I'm 49; an artist, photographer, owner and manager of a small ego. My studio is in the renovated barn of my inheritance: a rambling collection of farmhouse and associated buildings in rural Norfolk. The farm had been in my family's hands since the 1700s. My father had run it as a mixed arable and dairy concern and I had worked on it as only a farmer's child can until I went to college to study art, having found a skill and calling introduced and encouraged by my mother.
Both my parents had passed on 15 years ago and left me the farm, which, at first, had been the last thing I had wanted. Three years at college, two years travelling the world, photographing, drawing, painting, growing an audience and a reputation, then getting married to Sophie, having a son, Joe, building a small but profitable freelance career in London… at 34 I was not best placed to come home to Norfolk and run a farm.
Arriving home after my mother's funeral, six months after my father's, Sophie and I had sat down in the lovely rambling house and thought about what to do. Loved the place. Just
couldn't
sell it. Loved the country. Running a farm would leave no time for art – which paid me well. Being an artist would leave no time for running a farm – which would pay me well, but would tie me to the same back-breaking grindstone of life that had worn my father down into an early grave.
So, we sold the farmland, splitting it evenly between the two neighbouring farms, retaining a couple of acres around the farmhouse. I used the money to renovate the large brick-built barn into a studio and offices and have a large, walled garden built around the back to grow vegetables and fruit, with a conservatory along the entire length of the back of the house. Sophie managed the landscaping of the rest to provide an oasis of beauty. I retained the two farmhands as full-time gardeners to work for Sophie in the gardens. They appreciated the change to regular hours on better pay and the gardens matured quickly to a stunning setting.
It worked.
I bought an Aston Martin. It worked … most of the time.
Joe grew up with everything a boy could want. He was bright, personable, relaxed, gregarious, athletic and the joy of our lives. And he had a dad with an Aston Martin.
Sophie was beautiful. I'd met her when she was in a group of models for a shoot I had done for an airline marketing brochure. Tall, lovely figure, a sense of humour so dry that Bond, James Bond would have drunk it shaken not stirred. I clicked, we clicked, we wed.
Seven years ago she had been driving down the motorway to London to see her parents when an articulated lorry had crossed the central reservation in front of her.
Joe and I had gone through a difficult time. Being a rural community we had few close friends. Most of my childhood friends had moved on in life away from Norfolk. The few friends Sophie and I had had were in London. Joe went to the school in the nearby town, but there was little or no community in the nearby village anymore. I struggled to cope through his teenage years – money was tight, as I couldn't do assignments away from home. We bumbled through.
I never managed, or really made any effort to meet other women with a view to a serious relationship. It just never seemed appropriate. I had brief bouts of fun sex with the occasional willing model, but these were always kept on a no-commitment basis. Joe had a fun time, certainly as he grew through his late teens, aware of the constant stream of lovelies that passed through the studio and farmhouse kitchen for lunch or the occasional dinner.
Joe did his GCSEs, A-levels and went off to Edinburgh to do civil engineering. He came home, helped out whilst searching for a job. On his first job he met Kate, the marketing assistant of the architect's office he was working with. Just like me and Sophie, it was love at first sight and they were married within six months.
Impoverished and unable to afford a property of their own, they moved in to the farmhouse with me. It was so large we easily converted it into two self-contained dwellings – them upstairs and me downstairs, with the large kitchen, dining room and conservatory being communal areas that I used and we all could attend when they wished. It generally worked out that I cooked and we ate when they came home and chilled together downstairs. I was happy. I was glad to have my son and his wife with me.
Kate is 26; smart, funny, full of life, athletic, and, despite being in marketing, she's thoughtful, unpretentious and interesting to talk to. She's also drop-dead gorgeous in a Raquel-Welch-is-the-girl-next-door way. Thick, wavy dark-brown hair, huge brown eyes, perfect nose, full lips, slim neck, broad, square shoulders, full boobs, slim waist, trim hips and long, lean legs. What on earth possessed Joe to marry her?
Despite her obvious flaws, we got on well.
Six months ago, Joe got a job in Dubai. A two-year contract paying silly money that would give him a deposit on a house and a partnership in his firm.
Having cleared up after Francesca left I locked up the barn and walked across the yard to the house. Kate was in the kitchen, unpacking the dishwasher as I came in and hooked the barn key in the keysafe. She turned sharply round to face me.
"Oh, Ben, look, I'm terribly sorry about interrupting you. So embarrassing – I can't think what your model must have thought."
I smiled "Don't worry, she was fine. Actually, for someone who's not a professional model she was brilliant."
"She was
stunning
! What a body!" she paused, caught my quizzical look and shrugged "Well, she has. Who is she?"
I grabbed a pint glass from the dresser and ambled across to the pantry.
"Well, that's refreshing – you truly are the rarest of beings: a woman who can admit another woman is gorgeous without making a derogatory qualifier. Her husband is a city slicker who wants to have her portrait on their bedroom wall."
"Ah …" eyebrows arched " … 'her husband is …' … doesn't she have her own identity?"
Pouring myself a pint of home-brew from the current barrel I realised the crassness of my comment.
"Ouch. Yes, I suppose she does, but I know nothing about her other than she's
Mrs
Francesca Farr-Hopkins."
"Hmm. Despite the looks, she didn't look like an air-headed trophy wife."
"No, most definitely not."
"Anyway, as I was saying, I've got the tickets for Les Mis tomorrow, matinee, so we can go to the National Portrait Gallery and then have a meal afterwards – there's a nice little tapas restaurant near Goodge Street I've heard good things about – mummy loved it."
"Not planned this at all then?"
She looked nonplussed for a moment. "Silly man. I'm taking you to London … "
