Open Writing

Jack, a retired bank manager in his sixties, married to Stella, his second wife, in her forties, said, 'Come round to dinner tonight - roast beef and all that.'

Badly in need of a proper meal I spruced myself up and went.

'I've heard a lot about you from your sister in Worthing,' said Stella, a slim dark-haired beauty. 'And we even have one of your paintings . . . look.'

'But I don't have a sister in -'

'What would you like to drink?' asked Jack.

'Whisky, please,' I said as Stella went to the kitchen.

We drank wine with the meal and brandy after.

'That was one of the best meals I've ever had,' I said.

'Flatterer,' said Stella. Then she said, 'Do you want to smoke your pipe? I know all about your little habits. I'm going to have a cigarette but Jack isn't.'

'I wanted to be a painter when I was young,' said Jack.

'You were never young,' said Stella, blowing smoke.

'But I was deflected into banking.'

'Deflected my eye,' said Stella,’you told me it's what you'd really wanted.'

'I used to admire the work of Howard Hodgkin,' said Jack, 'then I began to think that his titles were more interesting than the actual paintings.'

Well, that's because you're just a boring old philistine,' said Stella.

'We bought a Hockney for the bank,' said Jack. 'I suppose it's turned into a good investment by now.'

'Money, that's all you ever bloody think about,' said Stella.

Jack grinned at me. 'She always speaks her mind,' he said, proudly.

When I left he said, 'It's been great fun. I've really enjoyed it.'

'Don't you tell fibs, old Jack,' slurred Stella.

As I turned to wave from the pavement she subsided onto the doorstep and Jack bent down and removed her cigarette, which he then flicked out onto the tiny lawn where it glowed for a few moments.