A Sky Painted Gold

by Laura Wood

  “Did you really?” I tip my head to the side and look him over consideringly. I can’t imagine the elegant man in front of me as a naughty child.

  “I did.” Robert nods. “I was three at the time, I believe, and I thought it would be a nice surprise for my mother.”

  “And what did she think of that plan?” I ask.

  “She thought it was hilarious, as I remember, but Perkins took a different view of the subject.”

  “She sounds nice,” I say.

  There is a pause, and Robert fidgets a little in his seat. “She was,” he says finally. “She died a year later, when Caitlin was born.”

  My hand shoots to my mouth as if I can shove the words back in. I cannot believe I used the present tense when I know perfectly well that Robert’s parents have both passed away. Sometimes I forget that I know so much about him – that the gossip columnists’ darling sits in front of me. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and the words feel inadequate.

  “Well, it was a long time ago.” Robert clears his throat. “And how is it that you are up and bright-eyed so early?”

  “What time is it?” I ask, stretching my arms above my head and leaning back in my chair. “I have absolutely no idea. Time seems to lose all meaning once you’re here. It’s like Wonderland.”

  “I believe it’s just gone eleven,” he replies.

  “Eleven!” I exclaim. “That’s not early! I can’t believe I slept so late.”

  “Anything before midday is practically the middle of the night around here,” Robert says. “And I shouldn’t think you got to bed much before four.”

  “Eleven,” I repeat, shaking my head, but Robert has already returned his attention to his newspaper. No wonder I’m starving.

  And then, as if by magic, Perkins appears again, carrying a tray full of dainty pastries and a steaming silver teapot.

  “Thank you very much,” I say, smiling up at him in what I hope is a winning manner.

  “Will that be all, madam?” His voice is icy.

  Unfortunately, I have already stuffed one of the pastries right into my mouth. “Oh,” I mumble through a mouthful of food, realizing with a sinking heart that he is addressing me. “Yes. Thank you.” I swallow nervously.

  Perkins disappears and I pour myself a soothing cup of tea, glancing up at Robert as I do so. Here, in the soft light of the morning, he seems much more relaxed, almost – dare I say it – friendly. I eye him suspiciously for a moment, but he just sips calmly at his coffee, his long legs sprawled in front of him.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, deciding to take the proverbial bull by the horns.

  Robert sighs, carefully placing his coffee cup back in its saucer. “You make me sound like an ogre. I’m always nice to you.”

  I snort.

  “I am!” Robert retorts, nettled. “I’ve been perfectly polite. You’re the one without any manners.”

  “And that’s you being polite, is it?” I ask. He looks put out, and I pick up another pastry and nibble at it. It tastes of honey and almonds. “You have teased me,” I start, counting off on my now sticky fingers, “you have been condescending and high-handed, and, worst of all, you made fun of something … something that is important to me.” I flounder a bit there.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” Robert says stiffly after a pause, and I can see that he’s really bothered that I insulted his manners. “I did try to apologize yesterday, but I can see that I didn’t do a very good job.”

  “Oh, don’t,” I groan. “When you do that icy polite thing I think it’s the most obnoxious behaviour of all.” I feel my temper rising as I sit back in my chair and fold my arms.

  “Well, then, I don’t know what you want from me,” he says, exasperated. It’s probably the most animated I’ve seen him, and despite my irritation I realize I am quite enjoying this.

  “Noooo,” I say thoughtfully, deliberately stretching the word out between us. “It’s quite complicated, isn’t it? It seems like either way you make me cross. But then, I seem to make you cross too, so I suppose we’re even.”

  “You don’t make me cross,” Robert says crossly.

  “Mmm.” I make a soothing sound of agreement.

  There is a pause as Robert glowers at me, and then he seems to catch himself, and he laughs – just a little, and very reluctantly.

  We sit quietly for a while, and I look about me with interest. Now that all the gauzy white material has been removed I can see that the dining room has been left largely the same as it was. The pale, buttery panelling on the walls has been repainted, and there are new, spring-green curtains hanging at the side of the French windows, but it is still recognizable as one of the rooms I have haunted. It is a bright, cheerful space, perfect for long, lazy breakfasts, and as the sunlight spills across the table I wiggle contentedly in my seat.

  “You always do that, you know.” Robert’s voice cuts through my observations.

  “Do what?” I ask, turning to face him.

  “Look about with those big eyes of yours like you’re taking in every single tiny detail.” He widens his eyes, presumably to demonstrate the way he thinks I goggle at the world.

  I flush, and not just because he said I have big eyes. (Not exactly a first-class compliment, I know, but you have to take what you can get in this life.) “I’m just observant,” I mutter, unsettled.

  “Oh, I had noticed.” Robert’s voice is dry. “I suppose it’s the writer in you.”

  My mouth falls open. “I—” I begin, but the word is a wheeze. “I don’t think you should be talking to me about my writing.”

  “That reminds me,” Robert says, and he stands and goes to the sideboard, where he opens a drawer. He pulls something from inside and comes around the table to place it carefully next to my elbow before returning to his seat.

  I stare at the object by my side. My eyes flicker to his face and his expression is hard to read. Sitting next to my elbow is a thin blue notebook. I don’t need to open it to know that it’s the one I lost, the one that contains several chapters of Lady Amelia’s Revenge. I don’t know what to say.

  “Thank you,” I manage. “For returning it, I mean, not for reading it.” My voice is as icy as I can make it.

  Robert, at least, has the good grace to look a little guilty. “I really am sorry about that,” he says, and then he frowns. “Not that I read it, but if I gave the impression I was making fun of you.”

  It’s a strange sort of apology. “You’re not sorry you read it?”

  He shrugs. “You left it behind and I found it,” he says. “I didn’t know what it was,” he continues, “so I … read it.”

  “So you read it?” I repeat again. My conversation is not exactly sparkling, but I’m finding it hard to think straight. I realize now that my crossness has been replaced by something else. I so desperately want him to say he liked it.

  He nods, and holds his thumb and finger apart. “I only read a little. Not all of it.”

  “Right,” I say, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment that I feel. “Right.”

  “And I stopped reading as soon as I realized what it was,” Robert continues. “I’m not one to pry in other people’s private affairs.”

  “Oh,” I say, and my voice sounds a little hollow. “Well, good.” I run my fingers over the blue notebook.

  “Mmm.” He sips at his coffee indifferently. “Although if I’m being completely honest, I should say that I stopped reading almost as soon as I realized what it was.”

  “Almost?” My voice is dangerous. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I thought it was interesting,” he says, lifting his newspaper and disappearing behind it. “So I might have kept reading for a page or two.” He knows that I want to talk to him about it, the beast. He’s going to make me ask him what he thought of it, but I won’t, I won’t. I screw my hands up into two trembling fists.

  “Do you know?” I say after a moment, and I’m surprised to find that my breath
ing is uneven. “I would very much like to screw your stupid newspaper into a ball right now.”

  “I’m sure you would,” he says politely.

  I sit blinking at the plate of food in front of me. I lift my cup of tea to my lips and realize that it is empty, so I place it carefully back on to the saucer. I take a deep breath. I can’t help myself. “You thought it was interesting?” I ask finally, and my voice sounds thin and reedy.

  He lowers the newspaper. “Actually, I could hardly stand to put it down,” he says. “But I did.” He picks up the paper again, and his voice drifts pointedly from behind it. “Because it was the polite thing to do.”

  I sit stunned for a moment. He couldn’t put it down. Those simple words are a gift. Something in his matter-of-factness is more convincing than any string of superlatives would be. Aside from Alice, no one has read any of Lady Amelia’s Revenge, or any of my writing really. Sharing it feels like sharing a part of myself – an impossibly tender, fragile part of myself that might not recover if it was broken. And I can’t quite believe that the person I am sharing it with is Robert Cardew.

  I’m glad the newspaper is between us so that I can’t see his face. I know my own expression probably gives away my every emotion. Tentatively, I place my hand on the blue notebook and push it towards him.

  “Perhaps you should keep reading, then,” I say, trying to keep my voice offhand even as the blood is pounding in my ears. “If you really want to.”

  The notebook sits for a second on the table between us. It feels as though I have offered up my throat to a man with a knife. Robert slowly reaches across and his fingers close around the book. He tucks it carefully into his jacket. “Thank you,” he says. “I’d like that. Is there any more?”

  “There will be,” I say. “Perhaps.”

  I release the breath that I was holding and help myself to another pastry. They are buttery and flaky and delicate … almost as good as something that Midge would make. It must be because I am distracted, my mind still trying to absorb the idea that he liked my writing, that I inform Robert of the fact.

  “And who is Midge?” he asks.

  I swallow another mouthful. “Midge is my mother,” I say, and then, to fill the quiet that follows this pronouncement, I find myself telling him a story about the time Gerald the car broke down and had to be towed back to the farm by Mr Cobbett’s big shire horse while Freya sat in the back wearing a hastily assembled newspaper crown and waving at people like the queen. When we finally got home we had accidentally amassed a bit of a parade behind us. Midge shrugged, flung open the kitchen doors and threw one of the best parties Penlyn had ever seen.

  The story makes me laugh, and I look up to see that Robert is smiling. A real, proper smile. My teacup clatters in its saucer. It’s extraordinary what a difference that smile makes to his face. He looks so young and lit up. I find that some of my earlier crossness has melted away and, in fact, I’m feeling quite in charity with him.

  “What’s the matter?” Robert asks.

  “Oh … nothing,” I say nonchalantly. “I’m just not sure I’ve seen you smile properly before. You should do it more often, it suits you.”

  “Oh, rrreally?” Robert drawls, clearly very pleased with himself.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t get too carried away.” I throw a chilly look at him across the table. “I only meant that it was an improvement on the scowl you usually wear.”

  “I do not scowl,” Robert says.

  I snort into my tea. Then, because it is sitting untouched in front of him and I am still hungry, I reach out and pinch a piece of Robert’s toast.

  It is at this point that Caitlin drifts in, and I am happy to see her.

  “Good grief.” Robert’s voice is dry. “Do my eyes deceive me or can that be my sister gracing the breakfast table before noon?”

  Right on cue the clock begins to strike twelve.

  Caitlin sprawls into one of the dining chairs and slumps down, resting her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “Ha ha,” she mutters, her eyes half closed. “Very funny, I’m sure. Doesn’t it bother you that your sister is actually, definitely dying?” She groans. “Oh! Perkins,” she exclaims as the man himself appears like a silent and dour-faced genie. “Be a darling and fetch me a Bloody Mary, will you? Very bloody, if you get my meaning … the sort of thing Dracula would take a liking to. And … thinking about it, make a pitcher, will you?”

  “Of course, madam,” Perkins intones gloomily.

  Caitlin lets out a whimpering noise and rests her head against the tabletop.

  “Are you OK?” I ask, looking at her limp figure.

  She lifts a hand weakly in response, then lets it fall to her side.

  I look at Robert. “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means I was right about the Mary Pickford cocktails,” he says, and I can detect just a hint of big brotherly self-satisfaction in his words.

  Judging by the hand gestures Caitlin is making, so can she.

  “Why are you both looking so disgustingly cheerful?” Caitlin asks finally, after downing half of the bright red drink that Perkins brings out for her.

  “We didn’t drink as much as you,” Robert says matter-of-factly. “I’m not sure anyone did.”

  “Hmm.” Caitlin sniffs at this, but the colour is coming back into her cheeks now, and she looks a lot more alive. I inform her of this fact and she shakes her almost-empty drink at me. “Dear old Perkins could wake the dead with a couple of these,” she says.

  “And he’s had to do so on more than a couple of occasions,” Robert puts in.

  Caitlin ignores this. “So, Lou,” she says, suddenly awake, her eyes boring into mine, “I trust you found your room all right last night?” She is smirking, and I realize then that she thinks Charlie saw me back to my room. For some reason I don’t want to mention that in Robert’s presence. Thankfully, he has returned his attention to his newspaper.

  “Yes, thank you,” I answer.

  “And that your escort didn’t behave in an … untoward fashion?” She giggles.

  “Of course not,” I hiss, mortification running through my veins.

  “Shame.” Caitlin pouts.

  Robert rustles his paper. “What are you talking about, Cait?”

  “Nothing, just that Charlie seemed very keen to see Lou to her room last night.”

  “Hmmph.” Robert makes a sort of grunting noise and doesn’t say any more.

  I glare daggers at his sister, trying to communicate that I would rather talk to her about last night when we are alone. She rolls her eyes at me, but seems to get the message.

  “Fine, fine,” she says. “I believe you … millions wouldn’t, but I do.” She pours herself another glass of the vibrant red drink. “Has my brother been keeping you entertained?” she asks.

  “I’ve been delightful company,” Robert answers before I can say anything.

  “I think that’s overstating it,” I mutter.

  “I thought we had a very nice chat,” Robert says. “You only threatened to destroy my newspaper once, and I didn’t even offer up a word of protest when you ate all my toast.”

  “Oh, that was very big of you,” I reply.

  “Oof, my head is still hurting too much to listen to all this back and forth,” Caitlin interrupts, and Robert goes back to his reading with a smirk. “So, what shall we do with this glorious morning?” she asks.

  “Morning,” Robert’s voice drifts out helpfully from behind the paper, “has finished.”

  “You know what I mean.” Caitlin waves a hand dismissively. “I think we should go down to the beach and sunbathe.” She turns to me. “Having a tan is getting to be so fashionable.” She sighs. “But I just seem to turn pink and then white again. Not like you and Laurie.”

  It feels good to be paired with Laurie, even if it is only because I spend so much time scampering about outside. Also, despite my best efforts to stay informed, I had no idea that tanned skin was coming into fashion.
I make a note to inform Alice later.

  “I haven’t brought my swimsuit,” I say.

  “I have a hundred suits, so of course you can borrow one of mine.”

  “Thank you,” I manage. “What about the others?”

  “Well, they have their own suits.” Caitlin’s head tilts to one side.

  “You know what I mean!” I exclaim.

  “They’ll all join us eventually.” She smiles sweetly. “Is there anyone in particular you are wondering about?”

  I push my chair back and get to my feet, deliberately ignoring this. “Shall we go?” I say.

  Caitlin stands as well. “Yes, let’s.” She moves towards the door. “I think you and I have a lot more to discuss, anyway.”

  An hour later I am sitting on the golden sand, feeling self-conscious and adjusting the strap on my borrowed bathing suit. It is red, a lot more daring than my own, and I’m not used to wearing something that leaves so little to the imagination. Not that anyone else seems to be paying much attention. I look down at my flat chest. There isn’t that much to pay attention to, I suppose.

  I lie back, propping myself on my elbows so that I can look out over the sea. It is a perfect late-June afternoon, and the water shimmers invitingly. The cove is quiet and secluded, and the sun feels good on my skin. I am happy to be here, to put off my return home for as long as possible.

  I sink back next to Caitlin, holding up my hand to shade my eyes and watching the light dance through my splayed fingers. We have enjoyed a lengthy gossip about the night before, and I find myself surprisingly relaxed in her company. Now, Caitlin is flicking through a magazine and I wonder sleepily if I should go and find something to read in the library. Suddenly something drops into the sand next to me, making me jump. It is a book. I pick it up and squeal with delight. It’s The Seven Dials Mystery, the latest Agatha Christie novel.

  A shadow falls across my face, and I see that Robert is standing over me. “I thought it was time the library was updated,” he says.

  “I’ve been wanting to read this for ages,” I say, sitting up. My eyes linger for a moment on his broad shoulders before I turn quickly back to the book in my hands.