A Crowded Marriage by Catherine Alliott Read Free Book Online

to miss him growing up.
    â€œThe match isn’t until three o’clock, you know,” I told her, putting on the kettle.
    â€œI know, but I thought I’d have a go at your garden. My bank, pay twenty-ones.”
    â€œOh, Mum, would you?” I swung round gratefully. “It’s such a mess and I just haven’t had a chance to get out there.”
    â€œOf course you haven’t, you’re far too busy,” she said loyally.
    I glowed. My mother, unlike my sister, was one of the few people who didn’t think that because my art was unremunerated, it was a waste of time.
    â€œI sold one last week, you know,” I said, pouring myself a glass of orange juice.
    â€œI know. Alex told me. But I don’t think you charged nearly enough.”
    â€œShe didn’t,” said Alex, coming in and doing up his cufflinks. “And it was one of the big jobbies; should have gone for twice the price.”
    â€œI don’t actually charge for the amount of paint used or the size of the canvas,” I countered, although I was rather enjoying being buoyed up and discussed like a budding Picasso with a couple of agents. “It’s not like selling tomatoes.”
    â€œWell, make sure you get some decent prices out of that gallery chappie Kate recommended. When are you meeting him?” He went next door to collect his overcoat and briefcase, glancing at his watch. “Shit, I’m late.”
    â€œI have met him,” I said, following him in so Rufus couldn’t hear. “Turned out he was only after my body after all.”
    He swung around at the front door in astonishment. “You’re kidding.”
    â€œIs that so extraordinary?”
    â€œWell, no, of course not, but blimey,” he boggled. “Bloody cheek!” he spluttered. He gazed at me a moment, then shook his head bemused and reached for his briefcase. “No dice on the paintings then?”
    â€œNo dice,” I agreed, amused that it hadn’t occurred to him to ask if I was still intact. Unraped, as it were. I opened the door for him. “So no injection into the Cameron finances just yet, I’m afraid. You must go darling, while at least one of us has a job. We’ll see you this afternoon.” He looked blank as he stepped outside. “At the match.”
    â€œOh, the match! God, wouldn’t miss that for the world.” He popped his head back and yelled down to the kitchen, “What position are you playing, Rufus?”
    There was a pause. “I’m playing rugby.”
    â€œYes, but what position?”
    â€œI dunno.”
    â€œWell, give them hell!”
    Another pause. “Who?”
    Alex and I exchanged smiles. He kissed me. “See you on the touchline.”
    As I shut the door and made to go up and get changed, noting that, as ever, Rufus was already in his uniform ready to go, I reflected on what it had taken to get us to this touchline position. To be proudly sallying forth, en famille , to watch our son in a rugby match. Being in a team—any sort of team—had not remotely flickered on Rufus’s radar until the day when the lists had gone up in the school hall for the nine and under A and B squads, with Rufus’s name on neither. I’d scanned them avidly when I’d collected him, along with a clutch of similarly eagle-eyed mothers. Even Arthur and Torquil had made the B team, it being such a tiny school, but not my son. I’d felt my blood pressure rise, felt fury mounting.
    â€œNever mind, darling,” I’d muttered, hurrying him away from the group of exultant mothers.
    â€œWhat?” He looked blank.
    â€œNot getting in the team.”
    â€œOh. That.”
    â€œDon’t you mind?”
    He shrugged. “Not really.”
    I drove home very fast. Too fast. They’d written him off. Written him off at nine—how dare they! And Alex would be so disappointed, I thought with a lurch. We