Cut Loose
By Kay Clark
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Having enjoyed a brief affair some five years before, a young designer, Shuna Williams, and architect Elliot Symonds, always known as Sym, meet again by chance at an exhibition of paintings by one of their friends, Joanne Gibson, at a gallery in Battersea. A few months later Jo leaves London to live in a remote cottage on the slopes of the Black Mountains on the Welsh Border.
Detailed
Synopsis
Sym is a charmer, cynical and urbane and, secretly envious of Jo’s sustained creative focus, which he clearly lacks, is always antagonistic towards her. It is with great reluctance, therefore, that he accompanies Shuna on a visit and, unexpectedly and completely out of character, he becomes obsessed with the idea of restoring a large, derelict barn he discovers further up the hillside.
No longer enjoying the financial indulgence of his former wife and finding himself dissatisfied with the architectural work on offer in London, Sym surprises his circle of friends when he buys Bailey’s Barn and the adjoining buildings when they come up for auction.
Having resumed their affair he assumes that Shuna, who has an interesting and lucrative career with promotion on offer, will give it all up and join him. And he is right. Disregarding the advice of her friends and warnings from Sym’s ex-wife, Stephanie, she does join him and for several years they are happy, produce two children and settle into country living. Sym, having always nurtured the idea of becoming a sculptor, lovingly renovates Bailey’s Barn and embarks on what he is convinced with be his ‘masterpiece’. Cruelly, he hits a creative block and his ability to complete the sculpture defeats him. His chagrin and resentment is complete when the young blacksmith in the village, an attractive, taciturn and down-to-earth character, turns his hand to sculpture with immediate success and is soon snapped up by a prestigious London art gallery. As a result of disillusionment, frustration and the subsequent breakdown in communication that follows, Sym, tormented by failure, is gradually drawn back to his former life in London and, inevitably, begins an all-consuming affair with Riva, a former lover.
Life for Shuna becomes one of uncertainty, jealousy and isolation and, when their youngest child is mown down by a mountain bike hurtling out of control, she is completely shattered. Torn between his mistress - a free spirit without ties who, crucially, does not need him emotionally - and his life with Shuna and their young son, Sym is forced to make a choice. The dénouement of the story is one of tension and misunderstanding and remains ambiguous.
Whilst the central theme is the fraught relationship between Shuna and Sym, other characters include a much-loved gay friend and his partner, outwardly carefree and outrageously camp yet tormented by insecurity and the dread of abandonment. And the painter, Jo, insular and dedicated, self-sufficient and cynical of human relationships yet, surprisingly, finding someone she is willing to share her life with. In addition, of course, there are their London friends and the collection of characters living in the border village.
Though the setting of the novel alternates between London and the Welsh borders this is definitely not a cosy Aga-saga. It addresses the dilemma of commitment to family life as opposed to the selfishness of creative fulfilment - of one person’s, usually the woman’s in a male/female relationship, thwarted dreams and creative ambitions - that are not necessarily sublimated by rearing children - abandoned or put on hold in favour of another’s freedom to pursue theirs.
Chapter 1
Shuna had no way of knowing that Elliot Symonds would be at Joanne's exhibition. Yet, had she known, would she have stayed away? Probably not, although she disliked private views and only went to Jo's because it was her first showing and she needed moral support. She and Jo had been students together and had remained close friends. She had been surprised, therefore, when Jo, who was usually brimming with confidence - some found her manner too forthright, brash even - had rung her the night before in a state of near panic, convinced that no one would turn up. In a moment of supreme self-doubt she had even invited her mother, the man who delivered the Calor gas and two mini-cab drivers.
‘And what if they don't turn up!' she had screeched down the phone. 'Shu, you must come. Bring Clarence and Steve - bring anyone - just promise you'll come...'
*
As she was unable to leave work early on the evening of the private view Shuna arrived at the Veritas Gallery in Battersea more than half an hour late, by which time the place was packed. As she pushed open the oval glass doors everyone turned to face her, holding their wine glasses aloft as their eyes registered a brief but uncompromising appraisal. For a second or two the frame was thus frozen before flickers of ill-concealed disappointment passed over the assembled faces as they realised she wasn't anyone they considered important. Turning away, they resumed their conversations with barely a pause. Clutching her catalogue Shuna squeezed past the tightly packed groups and as she edged towards the drinks table, a chrome and frosted glass trestle, she heard a shrill call of recognition above the well-modulated murmuring, like a solo shriek from a colony of cooing sea-birds. It sounded like Clarence but as her nervousness prevented her from focusing properly she was unable to locate him. Armed with a glass of white wine she eased her way around the edge of the room, seeking out a familiar face.
She recognised a few, but not many. Close by she could hear Jo's mother, with excruciating naivety, telling the gallery owner, André Verity, whose crinkled face was a picture of sufferance, about her daughter's first finger painting. Shuna inwardly groaned - God, how she hated private views. She disliked crowded rooms, the closeness of strangers, their bodies, their unfamiliar smell. She was one of those people who, when forced to share a seat on a train or bus, automatically flattened herself like a damp tissue against the window, determined to maintain that vital gap - the merest fraction would suffice - between her and her fellow traveller. Naturally fastidious she found the smell of other people's hair especially offensive and washed her own obsessively.
Travelling by underground in the rush hour, therefore, was for her a nightmare - jammed in and bombarded on all sides by all manner of unpleasant bodily smells. Incarcerated by the malodorous masses, her nostrils assaulted by whiffs of garlic, perspiration and the fetid gases of gluttonous carnivores. A telescopic view of the inside of someone's ear also provided, she found, a positively nauseating start to the day.
Having negotiated a space in an alcove Shuna became aware of the precise, formatted dialogue of those around her. Why was it, she wondered, that people seemed to speak differently at private views? As though they were speaking on the telephone, their pronunciation becoming more meticulous, the tone more melodious and the phrases more measured. She watched the nervous movement of hands - how the men ponderously massaged the designer stubble on their chins, fingered their ties, fastened the buttons on their jackets to protect themselves before even the mildest confrontation - especially, she noted, when waiting to be introduced to a woman. She noticed too how they undid those same buttons as soon as they no longer felt threatened or their egos had been gratified by the outcome of the encounter. Their sudden staccato brays were accompanied by the complimentary giggles of their female counterparts, who, pressing their little pouch bags to their sides like well-packed livers, held their stomachs in and smiled too readily. Whilst some of the women circled the rims of their glasses with their fingers others fiddled compulsively with their necklaces and earrings, at the same time unable to stop themselves from surreptitiously scrutinising every other woman's face, hair, shoes, dress and legs. And all the while their male companions scanned the sea of faces hoping to catch the eye of an attractive, preferably younger, woman with whom they could exchange a fleeting, conspiratorial movement of the eyebrows and a grimace of affected ennui. Only one or two, it seemed, bothered to look at the pictures.
‘Joanne Gibson - is that one of hers, I wonder...' a critically myopic grisly was asking himself, holding his catalogue close to his face before squinting intently at one of Jo's paintings, his face screwed up like some grotesque medieval gargoyle. Shuna had located Jo by this time, seeing her well and truly trapped in the far corner of the room, penned like a prize sheep by the mesmerising stare of a flamboyantly dressed woman, whose relentless monologue was punctuated with exaggerated gesticulations, a half-eaten canapé between her fingers. Jo was already on her fifth glass of red wine and her face, always quite rosy, was now the colour of a Cox’s orange pippin and her straw-coloured hair, nervously fingered and twisted, had become limp and stringy.
Feeling a discreet pinch on her right buttock Shuna turned sharply and was relieved to see Clarence with his face like polished mahogany and that wonderful smile. He was wearing a pale apricot shirt, black trousers and an embroidered satin waistcoat and there was the faintest hint of Kohl about the eyes. He squeezed her hands as he kissed her on both cheeks:
'Lovely frock, dear,' he breathed. Then, standing back to admire her well-cut suit of grey silk, added, 'Oh, very Ms Armani, I must say.' Extending his arms he said, 'What d'you think of the waist-coat? Steve picked it up in the flea market. He says it's very me.'
'It's lovely,' said Shuna, squeezing his arm. 'Where is he, by the way?' Looking around she managed to catch Jo's desperate eye and beckoned her over.
'Oh, I've sent him off to get some more drinks. He's such a love, waits on me hand and foot,' Clarence said. 'I don't know what I'd do without him.' Turning, he watched as Steve, a stocky young man dressed all in blue, manoeuvred his way through the crowd carrying a tray of drinks above his head.
'You're an angel,' Shuna said as Steve joined them. Taking the drink he offered she linked her free arm through Clarence's.
'You see, Jo needn't have panicked. The place is heaving. Too many, if anything. It's impossible to actually look at the pictures.'
'And such wonderful frames, too,' declared Clarence. ‘Made by 'moi', of course.'
Clarence's friendship with Shuna and Joanne went back a long way - he'd studied graphics with Shuna and later moved into the flat below her own in the unfashionable end of Ladbroke Grove. Steve had moved in soon after and was so easy going he allowed Clarence free rein with the furnishings - with the result that the place looked like a cross between a high Victorian parlour and a bordello. All this nesting activity had made Clarence so broody Steve had gone early one Sunday morning to the market in Brick Lane and came home with Oscar, a blue budgerigar in a cage, to complete the family.
When he wasn't throwing things around in the kitchen or chastising Oscar (though sometimes he was so consumed with love for the bird he'd nearly squeeze it to death against his cheek) he ran a small picture framing business off the Portobello Road. Unlike Shuna, he loved private views and, having made it his business to know a great many painters, dealers and models, managed to invite himself to at least three or four a month.
‘Here she comes, the old strumpet...' Clarence said as Jo crossed the room to greet them. At the same moment Shuna felt someone lightly stroke the back of her neck and then whisper in her ear. 'Good Lord, I don't believe it - Big Jo's actually wearing a skirt!'
She recognised his voice immediately. Sym. Elliot Symonds. Surprised, she turned and smiled. It was good to see him again. She'd forgotten how attractive he was. He seemed taller and even slimmer, almost gaunt. His pale hair, straight and fine, hung loosely, partly covering his eyes. He flicked it back and grinned. Slightly tanned, he looked younger than his thirty-three years. He'd been very much the centre of their particular group - a position vigorously contested by Jo who was an equally strong character - but then he had taken up with an American woman called Stephanie whose father owned a couple of small but prestigious galleries, one in New York and another in Bond Street. As his relationship with Stephanie had progressed they had seen less and less of him and then, after a couple of months, he returned with Stephanie to the States where they married almost immediately. Since then he hadn't bothered to keep in touch with his former friends. That was nearly five years ago and now he was back. His gaze encompassed Shuna for a few seconds before he nodded to Jo and then, assuring him he'd never looked lovelier, gave Clarence a big hug. Breaking free Clarence introduced him to Steve:
'Sym, dear,' he said, 'I know you won't believe it but he's a policeman - honestly, not a word of a lie. He goes round waving his truncheon at wicked men. Terribly butch.’
Steve, as always, stood solid and unswerving, a benign smile on his face, basking in the reflected warmth and ease generated by Clarence.
Jo turned to look at Sym. 'Well, well, the prodigal returns,' she said, adding bluntly, 'What brings you back to London?' At five feet ten, Jo was one of the few women Sym knew who could almost look him in the eye. 'Have you slipped your collar or is your wife using one of those extended leads? Don't tell me she's that henna-ed old crow in the corner who can't keep her eyes off you?'
'Oh, didn't you know?' replied Sym, smoothly. 'Stephanie divorced me. Yes, unbelievable, isn't it? Can't think why. But she is here in London, as it happens, very busy as usual, scouting for her father. She said she'd try and drop in later. Abramovitch begged her to come and you know how persuasive he can be.' He paused and then said: 'On the other hand, maybe you don't.' He gave Jo a sympathetic smile. 'Still, keep up the charm course, darling. I know it's expensive but it can work wonders - for some people.' Changing his expression to one of mock concern, he added: 'But you look very flushed, Jo - it must be all the excitement of the show - and seeing me, of course. Unless, perish the thought, it's one of those beastly hot flushes marking the onset of an early menopause?’
Turning to the others, he said: 'So it's back to earning a living, I'm afraid. Doing bloody pub interiors and ghastly conservatories for people with houses off Putney High Street who like to pretend they live in a rain forest.' Shuna smiled; this was standard Sym talking. She knew his voice so well - every intonation, every nuance. She listened as he bemoaned the fact that Stephanie had finally thrown him out. She could detect no hint of pain or regret, as though the break up of the marriage was merely an irritation, an inconvenience. Or was his nonchalance an affectation, all part of the pose? Next, she thought, he'll start bemoaning the fact that he'd missed his true vocation. Sure enough, he was soon telling them that he’d wasted his life and really wanted to be, not an architect, but a sculptor. Or maybe a musician. Or was it a yachtsman now? It was all so familiar. Nothing had changed. It could have been five years ago.
Jo, who had also heard it all before, demanded: 'So what's stopping you?' Then, quickly changing her mind she added: ‘No, please, don't bother to answer - spare us the spiel.' She moved away to talk to a couple who had just arrived. Sym watched her for a moment and saw how awkward she seemed in her floppy striped skirt and baggy T-shirt. He took a gulp of wine and shrugged:
'Well, let's just say I can see why she doesn't show her legs very often. Hefty's a word that springs to mind. And don't tell me she's actually put those damned jeans and navy sweat-shirt in the wash at last. Frankly, I thought they were grafted on.'
'Now, now, don't be nasty,' said Clarence. 'I've a good mind to tell her what you just said,' he added, smiling happily as he pushed his fingers into Sym's chest. But he got no response. Sym was restless now, anxious to get away. He scribbled Clarence's telephone number on a discarded paper napkin, stuffed it in his pocket, dropped his cigarette into a sand-bucket and drained his glass. He touched Shuna on the shoulder.
'Well, I'm off,' he said. 'Great to see you all again. Let's keep in touch?'
As he spoke he traced the curve of her shoulder with his fore-finger; repeatedly, in an abstract sort of way as though his mind was elsewhere. As he said goodbye he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. There was the faintest smell of musk. And Sobranie cigarettes. All very Sym. The next moment he was edging his way through the crowd towards the drinks table, calling out to someone at the far end of the room, his blond head way above the rest.
An hour later, as Shuna, Steve and Clarence made their way down the back fire-escape that served as an exit, they came across Sym lounging against the rails talking to an attractive woman, carefully made-up and immaculately dressed. The couple were so intent on their conversation that neither noticed the others’ approach. Sym had his hands jammed into his pockets and his head was down. Noticing the others he apologised and with exaggerated courtesy drew his long legs aside to let them pass. An expensive and powerful scent emanated from the woman. When they reached the bottom of the steps Sym leaned over the rail and waved. 'Stay happy,' he called.
*
When Sym finally deposited his ex-wife at her hotel that evening he thanked her effusively for buying him dinner. He also found himself promising to escort her to the opening of a new gallery in the Isle of Dogs the following day. This done, he felt free to savour the memory of Shuna's neck. She possessed one of those throats that were slender and prettily shaped and her dark, almost black hair was cut short and so cleverly layered that it followed, in the most sensual way, the nape of her neck. The set of her head (which always reminded him of the exquisite wooden effigy of the young Nefertiti), her finely-boned face and dove grey eyes had appealed to him when she was twenty. Now, at twenty-seven, her slight frame had acquired an assurance, her chic and deceptively simple clothes lent her an exciting new sophistication and he had to admit that, seeing her again, his interest had been rekindled.
In fact, Sym had come back to London soon after the decree nisi and had been living in the converted loft in a friend's house in Elgin Crescent, Notting Hill, for almost a year. Feeling the withdrawal of his ex-father-in-law's favour he had been obliged to find temporary work with a firm of architects, initially friends of Stephanie's, needless to say - Cavendish Associates, in New Kings Road. Though he had been there for more than seven months he had managed to retain a healthy aversion for some of the work he was obliged to take on - the ubiquitous demolition of existing pub interiors to make way for cost effective designs so banal and lacking in any aesthetic value that he often wondered how he managed to sleep at night. And it wasn't just a matter of cost; some of the wealthiest clients insisted on erecting buildings so lacking in style and of such gross ugliness that in his opinion they constituted a criminal offence. Visual pollution, he argued, was equally demeaning and harmful to the sensibilities as litter, disease or intrusive noise. He considered the breeze block the devil's own currency and most architects, bankers and politicians as certifiable. Though much in demand as a spare male at dinner parties - where women especially found him both charming and amusing - the more discerning or less adventurous hosts found him unpredictable and, once well-oiled, he could be outrageous for unlike Clarence he had not learned to curb his cynicism or control his waspish tongue.
After seeing her again at the private view Sym found that Shuna was once more on his mind. The following day he made a twenty minute phone call to Clarence which provided him with the current details of her life. He thought of her constantly and kept seeing women who in some way resembled her. On one occasion he'd actually seen her coming out of an office block in the City but as he was propelling Stephanie towards a taxi at the time he didn't stop. According to Clarence, she worked as a contract co-ordinator for Carter & Gabb, Design Consultants, a firm of interior decorators based in Pimlico. They specialised in customised hand-printed fabrics; she'd been there for three years and was expecting promotion within the year. As to her private life Clarence was less forthcoming.
'Now, Sym, dear, just don't ask,' he had protested. 'You know me - my lips are sealed. Why don't you come to supper next week and we can drag her downstairs, Steve can slap on the bracelets and we'll make her tell all. What d'you think?'
*
It was surprising that Shuna hadn't seen Sym in the twelve months he'd been back. She drove through Elgin Crescent to work most days yet she hadn’t seen him, not even in the distance. She was always seeing people she knew; Notting Hill was that sort of place, part of the city yet in many ways more like a small town or village. In the case of Sym it was even more surprising for with his distinctive height and looks it was impossible for him to merge into a crowd.
After Jo's private view, however, she saw him several times. The first occasion was only two days later, during the afternoon rush hour; as her car stopped in a line of congested traffic outside a wine bar in New Kings Road, she happened to look across and saw him sitting at a table near the window in the company of a group of friends. He was holding forth as usual, a cigarette in one hand, a glass in the other; something he said was evidently amusing for the woman sitting opposite him leaned over and clutched his arm, before throwing back her head and roaring with laughter. Just as Shuna's car began to edge forward once more Sym looked up and rose from his seat as he recognised her - but at that moment the lights had changed, the car gathered speed and she was gone.
The following day Shuna saw him again, this time coming out of Barclay's Bank in Queensway; as he waited between two parked cars he was glaring at what was evidently an unwelcome bank statement. Looking up, he saw Shuna and smiled. She leaned over and opened the far side door. Twenty minutes later, as she dropped him off in Elgin Crescent he leaned over and, briefly touching her hand, kissed her on her cheek. 'See you at Chez Clara's on Friday,' he said, as he climbed out of the car. 'We're both invited to supper.'
*
The evening at Clarence's was great fun but wholly predictable. When Shuna came down from her first floor flat Sym was already there; having disdainfully tossed the appliquéd scatter cushions to the floor, he had draped himself along the length of the autumn gold Dralon sofa and was demanding to know how many blacks Steve had persecuted that day. Sym knew full well that in Steve's case, as Clarence was from the Caribbean, this was an unjustifiable slur but, having been primed on Sym's confrontational style, Steve dealt with this opening thrust by filling his glass with neat Scotch and smiling at him as he would a truculent child.
Clarence, meanwhile, wearing his favourite ‘Sarah Bernhardt’ apron, chattered away in the kitchen as he prepared the meal, his progress punctuated by excited shrieks and graphic expletives. Steve said little but smiled indulgently whenever Clarence popped his head round the door to deliver a particularly outrageous piece of gossip. ‘What’s he like!’ he groaned. ‘Typical old queen but you couldn’t make him up, could you?’
'Tell them why Oscar's gone to bed early,' he called. Steve nodded towards the bird cage next to the television. It was shrouded in a thick, plum coloured, crushed velveteen cloth, hanging at all angles as if it had been thrown from a distance, the tassels on one side almost touching the floor.
'He's not dead, is he?' whispered Shuna, affecting a solemn face and avoiding Sym's eye. Steve shook his head. 'No, worse,' he said. 'Clarence is furious with him. Can't quite make out why. The silly tart's put him to bed early because - wait for it - he's been naughty!' he added.
'How the hell can a budgie be naughty for fuck's sake!' Sym protested, before bursting into laughter.
Steve shrugged: 'God knows,' he said. 'Maybe...' But Oscar's misdemeanour was never explained for there was a loud slapping noise from the kitchen and the sound of a saucepan lid hurtling across the floor.
The evening progressed, as many before, with the four of them drinking far too much, giggling a great deal, repeating the same old stories and ending with Clarence showing them snapshots of himself in drag at various fancy dress balls - he, of course, invariably centre stage whilst the ghostly image of Steve's right ear or elbow somewhere on the periphery. As always Clarence artfully left this tiresome ritual until his guests were sufficiently inebriated to offer little resistance but when they were reduced to admiring blurred action shots of Oscar on the run in next door's back garden, it was definitely time to go.