Paul Dale

She came in to the living room. A cup of tea was waiting for her on the Tunisian iron mosaic coffee table (£250 African Arts). I’d heard her efforts to park on our hill and got the kettle on while she ground gears back and forth. In the first week of her having moved in I had offered on three successive days to park for her — it is a steep and narrow road — but she had refused. For me it wasn’t a gender issue. I scratched the front bumper on the wall opposite the house when I tried to swing the car in, until I got the knack. After ten years I was practiced, but Ali refused my tips.

She smiled at the sight of the tea, came over, proffered her cheek, and sat down. She picked up her cup deliberately and cast her eye over the room. My silence had already aroused her suspicion. I snuggled in close to her.

‘How was class?’

‘Interesting.’ She continued her appraisal of the room. ‘We’re looking at Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring. Fascinating painting.’

At first all she could see were the results of her efforts to change the house from mine to ours: mirrored Indian wall hanging (£60 Tumi), iron elephant wall pieces (£30 same place), pale yellow printed curtains that continued the subcontinent theme (£23 a yard, thirteen yards, work it out), and a sandalwood phone table (£60 forget where) next to my favourite old Chinese sofa (now draped in a throw to hide its tawdriness). Then she came to the previously empty, skimmed plaster wall above the television (anything bigger than 28’ would dominate the room).

‘Brian, what’s that?’ she asked.

‘A bargain,’ I replied avoiding the facetious answer that had been lying in wait (a painting). ‘Seventy quid from Barney. He might be famous one day and it could become worth a lot more.’

She hated it on first sight.