Where the Light Gets In

by Lucy Dillon

  With some help from Mary, the internet and what material she could find about previous events, Lorna had brainstormed as many ideas as she could for a community art project to replace her retrospective idea – which now seemed insanely presumptuous. What had she been thinking? Of course it was Joyce’s right to decide. The best she could come up with was inspired by a game her mother had once played with her and Jess – with, Lorna tried not to remember, mixed results.

  ‘You give everyone pens and paper,’ she explained to Mary as they sat sorting through a box of jewellery made from spoons, ‘and ask them to draw each other.’

  Mary stopped. ‘Right,’ she said doubtfully. ‘What if you’re not very good at drawing? I can’t do noses. I just can’t.’

  ‘It’s not about being accurate,’ Lorna insisted. ‘It’s about capturing people’s character. We’ll have a proper artist in the gallery, drawing customers, and the customers can draw the artist. It’s … conceptual, and local.’

  ‘And he will be kind, will he? Or she?’ Mary touched her own nose, self-consciously. ‘They won’t do horrid caricatures?’

  ‘It’s art,’ said Lorna confidently. ‘Whatever it is, it is.’ And she started typing it up very quickly on the laptop in the office, to make it look as if she’d spent hours preparing, instead of just fifteen minutes.

  Calum dropped by just after four. In person, he was the exact opposite of Keir, and reminded Lorna uncannily of an art dealer called Jackson with whom she’d had a fling in London, to the point where she had to ask a few loaded questions about New Cross to establish Calum wasn’t his brother.

  But then maybe most London art types were like Calum: good-looking in a groomed, almost Edwardian manner, he wore a tweed waistcoat over a green shirt rolled up at the sleeves. It revealed a tattoo on his inner arm, of a cherub with a quiff that matched his own.

  Things got off to a positive start when Calum walked in, already admiring the facelifted gallery. ‘So, I really like what you’re doing here.’ He gazed round the main room, nodding with approval. ‘It feels … different?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lorna smiled politely. It should feel different. She had spent most of her evenings that week rollering the walls, and now two sides of the room were a warm, matte grey that made the paintings – half as many as before – stand out better. The entirety of the Maiden Gallery had been taken down, swapped around, rearranged and, in some cases, boxed up to go back from whence it came.

  That hadn’t been without some weeping and wailing from Mary. What was on display was only the tip of the craftberg. Lorna had painstakingly combed through the unsold stock that had built up over the years, trying to find items that she loved (there was an undiscovered hoard in the cellar, a Tutankhamen’s tomb of painted goblets and insipid pastels). She wasn’t looking for masterpieces, just items that made her feel something, whether it was joy or admiration, even confusion. If it didn’t make her feel anything other than ‘why?’ then it had to go, regardless of whether or not the creator was a personal friend of Mary’s – and many of them were.

  ‘We’ve had a reappraisal of the gallery’s direction,’ she added, fielding a dark look from the office where Mary was lurking, waiting to bring a tea tray out.

  ‘Yup, I love how you’ve curated this.’ Calum picked up a painting on glass and admired it. ‘There’s a real cohesion here.’ He used the word ‘curated’ a lot. He also wore yellow trainers and took photos of everything on his phone. Lorna felt a lot less anxious about Art Week now she’d met Calum in person. This, she could deal with. She’d met it before, in London, and it had, in the main, been a lot of Emperor’s New Moustaches.

  When they’d done a slow tour of both rooms, Mary sidled out with refreshments, vanishing before Calum could recognise her as the elusive previous owner.

  ‘So, let’s talk about Art Week?’ He perched on the desk, raised his eyebrows and tried to sip from a misshapen teacup. The handle was too small, and stuck on a slant, and Calum frowned as he tried not to spill herbal tea on his waistcoat. ‘Got a theme?’

  Too late, Lorna realised the cup was from a box of grotesquely awful pottery they’d been arguing over when he arrived. Mary had made the tea in it on nervous autopilot.

  Calum tried to hold the cup more comfortably and failed. ‘Quick suggestion? Don’t make it ceramics. What the hell is this, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  The potter responsible for the tea set was ‘a sweet man in Florham, his wife left him for the tree surgeon’; Mary had argued hard for Bob’s unhappy ceramics to be spared the chop as they were ‘all he had left’. ‘It’s a think piece,’ she said swiftly. ‘It’s responding to the concept of hygge . Challenging the usual comforting sensation you get. Deliberately. On purpose. It’s called a … hic-cup.’

  Calum looked surprised, but examined the wonky handle with renewed interest. ‘Clever! So, Art Week – you were talking about a Joyce Rothery retrospective?’

  ‘Change of plan,’ said Lorna. ‘I read around about previous Art Weeks and what the vision is for the future, and I realised it’s not in the spirit of community to focus on one artist, however amazing she is.’

  He raised a ‘tell me more’ eyebrow.

  ‘I loved the mission statement about involving local people in the creative process themselves,’ she went on. ‘So I was thinking about a You Are the Artist event!’

  ‘You Are the Art. You Are the Artist.’ Calum nodded, as if digesting her internal thought process. ‘I like that. Go on?’

  Lorna outlined her idea, trying not to outline the problems with it too. She skimmed over the minor detail that she’d never managed to draw more than someone’s head before giving up, or that she’d made her mum cry when Jess drew Lorna’s massive feet so she looked like a duck, and Lorna had jabbed her with a pencil so hard the lead snapped off.

  Fortunately, Lorna was better at pitching than she was at sketching.

  ‘Soooo, there’s potential there,’ said Calum when she’d finished. ‘I’ll roll it around in the office, see where we get to.’ He didn’t look as thrilled as Lorna would have liked, but she’d learned that people like Calum never let on when you’d had a good idea.

  The main thing was, she’d met him. She’d demonstrated her own command of art jargon and, despite feeling a bit underdressed in his company, she liked Calum.

  ‘I’ll reach out to Sarra at the local paper,’ he was saying, as they made their way to the door, ‘and she’ll drop by and interview you. You’ve got linked up with the council website? And what about your own website? You’ve got a social media manager? No? We can hook you up there. What else? You’re on the fliers, and the mailing list for events …’ Calum scanned through his phone and then looked up with a smile. ‘I think that’s it. Great to meet you, Lorna.’

  He held out his hand and shook hers again. ‘You’ve got some good energy here, you know? That’s what this town needs. Fresh energy. Get everyone creating!’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lorna felt rather emotional. Calum was the first person who’d given her gallery – and her ability to run it – whole-hearted support.

  When the bell finished jangling, Mary reappeared at the office door with a tray of knobbly crockery.

  ‘When I’ve washed these up, do I put them back on a shelf or pack them away?’ she asked plaintively.

  ‘Shelf.’ Lorna strode towards the ceramics room, and the remains of Bob’s deformed tea service of heartbreak. ‘We just need to rewrite this description …’

  Later that night, Lorna retreated upstairs to her thinking room for some positive manifestation. After her conversation with Calum, she felt genuinely excited: anything was possible. And with Mary helping her – Mary seemed to know everyone in town, and now she didn’t have to organise Art Week, she was almost enthusiastic about it – they could come up with an exhibition that would bring customers back to the Maiden Gallery, maybe even from further afield. It would be the centre of fresh and inspirational creativity. She’d have made that happen. />
  Lorna reached for her pen and opened a new page in her notepad, pointing and flexing her toes in the bed socks she was wearing to keep warm. She hadn’t yet put curtains up in her empty room, and the night sky was framed by the sash windows, a deep blue with a perfect half-moon sitting over the roofs. Longhampton town centre was quiet at night, and she could hear the creaks and clicks of the old house as the cold air outside nipped between the floorboards, through the worn sashes. She loved the silence and the space, and never felt scared on her own. Her soul was keeping her company, stretching out and yawning, like a beast that had been hibernating for years, now coming back to life and ready for adventures.

  It was moments like these that Lorna felt closest to her mum. When thoughts zipped and spun around in her head, it reminded her of sitting in the studio when she was small, colouring in a pattern Cathy had quickly scribbled on a blank page, the two of them engrossed in doing the same thing. As she got older, Lorna was allowed in less and less often, and she missed that sharing feeling.

  She was leaning back, imagining how she could cover the gallery awning in lights, when Rudy’s head nudged her back and she jumped. He liked to be where Lorna was, even if it meant creeping in to a room soundlessly and curling up just within of reach.

  ‘Hey, Rudy.’ She reached around and stroked his silky ears. No, she wasn’t on her own. Rudy was just enough company, undemanding as he was.

  ‘You want to come and sit on my knee?’ she asked in a babying voice, but when she lifted him on to her legs, he slid off in a dignified manner. I’m not a toy, his reproachful eyes seemed to say, but he sat down again not far away, and when Lorna turned back to her pad she felt him slink back and curl up near her. When he breathed out, the heat of his body pressed against hers, and she felt honoured. If the limits Rudy’s needs put on her day were sometimes annoying – the abruptly terminated walks when he took fright, the coaxing with treats just to look at distant dogs – these moments of trust made her ashamed of her impatience.

  Next to her on the floor, Lorna’s mobile rang and she reached a hand out without looking.

  Please let it be someone positive, she thought, but then realised that it could only be Jess. She loved her sister, but she didn’t want to speak to Jess right now; she’d only ask her questions about the business or tell her about Tyra’s ballet class, or Milo’s latest run-in with the tooth fairy, or Hattie’s mocks – Lorna needed to keep her inspiration going.

  Or it could be Sam? ‘Let’s meet up for a drink,’ he’d said. Had he meant it?

  Lorna turned the phone over to see who it was and, in doing so, managed to press the answer button by mistake; and then it was too late to hang up.

  With a mental groan, she put the phone to her ear, but before she even had time to say, ‘Hello, Tiffany,’ a frantic voice was already gabbling.

  ‘Oh my God, Lorna, I’m so glad you answered!’

  Lorna crossed her legs and braced herself. ‘Are you having a crisis, Tiff?’

  ‘HOW DID YOU KNOW?’

  Because I’ve never picked up a call from you that didn’t involve a crisis of some kind, Lorna thought, but wisely chose not to say.

  Chapter Seven

  Lorna kept a very specific photograph of her friend Tiffany on her phone, one taken when they were on a last-minute bargain holiday in New York two years previously – the last holiday, in fact, they’d been on together.

  Both of them were wearing plastic devil horns, glittery red lipstick and even glitterier silver eye shadow. Ninety minutes after that selfie was taken, most of the glittery eye shadow was smeared down Tiffany’s face, the horns were being paraded across the Brooklyn Bridge by two complete strangers from Limerick on a stag night, and Lorna was doing some very fast talking to the owner of the bar they’d just been asked to leave.

  She kept that photo as Tiffany’s identity on her phone to remind her of many things, specifically never to go on holiday with Tiff again. No matter how good the hotel deal was.

  ‘Lorna, where are you?’ Tiffany demanded now.

  ‘In Longhampton, in my new flat.’ Lorna got up off the floor and made her way out of the thinking room. Tiff’s agitated tone made her want to stand up, and be ready for whatever was coming. Also she wanted to keep the thinking room uncontaminated with drama. ‘What’s the matter? You sound stressed.’

  ‘Things are a bit weird. Listen, Lola, I need a favour.’

  Ah, the nickname. Nicknames meant complicated favours. Lorna wandered through to the kitchen, hesitated at the mint tea caddy, then opened the fridge. There was a half-finished bottle of white wine in there, a cheap one she’d found in the cellar in a box marked ‘Stephanie – Private View’. She unscrewed the top and sniffed it. Lemons, and a note of dishwasher tablet. Perfect.

  ‘What kind of favour? If it’s money, then I wish I could help, but I’m totally skint. I’m drinking leftover booze I found from the last party here.’ She looked at the bottle, and wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s actually called “Girls’ Night Out Chardonnay”.’

  ‘It’s not always money.’ Tiffany sounded affronted. ‘Lorna, can I come and stay with you for a few nights? I’m about to be kicked out.’

  ‘What?’ Lorna elbowed the fridge shut. Tiffany was a live-in nanny, in the sort of smart area of London that she’d thought existed only in Richard Curtis films. Tiff’s accommodation was part of the deal, and in Lorna’s opinion, she earned every penny. ‘Has something happened with the Hollandes?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  There was a pause. Lorna thought she could hear some kind of disturbance going on in the background. ‘Tiff? Is that someone shouting?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Sophie, she’s …’ Tiffany started coolly, and then the sound of a plate smashing made her squeak in panic. ‘Oh, God, I thought she said she’d do this calmly!’

  ‘Do what calmly?’

  ‘Sophie found a text on Jean-Claude’s phone at the weekend, and since then it’s been like World War Three.’ The words tumbled out in an undertone, almost as if Tiffany was crouching by the stairs trying to spy on what was going on while not drawing attention to herself. ‘For someone who does nothing apart from shop and get her hair done, she’s suddenly the most efficient woman in town – she’s got a lawyer, she’s moving back to Paris, she’s taking him to les cleaneurs , all in the space of two days …’

  ‘And you know all this how ?’

  ‘Because I’m trapped here! You can only spend so much time walking a pair of under-fives around the park. And,’ Tiffany added, ‘because I’ve got one of those instant translators that I use with the kids. I tell you what, I’ve learned some interesting words in the last week.’

  ‘But how does this affect you? Surely you’ve got a contract – they can’t just make you homeless! What about the children?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. Granny arrived this morning, direct from Paris, to whisk les enfants away on a special holiday. And without les enfants …’ There was a pause which sounded as if it was being filled with some Gallic gesture.

  Lorna stared at Rudy, who had got out of his basket to stare at her. ‘Are you doing that annoying Gallic shrug thing?’

  ‘What? How did you know?’ The last live-in job Tiffany had had, with two high-powered American fund managers, made her say ‘ossome’ and high-five everyone in sight. She was quite absorbent when it came to her families.

  ‘I just … knew. Look, Tiff, they can’t chuck you out. That’s your home.’

  ‘No, I can’t stay. Sophie has made it, um, preeetty clear to me that she’d prefer it if I left as soon as. She said it would be easier to deal with the house. It’s rented.’ Tiff dropped her voice and whispered, in a gossipy tone, ‘Her papa pays for it. And the school fees. And her Pilates lessons.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Oh, the things I know. Anyway, please? Please can I stay with you for a night or two? Seriously, I need to get out of here before I’m dragged in as a character witness. Maybe to a murder t
rial.’

  Lorna squeezed her eyes shut. She hated saying no to her friends, but she also hated the thought of sharing a bathroom with Tiff ever again. Sharing her kitchen. Sharing her precious, lovely silence that it had taken her years to find. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to stay with your mum?’

  ‘Mum?’ Tiffany sounded incredulous. ‘Are you kidding? I can’t tell my mum I’ve walked out. You know what she’s like – she paid for that training course. She’ll go insane. Don’t make me beg you for somewhere to go. I’m your best friend,’ she finished, martyred. ‘Come on .’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to help you out. I just … I just need some space to get my head together. I’m trying to get the gallery off the ground, working all hours, and …’

  There was a crashing noise so loud that even Lorna could hear it, followed by a woman’s shriek of barely controlled French rage.

  And then another crash. And a man’s howl of pain.

  ‘Please?’ said Tiff, in a smaller voice. ‘I can leave straight away and be with you by tonight.’

  ‘You can’t wait till …?’

  Crash.

  ‘Do you want to see me on Crimewatch ? Do you?’

  Crash.

  Lorna sighed. She didn’t want to see Tiffany on Crimewatch , no. ‘Fine, come.’

  ‘You’re a star! Give me your address and I’ll get a taxi at the other end.’

  Lorna reached for her wine, then put it down. ‘I’ll meet you at the station. The taxis go home at six.’

  When Lorna’s alarm went off the next morning, the flat felt different again. Not the doggy presence this time. Now it felt occupied.

  She turned her head on the pillow to slap the ringer on her Mickey Mouse clock down. She couldn’t hear the first arrivals on the high street, which usually stood out in the flat’s silence, because now there was a background sound of someone singing and probably dancing in the kitchen downstairs to Radio One, opening and slamming shut drawers to locate cutlery and crockery, running the hot tap until the boiler rattled in surprise at the extra work.