For a moment the tantalising possibility of being Gethin Lewis’s latest muse floated up in front of her, before she dismissed it. The prize had been a PR stunt, something to do away with that residual ill-will that dogged him in his home village. With distance, she hoped that he would realise that he could make an equally grand gesture by simply presenting them with a work that didn’t involve anyone from Penmorfa. Especially not her.
‘Do we have to listen to this?’ asked Kitty, tossing her head in a way that made Coralie fret about future customers unravelling long dark hairs from the mixture she was stirring.
‘It’s happy music,’ said Coralie, pointing her wooden spoon in a warning gesture to silence her. ‘Doris Day is wise and good, so leave her alone.’
Kitty frowned and picked at a loose thread on her top. ‘Wasn’t she a bit of a goer?’
Coralie huffed but managed to hold her tongue. Kitty had been tetchy and miserable since the Valentine’s Twmpath. Coralie couldn’t decide if it was Adam’s kiss or the subsequent spat that was getting to her most, but Adam’s happy-go-lucky attitude was bound to have made Kitty even more aware of the responsibilities she couldn’t escape.
The loose thread dealt with, Kitty was now apparently all set for work. ‘So what are we on today, then?’
‘Goats’ milk and ylang-ylang – very good for dry skin.’
‘Do you drink it or bathe in it?’ Kitty said, peering into the pan.
‘Neither,’ said Coralie, nudging her out of the way and making a mental note to dig out a spare scarf from the growing collection she used to tuck up hair whilst working. Today hers was silk with a jaunty nautical design of which she was particularly fond. ‘It’s soap. It’ll need to cure for about a month and then it’ll be ready to go.’
‘Oh, I’m disappointed now.’ Kitty took the hint and moved back to settle herself in the armchair by the stove. ‘I was hoping it was some sort of essential nutrient. I’m that hungry. What have you got out here that I can eat?’
‘Well, you can make us a pot of tea if you’d like and if you’re very good I’ll tell you where the cakes are hidden.’
‘Nah!’ said Kitty, pulling off her biker boots and wiggling her feet in their striped socks at the wood burner. ‘I can’t be arsed.’
Lowering the heat under the saucepan, Coralie watched Kitty getting comfortable and wondered if she’d come to work or talk. Sweet Cleans was ticking over at a rate she could cope with in her workshop, she had a roof over her head and she could pay the bills. However, she was gradually realising that drawing anything like a salary was some way off. Taking her little cottage industry to the next level would mean more than just sharing her recipes. Making it worthwhile would take her away from the very aspects of the business she relished and perilously close to the world of commercial cut and thrust she’d left behind.
‘Unless one of us is arsed,’ Coralie pointed out, ‘there won’t be anything to sell so I suggest we get on with some work then.’
‘Oh look, here comes Mam,’ observed Kitty, staying put. ‘Probably needs cheering up. What with Dad’s back playing up and him not being too thrilled with her getting so involved with this Hall Management Committee thing. You could cut the air with a knife at home lately.’
Who’d have believed it, thought Coralie wiping her hands and opening the door.
‘Busy?’ said Alys, giving Kitty a bit of Beady Eye Factor.
‘Depends,’ said Kitty, stretching contentedly.
‘I’ve just had some good news,’ Alys said, wringing her hands and waving away Coralie’s offer of a seat. ‘I’ve just had a call from ACORN, a charity that helps rural communities in need. They’ve approved our plans!’
‘Fair play, Mam,’ said Kitty, not sounding especially interested. ‘What does that mean then?’
‘It means we’re eligible for a sizeable loan from them which means we can get on with the work until the bulk of the money from the grant is approved,’ said Alys, still looking, to Coralie, very tense.
‘The revamp of the church hall, you mean?’ she chipped in, applauding Alys’s dedication. Coralie was more than happy to support any fundraising efforts that didn’t involve her, although she always found that she was particularly busy whenever Alys mentioned anything about her joining the Merched y Wawr.
‘So, how will you pay back the loan?’ she asked. Perhaps there was a similar pot of gold for rural businesses, too?
‘It seems that hall management committees are generally very conscientious about repayments,’ Alys replied, her uneasy body language belying her nonchalant tone. ‘Once the grant money arrives it won’t be a problem – we can pay it back then. Thanks to Gethin, we have a painting to sell which will guarantee that even if the grant takes time to go through the system we won’t default on the bridging loan.’
‘Oh, that’s great!’ Coralie was delighted that her faith in Gethin to do the right thing hadn’t been misplaced, even if a very small part of her lamented the lost opportunity for further contact with him. ‘What’s the painting like?’
Everyone listened to the gas hob hissing until Doris Day moved on to ‘High Hopes’ and Alys cleared her throat. ‘Well, we know what its subject is, don’t we?’ she said, giving Coralie a worried look. ‘I understand that Gethin’s so keen to do this to support the village’s cause that he’s even prepared to pay to fly you out there. I must say that’s one in the eye to everyone here who’s ever written him off as a totally selfish man. And given how busy he is with his current exhibition, it’s very good of him to spare us his time.’
‘Oh, no!’ Coralie banged her wooden spoon against the pan as two eager faces turned to her. ‘You must see that it’s totally impractical for me. I can’t just drop everything here.’ Gethin Lewis might have made her feel as if she could fly again, but that didn’t mean she was having her portrait painted for anyone.
‘We’d take care of Sweet Cleans for you,’ Alys insisted.
‘And keep an eye on Rock,’ Kitty joined in.
‘Penmorfa’s whole future depends on you!’
Now that was being melodramatic, thought Coralie, opening her mouth to protest. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we just redraw the prize? I don’t see why it has to be my portrait when the painting’s being sold anyway. It could have been anybody in that room that night. ’
‘Not really,’ said Kitty, getting up and prowling round the soap mixture. Coralie shushed her away. Was this the moment when Kitty had to admit why it couldn’t have been her, why jumping on a plane would have been out of the question? She stared at her pan rather than at Kitty, afraid of doing anything which might make the younger woman think twice about her confession.
‘I don’t know if I should tell you this. I kind of promised to keep it to myself,’ Kitty said, eventually.
Too late, already, thought Coralie. But she was sure Kitty would feel so much better once she’d unburdened herself about the pregnancy.
‘The thing is, the other half of your strip of tickets was never included with the rest of the draw that night. Gethin asked me to give them to him. He told me he’d been thinking about something you’d said to him about giving everyone a stake in his work, so when I saw he’d donated a painting to the raffle, I just assumed …’
‘He must really want to paint you,’ Alys finished.
‘Or something,’ Kitty mumbled, before breaking into giggles and setting Alys off, too. ‘Oh come on, Coralie!’ said Kitty. ‘Don’t look so disapproving. He is lush and he’s obviously dead keen on you. Don’t tell me you’re not tempted. I so would if it was me he’d invited to lie on his couch!’
‘It’s not you, though, is it?’ Coralie protested, a sudden constriction of her throat making it quite hard to speak. Not that Alys and Kitty were listening. They were too busy cackling and leaning on each other for support, all differences between them apparently forgotten, leaving Coralie feeling even more isolated.
‘Sorry, Coralie,’ said Alys, straightening up and wi
ping her eyes, ‘we’re just jealous that we didn’t get a free holiday in America and the devoted attention of a red-hot man. You’d need to sell an awful lot of soap to buy that much excitement.’
‘What makes you think I want that?’ said Coralie, stung. ‘I came to Penmorfa to live quietly and to do something creative and fulfilling. It’s not about how much I earn, but that I’m enjoying what I do. That’s all the excitement I need.’
‘And we respect that, of course.’ Alys nodded, pulling a straight face, even though the amusement still danced in her eyes. ‘You’ve settled seamlessly into the village. Everyone admires the way you’ve joined in and made a real effort to be part of the community. No one’s ever had a bad word to say against you – even Delyth and Mair think you’re a quiet, hard-working girl. Thirty thousand pounds is a lot to repay through cake sales and coffee mornings alone, but thanks to you we can be relaxed about the loan. I promise you that we won’t let the business suffer whilst you’re away.’
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ Coralie said, slowly lifting her eyes to face Alys. ‘Aren’t you forgetting that I’m not a bowl of fruit or a flower arrangement? You can’t just push me around for this painting as if I were some inanimate object. You might be happy for me to drop everything, but what if you’d been in my shoes? Would you be quite so keen to jet off to the other side of the world if it meant leaving everything in the garden centre to Huw and Kitty?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m very sorry, Alys, but I can’t help.’
Gethin was sitting in his favourite diner trying to convince himself he was pleased to be back. Today, New Yorkers were wrapped up to beat a wind chill factor so cold that, anywhere else in the world, it would have cleared the streets of its citizens. The lovely brunette passing the window clearly didn’t have far to go; she was bare-headed, her glossy hair just bouncing gently on her shoulders as she walked. As if sensing his interest, she turned her face towards him. Beautiful grey eyes under perfectly groomed brows met his. Her rosy lips parted in a flawless smile and then she winked and sashayed away.
Normally that would have been enough to remind him how he loved this city.
‘Only takes one dumb animal,’ reminded his apprentice, nodding at the woman’s fur-clad back.
‘Good morning, Ruby Arnold!’ he said loudly, making her wince. ‘Good of you to drop in. Caffeine kicked in at last?’
Ruby mumbled something inaudible before returning to her pancakes. Gethin shook his head. So the kid partied hard, but some internal switch flipped to ‘on’ as soon as they were working. ‘Is that the thanks I get for making sure you were registered for the Brave New Artists’ Prize?’
‘You did what?’ Her head jerked up. ‘I wasn’t going to bother. You know, with the fee and all.’
‘All taken care of.’
He caught a glimpse of the part of her she kept hidden, the softer, vulnerable Ruby, before the guard went up again.
‘Thanks, but you should have saved your money. They won’t pick a nobody like me.’
‘Speculate to accumulate, Rubes,’ he said, fondly. ‘If you can’t even be bothered to enter then you definitely won’t make the cut.’ He’d never imagined himself permitting anyone to share his studio – God knows, plenty of people had tried to flatter their way in – but dogged little Ruby had chipped away at his stone heart. He’d been quietly impressed with her raw talent, but it was the wounded look in her eyes that had really got to him.
Once upon a time … well, those early days had gone. And, if anything, the lean times had made him more determined to prove himself. He’d had his lucky break and Ruby had more than repaid hers, proving herself an able assistant with an almost intuitive knack of giving him what he needed before he realised he needed it and always putting her hand up to a mistake. No nasty surprises with Ruby; she was a quick learner.
‘Hey, Mr Jones? Can I get you a refill?’
Gethin put his cup down, ‘I’m good for coffee, thanks, Max,’ he said to the manager. ‘Come on, Rubes, I think we’ve let Pamala wait long enough.’
The art dealer’s exacting standards were well-known. Some people survived the ordeal of working with Pamala Gray and came out the other side with enhanced reputations; others slunk away wounded, barely able to exhibit again.
‘You might have shaved,’ Ruby reproached him, looking up at his jaw as he got to his feet. ‘You ought to at least try to keep up the good impression, for my sake if not for yours. I might need her when I win that big prize.’
Gethin laughed. ‘So now you’re not just in the competition, you’re going to win it. I like your thinking. Listen, if Pamala Gray gets close enough to inspect my stubble, she’s close enough not to care,’ he said, running his hand across his chin. ‘We’re fine-tuning my exhibition, not going on a date. Besides,’ he added with a grin, ‘she’s the one chasing me.’ More people than ever were clamouring for his flattering portrayals of sophisticated couples and strong, beautiful women. If one or two of the stuffier art critics lifted their eyebrows at the mention of his name, what did he care? Everything was going his way, so why was he feeling so miserable?
‘Here, I’ll take that for you.’ The manager leant over and took his tray. ‘You have a nice day now, Mr Jones.’
Gethin flung his bags across his shoulder and turned up his collar, before gently shoving Ruby into the cold.
‘Shouldn’t he know your name by now?’ Ruby tugged a beanie over her peroxide crop and fumbled in the pockets of her faux-leather jacket for gloves. Gethin handed her the lightest of the bags.
‘Jones as in Tom – Max’s little joke when he found out I was from Wales.’
‘Whatever.’ Ruby shrugged. ‘But talking of the old home town, what’s happening about that portrait you asked me to fit into the schedule?’
‘Bad idea,’ he said, shouting above the noise of a truck which had pulled up beside them, its brakes hissing noisily. ‘The only way I can do it would be if we were both in the same place and the model’s still refusing to come out here.’
‘New York’s an awfully long way to travel for a sitting,’ Ruby bellowed back. ‘Did you take that into consideration?’
‘Jetlag,’ he mumbled. Snowflakes were falling between the tall buildings and settling on Ruby’s hat; he brushed them off and pulled her out of the way of an oncoming umbrella. It wouldn’t do for his assistant to lose an eye now.
‘Is she pretty?’
That was the other thing about Ruby; she had a really big mouth. ‘I just want to paint her and help the old place along the way,’ he said, hoping to shut her up.
‘Sure you do,’ she said, not hiding her smile very well. ‘So why don’t you just give her a call and ask nicely?’
Rock didn’t rush to greet Coralie when she walked up her front path; perhaps he’d heard about her refusal to co-operate and was giving her the cold shoulder, too? The black windows of the next-door cottage were as lifeless as her workshop after all the laughter had died away and it was obvious to everyone that Coralie was going to stand her ground. Kitty had threaded her arm through her mother’s, leading her away without a backwards glance, as if Coralie no longer existed.
The front door was cold against her shoulder as Coralie let herself in and flopped down on her sofa without taking off her coat. She switched on a lamp which did nothing to lift her gloom and only seemed to deepen the shadows in the room. True friends would surely accept her decision, she thought, chewing her lip. Wasn’t all the emotional pressure a bit unfair? She replayed the moment when Alys’s white bob folded briefly across her face as she stared at the floor and how, when she looked up again, her eyes had been unusually bright.
‘I really thought I could pull this off,’ Alys stated quietly. ‘Prove to that dreadful Delyth and Mair that Penmorfa needn’t be stuck in the past, that we can change and grow together. But without your help, Coralie, I can see it all slipping away.’
They thought she wouldn’t help, when the truth was she couldn’t help. It was ardu
ous enough keeping up with her regular visits to Ned along with everything else, but she knew how much they meant to him. What would the consequences be if he thought she’d abandoned him like everyone else? But if she went to New York for a week, how could she also fit in a visit to him and get all her work done?
Coralie wilted back on the sofa and only noticed she was crying when she saw teardrops falling onto her tightly clasped hands. She wiped her nose, wishing that like her fingers still scented from the essential oils she’d been working with, she, too, could come up smelling of roses. Somewhere next to the sofa was a box of tissues, and as she groped around for them, Rock slunk out with a tiny brown mouse still struggling in his jaws.
Coralie had found out during the first of the cold weather that mice were an inescapable fact of country living, albeit one that no one boasted about. Since she was surrounded by fields, there had seemed little point in catching and releasing them only to have them re-home themselves in her loft at the earliest opportunity. Having Rock about the place acted, she hoped, as a deterrent, but she wasn’t about to condone torture and murder, especially when it was going on right under her feet. Grabbing Rock in a surprise attack, she got ready to catch his victim before it shot off and hid somewhere so she wouldn’t be able to find it again.
The tiny creature was frozen in fear. Coralie snatched at it, hissing at Rock to keep away and fending him off with her foot. The fluffy black cat she’d come to love looked more like the spitting, feral stray who’d vigorously defended himself against her attempts to clean him up when she’d first rescued him.
‘Get out!’ she roared, sinking back in triumph when, after a long, baleful stare, he finally sloped out of the room. She knelt there for a moment taking slow deep breaths, before daring to look at the fluttering, fragile, flicker of life in her palms. Slowly, slowly, she uncupped her hands and took a peep at the pitiful thing inside them. To her huge relief the little body was unmarked; really, it was quite lovely when you looked at it closely: the glossy brown-grey pelt, the delicate paws and bright, beady eyes. Satisfied that the little mouse was safe, Coralie smiled to herself and savoured what felt like a hard-won achievement. She’d done it! Just one, tiny heartbeat of a life – but she’d saved it!
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