Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Chapter Four)

To fill in a 'slight' gap in my story so far, in between moving to Norfolk and having a baby we settled into our new life, started a business and eventually made some friends, including a gallery owner whose aquaintance the Artist made one wet, Saturday afternoon. He was (and probably still is) tall, dark and handsome, and until you get to know him better, quite charming. Not long after we also met his girlfriend who seemed very nice too - at first. It soon became apparent that all was not well.
Within an alarmingly short amount of time our friendship had blossomed, which was a little disconcerting for an ex-Londoner like myself. In London you allow a decent period of 'acquaintanceship' to pass before you progress to the next level of 'friendship' - after all, you can't be too careful. You don't want to end up being stalked by a psychopath, and let's be honest, there's plenty of 'em. But that's London, we're in the country now, let's throw caution to the wind! Big mistake. One minute we're discussing the weather, the next, Gallery-Man's telling us the first of many sorry tales of his relationship dramas; every row, every item she'd ever thrown at him (and clearly missed), every reconciliation, and every final ending, including the last.
And so our friendship continued as we received our weekly (and sometimes daily) instalments of his life's dramas which were both gripping and irritating - a bit like tuning into a soap opera. Sometimes the characters and storylines are ridiculous and infuriating, but you know you have to tune in the following week for the next episode. Unfortunately it all became rather one-sided.
Gallery-Man, "Hi guys, how are you?"
Us,"Hi, well ok, but ...."
Gallery-Man, "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah ...guess what I did/said/ate/bought?"
And so would follow a full and detailed description of his latest conquest, fabulous meal he'd cooked, how much money he'd made and what he'd spent it on (usually a boat or a watch).
I have to say, in all honesty that there probably were moments of envy (depending on whether or not we believed him or else suspected he was having a Walter Mitty moment), but generally it became quite dull, as does any one-sided conversation. For as we all know, friendship is about give and take, about listening, about kindness and about sharing. The sharing certainly was not a problem. He was generous to a fault, and once even appeared with a new set of saucepans for me because he thought mine were looking a bit old and past it. I was partly offended but obviously grateful for such a sweet gesture. I never did get rid of the old pans though - I think pans are like jeans, the more worn in (or out) the better. And since we've had a new kitchen I have a lot more space for my pan collection so I didn't need to get rid of the old ones on the basis of lack of room in the cupboards, and when I do Christmas dinner I never ever run out of pans, because let's face it, by the time you do the brussel sprouts, the potatoes, the parsnips, the carrots, the peas, the mange tout, the broccoli (ok, perhaps I do go a bit overboard with the vegetables but its so nice to have a choice, and I make a fabulous bubble and squeak with the left-overs on Boxing day), the gravy, the Christmas pudding (I don't think it's the same done in the microwave), that's an awful lot of saucepans needed isn't it? Saves a lot of extra washing up as we go along, and gives the dishwasher something to do while we're opening the presents and drinking the Bristol Cream. Anyway, as usual I'm getting distracted. Back to the story. You may have realised by now that it is now, alas an ex-friendship but you'll never guess why. To be honest I can hardly believe it myself.
When I was very visibly pregnant (at least 6 months), we had a get-together in a restaurant for his birthday with several of his friends, his children, the Artist, our son, me AND the new girlfriend, who will be known as Dora (not her real name, of course). She was a bit gorgeous and bore more than a passing resemblance to the actress, Amanda Donahoe, apart from her gothy, black frizzy hair which I mention just to be bitchy. You will see later that she deserves it (and more), and that I am an angel for not saying worse. We all tried to be friendly, which she most definitely was not. She spent most of the evening sitting far away from us in the 'smoking area' (if you are reading this several years in the future, this may sound very dated and hard to imagine, when smoking will no doubt be banned from everywhere except a special sealed room in your own house and squashed fag butts on the pavement nothing but a distant memory). As it happens, since I have been writing this tale (obviously a tad slowly), there is a no-smoking ban in all public places, so not only am I a lazy writer, I am also a psychic.
Anyway, the evening ended on a slightly friendlier note, or so I thought, until Gallery-Man called me the next day. "Hi, its me!" Obviously we didn't get many calls at this time so I immediately knew who it was. He went on to tell me that the antisocial, deranged Dora thought that we were having an affair, and worse still, that she 'knew' the baby was his. Yes, that's right. My baby. And the Artist's baby. He admitted that she was a bit mad, but was fairly sure he'd pursuaded her that her ludicrous, delusional rantings were just, simple delusional rantings and nothing more. A few days later I had a chance to see for myself, just how convinced she was. Bonfire night is a bit of an event in these parts, and in one particular place the villagers all dress up in strange, spooky costumes, parading the streets (both of them) with burning torches, until setting alight a pile of timber large enough to be seen in Australia. Clearly Health and Safety laws do not apply here. We were invited to join Gallery-Man, his kids and, more importantly, Dora. We had our reservations, but thought we'd give it a try. We all met, smiled and said hello - so far, so good. The kids ran off nearer the fire to 'get a better view', and the Artist chatted to Gallery-Man, while Dora with her black, gothy frizzy hair who was looking decidedly witchy, and her girfriend sized me up - not hard considering my girth at this point. The girlfriend didn't actually speak but just glared, while Dora smiled and laughed through gritted teeth. And all the while I smiled and laughed and knew, like any woman who's watched Fatal Attraction knows, he'd found himself a bunny-boiler.
The Artist and Gallery-Man watched us smiling and laughing and thought that all was well - Men have no idea. Not surprisingly the witch and her assistant soon moved far away from our merry little group, to no doubt concoct a spell to make me disappear at the very least, or at best to die a grisly death on top of the pyre. I do believe that was the very last time we socialised together. Yes, who says life in the country is dull.