Page 65 of Calling Frank O'Hare

‘Oh aye.’ Still the concerned, innocent face. It was an art with Martin. As a kid, he’d been a bona fide child protégé when it came to conveying concern and innocence, and he hadn’t lost his touch.

‘Yeah. According to Bronagh you’ve been a nightmare to live with. I believe her words were that you’d been in a foul mood for the last six months. A whole six months apparently. That’s some going, six months with no let up.’

‘Well I’ve had a lot on.’

‘Have you? What is it that you’ve had on, Martin?’

‘Is it the business, Marty? Are you in trouble?’ said Finn.

Martin looked at his feet. Lost for words? Unless Frank was very much mistaken, cracks were beginning to appear in his shiny veneer. Frank was feeling very much like he had the upper hand in this conversation. Perhaps there was something to this conflict business all after all.

‘Are you having trouble coping? Do you think you might be depressed, Marty?’ Finn wasn’t letting up in trying to give Martin a get out of jail free card.

‘I think I could be,’ said Martin.

Damn, the fecker was trying to worm out of it by saying he had mental health problems. Okay, so maybe he did, but Frank very much doubted it. Unless late stage male menopause was a mental health issue. ‘Are you sure it’s not because you’ve got yourself another woman?’

‘Frank, that’s not a very nice thing to say when Martin’s obviously struggling here,’ said Finn, in the kind of voice he probably reserved for his clients.

‘It may not be nice, Finn, but it’s true. According to Bronagh.’

‘It is not,’ said Martin.

Frank ignored the lying fecker. ‘According to Bronagh, Marty here’s been having an affair. With Eve.’

Finn’s whole body jerked backwards. ‘Eve Mac?’

Frank nodded, rather smugly, he had to admit. ‘The one and only.’

‘No. Not even Marty would do that. Not after… It can’t be true. It’s not true, is it?’ Finn looked to Martin, his face desperate looking.

‘It is not. Bronagh’s got the wrong end of the stick,’ said Martin.

‘Of course she has, because it wouldn’t be you lying would it?’ said Frank.

‘I’m not lying.’ Martin’s face went bright red. He jumped up, his nostrils flaring. The mask had finally slipped and he was bordering on rage.

Frank wasn’t too far from that state himself. He got up and faced Martin. ‘Come off it. Why don’t you just admit what we all know? You cheated on your wife with your mate’s wife.’

Martin pushed his finger into Frank’s shoulder. ‘Because I’m not you.’

43

Wait for me – 1991

Frank was in his office hunched over an easel. He liked to spend a couple of hours on a Sunday morning painting. It helped him wind down from the last week and prepare himself for the week ahead. Especially tomorrow. Mondays were always tough. The kids were often still hyper from the weekend and there was usually at least one fight to break up. Mostly it was just fists, occasionally it was knives. It wasn’t pretty but you got used to it.

They’d moved to a larger flat a couple of years ago. It was Ellen’s money again, another of those compromises. He didn’t earn enough for a place like this. She’d played her face until he’d given in. She always got what she wanted in the end. The upside was, he’d been able to turn the smallest bedroom into his hideaway. He used it for marking, lesson prep, and his Sunday morning painting.

Ellen walked in, naked under her robe. The robe was embroidered turquoise silk and bespoke. It had been a gift from Gavin for starting the new job that he’d also gifted to her. The contents of Frank’s pants stirred at the sight of her in it.

‘Dear God, do you call that art? Give it up, darling. You just don’t have it.’ There’d been a time when she was full of praise for his work. She’d sit for hours while he sketched her. But that was before she became an art critic and her tastes began to lean towards the more traditional.

‘You know what you are, Ellen? A snob. You’re a big old art snob.’

Ellen’s face sank. It was okay for her to criticise him but if he did the same to her, it knocked her off balance. He knew what would come next. She’d go from aggressive to submissive in the blink of an eye. It was a pattern that had been repeating itself for a while now. She untied her robe. It slipped off her shoulders to the floor. ‘Would you like to paint me?’

He set down his brush and put his hands on her behind. ‘No, I’d like to fuck you.’

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