Celebrity Marriage

 Hello, I'm Marianne Renfrew, wife of Martin Renfrew. You must know him. He's the main presenter of cultural programmes on the Arts and Science Network. This new network has been such a success, I mean really serious television for educated people. Of course, we're a bit out of it when it comes to the science but there is very little Martin does not know about art, architecture, literature, music and of course film which is his speciality.

The disadvantage of being the wife of a celebrity is that you have to share him with so many others. Not just fans, oh no, his colleagues, particularly the women, are the worst. They want to 'share' their thoughts with him, ask his opinion, work things out with him, basically pinch his ideas. It never ends. Of course, they don't want criticism but then that's Martin's talent. He can tell someone their notions are a pile of steaming shit in such a subtle and apparently supportive way that they always come back for more. In my view, it just encourages them.

The advantages? Ah, well, that's to do with what made Martin a celebrity in the first place. His knowledge is encyclopedic only not so boring. When he explains something it' s like watching the sun come out on a strange, shadowy landscape. Everything becomes clear, illuminated like never before and sparkles and dances in front of your eyes.

“Oh Martin you put it so charmingly,” says that Magdalena Guiseley.

What a sycophant! But even the men defer to him. He's a manly man, tall strong and previously sporty, admired by men and lusted after by women. You can see it in the way they smile at him. The men are cautious because, although he does it kindly, he will point out their errors. The women are more crawly as if they are flattered when he criticises what they say. Well, they should be. Sometimes he just ignores what someone says as if pointing out the mistake would be a waste of his effort, just stating the obvious and anyway one of the others usually leaps in to do the easy work.

We had a bunch of them over at the weekend. There was Professor David Kravitz the architecture man, very nice, authoritative, not as handsome of course and Martin can always put his comments into the bigger picture, the whole cultural scene in terms of art in general and even the political situation.

Jake Maloney was there, you know the Nobel-prize-winning novelist, getting on a bit now and between you and me I suspect he drinks. He's getting rather florid and is not as articulate as the others. Then there was Gemma Jardine the conceptual artist with her fey kind of feminism and that butch Harriet Hepinstall the sculptor, looks fit to wield a pickaxe rather than moulding in clay but she's the only one who ever challenges Martin. She's usually wrong of course but it goes to show how well he can cope with a challenge and it's obvious he charms her socks off. She might be a lesbian but I think she is susceptible. I don't know why we have to have that Magdalena Guisely but we always do. She shows Martin and the others to be the real intellectuals they are. I don't know why they need it. Maybe she's supposed to be decorative, to add colour and glamour in a common sort of way so perhaps she should sit still and just look the part but she will open her mouth. Martin laughs indulgently and allows the others to put her straight.

Apart from that, it was a wonderful evening. I cooked chicken chasseur and served it with an expensive Merlot. I lit all the red candles so that the room glowed warm and looked comforting. It seemed to me to be conducive to serious but relaxed conversation. They had all been to the latest exhibitions at the Tate Modern (as had I of course) where there seemed to be concern at the moment about so-called 'public' art but as Martin pointed out what art isn't public? Of course, David agreed. It's difficult he said, though not impossible, to have private architecture. Gemma mentioned that at one time in Japan people at certain stages of 'aesthetic development', was how she put it, were allowed to see only certain things, that when they graduated, with development, they were allowed to see higher forms of art.

Magdalena went off like a bottle of cheap champagne, going on about democracy and how she didn't want some know-all telling her what she could and couldn't see.

“But do you really appreciate all you see?” asked Gemma, I thought quite gently.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Whose business is it but mine?”

This is the point where Martin steps in to calm things down.

“If we believe,” he starts quietly “that we can learn about art, that if we can come with education and greater exposure to understand and appreciate it more it might be worth considering how that could be achieved. I mean people don't expect to understand relativity or quantum mechanics without instruction, so why should they expect to know what is good or bad about a work of art the first time they see it?”

“That's certainly true,” said Harriet and Gemma agreed. I think Magdalena felt herself outnumbered so she was not so strident.

“The trouble is, in terms of public art,” Jake began, “it means everything must be pitched to the lowest common denominator if everyone is allowed see it.”

“But everyone is allowed to see it,” said David bitterly. “That's why we architects get such a lot of flack.”

Martin always allows everyone else free reign. He joins in when the conversation looks like flagging or when things get out of hand, then at the end, he sums up always giving a fair amount of time to each point of view. He is truly an expert at what he does and I am proud of him.

“Beryl?”

“It's 'Marianne' father, not Beryl.”

We live with Martin's father. He's awfully sweet but I think he's starting to go loopy. Doesn't always seem to know who I am. I think Beryl was his wife or a sister or something. I never bothered to find out.

“Shall I switch off the television?”

“As you wish father. Martin will be home soon.”

“Who?”

“Martin, your son.”

“Ugh!” He looks at me strangely, shakes his head and potters off to bed.

I get the ice out of the freezer and put it in the ice bucket, then I slice up a lime. Martin likes a gin and tonic when he gets back from the studio.

*

It's Wednesday and for me, it's shopping day, the day I prepare for the weekend. There are sure to be visitors but I forgot to check the details with Martin so I will have to go into town to the Network offices and leave him a note to ring me before two o'clock. I don't like to leave it later because the shops get so busy. First I have to get father-in-law his breakfast. I find him pottering about in the kitchen. I wish he wouldn't. He leaves such a mess.

“What can I get you father?” I ask politely.

“I can manage,” he grunts slopping milk over a Weetabix. Then he reaches for the sugar. I'll have to clear it all up later.

“Did Martin say who's coming at the weekend?” I ask with little hope of getting a useful answer.

“Beryl. I wish you wouldn't...”

“OK, no problem. I'll go into the studio and leave a message.” He's obviously off with the fairies again.

Martin moved to ASN from the BBC quite recently so I haven't been to their offices yet. Of course, I know where they are but still, I have to consult a street map and a tube map.

“Beryl, why don't you stay in today. Miss Jessop is coming.” Father-in-law wobbles in with his bowl of cereal. I wish he would eat it in the kitchen.

“Well, you can let her in, can't you? I mean she's coming to see you.”

“Oh, Beryl. I wish you wouldn't...”

“I have to go and find out who's coming this weekend. Don't you see? We'll have a disaster on our hands otherwise.”

I slip upstairs to change. In any case I want to get out before that Miss Jessop arrives. She's some sort of carer for father-in-law. He has so many complicated conditions and she brings his medication but she is such an interfering busybody. I don't want her to get her hooks into me. I do my best for him but really he requires a professional.

Today I will wear my blue business suit with my tweed coat. I don't work, Martin needs so much looking after, but I don't like to look like a housewife. I try to keep myself looking decent especially if that Magdalena Guiseley will be in evidence. The others look like artists but she is always glamorously turned out. As far as I can see it's her only claim to fame.

I trot downstairs and look in on father-in-law.

“I'll be gone for a couple of hours but I'll be back in time to get your lunch.”

“I can manage,” he growls. “Have you taken your pill?” he asks.

“Pill? What pill? I don't take pills. Miss Jessop will be here with yours before long. Tell her I have some urgent errands to run if she asks. Get her to write stuff down if she wants to tell me anything. I know you won't remember.”

“There's nothing wrong with my memory!” I hear him growling as I go through the door. I hope he doesn't set the house on fire.

I get to the studio at about 10.30. It is a very wide building with peculiar windows, odd shapes and colours and if it doesn't really want to see out. What happens there happens inside, cut off from the messy world. The building is so deep I imagine most of the rooms have no windows at all, they will be studios surrounded by offices and even the offices seem to look inward.

The foyer is a huge curved space with a long curved reception desk accommodating at least three receptionists all of whom are occupied as I go in. Everyone looks very smart as I suspected so I am wearing high heeled shoes although they are uncomfortable. I clack over the shining spotless floor to the receptionist on the right and wait till she is free. Her long-lashed eyes sweep open and the dazzling teeth appear in a professional smile.

“Can I help you?” she beams while doing something on her computer. Her face gives me attention but I feel her mind is elsewhere.

“Hello, I'm Marianne Renfrew, Martin Renfrew's wife. Is Martin available at the moment?”

“I couldn't say,” she replies carefully, presumably not because she doesn't know. “Would you like to leave him a message?”

“Yes. I'll do that.”

She passes me a pad and pen and I write. “Darling, I forgot to ask you: is the usual crowd coming this weekend? Do you have any preference for dinner? Call me before 2.0 if you can. Marianne”

The eyelashes sweep open again as she takes the note and puts it in an envelope.

“Thank you, Mrs Renfrew. I'll see that he gets it.”

“Thank you,” I say but her phone rings and her attention is already somewhere else.

It's odd how fast the world seems to run sometimes. I have travelled for over an hour in a packed train, my business was conducted in ten seconds, then I have an hour to travel back. I looked into a coffee bar on my way to the tube station but there was a longish queue and the baristas seemed to be flying around serving several customers at once. It was all too much. I set off back again hoping that Miss Jessop would have finished with father and be gone by the time I got back. All I wanted to do was rest. I would go straight to my room and not look in on father-in-law.

*

Another glorious weekend dinner party. I cooked Boeuf Stroganoff with a bottle of Malbec. I help father-in-law to bed before the visitors come, then I have them all to myself. When hey had all left and Martin had gone to bed, I was clearing up when father-in-law came pottering down again. He'd got indigestion.

“It's all that rich food,” he says hunting for the Gaviscon.

“Well, you don't have to have any. I'll make you something simpler in future although I'll have to make it earlier. I have too much to do.”

“Why do you do it? You can't eat all that stuff yourself and you shouldn't drink all that wine.”

“How would it look if I refused to eat what I serve my guests? And I like a glass of wine.”

He mooched about grumbling, picked up an empty wine bottle, huffing and puffing. He is really becoming an embarrassment. I hope he doesn't do that when the guests are here.

“Did you call Miss Jessop?” he asked.

“No, I didn't. She'll be here again this week won't she?”

“She hasn't seen you for two weeks. If she doesn't see you this week there'll be trouble.”

“What does she need me for?”

“Just be in this Wednesday that's all.” Then grumpy old sod finally went back to bed.

So I had to stay in on Wednesday and had the usual nonsense with this Jessop woman. I don't know who she thinks she is. It always upsets me. I wish I could get rid of this useless old relic of a father-in-law and maybe that would get rid of his grisly carer as well. I always end up feeling threatened. It threw me out completely. By Thursday I still had not done the weekend shopping and had no idea who was coming or what I should cook. So I took another trip over to the ASN offices.

Miss Jessop had upset my routine and I was confused and afraid I looked a little dishevelled. That may explain why the receptionist looked at me strangely. This time, instead of being vague, she asked me if I would wait while she fetched Martin.

“I can't stay,” I explained. “We have his old father with us and he can't be left for long.”

I had already written the note and brought it with me so I said I would just leave it for him. I went to leave but she seemed to be trying to detain me. It wasn't necessary so I left anyway. I didn't feel I should disturb Martin's work especially as I was not feeling at my best. He could call me as usual when he had issued all the invitations.

This time I went into the coffee bar. It was unpleasantly busy but I needed a break before starting the journey back. While I was in there I picked up an abandoned copy of The Guardian and there was an article about Martin. Reading about him and his achievements gradually brought back my equilibrium and I was able to ride home with my usual joie de vivre. Even though the supermarket was busier on a Thursday I did the shopping without a care. I am so looking forward to the weekend again.

*

It's been several weeks since I sat down to write and it has been rather up and down. Father has been a problem. I think he is getting noticeably worse. His fantasies are becoming more exotic and for some reason, this gruesome Miss Jessop seems to blame me. I don't understand why. I feed him healthy food, see that he takes his medication, put him to bed at a reasonable hour. It's not as if I am poisoning him or abusing him in any way. I think I am patience incarnate. I sit and listen to his nonsense and sometimes try to explain what is real but he is at a stage now where he thinks I am making it all up, though why I should do such a thing I cannot conceive. Sometimes he gets angry and confused so I just give him another of his pills and leave him to it.

Martin and I had a break from company over Easter which was relaxing. We can't go away and leave father-in-law. I would like to get him into respite care but for some reason of her own Miss Jessop is against it. Anyway, we are now back in the fray and this weekend we have a different set of visitors. Martin did tell me who but I've forgotten the details already. I think it would be best if I popped around to the studio and left him a note so on Wednesday I set off again. I had written the note out asking him to remind me of the names. I would like to look them up and find out a bit about them so that I could join in the conversation a bit more. I put the note in an envelope and put his name on it so that I didn't need to hang about.

Again I waited until the receptionist was free, but in that brief gap between the previous customer and myself, she took the opportunity to ring someone apparently to tell them their guest had arrived. I thought it was a bit rude but they are very busy. She put down the phone and beamed up at me.

“Can I help you?”

I was surprised because I always see the same person. I know she deals with hundreds of people a day but I thought she might recognise me especially as I am the wife of such a celebrity.

“Yes, please. I am Marianne Renfrew, the wife of Martin Renfrew?” I paused to see if she seemed to have any recollection. She beamed back fixedly.

“Yes indeed,” she said and looked to her right. “And here he is,” she said looking delighted.

And there he was. My Martin Renfrew coming down the stairs in his immaculate suit, white shirt and blue tie. He looked down and adjusted the cuff of his shirt as he came across the shiny floor to where I stood.

I had my mouth open to say “Darling,” but something was not right. I was looking straight into his eyes. He was no taller than I was. That was wrong. He should be at least a head taller. All our intimate moments came back to me in a flash. As I held him I always had to look up to him. I had to tilt my head back to let him kiss me. And his face! The skin of his face was covered in a light dusting of powder, his eyes had the faintest shadow of brown on the lids and the lashes, his long dreamy lashes, were touched with mascara. I felt faint.

“So you are the note lady are you?” He said in an unpleasantly sneering voice. He turned to the receptionist and waived as if giving some kind of signal. I became aware that two uniformed men stood either side of me.

“Please come this way,” one of them said.

I looked appealingly at Martin but he was already walking away. They led me into an office. They were not unkind but they were very firm. They took my name, address and telephone number. Then they phoned my father. Miss Jessop was there of course and said she would come and fetch me.

I am not allowed to go into the ASN offices any more but that's OK. All that is over now. Relationships end, that's the way of the world. It was good while it lasted but really I had to reject him. Ultimately he was not what I wanted and I found all that cultural stuff a bit ponderous.

I have been watching a game show with father. The host is wonderful: Danny DeWitt, very sexy and so quick-witted. He wears such a variety of clothes it must take hours to get him ready for a show. I wonder what he eats, nothing too rich. He is slim and agile. I bet he eats lots of fish. Maybe I'll try a bouillabaisse. I think he would have a wife called Daisy. Daisy DeWitt. Hasn't that got a ring to it? She would be pretty, maybe a former dancer or model. I can see how it would all fit together.

“Beryl, have you taken your pill?”

“Don't do that. I hate that name. I'm Daisy now and you know I never take pills.”