by Jenny Harper
She was following the river. It wasn’t a private path, and it was Sunday, so on a number of occasions she passed other walkers. She lost track of time. She was aware of her phone ringing on a number of occasions, but she didn’t need to talk to Cameron, because she could already hear his voice in her head, muttering his excuses.
You were so damn possessive that I felt, you know, swamped.
Of course we should have talked, but I was scared you might persuade me to stay. I was bloody immature, I admit it.
Sometimes she stopped and rested for a while on some path-side boulder, wondering whether she would forgive Cameron. She thought not, but nothing was clear to her.
At one point she was overcome by drowsiness and curled up under a tree, where the sleep that had eluded her last night overtook her at last. When she woke, the wind had risen and she realised with a jolt that she could smell salt air. She must have walked for miles.
A lone walker appeared on the horizon.
‘Excuse me!’ she called, ‘Can you tell me where I am?’
His look of surprise became an intent stare, and seemed to be focused somewhere near her right cheekbone. She brushed at it with her hand. Was there a smear of earth? Maybe a leaf had stuck to it when she’d used the grass as her pillow?
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, clearly concerned.
‘Fine.’
‘You look a little – are you sure you’re all right? Do you need some water?’
She was wearing a wafer-thin floral dress that had seen fifty years’ of washing, a pair of butter-soft Victorian boots that must by now be caked with mud, and her beloved tweed jacket. It was not normal hiking gear.
‘I’m okay. Really,’ she said earnestly, to reassure him. ‘I’m just not sure where this path emerges.’
‘Oh, I see. You’re near Aberlady. Does that help?’
‘Aberlady!’
She’d walked almost nine miles. She was tired, and hungry, and she had no money.
‘Where’ve you come from?’
Lexie gestured vaguely back along the path. ‘Back there.’ She gathered herself. ‘I live on the Fleming House estate, near Hailesbank.’
‘It’s a good long walk.’
She could see a faint shadow on his chin. It wasn’t so much stubble, more a mixture of Van Dyke brown with a touch of Ivory Black, painted on with a very dry brush. His cheekbones were high and gave his face a fine structure, and his skin was weathered by sun and wind, as if he was close friends with nature. He had honest eyes.
Honest eyes.
Lexie smiled. All she had thought about for fourteen hours had been deception, and now she’d been reminded that honesty did exist – if she could read character at all.
‘What time is it?’
He glanced down at his watch. His arms, exposed beneath the short sleeves of a polo shirt, were pleasingly brown.
‘Five o’clock.’
‘Five o’clock!’
How had Edith walked so far, at her age, and in carpet slippers? Lexie crumpled at the thought and must have staggered a little, because she became aware of his hand under her arm, strong and steadying.
‘Here. Sit down for a minute.’ He guided her to a rock by the path, lowered her onto it, and fished out a flask from his backpack. ‘Have some tea. I couldn’t finish it. I don’t have any germs, well not dangerous ones anyway.’
Lexie accepted the tea and sipped.
‘Can I offer you a lift home?’
‘A lift?’
‘I have a car up there –’ he gestured to the right somewhere, ‘– and Hailesbank isn’t far out of my way. You don’t have to say yes, it’s just an offer.’
Lexie contemplated her slim legs, which looked oddly white as they disappeared into the boots. Sitting down had made her realise how tired she was. She rubbed her hand through her crimson crop. Her hair felt dry and undernourished, but her scalp was damp with her exertion. She was a mess.
‘A lift,’ she said, weak with gratitude, ‘would be fantastic.’
Steve dropped her at Fleming House.
‘I know that place, it’s a mile down the drive,’ he insisted when Lexie told him to drop her off on the road, ‘and you’re exhausted.’
‘I think I should call you Raphael. Not just an angel, my archangel. Now that I’ve stopped walking I can feel a hell of a blister on my heel.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Steve laughed, ‘those boots were hardly made for walking.’
Lights were on in the ballroom in the big house. She could see the twinkle and glitter of the cut crystal drops on the three huge chandeliers that hung along the centre of the high ceiling. There was some kind of function on and she recalled Molly complaining that she wouldn’t be free till eight. She longed to talk to her friend, but she knew she’d have to wait, so she ran a bath, then foraged for something to eat. She worried about Cameron coming to the door because she knew she shouldn’t forgive him. Molly and Pavel had known this, her mother had known it, she’d been the only one who couldn’t accept it. The truth was that she still feared that his presence could weaken her.
When he didn’t come, she was cross that he cared so little for her – but she wouldn’t check her phone for messages, because she didn’t want to hear what he had to say.
She was a seething whirlpool of contradictions.
She waited till almost eight then threw on her tweed jacket again, this time over a red skirt that matched her hair, and walked across to wait for Molly.
There was a wooden seat outside the entrance to Molly’s apartment. In the morning, it faced the sun but by evening this spot was shady, and in any case, it was almost dark. If archangel Steve had not given her a lift, she’d still be walking.
She settled back and waited. Just as she was beginning to shiver, the crunch, crunch, crunch of feet on the gravel alerted her to Molly’s arrival.
‘Hi!’
Molly was startled. ‘Oh! Hi! What are you doing there?’
Lexie stood. ‘Waylaying you.’
Molly was tired. Lexie could see it in the droop of her shoulders and hear it in her voice.
‘I need to talk, Moll,’ she pleaded.
She thought Molly was going to put her off because she closed her eyes briefly and rubbed a hand across her forehead.
‘I know you’re shattered. So am I. But I need to talk. Please. I won’t stay long.’
Molly twisted the heavy iron ring set in the old oak door and the latch grated upwards. She said, ‘OK. But I must eat.’
‘I’ve eaten. And I don’t need a drink.’
Molly managed a smile at this. ‘Still topped up to the brim from last night? Me too.’
Lexie was about to deny it – it was exhaustion that was warning her away from alcohol, nothing else – but she hadn’t the energy to waste words.
‘It’s about Cameron,’ she said, as they were still winding their way up the dark staircase.
‘No, really? You do surprise me,’ Molly said, opening the door to her flat and flicking on a light. ‘Come in, you silly thing, and give me a minute while I change.’
She flung her black tailored jacket onto a chair and kicked off her heels.
‘Make yourself a cuppa if you want.’
‘Can I get you some food?’
‘Not sure what there is. I’ll do something in a minute.’
She padded across the room in stockinged feet and disappeared through the door to her bedroom. The room was chilly so Lexie walked to the fireplace to switch on the electric heater. The photo she’d given Molly for her birthday sat above it on the mantelpiece. She lifted it down. There was Jamie, just as she remembered him best, being funny and a little cheeky, his handsome face alight with laughter. And Molly, before she and Adam had split up, her whole pose relaxed.
A shadow fell across the photograph and Lexie whipped round. Molly’s blonde hair was damp from the shower, but the exhaustion seemed to have lifted and she looked more comfortable in jeans and a tee shirt.
‘Much better.’
Molly took the photo gently out of Lexie’s hands and placed it back on the mantelpiece.
‘Molly – what happened with you and Adam? You’ve never really talked about it. I always thought you guys were solid.’
Molly turned away.
‘I’ve got to eat something or I’ll die. I can’t remember whether I’ve had anything today or not. After last night…’
Lexie heard her open the fridge and followed her into the kitchen. All she could see was the back of Molly’s head as she rummaged.
‘Damn. I was sure I had some chicken something or other squirrelled away. I guess cheese toast will have to do. I’m too tired to cook even pasta.’
All friendships had boundaries and Lexie knew that Molly was warning her off the topic of Adam Blair.
‘Give me that.’ She reached out her hand for the cheese. ‘You cut the bread and I’ll slice the cheese for you.’
Molly moved the conversation into the expected groove.
‘So, have you heard from Cameron Forrester today then?’
Lexie laid the slicer flat along the top of the block and pulled it smoothly towards her. A wafer-thin slice curled outwards and she peeled it away and laid it on a plate.
‘He’s called a few times. I haven’t spoken to him.’
Molly picked up the cheese and placed it on top of the bread. Lexie carved another slice and handed it to her.
‘What do you want me to say?’ Molly asked.
‘I don’t know, Moll, that’s the truth of it. I’m still stunned. I suppose it makes sense of a lot of things, but I can’t believe he’s done it again. That’s what really hurts.’
‘Do you want to dissect it all forensically, or do you want advice?’ Molly slid the bread and cheese under the grill and watched it as bubbles began to form on the golden surface.
‘There’s too much to handle. I feel ground down by it all. I thought by giving up the exhibition last year I could really help Mum and Dad, but that doesn’t seem to have worked. I thought we’d learn what the hell happened to Jamie that night, and that if we did it would help us come to terms with his death, but that hasn’t happened. When Cameron came back, I thought we could start again, and look where that’s got me.’
‘There’s your painting,’ Molly pointed out, pulling the cheese toast out from under the grill and sliding it onto a plate.
What Lexie really wanted was someone to help her wallow in her misery, and she was annoyed at this observation.
‘I can’t paint, I’m too wound up,’ she said, ‘and in case you haven’t remembered, there’s nowhere to show my work now that Pavel’s died.’ Realising that this sounded as if all she cared about was her exhibition and not that Pavel was dead, she added hastily, ‘I really miss him.’
Molly finished her toast and pushed the plate away. She reached for an apple.
‘Have you thought about The Maker’s Mark?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The Maker’s Mark. That new gallery in Hailesbank.’
‘What about it?’
‘You could go in and ask them if they could show your work.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a craft gallery, not an art gallery. They wouldn’t be interested in my stuff.’
‘No need to snap at me, it was just an idea.’
‘Well thanks, but can we stick to the subject, do you think?’
‘Which is?’
‘Cameron, of course.’
‘Oh, Cameron.’
‘Yes, oh Cameron. What am I going to do?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Molly!’
‘Or you do know, but you just won’t admit it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not going to say it, Lex, you need to say it yourself.’
‘You think I should ditch him, don’t you?’
Molly picked up a sharp knife and cut the apple in half, then in quarters. She scooped out the core in each piece, and bit one in half.
Lexie stood up and started to pace round the room.
‘I know you’re right,’ she said furiously, ‘but it’s not that easy.’
Molly finished chewing and picked up another segment.
‘I need to know why, Moll.’
‘Why what?’
‘Why Cameron slept with – you know why!’
‘You’ve always been too curious for your own good.’
‘Maybe. Maybe knowing helps healing. Like it would be good to know why Jamie drove that night, when he was so drunk.’
Molly stopped chewing. She said, ‘I’m really tired.’
Lexie looked at her. ‘Are you all right? You look grey.’
Molly stood up. ‘Will you go now? Please?’
Concern overtook selfishness. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’
‘Just exhausted.’
Molly’s face was drained of all colour and her eyelids were drooping. For the first time, Lexie noticed fine lines on her face and wished she could find a way of making her talk about Adam. Bottling up bitterness wasn’t healthy.
‘Of course I’ll go. Thanks for listening. We can talk again when you’re feeling brighter.’
Nothing, Lexie thought as she pattered down the winding staircase to the garden, was simple any more.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Catalogue number 23: Man’s tartan satin slippers, 18th century. Allegedly worn by Bonnie Prince Charlie during his stay in Edinburgh before his push to Derby in 1745. Donor: John Barbour, Musselburgh. Mr John Barbour, a keen collector of Stuart memorabilia, asserts that these shoes were handed down through his own family line, having originally been taken by a maid from the bedroom of Charles Edward Stuart after his departure from the Palace of Holyrood House.
The leaves were turning brown.
Lexie noticed it as she pulled on her coat and boots and headed into Hailesbank.
Patrick, returning from Dublin after an emotional reunion with his brother, noticed it.
Cora, walking home from The Maker’s Mark the long way, through the Thompson Memorial Park, saw the change as the wind snatched at the branches of a large sycamore and whirled an armful of leaves skywards before letting them settle across the damp grass. She shivered and pulled her coat more tightly round herself. It was autumn. It was time to go back to Greece.
‘Excuse me?’
Cora stopped and turned. A woman was staring at her. She had crimson hair and was oddly dressed, in a black and red floral mini-skirt and platform-heeled boots that had gone out with the 1970s. A beautifully-cut black velvet coat fell to mid-calf length and a thick knitted scarf in many colours was wound round and round her neck like the brass neck hoops of the Padaung tribeswomen. She had seen the woman before.
‘Yes?’
The woman stepped closer and held out her hand.
‘You’re Cora Spyridis, aren’t you? We met at your gallery opening. I’m Alexa Gordon.’
Cora shook the hand.
‘Hello.’
‘I’d like a quick word. Do you mind?’
Cora glanced around. There was nowhere to sit, nowhere that would be sheltered or warm, at any rate.
‘Of course – but do you mind if we walk?’
They strolled together, passing the exit gate so that they could do another circuit round the park.
‘It’s getting jolly cold, isn’t it?’
‘Too cold for me.’
‘How are things at the gallery? You seem to be doing really well.’
‘Thanks, people seem to like it.’
‘I’m an artist, by the way,’ Lexie said.
‘Really?’ Cora grew apprehensive. She’d heard this kind of introduction many times and could guess what would follow. She tried to prepare herself.
‘What do you do? What kind of work?’
She imagined either hand knitting (the scarf pointed to this), or some kind of textile design, perhaps – the outfit
was a giveaway.
‘I’m a painter.’
‘Where did you train?’
‘Edinburgh College of Art. Then I did a Masters at St Martin’s in London.’
‘Really? Where have you shown?’
There was a short silence, during which Cora began to feel that despite the pedigree her suspicions were well founded – the girl was not good enough. An eccentric, perhaps, with a small talent, but not a high flyer.
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Alexa said at last. ‘I was signed for a show at Capital Art in Edinburgh, but I had to pull out at the last minute.’
‘Capital Art?’ Cora was shocked. ‘You mean Patrick Mulgrew’s gallery?’
‘That’s right. Yes. You see, my brother had an accident and died. I couldn’t go ahead, it just wouldn’t have felt right.’
Patrick had never told her of this. ‘No of course not, I see. When was this?’
‘A year ago. Just over a year.’
‘I’m sorry about your brother.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So are you continuing with your exhibition there?’
‘No. That’s just it.’ Lexie looked sideways at Cora, her eyes a darker brown than usual. ‘I couldn’t. We had a bit of a disagreement, I’m afraid, and I can’t go back.’
‘Disagreement? About what?’
‘I don’t really feel I should talk about it,’ Lexie said. ‘Anyway, the work I was doing then—’ she hesitated, ‘—well, I’m not doing it any more. I’m working on something really different.’ She started to get excited. ‘It’s about shoes.’
‘Shoes?’
‘Shoes tell stories, you see. It started with these baby bootees up one of the chimneys in my parents’ house, then my brother’s rugby boots, then – and this is where it started to really take off – a pair of ballet shoes that belonged to Pavel Skonieczna. You know – the man who used to run Cobbles Antiques, till he died recently.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. The local newspaper got interested – they ran a big article about him. Did you see it?’