‘Me too. Is it easy for you to get a babysitter? I don’t imagine Gerald’s waiting in the wings to oblige.’
‘They’re staying with my friend Lizzie tonight.’
Andrew took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He held it out to her.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve given up.’
‘I smoke too much. It’s a horrible habit.’
‘After Gerald left, I smoked all the time. Lizzie nagged me about it. It was easier to stop.’
Andrew tossed the packet on to the table. ‘In that case, I won’t.’
‘No, go ahead. It doesn’t worry me.’
He placed the cigarette in his mouth. He struck a match and cupped his hands round the tip of the cigarette. His nails were beautiful, no trace of nicotine on his fingers. Smoke circled round his head. He fiddled with the packet, turning it over and over, tapping it on the table. He looked across at her. ‘I’m smoking to give me courage.’
‘I’m glad you’re nervous too.’
‘There’s something I want to tell you.’
‘Sounds serious.’
‘It is. It’s a big deal for me anyway.’ He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. He twisted it backwards and forwards. ‘Don’t know why I thought a cigarette would help.’
‘What did you want to say?’ Vanessa asked. Might as well get it over with. She could guess what it was: he was in love with Faye. Didn’t want to hurt her.
‘After we met that day, I told myself to forget about you.’
Vanessa fanned her face with the menu.
‘It took me a long time to get over you first time round. I didn’t want to risk going through it again.’
‘Of course not.’
‘And then there was Faye.’
‘Your girlfriend. Yes. I understand. You wouldn’t want anything … I mean … ’ She was gabbling, but her tongue wouldn’t stop. ‘I mean it’s crazy to think a lovely bloke like you hasn’t – ’
‘Vanessa, hear me out. After I saw you in the gallery, I knew I couldn’t be happy with Faye.’
‘It’s probably a rough patch.’
‘No, it’s more than – ’
‘I’m sure you can sort it out.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Pardon?’
‘I said shut up. I’ve got to get this out.’ He fiddled with the cigarette packet again. ‘I’ve thought about you so often since we split up. Wondered how I’d managed to lose something so precious – ’
‘You don’t have to say all this.’
‘Listen. I couldn’t believe my luck. Not only had I found you again, but Blackstone was off the scene. I don’t know how I didn’t cheer when you said you were divorced. When you suggested a cup of tea or a drink, I felt this rush of happiness.’
‘But – ’
‘I couldn’t say yes, because of Faye. She’s been curious about you since she found some photos.’
‘You mean you’ve kept them?’
‘I realised I didn’t want her to meet you. Didn’t want her to talk about you on the train going home.’
‘And?’
‘I realised I had to end it.’
‘And have you?’
‘Yes, it’s over.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He looked at her sharply. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes. No. I’m glad.’
‘I’m glad too.’
‘What happens now then?’
Andrew reached across the table and took hold of both her hands. ‘I always promised myself that if I got another chance, I wouldn’t mess it up.’ He studied her palms so intently she thought he was about to predict the future. ‘I love your hands,’ he said. ‘I’ve often thought about them.’
She laughed, pulling them away and stuffing them into her lap. ‘You’re making me go red.’
‘You look pretty when you blush.’
The food arrived and Vanessa cut into her omelette. The outside was thick and crusty, and it was soft and slightly runny inside. The grey of the mushrooms looked elegant against the crocus-yellow of the egg. ‘How’s yours?’ she asked. Andrew had chosen a steak.
‘Good, but the omelette looks delicious.’
Vanessa turned her fork over and scooped some omelette on to it. She leant forward and held the fork to Andrew’s mouth. ‘Here. Try some.’
He hesitated.
Something suddenly made her feel bold. ‘Go on. I haven’t got anything catching.’
‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘I’ve already got the bug.’
Twenty
Cordelia slips the grey trouser suit from the hanger. Perhaps this will do. The jacket feels tight as she eases it over her shoulder. The material of the lining settles round the skin of her arm. She does up the buttons, smoothes the jacket over her hips and turns to the mirror.
Savannah comes into the room and stands, arms folded, surveying her. ‘You look like an air hostess.’
Cordelia’s eyes shift from her reflection to her daughter. Savannah’s hair has been cut and seems to launch itself straight from her scalp. The effect requires complicated work with straighteners and gel. Her eyes are smudged with violet shadow and her lips are painted the colour of blackberries. Her T-shirt, carefully torn across the shoulder, reveals the butterfly tattoo that has recently appeared on her upper arm.
Cordelia’s scrutiny moves back to the mirror. The two images stand side by side. Her reflection: sensibly combed dark hair, reaching to her shoulders, pale face, almost featureless next to Savannah’s accentuated eyes and mouth. The grey jacket looks insipid against the lurid green of Savannah’s top.
‘This is my interview suit.’ She draws her shoulders back and sticks her chin forward.
‘When did you last go for an interview, Mum?’
‘Before I worked at the shop, I went for a job at an estate agents.’ She twists round and studies her back view in the mirror. ‘And I got it.’
‘Yeah, you look perfect for it in that suit.’ Savannah flops down on the bed. She lies back on the pillow with her hands clasped behind her head. ‘You want to wear something funky. Aren’t artists supposed to rebel against society?’
Cordelia pulls off the jacket and drops it on the chair. ‘I don’t know. I thought artists were good at art!’ She drags open the wardrobe door. Hangers jangle against each other as skirts and trousers swish from one side of the rail to the other. She burrows through the shelves of T-shirts and tops.
‘Shit, Mum. What are you so worked up about? I mean, like, you’ve only got to talk about painting, haven’t you? As long as you look grungy and as if you’re out of your head most of the time, you’ll do great.’
‘Your smart comments are not helping.’
Savannah sits up. ‘Okay. Whatever.’ She swings her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Thought we’d do a bit of bonding. But if you don’t want me around – ’
Cordelia clutches Savannah’s shoulders. ‘Help me. If I looked like you instead of me, I’d be bound to get a place on the course.’
‘Hey, cool, Mum.’ Savannah grins. ‘Shall I do your make-up for you?’ She sits cross-legged on the bed, staring at Cordelia expectantly.
‘First impressions count. What sort of image shall I go for?’
‘Middle-aged eccentric?’
Cordelia swings round from the wardrobe. ‘I’m not middle-aged.’
Savannah’s eyes widen. ‘Did I say you were? How about rock chick? That’s your period, isn’t it?’
‘Savvy! You’re getting me seriously worked up.’
‘This is crazy, Mum.’ Savannah chews at the leather thong on her bracelet. ‘They’ll want to talk about your work. And you’ve done brilliant stuff.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Anna says you’re good.’
‘I’ve got no experience. I just do water colours and oils. I don’t try out different media.’
‘Isn’t it their job, to
teach you all that.’
‘I don’t think they do teach you at these places.’
‘What’s the point of going then?’
‘They allow you to experiment, so you find things out for yourself.’
‘I wish old Harry would do that in history. She’s obsessed with dates and events – You can’t interpret until you have the facts – silly cow.’
Cordelia studies herself in the mirror again. She’s put on a pair of jeans, a scooped-neck white T-shirt and a brocade jacket she bought in a charity shop. ‘What do you think?’
Savannah lets out a shrill wolf-whistle. ‘Yeah. Cool. Granny would be pleased with you.’
‘What’s Granny got to do with it?’
‘She’s great with clothes. Now, shall I do your make-up?’
‘Not if you’re going to make me look like some freak.’
‘What do you take me for?’
‘Go on then.’
Savannah pats the chair facing the mirror. ‘Sit here, can you?’
‘And don’t be too long. I’ve still got to sort out what work to take with me.’
‘Chill, Mum.’
Savannah tips the contents of Cordelia’s make-up bag on to the dressing table. She sniffs at a bottle of foundation, her nose crinkling. ‘That’s disgusting! How long have you had it?’
‘I don’t know. A few months.’
‘And the rest. It stinks!’ Savannah holds up some brown eye shadow. The centre of the palette is scooped out and a thin line of powder clings round the sides. ‘How can you get anything from here? And look at this.’ Savannah waves a mascara brush in front of Cordelia’s eyes. It’s clogged with lumps of black gunge. ‘You’re a disgrace, Mum. I’m going to get my make-up.’
Cordelia’s left staring at her face in the mirror. She rarely wears much make-up – a few twirls of the mascara brush and a flick of eye shadow. She leans forward and studies her skin more closely. When did those red threads criss-crossing her cheeks appear? She hears her mother’s voice: ‘Moisturiser, Cordelia. Older skin needs more care.’ Vanessa’s complexion is wonderful for someone of her age: skin the colour of cream, tiny freckles across her nose like a cluster of stars, and if anything, she’s got fewer wrinkles round her eyes than Cordelia.
‘Here we go.’ Savannah returns with a large cosmetic bag under her arm and an array of brushes. ‘Keep quiet until you see the end result. In fact, I’m going to turn the chair away from the mirror.’
Cordelia closes her eyes as Savannah dots her face – nose, cheeks, chin, forehead – with a cool sweet-smelling lotion. Savannah massages it into her skin. Cordelia’s aware of tissues, more lotion, something astringent being applied to her cheeks. She keeps her eyes shut.
‘I’m trying some of my foundation,’ Savannah tells her. ‘It might be the wrong shade, but you’ll see how it evens out the colour of your skin.’
‘How do you know so much about make-up?’
‘Sadie’s Mum’s a beauty therapist. She’s ace.’
Cordelia feels pressure on her eyelids.
‘I expect she’d give you a make-up lesson. Do you want me to ask?’
‘It’s okay, Savvy. I’m supposed to be painting canvases, not my face.’
‘Mum?’
Cordelia recognises Savannah’s wheedling tone. ‘Yes?’
‘You know you’ll never talk about family stuff?’
‘Won’t I?’
‘You know you won’t. I’ve asked you loads of times about my granddad but you change the subject.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that.’
‘What?’ Savannah’s fingers slide across Cordelia’s cheeks.
‘Granddad.’
‘Why?’
‘Because … oh, never mind. What’s all this about?’
‘History is one of my A level options, and Harry’s given us a project to do over the summer. We’ve got to chart our family trees and show how we got the information.’
‘Oh.’
‘Open your eyes now. I want to put some mascara on. Look down.’
Cordelia stares at her lap. Her knuckles are white.
‘The thing is, Mum.’ Savannah’s breath makes a soft draught on Cordelia’s cheek. ‘I’ve only got you and Granny, and her parents. You’ve never even told me your dad’s surname. And for my dad, I’ve got Jason Fitzgerald and that’s it. Can you look up now?’
Cordelia lifts her eyes. Savannah’s finger rests against her cheek and she can feel the brush stroking her lashes.
‘Harry won’t believe I don’t know about my own family. She’ll think I’ve been skiving.’
Cordelia concentrates on a point above Savannah’s head. Black specks have formed a halo. They twist and swoop. Gyrate faster and faster – a black snowstorm. Consciously, she stretches out her fingers and lets her shoulders drop. She slows her breathing. She feels her chest rise and fall.
‘Can you keep still, Mum. And stop blinking all the time!’
The storm stops abruptly. The black flakes disappear. ‘Blackstone,’ Cordelia says.
Savannah brushes some powder on to her cheeks. ‘Blackstone?’
‘My father’s name.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course, really!’
‘Gerald Blackstone. What an ace name.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘So, that’s your name, isn’t it?’
‘My name’s Heaney.’
‘Yeah, I know, but really you’re Cordelia Blackstone.’
‘Savannah, I’m Cordelia Heaney.’
‘I know, but I mean, Heaney’s a bit ordinary, isn’t it, but Blackstone … and if it’s your name, then it’s my name.’
‘There’s no satisfying you, Savvy. Not so long ago, you wanted to be called Sarah.’
‘I changed my mind. It’s too boring.’
Cordelia feels light feathery movements on her cheekbones.
‘I’m putting on blusher. It’s funny when you think about it …’ Savannah’s voice is close to Cordelia’s ear ‘… how you, me and Patrick are all called something different from our real names.’
‘Is it?’
‘I wonder why he changed his name? Did you ever ask him?’
Cordelia’s throat tightens. She shakes her head.
‘Hey, Mum, I’m going to call myself Savannah Blackstone. Here take the mirror. You look fab.’
Cordelia stares at herself. Her skin looks smooth and glows with peachy-coloured tones. A dusting of blusher makes her cheekbones stand out in a way they never do normally. Her eyes are wide, the lashes long and curling.
‘What do you think?’
Cordelia has almost forgotten Savannah’s there. ‘I look like a different person.’
Cordelia waits for the man sitting across from her to say something. He’s got white cropped hair, a wiry yellowing beard and a pair of the most amazing eyebrows; tufts of hair sprout in all directions: he looks like Father Christmas or a story-book great uncle rather than her prospective art tutor.
‘That’s fine.’ He gestures with a limpid wave at the folder of work she’s brought. ‘Very good. Very good.’
She senses dismissal and shuffles her drawings and sketches back into the folder, tying it shut with its pink ribbon. She looks across at him and waits.
‘If you go to the office … ’ He half turns towards the door as if expecting the office to materialise there. ‘Sonia will sort out the paperwork with you.’
‘Have I got a place on the course?’ Cordelia squeaks out the question. He doesn’t seem to hear. She stares at a long grey hair protruding from his left nostril. Several students outside the window let out a shout of laughter. The words ‘Fuckin wanker’ are lobbed into the room’s stuffy silence.
‘Sorry, what was that?’ the tutor asks.
‘Have I got a place?’ Second time round, the question doesn’t stick in her throat as much.
‘Yes, yes. Didn�
�t I say? Foundation course – art and design. Start in October. Sonia will sort it all out for you.’
Cordelia stops at a coffee shop on her way back to the station and buys a large cappuccino and a chocolate chip muffin. She sips the frothy liquid and allows her achievement to lap at her senses. She takes the sheet of paper from her bag and rereads the words: Place Offered - yes. Status – unconditional. ‘I’m going to be an art student.’ She mouths the sentence aloud. It sounds tentative, and she remembers the counsellor’s insistence on positive affirmations: ‘Not going to be, Cordelia. Are. You are.’ She tries out the new version, opening and closing her lips over her teeth with exaggerated movements: ‘I am an artist.’
‘That’s nice, dear.’
Cordelia looks up. The woman at the next table is nodding and smiling. Sheepishly, Cordelia smiles back.
Her eyes return to her sheet of paper. What would her father think of her going to art college? She imagines phoning to tell him. How his deep rumbling voice would quicken when he realised it was her. The past flares in her mind, half-grasped memories of her small feet balanced on his suede boots, dancing; of his eyes swooping on the new slide in her hair, the gold star at the bottom of her schoolwork; of his big fingers clasping the pencil that could conjure spiders, crocodiles, elephants on to the page. The images flutter away like fragments of paper caught by the wind.
Savannah’s staying at a friend’s and Patrick is working late. He doesn’t phone or text as he would have done once. He and Lance have a big project on, and for the last few weeks it’s been nine or ten o’clock by the time he’s got back. He’s had a quick supper, a shower and gone straight to bed. In the mornings, he’s up and out before Cordelia surfaces. It’s funny how easy it is to share the same house with someone, yet avoid them. There’s nothing obvious – they haven’t rowed, there are no moody silences, slammed doors, averted eyes. When you come to pinpoint exactly what it is, it’s hard to define. Just a strange quality of absence. Like the solar eclipse a few years ago. It was an eerie experience, she remembers, but less for the daytime darkness and more because of the stillness, the silence: it was as if the natural world was waiting, ear cocked for the earth to turn again.
Cordelia spends a couple of hours clearing out her studio in the conservatory: paint pots; sheets covered with old drawings, the paper, dog-eared and discoloured from the sun; brushes past their best. As a pink light starts to fill the sky, she goes upstairs to shower and change. It’s been hot all day and the air is thick. From outside the bedroom window comes the thrumming of a cricket. She pulls on a thin vest and a light cotton skirt.
Unravelling Page 22