by Jenny Harper
Lexie browned a batch of cold sliced potato in a frying pan with a little oil and a handful of crushed rosemary. She was enjoying being back at Fernhill, secure in the knowledge that she was not enslaved at Gordon’s any longer, and that she could return to her own private space again this evening. Martha, crisp in a white cotton blouse and pin-striped apron, was sitting at the kitchen table, slicing the next batch of potatoes for Lexie – a production line. They were bonding as a team in more than one way.
‘I popped in on Edith Lawrence today,’ Martha said, assessing quantities with a practised eye.
Immediately, Lexie was ashamed of herself. Edith’s story had been her inspiration, yet she hadn’t visited the old woman since the discovery of the bootees. She had become selfish.
She jabbed at a piece of potato that was sticking in the pan.
‘How is she?’
‘Delightful. I’ve discovered that if you take her back to her childhood she can be quite lucid. We were talking about Fernhill and her memories of it. Do you know, there used to be some outbuildings at the back, where we park the cars? Edith’s father let them to a local farmer’s wife and she ran a dairy there.’
‘No, really?’
‘Fernhill Dairy.’
Martha finished slicing potato and stood up to clear away the waste.
‘They sold milk and cream and butter until after the First World War. Then the woman announced she’d had enough of cows and milk. She was off to work in the canteen at the East Fortune air base, where it’d be a damn sight warmer.’
‘Does she talk about Charlotte at all?’
‘I haven’t raised it with her. I’m afraid of how she might react. I’d rather stick to happier lines of conversation. Did you know she worked at the air base herself? Just for the last couple of years of the second war, when she’d turned eighteen. She was some sort of filing clerk. Will you go and see her? I’m sure she’d like that.’
Lexie flipped the last slices of potato.
‘I should, shouldn’t I? Oh, hi Dad. Didn’t hear you come in – what’s wrong?’
Tom Gordon replaced the look of despair with one of forced cheerfulness, went straight to the fridge and pulled out a can of beer, then sat down heavily at the table. The can stood in front of him, condensation running slowly down its side and puddling into a ring on the table. Martha lifted it, pulled the ring, fetched a glass from the cupboard and poured the beer, while Lexie, concern growing, dried the lake with kitchen roll.
‘Dad?’
Tom was staring at the beer, but he didn’t seem to see it. As the froth subsided, it remained untouched.
Martha touched Tom’s shoulder. ‘Tom?’
He jumped.
‘What?’
‘Your beer?’
She gestured to the glass.
‘Oh. Yes. Thank you.’
He gripped the glass but it remained on the table.
Martha pulled out a chair and sat down next to him.
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell us what’s up, rather than leave us guessing at the worst?’
He picked up the glass with obvious effort and took a long pull at the beer.
‘Just tired,’ he said, his smile forced.
‘Dad,’ Lexie reproached, her concern unabated.
‘Really. It’s been a long day. It’s lovely to see you, Alexa, by the way. Martha, your colleague Fiona from your old office came in today. She was asking after you.’
Lexie recognised evasive tactics, but her mother was sidetracked and the conversation drifted into chit-chat as her father’s tension eased. Lexie suspected work-induced stress and wondered what new disaster had befallen Gordon’s. She determined to call Neil in the morning. Loyalty, the familiar that had sat on her shoulder for the past year, sank its claws into her flesh. I should be there, helping him. What had begun as an antidote to grief had set like glue and she was stuck.
She said, ‘I’ll come back to Gordon’s.’
Tom and Martha’s heads turned in uncanny unison as they both stared at her in astonishment.
Tom’s response, ‘It’s not necessary,’ chimed with Martha’s, ‘You can’t, you’ve got your own work.’
Lexie picked on the latter.
‘Come on, Mum. You know and I know that there’s not much point carrying on. I’ve been kidding myself. I’ve got nowhere to show my paintings.’
‘We’ll find somewhere. Don’t give up. You owe it to everyone who’s sent you shoes. They’re all so excited. And what about Pavel? He wouldn’t have wanted you to give up.’
‘There’s nothing you can do at Gordon’s, love,’ her father said. ‘I mean it. You’ve sacrificed enough for us already. Besides,’ he added, laying a protective hand over Martha’s, ‘look at how good it’s been for your mother. She’s so much like her old self again.’
The opposing claims on her ripped Lexie in two. Help her father – or provide an escape route for her mother? Give up on the show idea and disappoint so many people – or paint, which was what she longed to do? The desire to prove herself to Patrick was ever-present.
‘I just want to know you’re all right, Dad.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Tom said, ‘if you’d just stop tantalising me with the smell of those bloody chips and feed me.’
‘Mr Mulgrew?’
Victoria, still jet-lagged, had gone home early, full of apologies but heavy-eyed with lack of sleep. Another girl, Sophie, was keeping an eye on the gallery. Perhaps she was busy with a customer because this call had come straight through to Patrick.
‘Who is this?’ he asked, more weary than he cared to admit.
‘You don’t know me, my name is Frederick Hampton. I’m a curator at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.’
Patrick, who focused on fine art, seldom visited the V&A, but he admired the museum. ‘How can I help you, Mr Hampton?’
‘Freddie, please. Last year I spotted you at an auction in London. The small museum I was with at that time bid unsuccessfully for an item that was up for sale. The bidding went beyond our budget, I’m afraid, and I had to drop out. The lot went to a telephone bidder. I discovered later that the person behind that bid was you.’
‘Oh yes?’ Patrick feigned indifference, but he knew at once which auction Freddie Hampton was talking about.
‘As I said, I’m now at the V&A, and I’m putting together a big exhibition, very prestigious. It will attract a lot of attention and draw international audiences.’
He paused, perhaps hopeful that Patrick would anticipate his request, but Patrick didn’t help him out.
At length Freddie said, ‘I was very much hoping that you would lend us the item. I’m sure you’re aware that it represents a pivotal period in that particular maker’s career.’
Patrick thought of the box buried deep in his wardrobe. He had a very good idea of how important it was and he knew that he was about to be very selfish, but the fact was that he could not bear to let it out of his possession. Somewhere deep inside he still hoped that he could present it to the person he’d bought it for.
‘I’m sorry, Freddie.’ He paused, ‘It’s no longer mine to give.’
‘Oh.’ The young curator sounded crestfallen. ‘Would you be able to give me any details of the current owner? I’d really like to pursue—’
‘No. I’m sorry. It has—’ he searched for an appropriate word, ‘—dropped out of sight.’
When Freddie had rung off, Patrick scratched at the stubble sprouting from his chin, a reminder that it was time to head home and catch up on sleep. On his computer, an email announced its arrival with a melodic tinkle. He clawed at the mouse, the screen refreshed, and he saw it was from Domenica.
Patrick smiled. Dom
enica was a wise old bird.
Cameron’s birthday party was in full swing and he was sweating. His scar was white against the hot flush of his face and his hair was matting into damp clumps. He stripped off the sweater Lexie had given him this morning to reveal a tee shirt bearing the legend ‘Brilliantly disguised as a grown up’.
‘From my uncle,’ he grinned as Lexie grimaced, ‘Great, isn’t it?’
He pulled her close and rubbed his damp cheek across her face. ‘Feel the sweat, babe.’
‘Yuk, you’re gross!’
She pushed him away but he laughed and jerked her back.
‘And you look good enough to eat.’
Lexie was wearing crimson spandex tights with orange leg-warmers and a tiger-skin top. Scarlet plastic hoop earrings swung from her ears and she had tied a leopard-skin bandana round her forehead. Entering into the spirit of a period theme came easily to her, but the only item she had been able to persuade Cameron to wear was a pair of late-eighties hi-top trainers, which he had embraced with enthusiasm.
‘You are brilliant, d’you know that?’ he mouthed into her ear. ‘I think I’m in love.’
She took these words lightly, because he was clearly more than half way to being very drunk.
‘Cupboard love,’ she bawled, ‘just because I organised all this for you.’
He laughed. ‘You know me too well, babe,’ he said, and started to attack the gifts piled on a table next to the dance floor, ripping off the bright wrapping paper with more gusto than finesse.
‘Careful,’ Lexie said, rescuing a gift card, ‘or you’ll not know who they’re from.’
He squinted at the card.
‘Boxed set of “The Killing”. Brilliant. From Ange and Mick. Cheers.’
He raised the box to a couple hooked round each other in the corner of the room.
‘Not killing each other tonight yet, I see.’
There were guffaws. Ange and Mick were known for their rather public rows.
Cameron seized another parcel, clearly a bottle.
‘From Big Al. Thanks mate. I might even share it with you.’
Carlotta appeared from the kitchen in a sleeveless scarlet shift and black pumps. She looked cool and unruffled, despite having just produced a birthday meal for twenty as well as overseeing the demands of a full restaurant.
‘Was everything all right?’ she asked.
Molly, coming up behind Lexie, dumped a gift-wrapped parcel on the table.
‘Brilliant, thanks, you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble. Really.’
‘Wish I could say the same about Cameron,’ Lexie grinned, ‘He’s been a bloody nightmare this last week.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘Oh you know, driving us mad,’ Lexie said indulgently. ‘Forever adding new people to the guest list. Dreaming up yet another impossible idea for the decorations. Wouldn’t make a decision about the menu, that sort of thing.’
‘Hah, so like a man. It’s better you two did the organising, I think.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Where’s Jonas, Carlotta?’ Molly asked.
Carlotta peered around the dimly-lit room.
‘He is not here?’
‘Nope. He did say he was coming.’
‘Yes, I expected him. This is strange. Maybe I should call him, something might have happened.’
She pulled out a phone, but the deadbeat voice of Mick Jones began to grind out and the opportunity for any kind of sane conversation was lost.
Lexie leaned back against a table and closed her eyes, giving herself over to the music. She didn’t want to think about Jonas, or about anything else in particular. It had been an exhausting week.
A hand grabbed her and her eyes snapped open. Cameron was tugging at her arm and grinning.
‘Come on Lex. First dance.’
‘Go, girl,’ Molly shouted, shoving her as she stumbled forward.
They shuffled and gyrated in the centre of the floor as everyone started to clap rhythmically, whistling and cat calling.
Cameron swayed against Lexie so that she was forced to match his weight with her own in order to keep him upright.
‘You’re a great girl, Lexie. Great,’ he slurred.
‘Sure.’
‘Been fantastic, getting back together, eh?’
‘Yeah, fab.’
He draped his arms round her neck and hooked her so close that his alcohol-laden breath puffed hotly across her face.
‘Don’ know wha’ I’d do without you. Tell you wha’, Lexie, let’s tell everyone – let’s tell them that we –’
The music crashed to a halt. The silence that ensued was like treacle, sticky and uncomfortable. Cameron whirled round, his eyes slightly unfocused.
‘Wha’ the –?’
Lexie steadied him with her shoulder as he threatened to topple. Someone threw a switch and the dimness blazed into light. She blinked, half blinded.
A chorus of voices rose as people began to recover from their surprise.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Is it the strippogram?’ Someone said with an accompanying belly laugh.
‘Hey, what do you think you’re—?’
Jonas Wood was standing right next to them in the centre of the dance floor. His feet were planted wide apart. Aggression leached from every pore.
‘Jonas?’ Lexie said. ‘Is something—?’
He glared at her, his usually placid features crumpled into a scowl so ferocious that she caught her breath.
‘Wrong? Is something wrong, Lexie, is that what you were going to say?’
She laid a placatory hand on his arm, but he shook it off with a gesture of impatience. He was holding a box. Not gift-wrapped like the others piled on the table next to the dance floor. Just a shoe box.
He snatched off the lid and pulled out a pair of scarlet stiletto sandals.
‘I heard you were looking for good stories,’ he growled, his face scrunched into a pug-like snarl so unlike his usual amiable expression that Lexie was shocked.
‘I’m sorry? I don’t…’
Jonas shoved the sandals into her hands and she looked down at them in bewilderment. They were stylish: the leather was soft, the heels were high. On the right woman, they’d look stunning.
Carlotta was pushing her way through the crowd.
‘Jonas? Mi cielo?’
Jonas ignored his wife.
‘You just photograph these, Lexie. They tell a story all right. The story of a lying, cheating bitch who’s slept with half the town.’
Carlotta cried out and clapped her hands over her mouth.
‘No! It’s not true!’
She clawed at his arm but he thrust her away with such violence that she spun round and fell to the floor. Lexie stared at Jonas, appalled. She’d never have believed he could be so rough with his adored Carlotta.
‘Including the guy who used to be my best friend.’
The silence now was absolute. Lexie looked down at Carlotta, still sprawling on the floor, her head hanging down, her shoulders heaving. She looked at Cameron. Jonas’s best friend.
She began to laugh.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Cameron wouldn’t … Cam?’
She appealed to him, expecting the refutation of the accusation to be immediate.
Cameron’s mouth was hanging open.
‘I didn’… she asked me … it wasn’ my fault,’ he stuttered through a haze of alcohol.
‘Maybe years ago,’ Lexie stammered, ‘before the two of you got married.’
Jonas’s laugh was so completely devoid of humour that it raised the hairs on her neck.
‘Oh yes. That too. That’s why Cameron ran away.’
Lexie caught her breath.
‘And since he came back.’
‘No!’
He was lying. He must be, although she couldn’t understand why. Cameron wouldn’t have slept with Carlotta in the last few mo
nths, not when she was becoming so close to him?
‘Cameron?’ she repeated again, demanding a denial. ‘Tell him. Tell him you didn’t … you haven’t—’
Cameron’s eyes were not quite focused. His gaze slid from Jonas to where Carlotta lay on the floor, and then to Lexie.
‘Oh, fuck it,’ he mumbled, and lurched towards the door. ‘Fuck everything.’
His party guests watched his retreating back in shocked silence.
Chapter Twenty-five
Catalogue number 19: Pink baby bootees, hand knitted. Small bleached area on one toe. Donor: Edith Dorothy Lawrence, Musselburgh. ‘These bootees are the only memento I have left of my little baby, Charlotte, who died at only six weeks. Charlotte was illegitimate. The boy ran away. I refused to give my baby up but my father punished me when she died by forcing me to destroy everything that belonged to her. I hid these up the chimney in a wee box.’
Patrick had a dinner in London, so stayed over and flew back early the next morning. It was a week now since he had returned from New York and at least once every hour he thought of Lexie and how he might frame his apology. Would it be enough to prise her from that man Cameron’s grip?
Patrick exuded confidence in every aspect of his life but was deeply insecure over personal relationships – a fact that would come as a considerable surprise to many. Didn’t he always have a beautiful woman on his arm? Didn’t they queue up for his attention?
He was brutal when it came to self-assessment. Wealth buys anything, he told himself with painful honesty. It certainly buys women. Yet it hadn’t been enough for Niamh – measured against Aidan, he had been found wanting. And Lexie wasn’t interested in money. He was a decade older than she was, and though he dressed well, drove a smart car and owned a large house, what could he offer when set against the raw sexuality of the young man she had chosen?
So he delayed engineering a meeting. He’d do it even though he risked the mortification of yet another rejection, but the thing had to be right. Patrick, who would make a decision on the purchase of a valuable painting or the career of a young artist he found promising in a split second, procrastinated.