The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018. Fiona Gibson
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in pretty decent shape, suggesting that he does a bit of light jogging and goes easy on the booze. So why dig out a picture from something like 2002? When someone does that – and it contravenes the trade descriptions act really – it doesn’t matter how attractive they are, because it’s all you can think about.
And you feel sort of duped.
It was Ralph’s suggestion to meet here, outside the gallery tucked away by a pretty stretch of the canal in Islington. Ideal, I thought. The art bit would feel pleasingly grown-up. I know I shouldn’t still regard galleries in that way, being forty-six myself. I mean, I am mother to two teenagers, for goodness’ sake. I shouldn’t need to do certain things – like look at art – in order to feel like a bona fide adult. Then, after we’d sped through the gallery, we could get to the part I was really looking forward to: a chat in the cafe he’d mentioned, with tables overlooking the canal. ‘Amazing home baking,’ he’d said.
I’d had a good feeling about today, and not just due to the cake element. Ralph had been chatty and interesting in his emails: a solicitor – again, pleasingly grown-up – with hints of poshness and a warm, likeable face. After a couple of dud dates with other men I’d allowed myself a glimmer of hope. But now, well, he’s just not what I expected.
‘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 …’