by Clare Boyd
Fourteen
Lucas pushed a velvet box towards Elizabeth. She stared at it. A glare shot up from the glass table and forced her to squint. She did not want whatever was inside that box.
‘Go on, open it,’ he said, shuffling his rattan armchair closer to her.
She summoned the energy to reach forward and open the box, but the tennis coach, Tim, arrived, saving her the effort.
‘I’ll join you and Jude after the game?’ Lucas said.
‘Yes,’ she replied, dredging up a smile.
Since the visit to Channing House, her capacity for light-heartedness was at a low ebb. She had been coasting, riding her days out, navigating Lucas’s constant monitoring of her every move; striving to prove to him that she was stable, which made her feel quite unstable. The future stopped at the summer party. She couldn’t see a day ahead of it, as though the calendar was black beyond 4 July. Any bid for her children’s well-being or her own happiness was on hold. There was too much to do. Too much at stake.
‘Enjoy!’ she said to him, but he had already gone.
She left the velvet box and headed down to find her brother, who was swimming in their pool. The air smelt like holidays, the soil warmed after a blue-sky day, and she felt sanguine about her weekend with Jude, in spite of why he was here. She prayed that the painting was salvageable, and was eager to find out.
Jude pulled his lean body out of the water to reveal what Elizabeth called a farmer’s tan. Brown arms, white torso. Never had he stayed still long enough to sunbathe. It wouldn’t occur to him to take his T-shirt off in the sun to get an even tan. He didn’t care what he looked like.
‘I thought I could show you the painting while Lucas is playing tennis,’ she said. ‘You must be dreading seeing it.’
‘A little.’ He shook the water out of his scruffy black hair like a Labrador shaking its coat.
‘Only a little?’
‘When I give my paintings away or sell them, I lose connection with them. It’s like they’re someone else’s.’
‘I feel so awful.’
‘For what?’
‘You gave them to me and I didn’t look after them properly.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. That’ll upset me,’ he said, drying his legs with a towel.
Moved by his forgiveness, she said, ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Missed you too. And the kids. When are they back?’ he asked.
‘We’ve got an hour. Maybe you could make a start now?’
‘Let’s have a look,’ he said.
She watched him try to pull his moth-holed T-shirt on. He put his arm in the neck hole and had to start again. ‘Come on. Hurry up.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he said, hopping forward, catching his toe in a small rip at the knee of his jeans – they were old rather than designer – and tripping over the other trouser leg.
‘You clot,’ Elizabeth said.
Jude laughed. ‘It’s the dyslexia.’
‘Of course it is,’ she said, grinning.
Their mother had used his dyslexia as an excuse for everything that went wrong in Jude’s life: when he failed to get into the local grammar school, when he had to retake his driving test five times, when he ran out of money in Chile. And when things went well for him, she used it too. When he had been one of only seventeen young artists to get onto the MA course at the Royal Academy, she had said, ‘Oh, thank goodness for your dyslexia!’ And the three of them had laughed.
Once he was dressed, Elizabeth took his arm and strode him up the lawn towards the house. The clop-clop of the tennis balls being hit back and forth between Lucas and Tim was like the tick-tock of time. She was reminded of the velvet box, which she had left on the glass table, and hoped that Agata had cleared it away. She didn’t want Jude to question her about it.
He was ambling behind her, incapable of hurrying. At the barn, he nodded towards the noise of banging, where Piotr was laying the wooden floors. ‘Can’t I see inside?’
‘Later, okay?’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Sorry, I just want to get the painting sorted. And I’m a little tired. Hugo had a nightmare last night. Then this morning Isla had a tantrum about her pink ballet leotard. Agata had forgotten to put it in the dryer so she had to wear her white one.’
‘Poor Isla,’ Jude sighed.
Elizabeth chuckled. ‘You struggled with your ballet leotards too, didn’t you, baby brother?’
‘I swear it’s scarred me for life.’
She let out a burst of laughter before pulling it back, unused to letting go. ‘God knows why Mum put you through it.’
‘Because she wanted to ruin my life?’
‘I think she thought it would help with your coordination.’
‘That worked out well.’
Elizabeth slipped her arm around her brother’s waist. ‘Oh Jude. I love you just the way you are. In fact, I can’t wait for lots of little mini Judes to be running around tripping and dropping things exactly like you do.’
There was a comfortable silence as they strolled in synch up to the terrace.
Jude sat down on the rattan chair that Elizabeth had been sitting on earlier. The velvet box was still on the table. She imagined what was inside, perhaps wriggling with worms.
‘What a view,’ he said, leaning back into the chair.
‘Come on! Inside. They’re in the spare room.’
She now suspected he was procrastinating, less relaxed about the scratch across Blue No. 3 than he was letting on.
The spare room was cool. She had pulled the blinds and instructed Agata to keep them down – and keep Lucas away. Any mention or sighting of the scratched painting triggered a bad mood.
The three paintings were propped up in a line against the fitted wardrobes. It was obvious which was the damaged one. Even in the murky light, the scratch stood out. Elizabeth pulled the blind up and held her breath, waiting for her brother’s verdict.
‘Oh bloody hell. Phew. Thank fuck for that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s easy to fix. I’ll go get my stuff from the car.’
‘I knew you were worried!’
‘I didn’t want to upset you before I’d seen it.’
‘Upset me?! Oh Jude, you’re an angel,’ she cried.
* * *
From her perch on the bed, Elizabeth watched Jude zone out from her and engage with his work. He filled in the indentation and mixed the blue hues, bit by bit building the colours onto a separate canvas. On and around the scratched corner he added the paint, layering the sea and sky with vigorous, bold brushstrokes. He repainted in the spirit of the piece, as though harnessing his original mood. When he had finished, the result was flawless. It was different, yet the same.
* * *
After Jude had cleared away his paints, they sat on the terrace to enjoy the warmth from the dropping sun. Elizabeth was glad that Gordon and Heather were not working today. The garden felt more like hers at the weekend. Heather was more conspicuous than Sally had been. For many reasons, she was less easy to ignore.
‘God, this view is something else,’ Jude said.
‘You said that already.’
‘I hope you never take it for granted.’
Elizabeth thought about that. She didn’t take it for granted. It meant more to her than that. It was an extension of her; a sprawling setting for her adult self, similar to how London cradled her childhood.
‘So, how have you been?’ he asked, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles.
Agata came out with a tray of chilled wine and olives.
‘Thanks, Agata,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Thanks Agata,’ Jude repeated, flashing a smile.
Elizabeth waited for the girl to leave before answering her brother, before evading his question. ‘Lucas is really stressed out about this deal.’
‘Is he ever not stressed out?’
She poured a glass of wine. ‘Of course.’
&nb
sp; Jude sighed. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
There was a pause while they took in the view. The rumble of a plane filled the silence. Elizabeth reached for her pen and pad.
‘Let’s talk about the party. He’ll be more relaxed after that.’
‘Right.’ He yawned.
‘We’re having a hog roast, macarons and pink champagne. Lil and Kat are DJing. And fireworks at midnight.’
‘Lil and Kat? Sounds cool, sis. How many people are coming?’
‘So far we have one hundred and twenty-one acceptances. Fifteen of them are your guests. Lucas wants to know exactly who they are and why they’re coming.’
‘Okay.’ He yawned again and stretched his arms. ‘Remind me who I asked?’
‘Oh Jude. I can’t believe you don’t remember,’ she said, exasperated. She read the first name on her list. ‘Amis Yorke.’
‘Amis Yorke,’ he repeated.
‘Yes. Tell me all about him first.’
‘He loves rich people.’
‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘Believe me, it’s all you need to know.’
‘Jude!’
‘One of his paintings got into the summer exhibition at the RA. God knows how.’
‘Okay. The RA, good,’ she said, writing down the information next to Amis Yorke’s name.
‘Has Bennie confirmed?’ Jude asked, his eyes fixing on the velvet box.
‘Benjamin Healing, you mean?’
He nodded absently and then picked up the box. ‘What’s this?’
She snatched it from him and put it back on the table.
‘Concentrate. Yes, Benjamin Healing is coming and he’s bringing a friend. Does that mean he has a girlfriend?’
‘No, he’ll probably bring his trans lover.’
‘What?’
‘He … I mean they … they perform at the Box and wear tassels on their nipples.’
‘Oh. That’s nice,’ she said, trying to be open-minded, wondering how she would break it to Lucas.
He laughed. ‘You’re so gullible!’
‘Oh Jude! Be serious.’
‘Why does Lucas care so much about who’s coming this year?’
‘I told you already. The Seacart–Huxley deal.’
‘And they like artists, these Seacarts, do they?’
‘They are the most important collectors in New York.’
He whistled. ‘Wow. That must mean they’re even richer than you.’ He grabbed hold of the velvet box and held it in the air. ‘I’m dying to know what’s inside this.’
‘Don’t you dare!’
He rattled it.
‘Don’t do that!’ She threw her arms up and then dropped her hands in her lap. ‘You know what this reminds me of?’
‘Nope.’
‘The time I asked you to sneak that money from Mum, remember? After I’d spent all my salary on that stupid trip to Ibiza with Cassie.’
At twenty years old, Elizabeth had skipped two weeks of temp work to go to Ibiza with a friend who had owned a house out there. Once she had paid the rent on her flat-share in Stockwell, she hadn’t had a penny left for food until she was paid, in ten long days’ time. Jude, four years younger than her, had been living at home still and had access to the maternal purse strings.
‘I got you that thirty quid, didn’t I?’
‘And my God I had to work for it. How many fag runs did I do for you?’
Jude grinned. ‘It was fun seeing you squirm.’
Elizabeth punched his arm. ‘This is different. This party is really important to me.’
‘More important than needing thirty quid to eat?’
‘Yes. Much more.’
‘Okay. I’ll stop behaving like an idiot and focus. On one condition …’
She raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘Go on.’
‘We see what’s in that posh box,’ he said, pointing at it.
Elizabeth clutched her head. ‘Okay!’
She reached for it. It had a weight to it. There was no obvious access, but she knew how to open this kind of box.
‘Oh my GOD!’ Jude cried, staring at what was inside.
Glinting in the sun lay a clear blue sapphire the size of a twopenny piece, set into a pendant necklace. Diamonds were inlaid into the chain. Sparks of light shot out from the jewels – like tiny screams, Elizabeth thought.
Agata reappeared to refill their glasses. When Jude thanked her, Elizabeth noted her eyes on the velvet box, and felt embarrassed. Agata knew how little she deserved it.
Jude was agog. ‘Lucas gave that to you?’ he cried.
‘This morning,’ she replied, relieved that Agata had gone back inside.
‘You don’t like it?’
She put her sunglasses on and stared out at the horizon. ‘It was his mother’s.’
‘It must be worth thousands of pounds.’
‘I imagine it is. I’m very lucky.’
‘How can you be so blasé about it?’
‘Inside, I’m dancing with joy and gratitude,’ she said.
‘What’s the occasion? I haven’t forgotten your birthday again, have I?’
The corner of her mouth twitched with a smile. ‘No, baby brother.’
‘Then why the fancy necklace?’
‘He wanted to cheer me up.’
Jude shuffled forward and placed a hand on her knee. ‘I knew something was up. What’s been going on?’
She braced herself for her confession. ‘Isla’s going to boarding school.’
He looked serious for the first time that day. ‘What?’
Isla and Hugo came charging out of the house, running straight at Jude, semi-hysterical with excitement. ‘Uncle Jude!’ they screamed.
Jude scooped Isla up into his arms and kissed her hard on the cheek.
‘I’ve got you, my little Isla. How’s life, beautiful? How did you get so tall?’
Isla snuggled into his chest. ‘I eat lots of broccoli,’ she said, tugging her crop top down to hide her tummy.
‘You won’t want these then,’ he said, presenting them with two Curly Wurly bars.
Hugo thumped Jude in the thigh. His little glasses were skewed. Jude plonked Isla down and pulled Hugo up.
‘And hello, handsome boy,’ he said, straightening the glasses.
‘Guess what, guess what?’ Hugo cried, his lisp obvious when he was overexcited. ‘I’m going to swim for England!’
‘For the county,’ Elizabeth corrected.
‘At five?’
‘When he’s old enough. His teacher thinks he’s got some talent.’
Isla climbed back on Jude, pushing Hugo away. ‘Uncle Jude, guess what? Guess what? I’m going to boarding school!’
That serious face returned. ‘When you’re old enough?’ Jude asked, glancing at Elizabeth.
‘She’ll be starting next term,’ Elizabeth said, picking up the jewellery box, smoothing her hand across the velvet. Anything to avoid looking at her brother’s face.
‘And I’m going to have my own tuck box!’
‘That’s very exciting, Isla,’ he said, but the dead tone betrayed him. She dared to look, to see it. His hair was heavy over his eyes.
‘Mummy, can we go swimming now?’ Hugo said. ‘I want to show Uncle Jude my dive and then go to bed after.’
‘No, darling. It’s far too late.’
‘Those Curly Wurlys are going to melt unless you eat them,’ Jude said.
Forgetting about swimming and boarding school, the two of them climbed up and sat either side of Jude on the arms of his chair to unpeel their chocolate bars. Hugo nibbled away elegantly, while Isla tore at her bar, leaving more chocolate on her face than around the caramel centre.
Jude stared at Elizabeth. ‘Can I see the barn now?’
‘Are you really staying for a sleepover Uncle Jude?’ Isla interjected.
‘I am indeed.’
‘Awesome,’ Isla said.
‘It is awesome,’ Jude agreed, winking at her, addi
ng, ‘Okay, you two, your mummy’s going to show me around the barn.’ He did a cartoon yawn and mouthed ‘Booorrrrring’ in a loud whisper. They both giggled. Elizabeth knew she should laugh along.
Out of earshot, as they walked, Jude hissed hotly, ‘You can’t actually be telling me that you’re putting Isla away in some boarding school.’
‘We’re not putting her away. It’s a lovely school.’
The red crosses on the calendar came into her mind.
‘But she’s only seven years old, for crying out loud.’
She clamped her hands to her thighs. Hitting Heather had only made her feel worse. She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘She’ll be eight by the time she starts.’
‘Oh, that’s all right then, is it?’
‘She’s very grown-up for her age.’
‘Are you kidding me? Has Lucas forgotten what he went through?’
Elizabeth regretted having told him those stories. Stories of seven-year-old Lucas calling his mother in tears from the housemaster’s study, and his mother hanging up on him and the housemaster laughing at him. Stories of his housemaster cutting off his blonde curls while he slept, telling him his parents couldn’t afford to send him to the hairdresser. Stories of his housemaster reading out his mother’s letter at the breakfast table, dropping his t’s and exaggerating his o’s, badly imitating an East End London accent. Stories of his housemaster punishing Lucas for his scholarship and for his sweet looks and charm. When the housemaster had died – in an act of autoerotic asphyxiation behind a locked bathroom in the eaves of Winslow Junior House – Lucas had opened a bottle of champagne and got drunk. Too drunk. Angry drunk.
‘Schools aren’t like they were in the old days,’ Elizabeth said to Jude, glad she was wearing her sunglasses. She didn’t want him to see the fear and powerlessness in her eyes. ‘They’re much more understanding of children’s emotional needs now. The headmistress was nice.’
Jude walked ahead a little and brushed his hair back. The low sun backlit his tall form and a chill rested over Elizabeth in his shadow.
‘I know you and I know you don’t want this,’ he said, stopping.