After the Party Read Online Free Page A
Author: Lisa Jewell
is 81 degrees today and I am off to the beach. Wanna come??â
It was meant as a joke, just a throwaway line to rub Ralphâs face in the fact that while he was trapped in a loft in south London on a dreary Wednesday morning, Smith, tanned and lean, was jogging past girls with augmented breasts and minimalpubic hair along vast expanses of creamy beach. It wasnât supposed to be an invitation, but every time Ralph looked at it, it seemed more and more as if it should be. And now, seeing Jem leaving the nest, taking her baby bird to be looked after by someone else, wearing high heels, it seemed a phase of his life had just drawn to a close. They could be separate now. They could be apart. For the past seven years Ralph and Jem had been bound together by trying to get pregnant, by miscarriages, by more trying, then, finally, by babies and breastfeeding schedules and now that glue was starting to unstick. Theyâd finished. They were fragmenting. He could go. He could go .
He paused, questioning the quiet euphoria that suffused his body as he thought of escape. Did that mean he was unhappy? Could he be unhappy? He had it all. He had Jem, he had two beautiful children, a house, a career.
He looked at himself in the mirror that was bolted above the paint-splattered sink in the corner of his studio. He looked okay. Considering he was forty-two. Considering he barely saw the sun these days. Considering he hadnât had a holiday in two years. Considering he smoked thirty cigarettes a day. Considering he hadnât had sex for nearly seven months. He looked okay.
What had he thought forty-two would be like? How had he pictured it? Heâd assumed there would be a wife, that there would be children. And heâd assumed that both the wife and the children would be beautiful, of course he had; who dreams of an ugly family? He might not have predicted, though, that he would still be painting. His career had always been precarious, a little like his balcony, a funny, rickety old thing, not to be trusted. The fact that he would be making a living from oil and canvas would have been surprising to him. Less surprising would have been the extent of that living: enough for mortgagerepayments, for nursery fees, for car repairs and grocery deliveries, enough for birthday dinners in smart restaurants, enough for Diesel jeans and Monsoon baby clothes and proper cigarettes and a cab home after a night out.
But still, not enough.
Eleven years ago Ralphâs star had risen. Eleven years ago all his dreams had come true one icy March night, in an art gallery in Notting Hill. Ralph had declared his undying love to his soul mate and been acclaimed a star. Eleven years ago Ralph had felt itâsomething that most people never get to feelâthe sharp punch of success. The girl of his dreams! His! The respect of his peers! Goal!
Now he was just a man with a family who painted pictures for middle-class people who couldnât afford real art.
He heard the stillness of the house again; it came to him ominously, like the barely audible rumble of a faraway train. He looked around his studio, at the half-finished canvases, the uninspiring hands and faces and still lifes of poppies and daisies, the same safe ground, trodden over again and again because it paid the mortgage.
He sighed and decided to go to the gym.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
The gym.
This was not a place that Ralph ever imagined he would have cause to haunt.
But he was here today, not for calorie-burning or muscle-toning, just for the background noise. He wanted to move among other human beings, in a coolly detached way, wanted to smell their smells and overhear their mobile phone conversations and watch their bodies moving in time to some unheard music. He wanted to be part of something, even if it was just midmorning at a slightly grubby gym in south London.
He picked a treadmill that was comfortably apart from other exercisers and hung his towel
It was meant as a joke, just a throwaway line to rub Ralphâs face in the fact that while he was trapped in a loft in south London on a dreary Wednesday morning, Smith, tanned and lean, was jogging past girls with augmented breasts and minimalpubic hair along vast expanses of creamy beach. It wasnât supposed to be an invitation, but every time Ralph looked at it, it seemed more and more as if it should be. And now, seeing Jem leaving the nest, taking her baby bird to be looked after by someone else, wearing high heels, it seemed a phase of his life had just drawn to a close. They could be separate now. They could be apart. For the past seven years Ralph and Jem had been bound together by trying to get pregnant, by miscarriages, by more trying, then, finally, by babies and breastfeeding schedules and now that glue was starting to unstick. Theyâd finished. They were fragmenting. He could go. He could go .
He paused, questioning the quiet euphoria that suffused his body as he thought of escape. Did that mean he was unhappy? Could he be unhappy? He had it all. He had Jem, he had two beautiful children, a house, a career.
He looked at himself in the mirror that was bolted above the paint-splattered sink in the corner of his studio. He looked okay. Considering he was forty-two. Considering he barely saw the sun these days. Considering he hadnât had a holiday in two years. Considering he smoked thirty cigarettes a day. Considering he hadnât had sex for nearly seven months. He looked okay.
What had he thought forty-two would be like? How had he pictured it? Heâd assumed there would be a wife, that there would be children. And heâd assumed that both the wife and the children would be beautiful, of course he had; who dreams of an ugly family? He might not have predicted, though, that he would still be painting. His career had always been precarious, a little like his balcony, a funny, rickety old thing, not to be trusted. The fact that he would be making a living from oil and canvas would have been surprising to him. Less surprising would have been the extent of that living: enough for mortgagerepayments, for nursery fees, for car repairs and grocery deliveries, enough for birthday dinners in smart restaurants, enough for Diesel jeans and Monsoon baby clothes and proper cigarettes and a cab home after a night out.
But still, not enough.
Eleven years ago Ralphâs star had risen. Eleven years ago all his dreams had come true one icy March night, in an art gallery in Notting Hill. Ralph had declared his undying love to his soul mate and been acclaimed a star. Eleven years ago Ralph had felt itâsomething that most people never get to feelâthe sharp punch of success. The girl of his dreams! His! The respect of his peers! Goal!
Now he was just a man with a family who painted pictures for middle-class people who couldnât afford real art.
He heard the stillness of the house again; it came to him ominously, like the barely audible rumble of a faraway train. He looked around his studio, at the half-finished canvases, the uninspiring hands and faces and still lifes of poppies and daisies, the same safe ground, trodden over again and again because it paid the mortgage.
He sighed and decided to go to the gym.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
The gym.
This was not a place that Ralph ever imagined he would have cause to haunt.
But he was here today, not for calorie-burning or muscle-toning, just for the background noise. He wanted to move among other human beings, in a coolly detached way, wanted to smell their smells and overhear their mobile phone conversations and watch their bodies moving in time to some unheard music. He wanted to be part of something, even if it was just midmorning at a slightly grubby gym in south London.
He picked a treadmill that was comfortably apart from other exercisers and hung his towel
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