Staring at their sitter for long periods of time, artists often unconsciously absorb their muses fragile personalities, the artist James Donoghue was no exception.

How many thousands of stories have begun with the line, hello my name is X, and I’m an alcoholic? Thousands? Millions? In my case, it’s a suitable opener, it’s a fact. Hello, I am Alex, and I am an alcoholic.

It always seems like an odd thing to say as an intro because I no longer am. I haven’t had a drink for nine months, two days, six hours and—you get the picture. I don’t mean to sound facetious, the dates are important, they are part of the alcoholic’s healing strategy. The boozing started on account of my beloved husband being a sociopathic nightmare. Quite a well-known one too.

James worked in the theatre as a set designer when I met him. So handsome and popular, you practically had to apply in writing to get a date with him. With no intention of joining the orderly queue of slavering rivals, I played the ‘I’m not interested card’—a refined poker-faced attitude with no hope therefore of a royal flush.

For a while, I tagged along on dates, the friend of a friend of a friend. Billie no mates. Finally, I cashed in my chips, and James and I became a thing, a very complicated thing, the motherboard of relationships. But still, as I’d anticipated, no one had ever made me feel so alive as James did.

Dating must be quite complicated now, what with all the tricky personal pronouns to navigate. Is there some kind of multiple-choice Coming Out Exam, a Gay Level awareness test?

Question 1. Peter, Georgie and Andrew are travelling to Edinburgh. Peter is drinking a can of Special Brew, Georgie is drinking Mung Bean Juice whilst she’s ogling the waitress (pardon the unavoidable sexist title), and Andrew is sipping a tankard of Speckled Cock. Apply the following appropriate personal pronoun to each of the group. A. He, B. Her, C. They, D. We, E. Him or F. (my version written in the margin) Whatever they prefer, I don’t make assumptions.

James enjoyed creating fantasy settings for actors to inhabit. It was emblematic of the way James manipulated his circle of friends. He was the director they were his willing performers. His fame as a portrait artist kicked off after he won the coveted BP Portrait Award. Shortly after, we took up residence in Dante’s ninth circle of hell.

It was an exciting time; James became ‘much sought-after’. According to the critics, who loved him at the time, his speciality was the way he skilfully interpreted his sitter’s personalities into paint ‘warts and all’. It was often said by art critics that his portraits had lives of their own and owning a James Donoghue canvas is like having a personal relationship with the subject. A sort of Dorian Gray Twilight Zone kind of concept. Frankly, I haven’t a clue what any of it means.

Twenty-two years we’ve been together. We got married in 2018. There we were beneath an arch of white roses. All the guests wore white too. The sun shone brightly in the azure blue sky and shimmered on the cool blue water of the Mediterranean. It was a perfect day.

Rewind Alex.

It was so not like that. We ‘popped’ down the road to the Chelsea Registry Office with two friends in tow. The sky was as grey and depressing as my first school uniform, and by the time the ‘ceremony’ was over it was pissing down on the King’s Road.

James had ordered a limo to take us to Orso in Covent Garden, where we ate a delicious lunch and drank our body weight in champagne. It really was a perfect day. So perfect was it that on the way home in the cab, for yet more champagne, we sang Lou Reed’s Perfect Day. Well, we just annoyed the driver by repeating the chorus, we were too pissed to remember all the words.

It seemed a natural thing to do; we love each other, and marriage makes all the finance stuff easier. I’ll let James explain—enjoy this romantic interlude.

“We need to do it before the fucking God squad persuades the government to change the rules on same-sex marriage. Once we’re married, they’ll have to fucking live with it. Then it’s legal, no turning back, so God has no fucking jurisdiction. Also, if I croak, which as you know will never happen, you’ll get everything so fuck the lot of them. There’s no need for a big fuss Alex. We just go to the Off Licence sign a bit of paper and bolloks to everyone!”

That, dear reader, was his delicately improvised, romantic proposal of marriage.

James has a notoriously poetic way with words, that’s how he became labelled the ‘Foul-Mouthed Artist of the Year’. That headline was accompanied by a photograph of James with Pete Doherty, tricky to decipher who the feature was aimed at. Although James isn’t a household name like say Hockney, he has painted his fair share of celebs. His agent is always on the phone, offering James, ‘opportunities’. Depending on James’s mood, these calls can, and often do, end badly. Like this memorable techno encounter.

“Morning, James darling. How are you?”

“Oh, hi, Veronica. I’m afraid to say that since I ignored your repeated phone calls last night, I managed to trap both my hands in the food processor which sliced them clean off. Surgeons worked all night to save my hands, but the bastards sewed them back on to the wrong fucking arms, so I’m fucked. I will never paint again, Veronica, never, ever, again. Now that you have my undivided attention, is it necessary to use Skype? You look like a fucking desperate housewife on Tinder. What do you want?”

"Very exciting news, darling. Mark Zuckerberg’s people have been on to me, and they want to fly you out to Malibu to paint Mark’s portrait. How about that?"

“Well, you can tell his people to fuck right off. If Mark Twatterberg wants me to paint his obnoxious little visage, he can pick up the fucking phone and ask me himself. Oh no, hold on, he can send me a Facebook message. Lazy bastard!”

“James, he’s offering to rent you a seafront villa, with staff. He is one of the most influential and youngest billionaires of his generation.”

“I don’t care if he’s the Sultan of fucking Brunei offering to buy me a palace, tell him to fuck off. I’m busy.”

Veronica has the patience of a saint; she knew there would now be the inevitable cooling-off period. James did eventually complete the commission which made him even more in demand, here and in the States.

Fame has its disadvantages. It was around now that things got difficult at home. I was the designated backseat passenger of James’s formula one career. Days would pass, and I’d never see him, I did hear him in the studio. Mainly screaming obscenities down the phone to anyone who had dared to disturb him. Things came to a head one night at the opening of one of James’s exhibitions.

The Smooth Surface Gallery was packed to the rafters with the great and good of the art world. Veronica and I were extremely nervous, chugging back gallons of white wine. We knew that upstairs in the Old Bond Street office, a monster that only Tolkien’s vivid imagination could conjure up was slowly flexing its muscles for battle. James wasn’t in the best of moods. 

When he appeared, flanked by the gallery owner Rachel Goldstein, he looked so vulnerable all I wanted to do was take him home. Rachel and James joined Veronica and I standing by a large portrait of the delectable Zayn Malik. Cue the irritating and frankly unnecessary air kissing.

Moowah, moowah twelve times. Absurd!

“Quite a turnout,” Veronica said.

Rachel Goldstein is a beautiful woman, not known to mince her words. “Let’s hope the fucking morons have brushed the cobwebs off their credit cards. There’s so much money in this room right now I think I’m about to orgasm.”

James briefly glanced in my direction before raising his left eyebrow. A simple gesture that would mean nothing to most. For James, this look meant his tectonic mood plates were shifting. I had to intervene.

“James, why don’t we—mingle.”

“Mingle, where the fuck are we Alex? Jane Austen’s birthday party.”

“I just wanted to get you away from Rachel.”

“Oh, that philistine. Art dealer my cock, she’s a vulture, a barbarian. She wouldn’t know great art if it fucked her. What species is that face of hers meant to represent? It’s making my eyes bleed. That Alex is a tragedy of injustice. If a plastic surgeon did that to me, I’d string the bastard up by his balls from one of the Oxo Towers.”

“Is this mood going to last the whole evening?”

“Sorry, Alex.” He bowed his head slightly as if he were about to receive a jury’s verdict. A clever ruse to distract me. “Let’s go upstairs and fuck.”

“Nice try Chico, but I’ll pass thank you. In case you haven’t noticed, you have a room full of guests, many of whom are desperate to dig up some shit about you. Do you really want to serve it to them on a plate?”

“I don’t care about all these tossers. They’re not here to see art. Look at her over there taking a fucking selfie in front of my painting. Straight to fucking Instagram.” James called over one of Rachel’s assistants. “Go and tell that airhead over there that if I see even a corner of my work posted by her on social media, I’ll personally shove that iPhone up her arse.”

Alex, I begged myself, breathe in four times and out four times.

Strange how someone has the power to sabotage one’s morale. James’s sarcasm was no longer entertaining me. It had in the past; I’d often looked forward to it. My man, the artist who could floor a rhinoceros with one whip of his forked tongue.

We slowly moved between the rooms—James was like a leopard stalking its prey. The majority of the guests were chatting and drinking, paying no attention whatsoever to the purpose of the event. I grabbed James’s arm with my powerless, healing hand.

“Are you angry with me Alex?” Almost an apology. He's weakening, growing softer. I can see straight through him. After all, I practically invented him.

“Not at this very moment. But most of the time yes. You know it’s always like this, don’t start getting all messed-up. In half an hour we can politely leave, and the whole thing will be over.”

“Sure, until the next time. Alex, other than you, there’s not a single person in this room who interests me. Look at them, as per fucking usual backs to the wall. They look as if they’re at their Great Aunt Mary’s funeral. Vacuous bunch of twats.” He changed the tone of his voice here to a sort of guttural croak. “Were you in Venice for the Biennale this year, Jocasta? We had a marvellous time faaabulous hotel. Art? No dear, we didn’t have time for all that malarkey. Although I did give my husband the slip. Banged senseless I was by a charming, handsome gondolier, he was built like a stallion darling.” Recital over. Normal service resumed. “I might set fire to the place with all of them in it. Headline tomorrow; Bond Street Massacre of Mediocrity.”

That’s when it all unravelled. We paused by a group of four, three women, one man. The clearly drunken man was speaking loud and expressively about the art. Unknown to him, he was the incendiary catalyst.

The unknown man was obviously responding to a question. "I find the brushwork lacks intent; one might even say it’s clumsy. The colour pallet lacks confidence too."

For me, the room began to dissolve. The loud banter was now mumbled conversation heard through a wall. The neighbour’s party you hadn’t been invited to. James took a deep breath and handed me his empty glass.

“Hello, haven’t we met before? You’re—god, do forgive me, I’m useless at names, go on you’ll have to let me in on the secret.”

“Marshall, Marshall Freeman.”

“That’s the one, and you’re a journalist. Am I right?”

“Freelance Curator actually.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I said aloud. Petrol on the flames. Two of the most inflammatory words one could ever utter in James’s presence, Freelance Curator.

“Oh, I see. So basically, you’re unemployed, is that right? Is this true of all four of you? If you don’t mind me saying you all look, what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Stylish?” One of the girls hissed.

 “Cheap, that’s the one.”

To prevent leaving behind any forensic evidence, James hooked the strap of one of the women’s shoulder bags with a curled forefinger.

“Louis Vuitton, I say, you really are the stylish one. Let me guess, northern Italy just over the border from France, Italian farmer’s market? Or was it a Times Square street vendor? You can’t tell the fakes from the real thing these days, can you Marshall? Now, we’re all intrigued to know Marshall. Why in fuck’s name are you wearing a kilt?”

Veronica appeared at my side. “What’s happening Alex?”

“Not sure yet. James overheard the blonde guy critiquing his work. It could turn sour, but so far, James is being uncharacteristically gracious.”

“Oh, dear. Not even Gertrude Stein would have had the balls to enter that arena. Looks as if he’s winding things up.”
We both grabbed a glass of wine from a passing tray in preparation of the grand finale. Every nerve of our bodies was telling us to leave, but we also felt compelled to stay and witness the outcome.

“Now Marshall, you’re adorable by the way, I want to show you something. See that fascinating composition over there framed in matt black steel? That’s a door, Marshall. All you need do to bring this nightmare to an end is walk through it and never look back. Oh, and take your little party of fucking anti-socialites with you. Off you go Marshall, seriously, go on there’s a good boy.”

Veronica and I gazed at each other in quiet disbelief. 

“Well, that went well, Alex. Poor Marshall only suffered minor side effects, the equivalent of having an irritating mole removed I’d say. I think James may be losing his touch. See you in a bit, darling.”

As James made his way back to join me, he encountered Anthony Smart in the crowd. A legendary artistic cliché, always unkempt and often under the influence of an entire periodic table of illegal substances, yet still he managed to be a very successful sculptor. I’ve never heard James utter a single bad word about Anthony, like brothers they shared a bond I played no part in.

When James and I first met, there was a lot of gossip circulating about their friendship. Allegedly they were in a ‘complicated’ relationship in which James was allowed to do as he pleased; they shared a sort of arty existential love nest. My problem with Anthony was that, despite his legendary hedonism, I found him as irresistibly attractive as I did James.

My fascination for Anthony had to do with control, a sort of restoration project, like buying a grimy unloved painting and then cleaning away all the layers of grunge to find a beautiful masterpiece hidden by years of neglect. I soon realised Anthony was beyond repair, and now we simply tolerate each other.

“Happy now, James?”

“That was just the amuse-bouche, I haven’t decided on the rest of the feast yet.”

Weary of tolerating his behaviour, I chose to ignore him. “There’s Maggie Cummings, you like Maggie.”

“Do I, why?”

“Maggie is your biggest fan, remember, the Telegraph Culture Vulture?”

“Oh really, what the fuck is she wearing? She looks like a child’s drawing. I’ll wave her over.”

Maggie was wearing her customary navy-blue ensemble that she liked to accessorise with slabs of primary-coloured Perspex jewellery, the trinkets were one-offs, made by a Japanese designer, Maggie’s trademark look.

“Hey, boys.” More moowah, moowahing. “Are you behaving, James? You’re looking well, Alex. I love the Paloma Faith James. When are you going to do me?”

James scowled. “Do you? Do, you? Are you working for the Daily Mirror these days, Maggie? Or is that complex sexual innuendo you’re attempting? There is nothing the world could offer that would entice me into shagging you, Maggie.”

“Likewise, James, the very thought of it makes me want to hurl. Katie Hopkins is in the other room. You know what a desperate arse licker she is. I heard her mumbling about asking you to paint her portrait.”

“Not a bad subject, always in the press for all the wrong reasons, my kind of gal. Does she have any money?”

Maggie briefly checked her phone as if she were Googling the answer to James’s question. “Maybe you could paint her gagged. That would provide a handy creative metaphor.”

Later that evening, we were introduced to Ms Hopkins and her, ‘people’. One of whom turned out to be her bodyguard, Robert. James and I were far more interested in Robert than the heinous Hopkins.

“So, are you going to do her?” I asked as we made our way to Rachel’s office.

“Is this a thing now, me doing people? Why not? Look, in her case, it’s entirely mercenary. Take the money and never see her miserable fucking face again. There’s no other profession in the world that can guarantee those returns.”

“Really, how about identity theft?” I replied feebly.

James turned on the stairs. “Thank you for being so supportive. Let’s just get the post-mortem done and then we’re free to go home.”

Rachel was sitting behind her plate glass desk with Veronica by her side. “You made almost a quarter of a million in sales this evening, James. Not including the Hopkins commission.” Rachel said, tapping her trashy acrylic nails on the highly polished glass. “We’ll be shipping the work over to New York in two weeks. You are coming to the New York opening, aren’t you, James?”

“No.”

When James replied no to a question, without any clarification as to why he objected, there was no point whatsoever investigating his protest further.

“Right” Veronica interrupted “let’s go through the deals. There’s the Gwyneth Paltrow, Laurence Fox, Kate Winslet—” The sales list went on like a BAFTA nomination.

As usual, James looked indifferent, he hated the commercial stuff, Rachel and Veronica treated James as if he were a commodity, the source of James’s disenchantment with the obsequious world he inhabited.

This sham was so transparent. Fortunately, James has an impenetrable shell, Rachel and Veronica were powerless to control him. Only I knew the weak spot, I was the one and only chink in his armour.

Over the next month or so, James completed the Hopkins portrait. Admittedly, I was reluctant. For me, James painting Katie Hopkins was the equivalent of having Pol Pot over for Sunday lunch and then posting the happy-clappy evidence on Instagram. 

During the sittings, I passed through the studio hourly, not a task I’d ever have entertained in the past. James was very strict about privacy. One day I even found myself organising James’s desk. The volleys of humiliation were a venomous grand slam of contempt: Hopkins v Donoghue, a rare mixed singles tournament. Hopkins was no match for James.

Portrait completed, James became even more challenging to live with and to compensate I began drinking heavily.
It wasn’t unusual for either of us to be seen clutching a glass of white wine, except mine was usually an eighty twenty concoction of vodka and sauvignon blanc. Justifiably concerned Veronica asked me to meet her, ironically, considering my problem, we met in the bar of the Savoy Hotel.

“You can’t go on like this, Alex. We depend on you to keep James from falling off the edge.”

“Oh, right. Fuck Alex. Fuck the fact that he deals with a monster every day. Fuck Alex’s sanity. As long as Alex encourages James to carry on painting, we’ll be just fine. Now, please excuse me. I’ve got holidays to book and handbags to buy. Aren’t they your next lines?”

Veronica handed me a business card. “Stop being petulant Alex, it doesn’t suit you. It’s rehab, Alex. Catch it early before the booze takes over. I… I had a problem a couple of years ago. Remember when I was AWOL for three weeks. Dr Stone is the best in the business, darling.”

I buried my head in my folded arms. “I can’t leave James. He’ll fall apart.”

“No, he won’t he’s not a child, although granted he does behave like one. Despite the fact James appears to be having a complete fucking meltdown, he’s not self-harming. You are Alex, and the first step to your recovery is admitting it. Don’t worry about James.” Veronica tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve arranged for him to see a psychiatrist.”

Like a sulky child, I folded my arms in defiance and twisted my body away from Veronica. “Oh, really, you’re a genius. There’s not a hope in hell James is going to lay on some fucking Freudian chaise longue chatting about his difficult childhood. That is just so not going to happen Veronica, and you know it.”

She adjusted one of her heavy earrings. “He won’t even know it’s happening darling.”

“This gets more fascinating by the minute. What are you going to do, fit CCTV cameras in the studio and survey him from a van parked in the street? You’ve been watching too many crime dramas, Veronica.”

“For God’s sake, relax Alex. Let me explain, will you? I’ve arranged for him to paint Elliot Feldman’s portrait. Feldman is not one of he’s the most eminent psychologist in the universe. One of his university alumni contacted me months ago, before the Smooth Surface show. They want to honour his work. I kind of did a deal.”

“You are such a devious piece of work, Veronica. What you are suggesting is that James paints Feldman’s portrait and during the sitting Feldman analyses James. Feldman then pockets a percentage of the normal fee. Is that the plan?”

Veronica called the waiter over to order more drinks. I agreed. One more can’t hurt. “Yes, Alex, you get the gold star. I’m doing this to help you both, there’s nothing in it for me. Just don’t tell Rachel, or anyone, and especially not Jimmy Fucking Cranky.” She thanked the waiter to whom I offered a mischievous wink. Well, he was cute. “Whilst you’re away for three weeks having all the Vodka flushed out of you, James will have a project to occupy him. A solution to both your dilemmas.”

Undoubtedly a thoroughly devious plan by our surrogate mother, but I believed she was acting with the best intentions, in her own way, she did truly love us both.

“Thank you, Veronica.” We hugged.

Four weeks later, dried out and energised, I returned home not knowing what to expect, we’d texted whilst I was isolated in rehab, James’s messages were uncharacteristically positive, I ought to have been encouraged by his optimism, but I just felt redundant. 

My phone was confiscated each day after breakfast. Aware of this ridiculous rehab regime, I guessed James felt obliged to be kind for an hour or so in our electronic exchanges. James doesn’t do nice. It’s like owning a grouchy dog, you just get used to it.

Seconds after I’d walked through the door, we were hungrily gnawing at each other in bed. I’ll spare you those gory yet delightful details. Sex is one of the few things James never criticises mainly because, like with his painting, he believes he’s a maestro.

Once our erotic appetite had been satisfied, we had lunch and chatted for hours.  Feldman’s portrait was a huge success. As was his fascinating report detailing what he believed was James’s ‘condition’. It was an interesting read. Providing you could stay awake long enough to get to the juicy bits.

Whilst in rehab I Googled Elliot Feldman. He was kosher. I read everything, and it was clear that Feldman was indeed the pioneer of every personality disorder known to man.

It was common knowledge that the majority of James’s sitters had ‘fragile personalities’ and, according to Feldman, this fact was the cause of James’s problem.

During the long sittings with his clients, James had been unconsciously absorbing their guilt, their denials, and weaknesses like a thirsty sponge.

Not only had he emotionally assumed their negative characteristics, but he’d also unconsciously accepted responsibility for their misery, in short, and quoting Feldman’s words, ‘James had become possessed by the shattered consciousness of his fragile muses.’

During our reunion lunch, James joked about exorcism as an option. For a moment, I thought he was reverting to character. Everything was back to normal. But then he surprised me.

“I’ve been a total tool, Alex. All those years listening to privileged fucking morons droning on about addiction, depression and rejection has had a negative effect on me, and indirectly you too. It’s over, I promise. I’m moving on. Fuck the gallery, if they don’t want to show my new work, I’ll prove them wrong. You’re the most important thing in my life. I never want to see a fucking Grade One A Listed miserable face for as long as I live.”

Feldman concluded his diagnosis with these words. ‘Paint from your own heart, James. Not from the broken hearts of strangers.’