasantness, taking his manners as acceptable, a quirky character trait, a superficial aspect of his otherwise goodness. She had convinced herself that this goodness of character was deep inside, but couldn\u2019t find its way out, buried too far below the surface.<\/p>\n
She took another long stressful sip from her drink and clanked the glass on the table. It could be seconds before her wrath exploded according to her husband\u2019s prediction. But she didn\u2019t stay. Instead, she fled to the attic and to the only world that made sense to her.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In the past, when he\u2019d notice their neighbors Bobby and Kelly at Sainsbury\u2019s in some aisle, he always changed direction, but a month or so after Serena\u2019s leaving, he was caught off guard by a pat on the back the moment he was picking his Moscato. It was Bobby in his usual jeans and black tee attire asking how he was doing and how he was managing the housekeeping now that Serena was away. Apparently, he knew. Apparently Serena complained. But he wasn\u2019t sure \u2013 Serena was a private person – so all he said was a mere \u201cI get by. But\u2026 Serena said she\u2019ll send someone next week.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBrenda. We gave Serena her details.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI see, that\u2019s kind of you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBrenda is a rare breed. She comes twice a week, works about four hours, does everything needed, an impeccable work. As long as Kelly is happy, I\u2019m happy. Treat a woman nice, she’s nice. Treat a woman bad, she becomes indifferent and that\u2019s the end of it. There\u2019s no coming back. Once a woman’s indifferent, a man gets nasty, and hatred takes over. That’s the natural path of things and we humans got to work against our human nature to stay afloat, to keep loving\u2026 such an irony\u2026 Ah but what am I saying? You have an artist at home.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, an artist\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019ll be back, she just had to go there beforehand, get everything done. It\u2019s her one shot.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah…\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRight, we should be there, at the opening reception.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPerfect, I\u2019m sure she\u2019ll be pleased to see you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKelly, you know, is so excited to see Cardiff. We are so proud of Serena.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you, Bobby, that\u2019s very nice to hear.\u201d<\/p>\n
Back home, he threw the keys in the Faenza bowl in the hall and went straight to the garden to check on the rosebuds. They were almost shimmering under the dim lighting of the sky. Damaged as they were, their color no longer pure, their petals brownish and curvy, they weren\u2019t dead yet. After arranging the groceries, he poured himself a glass of Moscato, a glass long enough to drown in it, his mind soaring from one blurred thought to another. The truth was out there laid bare for him if only he could see it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
She took another long stressful sip from her drink and clanked the glass on the table. It could be seconds before her wrath exploded according to her husband\u2019s prediction. But she didn\u2019t stay. Instead, she fled to the attic and to the only world that made sense to her.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":21945,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-21392","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-magda-phili"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21392","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21392"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21392\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21946,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21392\/revisions\/21946"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21945"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21392"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21392"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21392"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}