People We Love

by Jenny Harper

  ‘You make it sound…’

  ‘So what made you go away? What really made you go away, Cameron?’

  He shrugged. ‘I felt trapped between the pair of you, to be honest. I really cared for you, babes, but you were always busy, nose into acrylics…’

  ‘Oils.’

  ‘Oils, then. Whatever. And Carlotta was all over me like a rash and wanting me to “commit”. I just couldn’t hack it, so I thought the best thing to do was just to go.’

  Whatever Lexie had imagined, it wasn’t this. Not a quick fling, but a real ding-dong affair. She swallowed and pressed on.

  ‘So what made you decide to come back?’

  ‘Well, you know. Carlotta got married to Jonas and I heard you were still single, so I thought I’d try my luck.’

  ‘Very romantic.’

  ‘I care about you babes. Honest. Plus I was carved to bits when I heard about Jamie, you know? I loved that guy.’

  ‘It took you a year to come back.’

  ‘I couldn’t get away from the ship. Two-year contract. Anyway, we were in the Caribbean and it would’ve cost a fortune to get back under my own steam.’

  Lexie crossed her arms. The shoes dangled from one hand and dug into her side, but she was barely aware of this.

  ‘So you decided you’d have another crack at me. Why, exactly? Did you think I might still be so completely under your spell that I’d simply lie down and open my legs for you?’

  She regretted this observation as soon as she’d uttered it, because it was painfully close to what had happened.

  Cameron grinned. ‘Hey, beautiful, I –’

  ‘Stop. Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare say anything. Except,’ she added quickly, ‘to explain why you went round to Carlotta on your birthday? Why you fucked her when you were just about to ask me to marry you?’

  ‘Yeah, well. Big mistake. It was supposed to be, like, a birthday pressie, you know? Thirtieth special? Jonas wasn’t getting back till later and you were busy putting up the’

  ‘—decorations for your bloody party!’

  ‘So I reckoned we’d get a quickie in. Last time before I settled down and all that. That’s all it was, honest to God, I swear it.’

  ‘You are unbelievable. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a man with such an appalling moral compass.’

  He spread his hands.

  ‘Got it off my chest now, babes. Learned my lesson. Honest.’

  ‘Cameron? What’s going on?’

  Cameron whirled round as Lexie stared at the cottage. Standing in the doorway, clad only in an old check shirt of Cameron’s, was Julie, the girl from the Job Centre.

  ‘I can explain, babes,’ Cameron said quickly, ‘it’s not what you think.’

  Lexie’s anger exploded.

  ‘Not what I think? You bastard, Cameron Forrester. You utter, utter bastard!’

  Her arms unfolded and became windmills, flailing round and round, the stilettos whirling in a scarlet streak as the sharp heels struck his bare skin again and again. He cowered away from her and put his arms up to shield his head and face as she battered at him unrelentingly.

  In the doorway, Julie screeched, ‘It’s not what you think? What else is it then, you fucking snake! Spent the whole bloody night fucking me, didn’t you?’

  Doors were opening, someone started clapping, and a voice called, ‘Told you it couldn’t last, Cam!’

  Lexie stood back, panting with the exertion, and looked around. An audience had gathered – Julie, three men, a couple of women and the whole of a herd of cows that someone was ushering towards the milking parlour.

  She said softly, ‘Don’t babes me, Cameron. Not ever again.’

  Ignoring the applauding crowd, she tossed the shoes onto the ground, strode across to her bicycle, pushed it onto the track and started pedalling.

  It was seven thirty and the sun had risen above the steeple of the old church in Hailesbank. It felt gloriously warm on her face as she turned back up the road.

  Liberation takes many forms.

  Chapter Thirty

  Catalogue number 21: Brown low-heeled slip-ons with distinctive brass buckle. Donor: Susan Merry, Edinburgh. ‘When my daughter was four, she went to a ballet class on Saturday mornings. The corridor outside was a real bottleneck and she used to panic if she couldn’t find me afterwards. One day she said, “Mummy, please will you always wear those shoes with the buckle so that I know you’re there?” It’s much easier for little children to look at ground level than five feet in the air!’

  ‘What did you think of Alexa Gordon’s work?’ Patrick asked casually as a waiter poured perfectly chilled Pouilly-Fuissé into two glasses. He lifted his glass towards Cora in a toast.

  She chinked his glass gently.

  ‘Cheers. Nice place, by the way.’

  They were in a small restaurant in Thistle Street in Edinburgh. The room had an air of luxury, with deep gold carpets, crisp white tablecloths and soft lighting.

  ‘I like it,’ Patrick said, in a voice that showed that his mind was more on other things than his surroundings, ‘and it’s handy for the gallery.’

  ‘Ah yes, the gallery.’ Cora sipped her wine appreciatively. She’d miss Patrick’s generosity when she went back to Greece.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘About Alexa Gordon? I liked her work. I liked her too, very much, as it happens. I can’t imagine why you fell out with her, Patrick, I found her most accommodating. She had some brilliant ideas, very innovative and engaging. But not really right for The Maker’s Mark, I don’t think.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘Honestly Patrick, you must know the answer to that. The Mark is a craft gallery, for makers of objects, not for fine artists. The whole point was to provide quick turnover because of the lower prices.’

  ‘And you’d have to price Lexie’s work more highly?’

  ‘Oh much more, yes. Her painting is exquisite, first class, we’re talking thousands. The gallery isn’t big enough for more than a dozen or so of the oils, the rest of the show will be pastel sketches—’

  ‘—which could be very much cheaper.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cora was doubtful, ‘I suppose so. But the whole exhibition would involve a number of elements – the shoes themselves would be displayed and there’d have to be small storyboards explaining what’s special about them. Some have stories that are very personal to the owner, others have some sort of historic connection that makes them interesting in their own right.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A pair of boots that belonged to Sophia Jex Blake, for example. She was one of the first women doctors, and she trained right here, in Edinburgh. Or a pair of eighteenth-century tartan silk slippers that allegedly belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie.’

  ‘That’s quite something.’

  ‘Sure. But they’re not saleable.’

  ‘Point taken.’ Patrick scanned the menu. ‘What do you fancy? I think I’ll just have the Dover Sole.’

  Cora pushed her menu away from her.

  ‘Fine. Me too.’

  Patrick signalled to the waiter and ordered.

  ‘Those shoes seem to fall into the historic category. What about the personal stories? Give me a for instance.’

  ‘There’s a left wedding shoe.’

  ‘Just the left?’

  ‘The bride was knocked down by a car a few months before the wedding and lost her right leg. But she was determined to walk down the aisle, and she did, on a prosthetic leg.’

  ‘Presumably she had a shoe on the end of the prosthesis too?’

  ‘Don’t be so literal, Patrick, it’s the left shoe that tells the story.’

  ‘Just kidding. It’s touching. I like it.’

  ‘There’s a pair of trainers.’

  ‘Trainers? What’s so interesting about them?’

  ‘The guy was thrown out by his wife for being an utter slob. He started running marathons and raised a million for charity.’ />
  ‘So they’re some kind of symbol of rehabilitation?’

  ‘And forgiveness, yes. The wife took him back.’

  Patrick topped up their wine.

  ‘You’re getting me interested. I can’t think of any other situation in which a pair of trainers would catch my attention.’

  ‘I’m telling you Pats—’

  ‘Patrick.’

  ‘—Patrick, it’s not the right show for The Maker’s Mark. You should put it on in Capital Art.’

  Cora was looking particularly lovely tonight. She had caught her thick hair up in some kind of chignon and she was wearing a silky gold dress in what Patrick believed was known as the Greek style – picturesquely draped from shoulder to waist and falling in soft folds from there. It suited her. Patrick, surveying his sister across the table in the restaurant, couldn’t think why some man hadn’t claimed her for his own years ago.

  It seemed they hadn’t done too well in the Mulgrew family. Aidan had never been happy and now he was dying. Cora flitted around the Peloponnese like some exotic bird, while he blundered round Britain enjoying (if that was the word for it) a string of relationships that never provided him with what he needed.

  But what was it he needed?

  Twice, in his life, he’d thought he had found it. With Niamh, the handsome, grey-eyed witch, who had held him in her thrall for more than a decade and might be doing so still if she had not decided to cast her nets wider.

  And with Lexie, who was the absolute antithesis of the kind of look he normally considered beautiful, but who had captivated him nevertheless. He remembered Lexie at the auction in London, ablaze with excitement about the vintage treasures in front of her.

  ‘A Chanel,’ she’d almost squeaked when she’d spotted what looked to him like a rather plain jacket.

  And, ‘Look!’ (in an awed whisper), ‘Patrick, look, it’s a Balenciaga!’

  It had meant nothing to him, everything to her. Her eyes had grown brighter and brighter as she’d spotted a Dior, a Mary Quant, a Fortúny. His instincts had been to buy her the lot – it was what most of the women he dated would have craved – but it had never been the right tack for proudly independent Lexie.

  And then she’d spotted the Manolo Blahniks and had seemed to stop breathing. Her hands had stilled and her eyes had widened, flecks of gold in the iris glinting in a spotlight.

  ‘I’ve got to bid for those, Patrick. Look at them.’

  The estimate had been much higher than she could afford. He’d drawn breath, started to speak, stopped himself. What could he say? She wouldn’t accept his help. Yet something inside him that he could not identify had been twisting and digging at his guts. He had to do something.

  Cora was saying, ‘Patrick? I said, you should put Alexa’s show on at Capital Art.’

  Patrick sat back and combed his hair with his hands. It fell softly back into place. Cora was right – but he couldn’t show Lexie in Capital Art. It was impossible because she would never accept an offer from him. At the same time, he was reluctant to see her drift off to some other gallery and give them the right to make her a star.

  He said, ‘I can’t.’

  ‘And she’s not right for me either.’

  The sole arrived and they picked it apart delicately, separating skin from flesh and flesh from bone with practised ease.

  Cora lifted a forkful of meltingly soft white fish to her mouth and swallowed.

  ‘This is good.’

  ‘Perfectly cooked.’

  ‘Well chosen.’

  ‘Thanks. Enjoy.’

  They ate in silence, and when Cora had finished, Patrick laid down his knife and fork and surprised himself by saying, ‘I want to show Lexie in The Maker’s Mark.’

  ‘That sounds very like an order.’

  He was a fool. It made no commercial sense. He wouldn’t be able to mark her work up as much as he could at Capital Art and, from what Cora had described, the gallery was too small to show the exhibition to best advantage. And Lexie would be hopping mad if she found out.

  Yet it was what he wanted to do, more than anything he’d wanted to do for years – not just because he knew how brilliant she was, and certainly not because he wanted to antagonise her, but because he longed to play an intimate part in unwrapping her brilliance – even if she never knew.

  Cora was exasperated.

  ‘Show who you want to, Patrick. I’m going back to Greece.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’d like you to manage this show. I can’t trust it to anyone else.’

  She leaned towards him.

  ‘I’m going home, Patrick.’

  ‘Can you last through the winter on what you’ve earned here?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Is “just about” good enough?’

  ‘It’s good enough in a warm climate. I’ve got friends I need to see. A lover, even.’

  ‘A lover? You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I didn’t feel the need.’

  He surveyed her silently, then reverted to his argument.

  ‘I want you to show Lexie in January. Then you can go home.’

  ‘No. Sorry. Anyway, the show in January is already booked.’

  ‘It can be postponed.’ Patrick would not admit defeat. ‘Your roof.’

  Cora stared at him.

  ‘It needs some major work, you said.’

  ‘It can wait another year.’

  ‘You can do it this year.’

  ‘If I stay and do what you want, you mean.’

  ‘That’s about it, yes.’

  She threw her serviette down on the table.

  ‘You’re an appalling man, do you know that? Self-centred, arrogant, manipulative.’

  ‘So I’m told,’ Patrick said calmly. He tossed another maggot in with the bait. ‘The roof and the new extension you were talking about.’

  Cora’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Why does this mean so much to you?’

  ‘She’s good.’

  ‘Show her at Capital Art then.’

  ‘I can’t. And I don’t want her to know I’m the owner of The Maker’s Mark either.’

  ‘My God, you’re in love with her!’

  Patrick averted his eyes. He watched a waiter who was deep in conversation with a couple at a nearby table. He clicked his fingers as the man straightened up.

  ‘I’d like the menu.’

  He didn’t want dessert. He never ate dessert.

  ‘What did you argue about, Patrick? Why did she pull out of her show last year?’

  ‘She wouldn’t finish the last painting.’

  ‘She was contracted, presumably.’

  ‘And how would I have looked forcing her to stick to her contract when her brother was dying? How would that have affected Capital Art’s reputation?’

  ‘These are the things that are important to you? How you look? Your reputation?’

  ‘A gallery is nothing without its reputation, Cora.’

  ‘You let her off, then. But I bet you were angry.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘I like to think I would be understanding, in the circumstances.’

  This pricked Patrick’s defiance.

  Cora sat back.

  ‘I’ve never seen you like this. You really care about this girl, don’t you? If this means so much to you, why don’t you just talk to her? It’d make things a whole lot simpler.’

  ‘I mean to.’ He remembered his promise to Domenica, and the determination he’d felt when he returned from America. ‘In my own time.’

  ‘Well, I won’t do your exhibition. I am not to be bribed or bullied.’

  Patrick was at a loss. He didn’t know how to persuade her to do what he wanted because he’d never been in this situation. He had always bought what he needed, by paying higher wages, or by outbidding his competitors, or he had achieved his ends by deploying his charm.

  He looked at Cora and said, ‘Please.’

  Cora’s asto
nishment showed.

  ‘Oh my God. He must be desperate. This is the first time he’s said please in forty years.’

  ‘I’m asking you, Cora.’ He bit his lip again. ‘No – I’m begging you. Stay and help me with this one.’

  She shook her head slowly and Patrick thought she was about to refuse.

  ‘Maybe. On one condition.’

  There was a gleam of hope. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Fly me back to Greece for Christmas.’

  Patrick groaned. ‘Don’t tell me. There’s a gift-wrapped shag waiting for you there.’

  The couple at the next table looked over, grinning.

  ‘Something like that. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Catalogue number 22: Dunlop ‘Green Flash’ plimsolls, white canvas with herringbone pattern rubber soles. Donor David Devlin, Forgie. ‘We all remember those cheap and cheerful gym shoes. But they only became “cool” when Fred Perry wore a souped-up pair, the more stylish Green Flash trainers, when he won Wimbledon on three occasions. I had to beg my mother to buy these, rather than a cheapo pair from Woollies.'

  Once, Patrick had appeared at this cottage and held her in his arms. He’d come to tell her of Pavel’s death. It had been early morning and she’d barely been awake.

  Lexie was sure this had happened, she could remember the feeling of safety she’d experienced as he’d cradled her, yet when she tried to fill in the detail, it vanished.

  She was standing by the French windows that opened onto the walled garden. Today there was nothing to be seen of the rough grassy space that could never be called a lawn, nor of the thistles and campion that normally colonised the far borders, because everything was under a thick blanket of snow.

  She was cradling a mug of coffee. She lifted it to her mouth and took a sip. The sun had just risen above the trees and was hitting the pristine whiteness of the snow so that it shimmered. She wished for a moment that she might capture the haunting loveliness of this view, but others did that kind of thing much better than she ever could.

  She had seen Patrick a few times since that day. Once at Besalú (but with a couple of men, not with a woman) and once in the cheesemonger’s in the High Street.

  ‘My housekeeper’s on holiday,’ he’d told her by way of explanation, his conversation polite but friendly, just like any normal acquaintance, so neutral that she could not imagine there had been any kind of intimate past between them.