Chapter Text
Once the papers are signed, Rupert has his new toy round for dinner. (“You won’t believe the bargain I managed,” he said, changing into his laird of the house attire: a jewel-toned jumper and trousers with more threads than he can count. “So naive, so desperate. One little compliment and I got him for a song.” He smiled, not unaffectionately. “Kind of like you.” If they had any wire hangers in the house, she’d run one through his eye socket.)
Rupert’s latest acquisition shows up in a new suit with flowers and a shitty bottle of red. Like he’s trying to get Rupert to put out.
It takes some convincing to get him out of the foyer with his shoes still on (“A man never goes barefoot, remember that,” Rupert advises), and even then he tiptoes around the rugs.
During Rupert’s obligate “grand tour” (look how much square footage and trinkets and people I have), Nathan pauses at a shot of two crows perched on the handles of Diane’s Moses basket. She isn’t inside, but from the angle, it looks like the birds are watching over her.
Bex’s hackles rise. The photo is one of a handful of things in the house she truly owns. He opens his mouth. She braces for impact.
“That’s really nice,” Nathan says. “Was this taken here?”
“The back garden,” Bex answers.
“Do they interact with Diane a lot, or was this just a lucky shot?”
“Just luck.” That and the bowl of dog food resting in Diane’s place. If Rupert knew Bex had been befriending them, she’d look out the back windows to find the aftermath of a Hitchcock film.
Rupert snorts into his wine glass. “We were lucky Diane wasn’t in there when the buzzards landed.”
Nathan makes the wide, slightly manic smile of someone who wants, but can’t correct Rupert. Bex’s facial muscles ache in sympathy. Nathan turns back to the photo and mutters, “Clearly crows.” It’s the softest sound she’s ever heard from a grown man’s lips.
Feeling a dangerous level of camaraderie (that she’s certain will dissipate within the hour), Bex joins him in front of the photo. “They’re very clever creatures. I’d never let them that close to Diane really. They might try to bargain her dummy off her.”
Nathan chortles.
It’s been so long since someone’s laughed at her jokes (as opposed to her existence), she presses on: “I should have rung 999 to report a murder in my back garden.”
Nathan fairly giggles, and Bex wishes she could stick him in a jar poked with air holes and hide him away on a low shelf.
“You should have rung an exterminator,” Rupert mutters into his glass.
Composing himself, Nathan asks, “Is the photographer local? My parents get magpies on their clothesline. I can never get a good photo with my mobile. I’d love to have something like this.”
Bex eyes her husband; compliments are always dangerous territory. “I took it,” she admits.
“Sorry, I should’ve known that,” Nathan says, although there’s no way he could’ve. “Do you have a studio or-or a gallery or–”
“She has an Instagram,” Rupert answers.
“Sorry, yeah, I guess that’s how it’s done now, isn’t it? Everything’s online.” Nathan smiles at the photo. “But this looks great printed out like this. Could be in a museum.”
“Thank you, but it’s just a hobby,” she says, hoping to end this. She’s already got enough to pay for.
He persists. “Did you go to art school or do you come by it naturally?”
“Neither,” Rupert answers. “My darling wife got her degrees in photojournalism. In the 2010s. Can you believe that? The industry is dying around her, everyone’s got a camera in their pocket, and she’s shelling out for National Geographic’s lessons.” He clicks his tongue.
“Bad luck,” Nathan mutters.
“Bad planning,” Rupert corrects. “There’s a difference. Remember that, gaffer.”
“I will, thank you.”
“But my Bex muddled her way through–once she figured out she could make money just by turning the camera around.” Rupert mimes a selfie.
(The night they met, he’d asked about her hopes and dreams, and she confided ruefully, more honest than she’s accustomed, “I learned more people are interested in young women being in photographs than taking them.”)
Rupert smiles. “And now she doesn’t have to worry about money.”
“It’s really good,” Nathan says softly, cutting his eyes at the photo.
Rupert continues as if he didn’t hear, although his persistence belies that illusion, “She has time to focus on her hobbies. Photography, philanthropy, music.”
Nathan smiles at her again, a genuine thing. “Really? I was in the office choir at, er…” He trails off. “So, er, do you sing or…?”
“Not well,” Bex answers.
“No, no, she does far more than sing,” Rupert says. “She–” He stops as if struck by sudden brilliance. “You know what? She can show you herself.”
(The one thing she ever wanted from Rupert’s money–besides everything–was a handcrafted, antique hammered dulcimer like her gran had before her dad pawned it. She dropped hints like a kid at Christmas until Rupert presented her with a box that seemed far too tiny.
“Is it?” she asked, teary-eyed.
“It’s even better,” he answered.)
In the drawing room, she plucks, wincingly, at the ukulele.
“Isn’t she great?” Rupert says, watching her cheeks burn. “She struggled at first, but I think she’s really picking it up. Aren’t you, sweetie?”
Bex nods, literally biting her tongue.
The embarrassment becomes too much even for Nathan, who makes a show of taking out his (silent, dark) mobile. “I’m so sorry. Can I–can I take this in another room?”
Rupert points him to the kitchen and once he’s out of earshot, Rupert tells Bex, “You can stop now.” He drinks.
“I’ll put this away,” she says and he doesn’t object.
When she comes back, he has orders for her: “Check in on Nathan. Make sure he’s not digging through the rubbish bin. The boy’s a natural talent, but he’s about as loyal as a housecat.”
In the kitchen, she finds everything roasting per their chef’s instructions and Nathan nowhere. She can hear the scratching of his soft voice coming from somewhere (perhaps he’s burrowed his way into the walls).
“You could make a Mountie, you know, or the maple flag?” he suggests to who knows. He pauses. “There’s nothing wrong with beavers. They’re very industrious creatures, but wouldn’t the box be all one colour?” He pauses. “No, of course, yeah, there are different shades of brown, but don’t you usually go for a more varied palette? Colour’s sort of your thing, artistically speaking. Not that–” He listens.
“Who said that? Did she now? Well, Phoebe O. can mind her business.” He sighs. “It doesn’t matter if she has a point. She shouldn’t have–” He waits, breathes. “I’m not angry at you. I think this could be your best yet. The pipe cleaners on the tail? Who would’ve thought of that? Not Phoebe O., that’s for sure.”
He listens. “Oh… She draws… Oh… Certain they’re not two u’s, or-or a round double-u, or maybe a minimalist seagull?” He listens. “Oh, they have… Well, there’s nothing wrong with, erm, you know everyone’s born with at least two. Except for maybe conjoined twins. Depending on where they–so, what-what are you gonna name the Canada Day box?”
He listens. “That makes sense. I can’t imagine Michelangelo named the David before he finished. Could’ve come out like a Goliath. Right, sure. I’ll leave you to it. Could you put your mum back on?”
On telly, this is the part where he’d say, “Hi, sis,” but no one says that in real life, so he starts right in.
“You hear what that little terror Phoebe said?” He pauses. “Phoebe O.” He listens. “No, she did not mention that. Is she in trouble? Can she go back to–” He pauses. “Conflict mediation? Seems a little late for that. What was the teacher doing when Phoebe O. was slagging off–” He listens for a long while. When he speaks, it’s soft. “Remember when we were that age? No matter what teacher we had, they’d always made me stand up and read. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job, Nathan. Keep going. Isn’t Nathan doing a wonderful job, everyone?’”
He listens. “No, no, I know you’re doing your best–it’s not your fault the teacher isn’t doing her fucking job. Oh god, I’m not on speaker, am I?” He chuckles, nervous. “Good. Erm, have you… have you spoken to Dad recently? The last time I saw him, it didn’t go well.” He listens. “Of course, yeah, he never changes, does he?” He pauses. “A cupboard… I thought I was going outside, and then I didn’t want anyone to think I didn’t know that it was a cupboard, so I just went in, acted like it was on purpose.” He pauses. “No, I see that now. Alright, I’m gonna make a break for it. You might get some awkward nipple questions later, sorry. Bye.”
The door swings open to their improbably small broom cupboard. (How could he possibly think that door went outside? It’s half size.) With some effort, he steps out, eyes locking on hers. They stand in tense silence as Bex struggles to discern what exactly you say when caught watching, fascinated, as a grown man extricates himself from a space too small even for him.
She lands on: “Before the 19th century, artists didn’t name their works.”
“What?” he asks, not inappropriately.
“You seemed to, erm, imply earlier that Michelangelo waited until he finished the David to name it.”
“Oh, right, yes, that.”
“He probably didn’t name the sculpture at all.” Although, now that she says it, Bex wonders how else Michelangelo would’ve referred to the sculpture round the workshop. “The David” seems a natural placeholder.
“Of course, I kne–” Nathan blinks, breathes, resets. “That’s fascinating. I’d love to hear more later.”
Bex frowns. How many times has she heard Rupert say that exact phrase with that exact tone with that exact smug expression? (Only every time he’s faced with the limitations of his own intellect. So: often) The new gaffer is learning quickly.
Taking in her disappointment (he sounded so sweet in the cupboard), the arrogance falls from Nathan’s face. “Or now,” he adds. “I’d love to hear more now.”
Halfway through a YouTube video, Rupert finds them, ear to ear, faces bathed in the blue glow of educational content. He makes a crack at millennials and their mobiles, and doesn’t suspect a thing.
To be fair, neither do they.