Giving

lang="EN-GB" style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">Sitting at the bottom of
these stairs I feel like a child again, partly because they are so wide
the perspective does something strange to my size, and partly because
not since I was a child have I been so sure of receiving more than I
could ever return. It didn't bother me back then though, I expected it,
now it jars me. The cold of the marble is seeping through my trousers
like wetness. 
I have often wondered why my most whale-like and blubbery
feature is so prone to the cold, I always seem to get a chilly bum
first, even before my fingers. Bad circulation butt, sounds like an
indie band.

class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">But I don't get up, I am determined to
wait here so he can't creep up on me and catch me before I have
prepared my good reaction
face.

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class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">The first year he bought me a car; and a
pair of shoes. I loved the car, we were in the first flush of our
romance and it had seemed so grand a gesture, a declaration of his love
with heated seats, (I see a theme developing here.) That was before I
realised that the presents are too often gestures, now the thrill has
worn down because every argument has ended in a sweeping apology and a
gift of some sort. 
Expensive, thoughtless and
tasteful.

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class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">The shoes were different; they were 1950
vintage cr?me and black with a round toe and high heel, they sang of
class like Coco Channel or Jackie O and they were a perfect fit. I
loved those shoes more than any other present I have ever
received.  I
thought they proved that he understood me; that he saw who I really was
inside. But they were the last glimpse of understanding I have
seen.  Since
then every gift has had the secretarial stamp all over it, and although
I am thankful to her for learning my style and saving me from
embarrassment, I long to see some comprehension of what gifts can be.
Those shoes were an insight that I cling to now; they proved he was
more than money and power, that there was a man in there who knew who I
was.

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class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">When we met everyone assumed I was after
his money, a poor artist only just beginning to gain
recognition. 
But I knew what I stood to lose from that money was at
least as much as I gained. 
I had worked hard to be recognised in my field (a field of
artists: what an awfully over opinionated patch of grass that would
be?) and now I am seen only as the lady-friend of a rich man. I no
longer struggle and my wealth hasn't come from selling paintings, so I
fall between the cracks in the opinions of the critics. I still sell my
work but I hear the snide comments flying around behind me, like black
moths flickering around the light money
creates.

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class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">I was a known feminist too; I worked hard
all my life to prove what women can achieve, I was proud, too proud to
be a kept woman. But what do you do if you fall in love with a man who
is wealthy, demand to live apart? Force him to join you in Brixton? You
would do what I have done, be delighted not to struggle any longer and
bite down on your higher moral values in favour of love and paying the
bills.  But it
gets harder, more isolating everyday and I am sick of people looking at
me as if I had just vacuumed up a fairy every time I step out of the
limo.

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class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">But not today, today is my day. My
birthday! Although I don't think I can claim much credit for the birth
bit I have done my best to bring the rest this far without tragedy or
incident.  The
door opens and he walks in, he is an amazing looking man, slightly
asymmetrical but that adds to his charm. It was his looks that snared
me first, but it was his drive that really reeled me in. He has more
energy than a barrel of puppies at feeding time and is generally just
as pleased to see me. 
That is infectious and I feel my mood lifting, this always
happens, I am determined to leave him some days and then he comes home
and whoosh, I am sky high and fighting for breath at the altitude. He
knows he is attractive but dismisses it as irrelevant, like my birth an
achievement we can only thank our parents for. style="mso-spacerun: yes">  But shallow as a
puddle, I still swoon sometimes when I look at him. Yes, swoon, I know
it isn't in vogue for feminists to swoon, but what other word describes
so well that feeling when just looking at someone else can snag your
breathing and flip the contents of your
stomach?

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class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">No time for swooning now though I am too
concerned by the parcel that follows him in. style="mso-spacerun: yes">  It is much larger than
the man carrying it and obscures him almost completely. style="mso-spacerun: yes">  I know instantly what
it is; large flat and thin, a painting. This is dangerous ground we
don't go to galleries together any longer, (not since I threw the audio
guide at him in the Tate Modern) - how can he know what I would like?
He stands behind me with his arms around my waist as I start to unwrap
and it I feel my heart sink remembering that I mentioned to Katherine,
his secretary, an exhibition I had liked. But as I pull back the paper
the emotion catches in my throat and I can't speak. I don't need to
unwrap it any further, I know it too well. I should do; it is as
familiar to me as my own child, which in effect it is. I painted it as
a student and sold it for a pittance to pay the rent. I don't care what
he paid for it, or where he found it, all I care about is the proof,
like the shoes, that the money isn't what we are about, that he does
see who I am and loves me. I turn around and hop up on to a stair so I
can be taller than him and hug him properly, enfold him and breathe in
the familiar sent of my life here in his hair. Reassured for another
day that the trade off is worth it. Cold bum, rich man, and a painting
of a pair of shoes.

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