Anna comes in. She stands in front of Esme’s portrait, elbowing Cordelia and Esme out of the way. Behind her, Esme makes a what’s going on face and Cordelia shrugs her shoulders.
Anna stands back and smiles at Cordelia.
‘What?’ Cordelia asks.
‘Look at the painting.’
Cordelia’s eyes return to the portrait. ‘What?’
‘Look at the painting!’
Esme clutches Cordelia’s arm.
‘What’s up with you two?’ Cordelia asks. ‘Can someone tell me what’s going on?’
‘Does a little red dot on a painting mean what I think it means?’ Esme’s gaze flicks between Anna and Cordelia.
‘You bet,’ Anna says.
Cordelia looks back at the portrait. And there it is. A red circle in the bottom left-hand corner. Sold. Her painting is sold!
She turns to Anna. ‘Someone’s bought it?’
‘I just took the phone call.’
‘Who?’
‘An American man. He’s travelling round the UK with his family; he was in the area a few weeks ago and says his wife fell in love with the portrait. He’s asked me to pack it up and send it to the States. Chicago’s the address.’
‘A real artist, Cordelia!’ Esme says. ‘How cool is that?’
Patrick and Lance are already at the restaurant when they get there.
Cordelia stoops to kiss Patrick. She rests her hand on his shoulder. She can feel the tension through the material of his shirt. ‘Sorry we’re late.’
‘We’ve got a fantastic excuse,’ Esme interrupts. ‘Anna insisted on opening a bottle of champagne.’
‘What!’ Lance exclaims. ‘We’re here starving and you’re quaffing – ’
‘Cordelia’s sold a painting.’
Patrick gets up. ‘Really?’ He pulls Cordelia towards him. ‘That’s fabulous. Which one?’
‘The one of me!’ Esme squeals.
‘This requires more champagne.’ Lance gets up to speak to the waiter.
Esme giggles. ‘I need to go to the ladies. I feel tiddly already.’
Patrick takes both of Cordelia’s hands and plants a kiss on each palm. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
Cordelia’s skin tingles from the touch of his lips. She looks into his eyes, so blue they take her breath away, and her fingers itch to stroke the scar on his cheek – by some trick of the light it seems more vivid this evening. He got it in a fight when he was at school. She smiles as she thinks of Patrick as a little tousle-haired boy. The man-Patrick runs his fingers over her hands and up her arms. She rests her head on his shoulder.
They get through two bottles of wine as well as the champagne during the meal. Esme keeps suggesting toasts: ‘To my sister, the artist’. The people on the next table fall silent each time and look across. A flush creeps over Cordelia’s cheeks.
After toast number six, Patrick asks ‘What about you, Esme? What have you been up to lately?’
Cordelia flashes him a grateful smile. She notices Esme’s hair is drawn up in a coil, which lifts her cheekbones and makes her neck long and graceful. She’s not wearing her usual jeans and T-shirt but a cream sleeveless dress that shows off her tan. ‘Whatever it is, you’re looking good on it.’
Esme grins. ‘Thanks. I feel better than I have for ages. Jake is great to live with. He’s so laid-back. And I’ve seen this guy a few times … ’
‘Oh Esme, not again.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Esme laughs. ‘I know I haven’t got the best track record, but this one’s got a job, he doesn’t do drugs and he phones when he says he will!’
‘Hey!’ Lance protests. ‘Not all guys are sleazeballs. I always make a point of texting after a first date. To make sure she enjoyed herself.’
‘Yeah, well you must be a one-off,’ Esme says.
‘What’s this one’s name?’ Cordelia asks.
‘You’ll only laugh.’
‘Tell us.’
‘Promise you won’t laugh.’
‘It can’t be that bad. What is it? Archibald? Marmaduke?’
‘Go on, I won’t laugh,’ Patrick says.
‘Crispin.’
Cordelia purses her lips to hold in the smile.
‘See! I knew you’d laugh.’
‘I’m not. How did he get that name?’
‘His mum had a dream when she was pregnant that her baby would have curly hair and the name book said Crispin meant curly-haired. So when it was a boy, that’s what she called him.’
‘Has he got curly hair?’
Esme shakes her head. ‘Dead straight.’
Cordelia feels light-headed from alcohol and excitement. She wants to get home and fall into bed. She’s going to make love to Patrick. Usually she waits for him to initiate things. Tonight she’ll be bolder. She’ll reach out for him, run her hands over his chest and down …
‘I’m just going for a pee,’ Patrick’s voice interrupts. ‘I’ll ask for the bill on the way.’
Esme pushes back her chair. ‘I need the loo as well.’
Left with Lance, Cordelia smiles blearily at him. If she screws up her eyes, she can see two of him.
‘I’m glad to get you on your own,’ he says.
Here we go, Cordelia thinks. Lance up to his usual tricks, flirting and giving her sly little kisses when he thinks Patrick’s not looking. What would he do if she grabbed him and started kissing him? She stares at his mouth. It’s fuller than Patrick’s, the top lip a perfect cupid’s bow, and she imagines pushing her tongue between it and the pouting lower lip, the moment when the tip of her tongue would encounter his. Kisses are different with different people: some are soft and sloppy with an excess of saliva; some aggressive, the other tongue invading your mouth. Lance would be a good kisser, she decides.
‘Are you okay, Cordelia?’ Lance asks.
‘Fine. Why?’
‘You look a bit strange, that’s all. But listen, while Patrick’s in the bog … I’m worried about him.’
‘Don’t be.’ She hears the sounds floating away from her. ‘You saw him tonight. Everything’s fine.’ She smiles again and the word beatific comes into her head. If she could see herself, she would describe her smile as beatific.
‘That was an act. Until you and Esme arrived, he was morose. I couldn’t get a word out of him.’
‘I can’t help it if my presence lights him up.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Cordelia. This is serious. Ever since that night in the pub when he went weird, he hasn’t been right. My guess is it’s something to do with his parents. When you think I’ve known him for five years, and he’s never once mentioned them.’
Cordelia shivers. Somebody must have turned the air-conditioning up.
‘You haven’t met his mum and dad, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Has he ever suggested meeting them?’
‘No.’
‘Anybody else from his family?’
‘Look Lance, this is – ’
‘Don’t you think that’s strange, when you’re supposed to be marrying the guy?’
‘It’s his business, isn’t it?’ Cordelia feels more sober by the second.
Lance catches hold of her wrist. ‘Cordelia, try to take this in. Something’s not right. You’ve got to find out what it is.’
Savannah is watching television when they get home. Patrick leans against the sitting room door talking to her, Esme goes straight to bed and Cordelia goes to the kitchen for some water. She holds the cool glass against her cheek and stares out into the darkness of the garden. Other people’s problems with Patrick are stacking up. First Vanessa working herself up at the idea of Savannah becoming a model. Now Lance in a state about Patrick’s parents.
Cordelia goes along the hall. Patrick is on the sofa next to Savannah now. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing some black sleeveless pyjamas. Her arms are golden brown. Big Brother is on t
he television. Patrick says it’s an inane programme, but he’s staring at the screen where a young couple are screeching at each other.
‘Don’t you think it’s time for bed, Savvy?’ Cordelia asks from the doorway.
‘In a minute.’ Savannah’s eyes don’t budge from the screen.
‘Haven’t you got English first thing?’
‘Back off, Mum. I only stayed up to wait for you. I need money for tomorrow.’
‘What for?’
‘I told you. It’s the last day to pay for the trip to Stratford.’
‘I can’t produce money from thin air.’
‘I’ll pay,’ Patrick says. ‘I’ll leave out a cheque in the morning. Who’s it payable to?’
‘St Mary’s High School.’
Cordelia sees Savannah turn and give him one of her sweetest smiles. ‘There’s no need,’ she says quickly.
‘Stop stressing, Mum.’ Savannah’s voice is tight again as if she’s got a toffee lodged in her throat. ‘You can’t afford it. Patrick’s offered. End of.’
Patrick stands up. ‘I’m off to bed. It’s been one long day. Night, Savvy.’
Cordelia watches as he bends down and drops a light kiss on her forehead.
‘Night, Patrick. And thanks for the cheque.’ She grins up at him and he winks.
It’s the wink that almost makes Cordelia crack. She blinks away the dancing black dots and deliberately paints colours on the scene in front of her: yellow on the sofa, pink on Patrick’s shirt, shiny green leaves on the plant on the coffee table – she won’t allow their colours to evaporate. She feels Patrick move past her in the doorway, and his mouth touch hers. ‘Don’t be long, ’ he whispers.
What does a wink signify? On the one hand, it’s nothing, a brief closing of an eye; on the other, it can say so much. An unspoken message, a secret signal from one person to another. It shuts out everyone else; it’s hard to wink at several people at the same time. How often has Patrick winked at Savannah when Cordelia hasn’t noticed?
As soon as she hears the bathroom door shut behind Patrick, Cordelia switches off the television, ignoring Savannah’s protests. ‘We need to have a talk.’
‘I’ve got to go to bed.’ Savannah yawns, an extravagant opening of her mouth, accompanied by the maximum amount of yawn noise she can make.
‘Not before you answer a few questions.’
‘What now? I emptied the dishwasher. Fed the cat. Put my washing in the laundry basket.’
‘It’s nothing to do with any of that.’ Cordelia sits down on the armchair next to Savannah. ‘Granny told me about your modelling idea.’
Savannah opens her eyes wide. ‘Modelling?’
‘She said you told her you want to be a model.’
‘God, did I? I don’t remember. You know what Granny’s like; she thinks everyone’s into fashion like she is.’
‘Savannah, this is serious. You’re fifteen years old and you’re my responsibility.’
‘Oh, Mum.’ Savannah spreads her legs out in front of her and lifts her arms above her head. She stretches like a cat, uninhibited in the movement. ‘These conversations are sooo boring.’
‘Granny said Patrick told you that you need a portfolio and that when you’re sixteen, he’ll introduce you to someone.’ Cordelia watches her daughter closely and thinks she can detect the slightest of blushes on Savannah’s cheeks. ‘Well? Is it true, or is that some figment of Granny’s imagination too?’
‘If she said I told her that, I must have done. But I don’t remember. It’s not even as if I want to be a model.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No.’
‘What do you want to do?’ Cordelia feels some of her tension slip away.
Savannah yawns again. ‘Fuck, Mum. I don’t know. A ballet dancer … a disc jockey … a train driver … the world’s my oyster, isn’t it?’ She gets up and puts her arm round Cordelia’s shoulder. ‘When I decide, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?’
Patrick’s asleep by the time Cordelia climbs into bed, but she’s gone off the idea of wild sex anyway. Savannah has left her feeling as if she’s unravelling like some of Vanessa’s knitting, stitches springing off the needle. But she didn’t lose control; she didn’t do that shut-down thing, and best of all she thinks she got some element of truth from her daughter. Vanessa’s obviously panicking about nothing, and if Savvy did mention modelling to her, it was some sort of casual remark, best ignored.
That still leaves the issue of Patrick’s parents. She thinks back over the time she’s known him for clues. Occasionally he’s referred to his mother, small things like she loves the scent of lilies, or she likes Mozart’s operas. He’s never once mentioned his father of his own accord.
She waits until Monday when Esme’s gone back to London and Savannah’s staying with a friend. She buys chicken breasts and marinates them in honey and mustard. She washes some jersey royals and tears up lettuce leaves and watercress, adding thin slices of avocado and some vine-ripened tomatoes to the salad. She puts a bottle of white wine to chill and goes upstairs to change out of the jeans and T-shirt she’s worn for work. It’s a sunny evening and she decides they’ll have a drink in the garden before supper. She puts the chicken in the oven and sets two glasses and some olives on the table on the patio.
‘Hi, I’m home,’ Patrick calls from the hall.
‘Out here. Can you bring the wine from the fridge?’
Patrick appears at the back door, bottle in hand. He leans forward to kiss her and her mouth opens under his. He pulls back after a minute or two, smiling into her eyes. ‘Mmm. Just the thing after a hard day at the office.’ He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. He jerks his head towards Savannah’s window, which overlooks the garden and is just above them. ‘No music?’
‘Nope. She’s out.’
‘Wonderful!’ He slumps on to the chair. ‘I love your daughter dearly, but a night without that noise is a joy to be savoured.’
Cordelia laughs. ‘You can say that again.’ There’s a twittering in her stomach at the thought of what she’s about to ask.
Patrick hands her a glass of wine. He raises his. ‘To the most beautiful woman I know.’
Cordelia bites back the automatic words of protest. She lifts her glass. ‘And to a gorgeous handsome man.’
Patrick sniffs the wine and takes a sip. He nods. ‘That’s nice.’ He takes a longer gulp.
Cordelia watches the movement in his throat as he swallows. Now. She’ll say it now.
‘Been doing any painting today?’ he asks.
She shakes her head. ‘Patrick … ’
He laughs.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You sound like Savvy, when she’s about to ask for money.’
‘It’s Lance.’
Patrick twists his head sharply. ‘Has he been round? The crafty bastard. Did he – ’
She puts her hand on his knee. ‘It’s nothing like that. He’s worried about you.’
‘Is he turning into some sort of agony uncle?’
‘Please listen, Patrick. This is hard enough to get out as it is.’
‘You’re worrying me now.’
‘Lance thinks you haven’t been yourself since that evening in the pub … when … you know … he asked you about your mum and dad … ’ She waits, hoping he’ll leap in and say something, say there’s nothing to worry about, his parents are some funny little couple and he’s embarrassed about them. But the space she leaves remains empty. He stares down the garden, his mouth set. She sees a muscle twitching at the side of his eye.
‘The thing is … I’ve been thinking about the wedding, and I mean … I presume you’ll want to invite them, so I thought it would be nice if I could meet them beforehand. Unless you’re ashamed of me that is.’ She finishes with a giggle that makes her cringe. She knocks back her wine in one go.
Please let him speak. Please don’t let him sit t
here in silence any longer.
‘My parents won’t be at the wedding.’ His controlled voice is scarier than an outburst.
‘I do understand. Look at me and Gerald. The thought of inviting him to my wedding – ’
‘I don’t want to discuss this, Cordelia, but as you’re forcing me to – ’
‘It’s Lance. He insisted … ’
‘Lance should do his own dirty work or keep his big mouth shut.’
‘He’s just looking out for you.’
‘My parents won’t be at any wedding, because they’re both dead.’
‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I’ve been so insensitive … ’
‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s my fault. I should have told you before.’
The coldness has gone from Patrick’s voice. He’s going to tell her all about it. Perhaps he’ll cry and she’ll be able to comfort him; she’s learnt a lot from seeing the counsellor. It will make them closer. He’s obviously been bottling things up. She’ll tell Lance that everything’s fine.
Patrick picks up his glass and swallows the rest of his wine. He replaces the glass on the table. She waits for him to start talking. She won’t rush him. They’ve got all the time in the world.
‘Now you know,’ Patrick says, ‘I’d be glad if we could drop the subject. My parents are dead, I haven’t got any brothers or sisters. There’s nothing else to say.’
Sixteen
Vanessa dropped Cordelia off at school and drove on to Esme’s nursery. She loved her new yellow Mini – Gerald’s surprise present for her birthday. ‘I don’t want you struggling on and off buses with the two of them,’ he’d said, with unusual thoughtfulness. Lizzie’s daughter went to the same nursery and it was her turn to collect at lunchtime and look after the children that afternoon. She would pick up Cordelia from school as well: Vanessa had a whole day to herself.
Now the children were older, she’d set up a workroom upstairs at the back of the house and had started designing knitted waistcoats and jackets. She’d discarded her first attempts, tearing the paper into small scraps, so that Gerald wouldn’t see what she’d been doing, but the pencil between her fingers and thumb, relaxed and loose as Carla Scott had taught her, felt good. She was trying out designs based on Fair Isle knitting: blocks of colour in bold geometric patterns. She loved experimenting, adding a bird in flight or a deer’s antler, or even a line of roofs, to the back of a garment. The textures of different materials excited her. She would combine suede and mohair, insert panels of brocade or velvet on the front of a jacket.
Unravelling Page 17
