âDonât worry,â she said, raising her eyes to heaven like a scolded child. âIâll be kind.â
He leaned over the bed and gave her a kiss. This was how he loved Joy. Wearing not a scrap of make-up she looked so sweet and innocent, like an ordinary girl. He felt close to her when she was relaxed like this. When she had finished eating, Joy would get up, shower, dress, then transform herself with clothes and make-up into âJoy Fitzpatrickâ, his impeccable, socialite wife. He preferred Joy natural but knew she couldnât go about her life looking, or indeed being, like that. That was not who she was. Frank was the only one allowed the privilege of knowing the real Joy, and so he cherished these early mornings alone with her.
While she was in the bathroom Frank drained his wifeâs teacup and grimaced at all the sugar.
Five years into their marriage he should know how his wife took her tea. After all, it was still just the two of them and that was a bitter blow for Frank.
Frank had never especially wanted, or intended, to become a rich man; he had certainly never sought the kind of glamorous limelight into which his wife had put him. Frank had been driven forward less by ambition and more by a fear of falling back into the poverty of his childhood, but he had always aspired to an ordinary home life. Children, more than wealth, had been a part of his dreams. The opportunity to make good on his own painful upbringing.
Frank had earned all the money he needed to live life as he wanted it, for the rest of his days, but the other aspect of ordinariness, the sense of family and security, had evaded him. Joy was wonderful in many ways but she was a woman to whom the word âordinaryâ was anathema.
Frankâs initial disappointment at not being a father had given way to a quiet resignation. He had a good life, plenty of money and a beautiful wife, and he tried to focus on that. If he was sad about not being a father, he hid it well from everyone. Even â indeed mostly â from himself.
However, he knew that Joy felt his disappointment as her own failing. Nobody blamed him for their childlessness. Joy was the one they were all looking at and talking about behind her back. That was why, he believed, his wife remained so caught up in proving herself with all the clothes and parties. It was also, Frank believed, why Joy drank too much sometimes. Motherhood had not come to soften the sharp-edged vanity of her youth. Only he knew the Joy that still lay beneath the couture and the make-up.
âOh, by the way, I ordered another piece of art yesterday, a perfectly ghastly abstract thing by Bauer.â
âWhy do you keep buying paintings you donât like?â Frank asked, calling down to Jones to bring them up coffee.
âI know. The poor manâs been dead three years but she keeps pushing his work on us. Sheâs convinced he was brilliant, itâs just that our plebeian tastes arenât refined enough to see it yet. She knows whatâs sheâs talking about I suppose. She is Guggenheimâs eyes after all.â
âI suppose it cost a fortune?â
âI paid for it myself.â
Frank smarted. âI wish you wouldnât keep buying expensive things without consulting me first.â
Joyâs independent wealth bothered Frank. Without a womanâs dependence a man could not gain the full respect of his wife or, indeed, exert any authority over her. Joy had her motherâs fortune still tucked away somewhere in a bank vault to draw on. She didnât need Frankâs money â ergo, she did not need Frank. It wasnât normal.
âSorry, darling, it was an impulse thing. Donât worry, itâs not very big so we can pop it in a corner. Hilla Rebay talked me into it. Honestly, I donât know how she keeps selling me her friendsâ work. She is such a charmless bore, I donât know how Guggenheim puts up with
He leaned over the bed and gave her a kiss. This was how he loved Joy. Wearing not a scrap of make-up she looked so sweet and innocent, like an ordinary girl. He felt close to her when she was relaxed like this. When she had finished eating, Joy would get up, shower, dress, then transform herself with clothes and make-up into âJoy Fitzpatrickâ, his impeccable, socialite wife. He preferred Joy natural but knew she couldnât go about her life looking, or indeed being, like that. That was not who she was. Frank was the only one allowed the privilege of knowing the real Joy, and so he cherished these early mornings alone with her.
While she was in the bathroom Frank drained his wifeâs teacup and grimaced at all the sugar.
Five years into their marriage he should know how his wife took her tea. After all, it was still just the two of them and that was a bitter blow for Frank.
Frank had never especially wanted, or intended, to become a rich man; he had certainly never sought the kind of glamorous limelight into which his wife had put him. Frank had been driven forward less by ambition and more by a fear of falling back into the poverty of his childhood, but he had always aspired to an ordinary home life. Children, more than wealth, had been a part of his dreams. The opportunity to make good on his own painful upbringing.
Frank had earned all the money he needed to live life as he wanted it, for the rest of his days, but the other aspect of ordinariness, the sense of family and security, had evaded him. Joy was wonderful in many ways but she was a woman to whom the word âordinaryâ was anathema.
Frankâs initial disappointment at not being a father had given way to a quiet resignation. He had a good life, plenty of money and a beautiful wife, and he tried to focus on that. If he was sad about not being a father, he hid it well from everyone. Even â indeed mostly â from himself.
However, he knew that Joy felt his disappointment as her own failing. Nobody blamed him for their childlessness. Joy was the one they were all looking at and talking about behind her back. That was why, he believed, his wife remained so caught up in proving herself with all the clothes and parties. It was also, Frank believed, why Joy drank too much sometimes. Motherhood had not come to soften the sharp-edged vanity of her youth. Only he knew the Joy that still lay beneath the couture and the make-up.
âOh, by the way, I ordered another piece of art yesterday, a perfectly ghastly abstract thing by Bauer.â
âWhy do you keep buying paintings you donât like?â Frank asked, calling down to Jones to bring them up coffee.
âI know. The poor manâs been dead three years but she keeps pushing his work on us. Sheâs convinced he was brilliant, itâs just that our plebeian tastes arenât refined enough to see it yet. She knows whatâs sheâs talking about I suppose. She is Guggenheimâs eyes after all.â
âI suppose it cost a fortune?â
âI paid for it myself.â
Frank smarted. âI wish you wouldnât keep buying expensive things without consulting me first.â
Joyâs independent wealth bothered Frank. Without a womanâs dependence a man could not gain the full respect of his wife or, indeed, exert any authority over her. Joy had her motherâs fortune still tucked away somewhere in a bank vault to draw on. She didnât need Frankâs money â ergo, she did not need Frank. It wasnât normal.
âSorry, darling, it was an impulse thing. Donât worry, itâs not very big so we can pop it in a corner. Hilla Rebay talked me into it. Honestly, I donât know how she keeps selling me her friendsâ work. She is such a charmless bore, I donât know how Guggenheim puts up with
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