A Sky Painted Gold

by Laura Wood

  “It sounds impossible,” I say. “It’s a nice thought, Caitlin, but really, I don’t mind. Why don’t we have a small party here, just us?”

  “Impossible?” Caitlin repeats, arching one delicate eyebrow. “That word is not in my vocabulary. No, it’s certainly not impossible.” She is leaning forward now, and she has that look in her eye, the one that I know spells trouble. “It simply means that I will need to go to London for a couple of days,” she says.

  “London?” Robert shifts forward in his seat. “Is that really necessary?” The movement seems a little anxious, his green eyes searching her face. “I’m not sure that you need to—”

  “Of course it is!” Caitlin sings. “We can pick up your dress while we’re there, Laurie.”

  “We?” I say, glancing towards her brother. “Is Robert going with you as well?”

  “No, silly.” Caitlin’s eyes meet mine. “You are.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Two days later I am on my way to London. I am not quite sure how it has all happened, and yet here I am in the back of a chauffeur-driven car with Caitlin, off for my first ever trip to the big, shining city that has loomed large in my imagination for years.

  Unbeknownst to me, Caitlin sent a note to Midge on the evening she came up with the idea, explaining that she and “a few friends” would love to throw me a birthday party. If Midge and Pa had no objections, the note continued, she would like to take me to London to oversee the preparations and to make sure that everything was to my liking. When confronted with that gold-plated, ivory paper and Caitlin’s scrawling enthusiasm, punctuated with so many exclamation marks, Midge was helpless to refuse. (Not that I think she would have protested much anyway, but such a kind letter left even Aunt Irene [almost] silent on the matter.) And so, by the time I arrived back at the farm, everyone knew I was leaving the next day for London.

  Which brings me here, sitting back in my plush seat as I watch the world slip by through the window. Caitlin is next to me, chattering brightly about the people she most wants to avoid while we’re here, on the understanding that they are the most dreadful bores, darling. There is something jittery about her high spirits, which seems to be growing with every mile we cover. I am beginning to worry that this trip might not be the distraction that Caitlin needs, but rather that we are throwing ourselves into the path of some danger that I don’t understand.

  We are headed to Mayfair, I know that much, although I don’t really know where Mayfair is or what it entails. What I do know is that we are going shopping, and that Caitlin keeps saying the word shopping as if it is in italics, and that this way of saying it sends a delighted shiver down my spine. We are going to go and see about the clothes, and we are also going to go and “show our faces” around town. This is another thing that I don’t quite understand, but I am excited about it all the same. The whole trip seems impossible somehow. While I have just about started to get used to the idea of being at the Cardew House, I wasn’t prepared for the speed at which things have happened. A trip that would have taken me an awful lot of preparation is thrown hastily together by Caitlin in the course of a couple of phone calls, and so, while only a few short days ago I had no thoughts of going to London at all outside my persistent far-fetched fantasies, gathered up over many years, now I find myself pulling up outside an elegant mews house on a quiet, leafy street.

  “Thank you, Franks,” Caitlin sings to the driver as she sails out of the car, fitting a gleaming silver key into the lock on the front door. “Please bring the bags in and take them upstairs.”

  I step cautiously into the house behind her. The floor is laid with black and white tiles, and a curved white staircase runs up one wall. The space is light and airy, with high ceilings, and there is a table in the centre, on which a vase full of white lilies fill the air with their heavy scent.

  Caitlin is a whirlwind, disappearing into the rooms beyond, and I follow, my eyes wide, as I take in every detail. “Well, everything looks in good order.” Caitlin shrugs off her light jacket and throws it on to the back of a pale green covered sofa. “I know it’s poky, but there is no point in opening up the big house for only a couple of days.” Her voice is bright, although her smile falters a little. “I prefer it here anyway, the big house is…” She trails off here, and I think she looks a little pale. “Too big,” she says finally.

  “I don’t think I’d call this poky, Caitlin,” I reply, gazing around at the perfectly proportioned rooms, the pretty, modern furniture and the walls covered in elegant framed sketches. There are more flowers in here too – fat, pink roses that remind me of Alice’s wedding day. Thinking of Alice makes me feel uneasy. I haven’t seen her since that day at the farm. Does she even know that I am in London, that I’m about to enter the hallowed halls of fashion? Probably, but not from me, and that feels wrong.

  I turn my attention back to the room that we are standing in, struck once again by the easy elegance of it all. I allow myself to shrug off any difficult thoughts, to simply enjoy the moment. “I think it’s heavenly,” I breathe.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you like it!” Caitlin claps her hands together. “It’s going to be such fun. There’s no staff here at the moment, so we’ll fend for ourselves, but as we’ll hardly be at home that won’t matter.”

  “If there’s no staff, then who put out all the flowers?” I ask, moving over to take a closer look at one of the sketches that line the walls.

  “Oh, I have a woman come and tidy, of course,” Caitlin says airily. “I hadn’t even noticed the flowers.” Her eyes flicker in their direction. “How nice.” Caitlin takes the smoothness of the way her life runs for granted, I know, but it is still a little jarring.

  I look more closely at the picture on the wall. It is a charcoal sketch, deftly drawn and simply full of life. The lines almost tremble with energy. It speaks to the restlessness inside of me, and I am overwhelmed by how intimate the feeling is, as though I am seeing a part of myself set up in a frame for everyone to see.

  “Why, this is the house in Cornwall!” I exclaim.

  “Do you like it?” Caitlin asks, coming to stand beside me.

  “Of course I do,” I reply truthfully. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s one of Robert’s,” Caitlin says, and she is smirking, waiting for a reaction.

  She gets one. “Robert’s?” I echo, my mouth falling open. I am silent for a second, staring at the picture. “I had no idea that Robert could even draw,” I say.

  Caitlin nods. “Oh, yes. He doesn’t do it so much any more, but there was a time when he was always sketching and painting.” Her smile falters a little here. “Before our father died,” she adds.

  I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

  “It’s a shame that Robert stopped,” I say tentatively. “He’s obviously very talented.”

  “Mmm.” Caitlin’s eyes are fixed on the drawing. “I suppose he felt that he had to be a more serious kind of person after…” She trails off here, and I think perhaps she is going to cry, but instead her face is tight and pale, curiously empty. “Anyway, Robert was suddenly in charge of everything. He was different then.” She pauses, and her voice is hollow as she adds, “I suppose we both were.” The way she says it makes my heart ache for the two of them.

  “So.” Caitlin rallies. “Now I have something over you, and that means you have to do exactly as I say.”

  “Everyone does that anyway,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And what exactly do you have over me?”

  “Fail to heed my commands and I shall tell Robert exactly how talented you think he is.”

  I groan. “His ego doesn’t need that kind of inflation,” I protest, relieved to see her smile again.

  “True.” Caitlin bats her eyelashes. “But you’re a wild card. And I have a particularly decadent trip planned for us, so I need the insurance, just in case you chicken out of anything.”

  “When have I ever chickened out of anything?” I protest.


  “Very true,” Caitlin agrees. “This is one of the reasons I love you. Now,” she says, “my first commandment is that you go and freshen up. We’ll go and have some lunch, but first we have a lot of shopping to do.”

  “Aye aye, captain,” I say, giving her a little salute.

  “I’ll show you to your room,” she says, tripping ahead of me and up the stairs. There are three bedrooms on the second floor. Mine is pretty and painted primrose yellow with a large window that looks out on to the street. It also has its own bathroom, though nothing as extravagant as the one at the house in Cornwall. It’s almost ordinary enough for me to pretend that it’s mine, that this is my own real life, living here in London in my little primrose room. The thought is like pulling my most precious, deeply cherished daydream out into the light. I sigh. That daydream may be beyond my reach, but the city isn’t, and I can’t wait to get out there and explore. All of London waiting for me, just outside the front door. Excitement wriggles up and down my spine, and I feel like dancing.

  When I arrive back downstairs, Caitlin is sitting on the sofa, waiting, her fingers drumming impatiently on a cushion. “Thank goodness,” she exclaims. “I’m absolutely itching to get going. Shall we?”

  “Let’s,” I say, feeling a wave of excitement crash over me. “Where to?” I ask.

  Caitlin slips into her jacket and waves a reproving finger at me. “All will be revealed,” she says. “Please follow me.”

  With this she makes her way to the front door while I trail dutifully behind. The ever-patient Franks is waiting in the car, and he leaps out to open the door for us. “Carradice’s, please, Franks,” Caitlin calls as she slides gracefully into the back seat. I clamber in behind her.

  It is a very short drive to our next destination, and I just about refrain from sticking my head out of the window. Once we turn off the quiet road where Caitlin’s house is, we seem suddenly to be in the middle of so much noise and movement that it leaves my head spinning.

  There are cars everywhere, honking at each other, and great red buses that have no roof on top of them and are simply bursting with people. The roads are wide, and the buildings that line the sides are so tall that they seem to reach into the few clouds that float in the otherwise blue sky. It is hot, and loud, and crowded, and for a moment I am overwhelmed by it all, and then I am desperately greedy for more.

  The car pulls up only a few minutes later outside a tall, elegant white shopfront in the middle of a long row of shops. Above the window on the ground floor a grey marble sign declares in large art deco lettering that the store is, in fact, the Carradice’s that we are destined for. When we step out of the car I fly to the glass window in front of me as though pulled there by an unseen force that I am helpless to resist. Displayed behind the glass is a mannequin wearing a truly beautiful gown of red silk trimmed with gold and silver beads in a trailing ivy design.

  “Oh,” I sigh. “Caitlin, look at this,” and I press my fingers against the glass, longing to reach out and stroke the material, imagining the inky feeling of the silk slipping between my fingers. I lift my hand from the glass and realize that I have left smudgy fingerprints there. Horrified, I try to rub them away. Caitlin turns towards me. “What are you doing, Lou?” she asks, as though I am a naughty child that she has been charged with. She doesn’t wait for a response. “Come on!”

  Once we are through the door things seem even more wonderful. The floors are white marble and so are the walls, inlaid with a beautiful gold pattern and draped with whisper-thin white silk. There are glass cabinets edged with gold, holding gloves and jewels and all sorts of other beautiful things. Two sides of the walls are clad in mirrors, reflecting back all this shimmering luxury and a thousand Lous stand wide-eyed in the middle of it all. I take a proper look at myself then, my face a small pale moon, my clothes scruffy and out of place.

  “Ahhh, Lady Cardew.” A young woman drifts forward from behind one of the counters, her heels clipping across the floor. “How nice to see you again. I believe Madame Carradice is expecting you?”

  “That’s right, Celia,” Caitlin says, shrugging off her jacket and handing it to the woman. “And this is my dear friend Lou.”

  Both women turn to me, and Celia, the consummate professional, does not betray by the merest flicker of an eyelid that I am not the usual type to frequent such an establishment.

  “May I take your coat?” she asks, and I slip my arms out of my thin cotton jacket, rubbing my hands down my sides to try and smooth the crumpled dress underneath.

  Celia smiles, and her smile is smooth and flat, a glossy red act of politeness. “Madame is waiting for you upstairs.”

  “Perfect.” Caitlin grabs me by the arm. “I’ll lead the way.” And she pulls me through a door at the back of the room which opens on to a white, spiralled staircase, lined with more mirrors.

  “I’m really enjoying looking at myself this much,” I mutter. The difference between me and Caitlin has never been more apparent, and I don’t need to see my reflection beamed back to me from every surface to know that I don’t measure up, that I don’t belong. Surrounded by all these mirrors, I have never felt more plain, more of an imposter.

  Caitlin stops and fluffs her hair, blowing her own reflection a kiss. “I know just what you mean,” she says.

  “I don’t think you do,” I murmur under my breath.

  “Oh, hush,” she chides, and again I feel like her unruly charge. “Now let’s go and see what Madame Carradice has to offer today.” With this she hurries up the stairs.

  At the top we reach another black door, and Caitlin pushes her way through as if she owns the place. Standing waiting for us in the long room is an older woman of breathtaking elegance. I am not quite sure what it is about her that looks so expensive and so absolutely right. She is wearing a simple black dress, with sheer stockings and only a single string of pearls. Her hair is dark, streaked with grey and pulled back into a chignon, and she wears little make-up. But there is something about the way she stands, about the way her dress falls and the way she wears it that makes you stop and look at her.

  “Madame Carradice.” Caitlin moves forward, grasping her hands as they exchange a kiss on each cheek. “And as you see I have brought my dearest friend, Lou, with me today.” Caitlin turns and gestures for me to step forward. I do so reluctantly, feeling myself shrink beneath Madame Carradice’s steady gaze.

  Her eyes rake over me, and I feel her notice every single stitch on the hand-me-down dress that I inherited from Alice.

  “I see,” she says slowly. But what, precisely, she sees I have no idea. I give her a tentative smile, which she does not return.

  At that moment there is a tap at the door and Celia arrives with a tray of champagne glasses and an open bottle. I accept a glass, grateful for something to do with my hands, and take a nervous swig before sinking into a plump pink chair. Celia disappears back the way she came, leaving us once more alone with Madame Carradice.

  “Well, first of all,” Caitlin begins, sipping her drink, “we have something of an emergency. It is Lou’s eighteenth birthday in just a few days’ time, on Friday, in fact, and I plan to throw an extremely lavish masquerade party at our house in Cornwall to celebrate.”

  Madame Carradice nods, unperturbed as she perches on the edge of her own seat.

  “So I will, of course, need something ravishing to wear for that,” Caitlin says.

  “Of course.” Madame Carradice nods again, and a gleam of interest has appeared in her eyes.

  Caitlin inclines her head. “And the other thing is Lou here.”

  I am taking a sip of my champagne when she says this, and I find myself choking over it in a not very ladylike fashion at this unexpected mention of my name. “Me?” I splutter.

  “Yes, you.” Caitlin is brisk. She turns to Madame Carradice, her eyes wide and appealing. “We will need a few things – a couple of day dresses, and something to wear this evening. It’s very important that we both look our absolute
best this evening. Very important.”

  “Caitlin!” I exclaim. “What are you talking about? I – I’m afraid this isn’t…” I trail off, mortified, trying to avoid Madame Carradice’s eye.

  “Don’t be silly, Lou,” Caitlin says impatiently. “It’s my gift to you, for your birthday.”

  My head snaps up then. “Oh, no!” I wheeze, wishing I could sink into the ground. “That’s so kind, but I couldn’t.” Madame Carradice is completely still, silent, her face a polite blank.

  “Nonsense,” Caitlin says. “You said that you were going to let me have my own way and this is what I want. It will make me very happy. It is your birthday, after all,” she wheedles.

  “Well, I…” I flounder.

  “And I suppose if you say no then there’s a good chance I may remember to tell Robert that you think he’s an artistic genius,” she says, dropping her eyes innocently and toying with her champagne glass.

  I laugh at this, I can’t help it. “The word genius never crossed my lips,” I say.

  Caitlin eyes me expectantly.

  “OK,” I say finally. “If you’re sure. One dress. It’s really so generous of you…”

  “That’s enough of that.” Caitlin waves my thanks away impatiently and returns her attention to Madame Carradice. “So, Madame,” she says earnestly, “we place ourselves entirely in your hands.”

  “Very well.” Madame Carradice nods, refilling our champagne glasses. “We’ll begin by taking the young lady’s measurements, and then I will show you some samples. I think … yes, I think I have just the thing.” She is tapping her finger against her cheek, and then her face breaks into a sudden smile that takes me by surprise. Her smile is crooked and something about its imperfection is reassuring.

  “If you would come this way.” She turns to me, and gestures towards the back of the room with her hand.

  Standing, I follow her as she slips behind a pink curtain. I find myself in a luxuriously decorated changing room. “If you could just slip your dress off,” Madame Carradice says, picking up a tape measure from a small table, “then I can get your measurements.”