THE EYE OF THE NEEDLE(Jane Lockyer Willis) EYE OF THE NEEDLE
by Jane Lockyer Willis


Last month, Justin sold his painting for over a million pounds.

His mistress will get some of the perks, you can bet your bottom dollar. I try not to be bitter, after all Penny and I are friends, of sort. How, you may ask, can you possibly be a friend to your husband’s mistress? Well, you can. Not always easy, I admit, but not impossible. And the great advantage is that you get to know things. Oh yes. I’m nobody’s fool. Besides, Justin and I get on quite well in an unconjugal kind of way. He’d be loathe to leave the marriage; its comforts, our arguments and my cooking. No, we rub along well enough. Does this frustrate Penny? I’ll say!

Justin prides himself on his art-work. He’s painted abstracts for as long as I’ve known him. I can’t say that I particularly like them, but then I’m bordering on conservatism and my preferences lean towards landscapes, seascapes and portraits with features in the right places. Whereas Justin will take canvas, brushes and oils and let himself go. Quite scary. He’ll arrive at dinner with a wild look in his eyes, his iron grey hair all over the place and clothes splattered in paint. He doesn’t bother to change, he’s too distracted. His abstract pictures match his abstract thinking, and interpretations vary accordingly. But he sells and puts food on the table, so who am I to criticise?

Anyway, that’s enough about him for the minute. I’m more concerned with what he’s going to do with the money, the most he’s ever made, and this time I’m determined to prevent Penny from reaping the benefits. After thirty years of marital tolerance, it’s my turn. I’m thinking: a world cruise, some half decent clothes, a face lift and a house makeover.
I phone Penny to give her the good news. Of course, she’ll already know. Justin will have got there first, but it gives me an excuse to delve.
‘What will Justin do with all that money?’ she asks, the ever innocent.
‘Buy more paints, I expect.’ Quirky response.
Penny knows me. I know her. And whilst regarding each other with maximum suspicion, this mutual deceit links us in a strange way.
‘Will you divorce him, Felicity?’
She dares ask me that!
‘No, Penny! Not with this new injection of cash. Why, do you want him?’
‘Not to marry, darling. No.’
Liar.
‘Very wise Penny. He’d be off again soon as the ring was on your finger.’
‘Oh, Felicity! You’ve been a gem all this time. Putting up with us.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
I send a vocal smile over the line whilst sticking a pin into Penny’s left ear. I keep a photo of her hidden in the kitchen drawer with a box of pins by the side.
‘We must be civilised, mustn’t we, Penny? And Justin is so his own man. We both know that. He’s brought you up to date, I take it.’
‘Ehm, a quick call to tell me the wonderful news. But nothing more. As yet.’
‘What do you mean, nothing more. As yet? What more do you want?’
She’s up to something.
‘Did I say Nothing more. As yet?’
‘Yes, you did. You most certainly did.’
‘Darling Felicity, there’s my doorbell. Must fly. Lovely to chat.’
Click, the receiver down.
I stick another pin into her slim, graceful chin. ‘Double chin! Double quick!’ I snarl. I’ve cast so many spells over that woman I could qualify as a witch.

A ring at the door. A reporter and photographer cluttered and flustered with their equipment inform that they’ve come for the interview. There’s been much publicity made over this abstract bought by a private buyer. The phone’s rung non-stop: interviews booked, pictures taken. Even a slot on the telly. All fuss and prestige for Justin. Well, good for him, I say.

Friday morning and the air is tense with excitement. The purchaser, Felix Parry-Smythe, is calling any minute to collect the abstract. I shall answer the door. As Justin’s wife, I’m entitled to be in on this. You bet ya!

There’s the crunch of gravel. A black Ferrari, shiny and sleek, cruises up our drive. Very nice. Felix Parry-Smythe steps out of the driver’s seat: Tall, grey haired, strong featured, suited. A city type. He looks up at the house: a modern, distinctive but ugly building. Justin, unlike me, likes austere lines with minimum curves. Even Penny is straight up and down.
A ring at the door. I answer and we exchange pleasantries. Justin, hovering in the background, now steps forward, takes over. His presence, his voice, fills the hall with unfettered energy.
Felix Parry-Smythe takes a deep breath and lets it be known that this is an unprecedented moment, one he’s been waiting for all his adult life. A rehearsed but rather sweet speech. I warm to him. Justin smiles with satisfied indulgence. The money’s safely in his bank account. He can afford to smile.
He escorts Felix to his studio. Last night Justin had cleared the decks of brushes, canvases and general debris so as to throw the picture into high relief. There it stands on his tall easel: Large. Intense. Dramatic. Justin has named it, L’oeil de Polypheme, and the canvas measures thirty six inches by forty eight. I must say that it made me shiver whenever I looked at that strange eye set against a vivid blue background. Menacing. Gave me the shivers. Glad it’s going, to tell you the truth.

I think that I’d better make some coffee for the chaps. The thought’s hardly entered my head when a blood curdling scream stops me in my track.
Felix Parry-Smythe, white faced and tense, flings open the studio door and rushes into the hall. He looks desperately around as though unsure what to do. I proffer a chair. He collapses onto it, takes out an immaculate white handkerchief, and giving it a single shake buries his face into it.
I run for the brandy bottle. He removes the handkerchief, takes the filled glass and gulps it down with one swig whilst Justin, following in his wake, stands by helpless. He turns to me.
‘Who’s done this!’
‘Done what, Justin?’
‘The painting!’
‘What about the painting?’
‘Someone’s gouged out the eye.’
‘No!’
‘Someone’s been into my studio, taken a sharp object, ripped out the eye and thrown it into my waste paper bin. One big hole. A gaping abstract. The canvas wrecked. The abstract wrecked. Oh my God! The eye was the whole point of the painting.’
‘Was it?’
‘Of course it was,’ he thunders. ‘L’oeil de Polypheme.’
‘Don’t shout, Justin. I’ve had the blooming thing stare at me for the last three months.’
‘No, well you never take much interest, do you?’
‘That’s not fair. I did my research. Odysseus was captured by the one eyed Polyphemus on his return from Troy.’
‘Not now! I know the story, for God’s Sake.’
‘And to escape, Odysseus plied Polyphemus with wine.’
He stares at me as though I’m mad.
‘And while Polyphemus slept, jabbed a burning stake into his eye,’ I finish proudly.
‘You didn’t do it, did you?’
‘What! How dare you, Justin! No, I did not.’
He runs his hands through his hair.
‘I’ve lost the sale. He’s lost the picture. Everything’s ruined.’
And leaning over the inert Felix Parry-Smythe and addressing his left ear:
‘I can’t imagine how this happened. Someone must have got into the house last night whilst we slept. You will, of course, have your money refunded. I’ll make a bank transfer immediately.’
Felix Parry- Smythe nods, returns the handkerchief to his pocket. Getting to his feet, he straightens his back, shakes Justin by the hand, and walks to the front door. A minute later we hear the engine purr into life and away he drives never to be seen again.

And so that was that. The police were called but so far they’ve not found the perpetrator. No obvious break-in, no locks broken. The cut marks produced when removing the eye were apparently caused by a jagged edged implement.
Jason, as promised, reimbursed his client the million pounds and on a fine sunny day, took the defaced canvas into the garden, lit a bonfire and burnt it. He’s always enjoyed ceremony and ritual. Whenever an opportunity arises, he performs one. Even our ancient goldfish received the last rites.

With all the excitement over, I’ve decided to occupy myself, by returning to dress making. I enjoy sewing, find it restful and discovered recently several good patterns to work from. I've been looking for those pinking shears that Penny lent me a few months ago but can’t find them anywhere. I think I’ve given them back to her. What a nuisance. Their saw-toothed blades prevent fraying and are such a useful tool to have in one’s sewing basket. Oh well, never mind.

A month has past and we’ve finally settled into our usual, old routines. Justin is painting a new canvas, a spot of cubism this time. Again, it’s not my sort of thing but he seems quite chuffed, thus encouraging harmony on the domestic front. He’s also, for some reason, been far more attentive to me of late; dinner outings and the odd theatre date. My new home-made dresses come into their own. Oh, and he doesn’t mention Penny either. Curious that. Perhaps the pins are finally working.

You know, it’s strange how one can fixate on a tune or a remark. Penny’s words, 'Nothing more. As yet' niggles me. Did she mean that Justin was preparing a surprise for her? Were they planning to take things further? Was a divorce on the cards? Or perhaps he was about to give her a hugely expensive gift. I haven’t seen her for a while and as Justin has thrown himself into his latest artistic work, I doubt that he has either. His dedication to new projects is admirable. Off with the old and on with the new, that’s his ethos.
Poor Penny. I understand my husband. She does not. That’s the nub of it all. It can take thirty years, a lifetime to recognise one’s partner. She seems unable to grasp the fact that Justin and I are a real couple, steeped in marital tradition: T’il death us do part.’ and all that. I know that more than anything, Penny would like him for herself. And it needles her. Oh yes. Under that sophisticated, seasoned, indifferent front she is supremely jealous of me.

Today I’m clearing out one of the cupboards in Justin’s studio. He’s gone to an auction at Sotheby’s. I wouldn’t normally interfere but there’s some of my stuff in there: a pair of old shoes and a couple of pretty scarves that I’d like back. Sometimes he uses my materials in his artwork. After I’ve finished I sweep my hand across the darkened shelf to check that it’s cleared. It touches something cold and hard. A key. Our front door key. What’s a front door key doing on a dark shelf in Justin’s cupboard? Then I see the tab with the letter P in bold black ink. Penny! She must have been given a key to the house. Really Justin! A step too far, I think.
I toss the thing into the air, deep in thought. A smile begins to play on my lips. Why hasn't she got the key? What’s it doing here? Could it be that she’s given it back to Justin and if so, does this mean that the affair has finally ended? Dare I hope? Things certainly seem more agreeable between us of late. Quite a bit more agreeable actually.
Leaving the studio, I walk into the kitchen, open the drawer and remove Penny’s photo and the box of pins.
I look at her picture one last time: at her face, with the self-satisfied smile, and her slim, well dressed figure. All that misplaced confidence. Poor, hapless Penny, so long sailing in uncharted waters.
I tear the picture into tiny bits, and along with the pins, tip them into the bin.
' Nothing more. As yet,' finally makes sense.
The picture, the eye and Penny’s revenge.

THE END
Fiction c: Jane Lockyer Willis 20200 https://playsbyjanelockyerwillis.co.uk/

---