‘But the feeling hasn’t left me.’ There was a note of anger in Elinor’s voice. ‘I’m terribly upset about what happened to my mother, of course, but sometimes I just feel fed up that my life has been disturbed. I’ve got this bloody claustrophobia to cope with now. I can’t go into the studio. Or concentrate on my work.’ She paused. ‘And then, of course, I feel guilty about being so selfish.’
Jess chose her words with care, aware that she didn’t want to offer meaningless reassurances.
‘Well, your life has been disturbed. The shock does seem to have triggered this claustrophobia. You can’t lead a normal life. You can’t paint any more. It’s not surprising you should feel frustrated about that.’
Elinor sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. There are so many things to deal with now, it just seems never-ending. It took ages for them to release the body for the funeral, the inquest seemed to go on and on, and in the end they just told us what we knew already – that she’d been beaten about the head and had died as a result of brain injury. Then there was this police investigation, which hasn’t yielded anything, either. And now there’s a ton of legal stuff to sort out. I’m absolutely sick of the whole thing.’
Jess was concerned. Elinor seemed strangely detached – a coping mechanism, she knew, as was her anger at having her paints disturbed. But she also wondered whether there might perhaps be a grain of truth in the way Elinor had described herself, as selfish. That was what artists were like, she knew – she’d had quite a few of them in therapy. In general, she’d found them obsessed with themselves and their work, frustrated by intrusions of any kind – often to the point where they seemed unable to understand that anything else, including the death of a family member, could be more important. And she found herself questioning certain aspects of what Elinor had told her – if the police had no leads on the robbery, why did this policewoman keep turning up at the house? What was she after? And why had Elinor’s mother gone down to the studio after letting herself in, thus disturbing the thief? Could she have been looking for something in there? Was it perhaps she who’d been looking through Elinor’s paints?
Elinor fell silent, gazing out of the window. She seemed impervious to the cold, although by now Jess was having trouble stopping her teeth from chattering.
‘Do you think perhaps we could close the window a little bit?’ Jess formulated the question in the most tactful way she could think of.
Elinor sat up and, to Jess’s surprise, shut the window completely. Then she lay down on the couch again.
‘I’m glad I told you all that.’ She sighed. ‘I feel better now.’
So there it all was, thought Jess, just as she’d anticipated. The cramped, cluttered studio, where Elinor had experienced the horror of finding her mother’s body, could well have triggered an association in her mind between an enclosed space and a terrifying event. Her anger at her mother’s persistent meddling, which this time had led to tragedy, would have been another factor in the mix. Moreover, since she’d suggested that her relationship with her mother was a difficult one, she might perhaps be feeling a sense of profound relief, as well as shock and sadness, at her mother’s death; her guilt about that, expressed as anger at herself for having failed to install a burglar alarm, might also have contributed to her neurosis. That much was clear.
However, there were many other parts of Elinor’s psyche still to be explored – her relationship with her sister Isobel, her jealousy of Blake, and her rather paranoid accusation that he’d been behind the robbery.
‘I think we’ll have to stop there for today, Elinor.’ Jess spoke in a low, gentle tone. ‘Our time is up.’
6
Jessica was masochistically torturing herself. She was watching Tegan Davies presenting the news.
She’d tried to stop herself all week, but by Friday, her curiosity had got too much for her. The minute she’d come in from work, she’d switched on the television and watched the six o’clock news, which was something she very rarely did. Even more rare, she’d stayed watching until the announcement came on, ‘and now for the news in your area’. Then Tegan had appeared, against a backdrop of the red-brick Pierhead building in the Bay, lit up at night. She was a pretty blonde, with regular features and a perfectly made-up face. Around her neck was a gold chain with a blue stone at the collarbone, matching the earrings that glinted under her coiffed hair.
Jess scrutinized her as she spoke, not hearing her words. Her clothes were odd, she thought: a cream jacket over a cream camisole. Like Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice, minus the turban. She studied her face; it was hard to tell what it was like under the make-up, but it seemed forgettable. Blue eyes, made larger by professionally applied shadow and mascara; a thin, rather insignificant nose; and fleshy lips, slathered in gloss. She looked down at her torso; it was difficult to see what her body was like under the modest blouse, but she appeared somewhat flat-chested . . .
‘Mum?’ Nella came into the sitting room.
Jessica picked up the remote control, pressed the button, and Tegan Davies disappeared.
‘Come and talk to me for a minute.’ Jess patted the sofa. ‘How was your day?’
‘Not too bad.’ Nella didn’t sit down. Instead, she hovered by the doorway, pulling at the hem of her T-shirt and standing on one leg, twisting the other round it.
‘Did you manage to get in to college?’
Nella nodded. ‘I was a bit late, though.’
Jessica was about to embark on her time-worn lecture about being punctual for lessons, but decided against it. Her daughter knew perfectly well what she was supposed to do; if she didn’t keep up, she’d have to face the consequences, in the form of failing or retaking exams. Jess had explained that to her often enough. At nearly seventeen, she was too old to be treated like a child.
‘Is Gareth coming over tonight?’
‘No, we’re going out.’ Nella paused, as if there was something more she wanted to say, but had decided against it. She looked guilty about something, Jess thought. She wondered what it was.
‘Well, text me if you stay at Gareth’s, won’t you.’
‘Course.’ Nella came over and planted a wet kiss on her mother’s cheek. ‘I may stay over at his place for the weekend, though.’
Jess couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Nella could be moody, but more often these days she was a cheerful, affectionate presence around the house. When she wasn’t there, Jess missed her, and she sensed that Rose missed her too, although she’d never have admitted to such a thing.
Nella went off to get ready. Just as she left the room, the phone rang. Jess picked it up.
‘Hiya. How’s things?’
It was her friend Mari.
‘OK. Kind of.’ Jess hesitated before continuing. Mari had been a pillar of strength during the split with Bob, but now that the drama was over, she tried not to offload on her every time they spoke. Besides, there was nothing particularly wrong at the moment.
‘You don’t sound very sure. What is it? Bob again?’
It was no good trying to hide her worries, Jess realized. Better to tell all, and then move on.
‘Well, I had lunch with him in the week. He says he’s seeing this woman’ – Jess tried not to sound censorious as she said the word – ‘and he wants her to meet the kids.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Tegan Davies. She’s a newsreader.’
‘Tegan? Never!’ Mari had a weakness for gossip, but rarely of the malicious kind.
‘So you know her, do you?’
‘Not well. But I see her around quite a lot.’ Unlike Jess, Mari was immensely sociable, and knew everyone in Cardiff’s media and arts world.
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about that, cariad,’ Mari went on. ‘I doubt it’ll last.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘She’s a nice girl, Tegan.’ Jess remembered that Bob had said the same thing about her. It had struck her as odd at the time, faint praise from a man supposedly
in love. ‘But from what I hear, she’s high maintenance. She’ll start stamping her foot, and wanting it all her own way, and then Bob’ll be off. You’ll see.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Jess hesitated, knowing that she shouldn’t pry. Then her curiosity got the better of her.
‘How old would you say she is?’
‘Late thirties, probably. But it’s hard to tell. She’s had a bit of work done – they all do.’ Mari paused. ‘Anyway, she hasn’t got kids. So the old biological clock will be ticking pretty loud by now. And that’ll scare Bob off, too.’
Mari had a cheerfully pragmatic view of life. An actress who was always in work, mostly in Welsh-language TV, she was thoroughly enjoying life as a single woman now that she was divorced and her children had grown up. She and Jess were like chalk and cheese – Mari flamboyant and impulsive, Jess reserved and reflective – but they were close, sharing a strong bond of affection and concern for each other.
The mere thought of Bob going on to have a new family with Tegan upset Jess, so she quickly changed the subject.
‘How are things with you, then?’
‘Pretty good. I’ve got a fabulous part in a new theatre production, Sexual Perversity in Chicago. I’m playing a bitter, twisted, man-hating bitch.’ Mari spoke the words with relish. ‘I’ll tell you about it when I see you, but I’m in a bit of a rush now.’ She paused. ‘I was just ringing to ask if you want to go to a party with me at the museum tomorrow evening? It’s a private view for this trendy new artist, Hefin Morris.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘He’s a total mystery, apparently. Like Bansky. A bit of a firebrand. Doesn’t want to be part of the whole art circus.’ Mari warmed to her story. ‘The rumour is, he’s an ex-miner living somewhere up in the valleys, but no one knows where. He paints these massive canvasses showing the insides of abandoned mines. The terrible destruction wreaked by capitalism kind of thing.’
‘Sounds a bit grim.’
‘I know. But they’re really pushing the boat out for this exhibition, I’m told. It’s going to be a big event. Champagne, canapés, the works. Le tout Cardiff will be there. And it’ll be full of incredibly pretentious people from this London art gallery where his work’s being sold.’
‘That’s hardly a plus, is it?’
‘Course it is. Listen to this.’ She heard Mari scrabble for a piece of paper, and then she began to read. ‘“Hefin Morris explores the potential of peripherality, in a series of works that create tentative dialogues within an abstract, non-summative space, circumventing representation to question the notion of painting as a fully realized practice and reimagining it as a continuous reconfiguration, enigmatically subverting the concept of political and artistic agency by distorting and mutating the idea of authorship and originality.”’ She paused. ‘Come on, Jess, what’s not to like?’
Jess laughed.
‘But we might have to listen to hours of speeches like that.’
‘No way. If it gets boring, we’ll just skip off for a drink in town.’
Jess thought about it. Rose had arranged to go over to her friend’s for a sleepover on Saturday night. She herself had made no plans, other than catching up on some reading.
‘Why not?’ she said, making up her mind. ‘Though I might not stay for long.’
‘Whatever you like.’ Mari paused. ‘Six thirty at the museum, then. I’ll be in the lobby.’
‘Fine. What should I wear, d’you think?’
‘Something glam. Or arty. Whatever it is, don’t look too matchy-matchy. Unless it’s tops and bottoms in the same fabric.’ She paused again. ‘But then again, maybe not. It might look as if you’re wearing pyjamas.’
‘Right.’ Jess was slightly nonplussed. Mari’s rules about fashion violations never made any sense to her. ‘Well, I’ll do my best.’
‘Till tomorrow, then, cariad. Ta-ra.’
Jess clicked the phone off, wondering whether she should have accepted Mari’s invitation. She’d rather cherished the idea of an evening alone on the sofa with a book. Still, she thought, it was time she got out and about again, as a single woman. It would be a strange feeling, being on her own again in that kind of situation, without Bob at her side; but nothing ventured, nothing gained.
She got up off the sofa and went to find Rose.
She was in her bedroom, the door open to the landing. When Jess went in, she saw she’d laid out her clothes on the bed.
‘Packing for your sleepover?’ Jess came over and stood beside her.
‘No.’ Rose seemed preoccupied. ‘More for the future.’
‘The future?’
‘When I go and stay with Dad.’ She paused. ‘And Tegan.’
Bob had picked Rose up from school earlier that day, taken her out to tea, and told her about Tegan. Jess had been surprised at how quickly he’d done it, but she could hardly complain, having given her permission for the visit to go ahead.
‘I just want to make sure I’ve got everything I need.’ Rose picked up a pink washbag covered in dancing hippos, and frowned at it.
‘I’ll buy you a new one.’
‘Thanks. Now, which do you think, Mum?’ She held up a pink cotton nightie. Then she gestured towards her favourite pyjamas, which featured a Moomin design on the front.
‘I suppose the pyjamas would be warmer.’
‘But the nightie’s more . . .’
‘Mmm.’ Jess paused, realizing for the first time that Rose was thinking about what would impress Bob’s new girlfriend. When she’d come home, she’d told Jess that Tegan was her favourite TV newsreader, and that she was excited to meet her.
‘Well, wear whichever you feel more comfortable in.’ Jess realized this was beside the point, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘And for the boat trip, I thought . . .’ Rose reached over and picked up a woollen varsity jacket with the letter ‘R’ appliquéd on one side. ‘With my denim shorts and black tights. And my Converse. Do you think?’
Jess nodded. ‘Lovely, darling.’ She paused. ‘I’ll plait your hair before you go, if you like.’
In the last few days, Rose had taken to wearing her hair in a French plait, which involved a complicated operation of plaiting plaits into other plaits, and necessitated Jess’s help.
‘No thanks. I think I’ll wear it loose. But you could blow-dry it if you want.’
Jess pictured Tegan’s shiny tresses, and realized that Rose was trying to emulate her look.
‘Fine.’ Jess changed the subject. ‘Now, what shall we have for supper? Shall we cook something together? And then watch an episode of Sabrina, maybe?’
Sabrina the Teenage Witch was Rose’s favourite old TV show. Bob had given her a boxed set for Christmas, and they still had quite a few episodes to get through.
‘Maybe.’ Rose went over to her wardrobe and began looking through it. ‘I just want to sort this out first. It might take a while.’
She took out a pair of fur-lined boots with pompoms at the sides, and looked at them, furrowing her brow, evidently deep in thought.
Watching her, Jess felt a pang of sadness. Rose was growing up, she realized. She’d always liked to look neat, tidy and feminine, but up until now, she hadn’t been particularly self-conscious about what she wore. Perhaps this had needed to happen, Jess reflected. Rose was rather young for her age, after all. But the change had been so sudden, and there was something a little sad about the fact that it had been prompted by news of her father’s glamorous new girlfriend.
Jess went over and stood by the door. ‘I’ll do the supper, then. We’ll eat in about half an hour. See you downstairs.’
7
When Jessica got to the museum on Saturday evening, she checked in her coat and bag, and then went to look for Mari. There was a crowd of people in the foyer. Drinks were being served from a temporary table set up near the entrance, so she went over and got herself a glass. She was expecting the usual acrid party fizz, but when she tasted it, she found i
t was subtle and delicious. She looked down at her glass, and saw an intricate trail of tiny bubbles rising from the bottom. Proper champagne. She took another sip, scanning the hall for her friend.
Mari was over by the staircase, standing in front of a statue of Perseus brandishing Medusa’s snake-haired head, and talking to a good-looking man in an impeccably cut suit. She was wearing a figure-hugging burgundy dress that outlined her substantial curves, with a large rhinestone brooch clasped to her bosom. She looked extremely glamorous, and even though Jess couldn’t see his face, it was clear that the man she was talking to thought so too. She was laughing a lot, throwing her head back, and he was leaning in close as she did.
She gave Mari a wave, and Mari waved back. She’d go over and talk to her later, she decided, give her some room for manoeuvre. In the meantime, she’d see if there was anyone else there she knew.
As she moved through the crowd, all twittering excitedly like sparrows in a tree, she began to feel slightly insecure. She’d spent a long time deciding what to wear for the party, and had finally settled on a little black dress and heels. She’d put up her hair in a simple French roll, added some clip-on earrings and a slick of bright red lipstick, and left it at that. She’d felt elegant yet understated when she left the house, but now, seeing the glitz and sparkle of the other women, she wondered whether her outfit was too plain.
She wished, for a moment, that she hadn’t come. She was never at her best at parties. Couldn’t do the banter, the small talk. And now she was starting to realize that since the split with Bob, she’d lost the taste for such social situations. Normally she would have enjoyed the buzz around her; but tonight, the sheer volume of chatter simply hurt her ears, and set her teeth on edge.
She looked around, hoping to find a friendly face. There was a knot of people standing over by the statue of the little drummer boy that graced the hallway. She peered at them, and as she looked closer, saw that Elinor was among them. She looked almost unrecognizable: elegantly turned out, and supremely confident in her bearing. She’d had her hair cut in a geometric bob, and was dressed in a quiet grey suit like a man’s, with a cream silk shirt underneath, buttoned up to the neck. With her luminous blonde locks, high cheekbones and slanting blue eyes, her sober, serious look was more striking than the most bejewelled woman there.
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