Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing)

by Maggie Dana

  I help Sophie get her business back on track. We take orders, cook massive amounts of food, and hire substitute caterers for the functions we can’t handle. In between, we visit Claudia. She’s getting better, slowly, but not yet well enough to come home.

  Finally, Sophie takes a day off, so I borrow her car and drive south to Brighton. A steady rain stutters on the pavement as I park the car and stumble onto the beach. Mounds of pebbles threaten to twist my ankles, salt spray dampens my face. The wind whips my hair into knots and numbs my fingers. I pull up my collar, shove both hands in my pockets. Down by the water, a woman attached to a leash is being pulled along by a dog the size of a pony. Two pale-faced boys share a cigarette beneath an umbrella. Maybe if I hang out here long enough, visiting hours will be over by the time I get there.

  As sharp as ever, and still bitter about the past.

  Claudia will have my guts for garters if I chicken out now.

  * * *

  The nursing home’s director is an angular, middle-aged woman who introduces herself so quickly I don’t catch her name.

  “Didn’t you get our letter?” she asks, when I explain why I’m here.

  “What letter?”

  The woman opens a diary. “It was sent just before Christmas.”

  “Air mail?” I say.

  She sighs. “Surface. We’re on a strict budget.”

  No wonder it never showed up, probably still hasn’t arrived or Tom would’ve called to let me know.

  “So, you obviously didn’t receive it,” she says.

  I shake my head.

  With an air of being quite used to this sort of thing, the woman tells me Edith died on December 21st. “This must come as a shock, but it was very peaceful, and believe me, she wasn’t in pain.”

  No heart attack then. Not like Claudia. I feel a sense of relief and ask, “Did she ever say anything about me?”

  “Not till your letter arrived.”

  I stop fidgeting and lay both hands on my lap while the woman, whose name I’m still trying to remember, sorts through piles of paper on her desk.

  “That letter meant a lot to your aunt. We were surprised because we didn’t know she had any living relatives. Anyway, she left this for you.” Leaning forward, she gives me a padded envelope. “I was waiting to hear from you before sending this.” Then she stands and walks to the door. “You’d probably like to be alone for a bit,” she says, before slipping away.

  The envelope is soft and thick, its surface worn and wrinkled as if it’s been used several times before. I remove the tape and pull out a small, tissue-wrapped object with a plain white card attached to the top: THIS BELONGED TO YOUR MOTHER.

  I tear off the last piece of paper. A slender chain forms a puddle of gold in my hand; an oval gold locket nestles on top.

  With clumsy fingers, I pry it open, blinking through my tears. Inside the locket are two tiny pictures, grainy black-and-white images of infants, and I only recognize myself because of the ridiculous lace bonnet. I lift the other picture from its shallow nest and turn it over. On the back, in faded brown ink, is a single word.

  Katie.

  Clutching my treasure with one hand, I hang onto my chair with the other. The room tilts and sways. I close my eyes and count slowly to ten, then open them again. The room has stopped spinning.

  There’s a soft knock on the door and the nursing home’s director comes in with a tray of sandwiches and tea. “I thought you might need this,” she says.

  I remember her name. “Thank you, Ms. Holt.”

  “Daphne,” she says, lifting the teapot. “Please call me Daphne. Shall I pour?”

  * * *

  After buying a bunch of narcissus for Claudia, I drive back to London, straight to the hospital. She’s alone, looking tired. The nurse on duty tells me she had too many visitors today.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” I say, holding up my flowers. “Long enough to give her these.”

  She nods approval.

  I bend to kiss Claudia’s soft cheek. It smells of Yardley’s face powder, a scent I remember from childhood.

  “Did you see her?” she says.

  “No, but Edith left this for me.” I show her the locket. “It belonged to my mother.”

  Claudia lets out a sigh. “Oh, my dear. How sad for you.”

  “She died just before Christmas.” Tears prick at my eyelids. I blink, but one escapes and rolls down my cheek. Poor Edith. What a sad, unhappy woman. How different would my life have been if she and I had gotten along? For a start, I wouldn’t have left England and married Richard. Or had my two boys.

  My boys. I can’t imagine life without them.

  I guess, when all is said and done, Edith did me a huge favor by driving me away. I kiss the locket and slip it around my neck.

  “At least she got your letter, and that’s good,” Claudia says. Her eyes close and I see blue shadows around them, not Yardley or Revlon, but exhaustion and illness. Her lips move. “He came to see me.”

  I reach for her hand, squeeze it gently. She must’ve seen her beloved husband, Guy, in a dream. God forbid she’s getting ready to join him.

  I won’t let her go.

  “He came with Keith and Penny,” Claudia says, her voice barely audible.

  I lean closer. “Who did?”

  Her breath whispers across my face. “I wish he hadn’t come. He hurt you. I can’t forgive him for that.”

  Colin was here, in this room?

  The nurse takes my arm. “She’s had a rough day.”

  My mouth goes dry. I look down at Claudia, at this woman who gave me the love I didn’t get at home, and my feelings about Colin harden into a malignant lump. If he’s caused her a relapse, I’ll drive up to the fucking Cotswolds and kill him.

  Chapter 42

  London

  January 2012

  After I drive the night nurse mad with questions, she tells me to go and find Claudia’s doctor. It’s almost midnight when I track her down in the cafeteria, hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee. She looks almost as exhausted as I feel.

  “This isn’t a relapse, just a minor setback,” Doctor Schaaf assures me. “Mrs Neville got a little over-stimulated today,” she says, “so I prescribed something to help her sleep. She’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  But I’m not fine. I’m so mad at Colin I can barely see straight. I can’t believe how angry I am.

  Angry with Colin?

  Rage surges up my throat. I swallow hard, choke it back down. My fists clench into claws. How could anyone be that insensitive, that clueless? Is Colin so self-centered, so oblivious to others’ needs he thought Claudia would be glad to see him? Doesn’t he realize she’d be protective of me? That by showing up without warning he might cause a problem for her? I mean, come on. The woman’s just had a heart attack, for God’s sake. She doesn’t need any more shocks.

  Sophie’s still up when I storm through her front door.

  “Trouble parking?” she asks. That’s usually the reason for frayed tempers around here. Some nights we have to circle her block three or four times before finding a space large enough for the Range Rover, which makes me really appreciate my driveway back home.

  I slam Sophie’s keys on the table, throw my coat on the couch.

  “What’s wrong?” she says.

  “Colin Carpenter, that’s what.”

  She shoots me an exasperated look. “Don’t tell me you saw him.”

  When I asked to borrow her car, I didn’t tell Sophie I was going to see Edith because I wasn’t convinced I’d be able to pull it off, so I tossed off an excuse that I needed to get away by myself for a bit. She probably assumed I was driving up to confront Colin.

  “No,” I say, “but Claudia did.”

  “Holy shit,” Sophie says. “When?”

  “This afternoon,” I say, and assure her Claudia’s okay, except she had too many visitors, including one who upset her.

  “Stupid git,” Sophie says. “What the he
ll made him think he’d be welcome?” She sighs. “The only day I don’t go to see Mum, and this happens. Good thing I wasn’t there or I’d have killed him.”

  “You wouldn’t have had a chance,” I say through clenched teeth. “Because I’d have killed him first.”

  Sophie raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “I’m so fucking mad at him, I could—”

  “Hallelujah!” she says. “It’s about bloody time.”

  Oh, my God. Did I say that? Out loud? Has the old Jill finally come back? I guess she has, because Sophie laughs and says, “I was wondering when the real you would get around to showing up.” Then she grabs my hand and hauls me into the dining room, or what was her dining room when I left at nine thirty this morning. Drop cloths cover the floor. A mountain of furniture lurks beneath a blue plastic tarp and Sophie’s paint-spattered stepladder leans against the far wall. Her oriental rug lies rolled in a corner with a tangle of dogs snoozing on top.

  “What’s all this about, then?”

  “Mum,” Sophie says. “She can’t live alone any more, so she’s coming to live here. I’m turning this into a bed-sit for her.” She points toward the tiny bathroom whose claw-foot tub and willow-patterned toilet would fetch a fortune in an antique shop. “She’ll have everything on one floor. No more fussing with stairs.”

  “And she’s agreed to all this?”

  “Not yet, but she will,” Sophie says. “Providing you help me talk her into it.” She hands me a stack of paint chips. “I need your opinion about color. Can’t make up my mind.”

  Closing my eyes, I conjure up Claudia’s cottage in Cornwall, the scabiosa and purple-belled heather that grow wild on the cliffs. Through her kitchen window, I glimpse vanilla-colored thickets of broom and the myriad blues and greens of an ever-changing ocean.

  “She’ll be less bolshie about moving here if it reminds her of home,” I say. “Go with lavender walls and cream trim, sage accents and splashes of Prussian blue.”

  “Brilliant,” Sophie says. “Tomorrow, we paint.”

  I grin at her. “Naked?”

  “Is there any other way?”

  * * *

  After a quick trip to the local DIY store to buy decorating supplies, we visit with Claudia. She’s still tired, but her eyes sparkle, and when Sophie tells her we’re turning the dining room into a bed-sitting room for her, she doesn’t argue. Just nods and says, “We’ll see.”

  “Better than an outright no,” Sophie says.

  We drive home and get busy. I prime the woodwork while Sophie climbs the ladder and swipes lavender emulsion on the wall as if conducting a symphony. Blobs of paint fly from her roller, specks land in her hair. She leans to reach into corners.

  “Watch out!” I yell.

  Too late.

  Sophie’s ladder wobbles. The tray tilts and lavender paint slops all over her.

  “Shit!” She pulls off her shirt, balls it up, and dumps it on the floor. “Okay, smartass,” she says, glaring at me because I’m trying not to laugh. “Now it’s your bloody turn.”

  “Sophie, get real,” I say. “We’re not kids any more.”

  Hands on hips, she strikes a pose. “Tit for tat.”

  “Does that mean you’re taking your bra off as well?”

  “Why the hell not?” Sophie unhooks it.

  Dammit, her breasts still don’t droop.

  “Come on,” she says. “Don’t be shy.”

  I wriggle out of my jeans and yank off my sweatshirt.

  Sophie grins. “No more gym knickers?”

  “Used the last pair for dust rags years ago,” I say, twitching the elastic on my gray spandex briefs. I’ve abandoned Victoria’s Secret in favor of L.L. Bean.

  “That’s what we need,” Sophie says. “Rags. There’s a pile of old clothes in my room. See what you can find. A cotton shirt would do.”

  Pink cotton? Heavy and well pressed?

  Dropping my brush in a bucket, I run upstairs and rummage in my case, pull out Colin’s shirt and race back to the kitchen. Sophie’s scissors lie on the counter. The hospital reduced Claudia’s favorite track suit to shreds. Can I do the same to Colin’s favorite shirt? Like Sophie just said, “Why the hell not?”

  I grab her scissors and chop off the collar and cuffs, and cut the sleeves into ribbons. Gripping hard, I slice up the back and front. My heart lurches and my hands shake, but I keep hacking at the shirt till there’s nothing left but a pile of pink rags.

  There, I’ve done it. I’ve shredded Colin’s memory the way he shredded my gut. And, you know what? It feels good, really good. In fact, it feels rather marvelous. With a feeling of triumph, I take my rags into the dining room and give one to Sophie.

  “This isn’t one of mine, is it?” she says, wiping her hands.

  I open a can of paint with a screwdriver. “Nope.”

  “Didn’t think so. I never wear pink.”

  “It’s Colin’s. He was wearing it the day I fell down your stairs.”

  Sophie waves her rag in surrender. “Jeez, Jill. Remind me never to piss you off. My wardrobe couldn’t take it.”

  Footsteps clatter across the kitchen floor.

  Another early warning system?

  “Quick.” I toss more rags at Sophie.

  She covers her boobs. Hugh pokes his head through the open door. “Oh, sorry.” He coughs and turns away. “I’ve come to pick up stuff for Mum. She wants her sketch pad and paints.”

  Thank God I’m still wearing a bra.

  “They’re in the basket on top of my desk,” Sophie yells at her brother. “Her pastels are there, too.”

  The front door bangs shut.

  Sophie shoots me an evil grin. “Remember how we used to spy on the boys?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Let’s do it again.”

  I groan. “Must we?”

  “Just a suggestion,” she says. “We’ll go antiquing instead. I need to find a comfy chair for Mum’s new room. How about Saturday? There are some great shops up near Stroud.”

  Which, of course, is less than twenty miles from where Colin lives.

  * * *

  After finding the perfect armchair for Claudia in a second-hand furniture store, we stuff it into the back of the Range Rover and head for home. Half an hour later, Sophie pulls off the M-4 and makes a detour through Colin’s village.

  “Just a quick drive-by,” she says. “No stopping. Once up and down the high street and then we’re out of here, okay?”

  I ought to know better.

  She spots a teashop across from North Lodge and declares she can’t drive another mile without something to drink.

  “Then let’s find a pub,” I say.

  Sophie checks her watch. “It’s four o’clock. I want tea, not alcohol.”

  Yeah, right.

  Five minutes later we’re sitting in The Buttery’s bay window at a round table with a blue gingham cloth and a vase of snowdrops in the center. Sophie wears dark glasses and a headscarf. Makes her look like a middle-aged Royal in disguise. I lurk behind the menu and try to decide between cucumber sandwiches and scones with clotted cream. Maybe I’ll have both. We’re the teashop’s only customers and it’s getting late. The waitress who takes our order yells it into the kitchen before putting on her coat. She waves goodbye and slips out the door.

  Across the narrow street, North Lodge is bathed in the glow of a late afternoon sun. Barren vines embroider the honey-colored stone like dark threads on a golden tapestry and the wooden tubs out front are ablaze with winter pansies. A robin perches on the bare branches of an almond tree. Through a narrow archway, just wide enough for a coach and horses, I see the corner of a barn, a strip of lawn still shockingly green, and a splash of purple crocus beneath the silver trunk of a birch. Smoke curls from crooked chimneys, and I have an image of guests sipping cocktails in front of a large open fire.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Sophie says.

  Someone comes up behind us. “Aye, that
it is.”

  We turn and look up.

  A tall, ruddy-cheeked woman with hair pulled back in a bun and a shelf-like bosom holds a large silver tray. She sets it on the table next to ours. A knitted cosy warms an earthenware teapot. Spoons jiggle inside cups and scones spill from a basket. “Two cream teas,” she says. “And who gets the sandwiches?”

  “I do,” I say.

  Sophie removes her Ray-Bans. “Would you like to join us?”

  Why do I get the feeling she’s about to take espionage to a whole new level? I shoot her a warning look, but the damage is already done. The woman pulls up a chair.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she says. Her voice has a soft, country burr. She’s probably lived in this village all her life, knows everything that goes on around here, which is exactly what Sophie wants. “I’m Doris,” the woman says. “Doris Tidworth.”

  “Jemima Bond,” Sophie replies, “and this is my sister, Kristina.”

  Bond? As in 007?

  To keep from laughing, I bite into a sandwich while Doris sets out china plates, bone-handled butter knives, and silver spoons. She pours the tea, offers milk and sugar, then slathers cream and strawberry jam onto a scone.

  Best to let Sophie handle this. She’s better at spying than I am.

  It doesn’t take long. In no time at all, she’s chatting up the teashop’s owner about the weather and the lack of business in winter, and we learn how Doris wishes young people in the village weren’t so eager to scarper off to London because she can’t find any decent help any more and what with those charrybangs full of tourists coming in all summer long and her bunions acting up, she can’t keep on her feet all day, can she? Especially when those city folk come traipsing in from the lodge because they don’t serve afternoon tea over there.

  I’m exhausted listening to her.

  “Such a nice man, that Mr. Carpenter,” Doris says, waving her scone toward the window. Crumbs bounce off her plate and onto the table. “And don’t you believe a word of those rumors about that accident, neither.”

  Chapter 43