Lifting herself up on her knees, she was looking round the room, pondering her next move when a sudden sense of unease stilled her. Opening her hands again, she felt the small body shudder and the light leave the bright eyes as the mouse gave its last breath. No! Please no! She’d only been trying to help. Utterly wretched, she sank back and let the tears flow freely. No matter where she went or how fast she ran, there was always someone she couldn’t escape from, the one person she couldn’t shake off. If she could only save just one thing, maybe, just maybe, she could learn to live with herself.
Chapter Eleven
Pamala Gray had finished with Gethin by lunchtime and had passed him on to Laura Schiffman, her Senior Director. Laura wanted to catch one of the temporary exhibitions in town by a Lithuanian-born artist who did something clever with string, so Gethin found himself sitting in a museum restaurant, a temple to glass and light where, on first sight, only beautiful worshippers were admitted. Laura was talking, but her earnest, monotone delivery soon sent his attention wandering. After the rough edges, sullen faces and frustrations of Penmorfa, he’d been relieved to get back to New York, yet now the good manners and smooth service made him yearn for something that made life a little less predictable.
Even his meal was flawless: four halves of hard-boiled egg arranged on a slate, looking very much like one of the art exhibits. Each half was a thing of beauty; a glassy set white, a perfect creamy swirl rising from the dip where the yolk would have been and a glistening, miniature spring of caviar bubbling from each delicate peak like black lava. He thought of The Cabin and the generous Welsh Black beef filling the plate and his stomach rumbled in a disappointed lament at how very empty it would be, even if he drank all of the endless refills of iced water.
‘… and of course we’re hoping to attract interest from all those collectors hoping to add to their ego-seums,’ said Laura, arranging her spoon by the side of an artistically wonky bowl.
‘What?’ he said, looking at her worthy and almost untouched lentil soup and thinking of Coralie, sighing with satisfaction as she rounded off her chocolate pudding with more chocolates and a double espresso.
‘You know,’ she said, waving perfectly manicured hands, ‘the new status symbol for the super-rich. Instead of leaving their art collections in storage for lack of space, or donating their collections to public museums where they might not be put on permanent display, they’re buying up bus garages and underground bunkers so they can show the world what great taste they’ve got.’
Or not. Leaving the restaurant behind, they started their tour. Gethin began to notice collections which ought never to have gone on display but for the patrons who’d donated them insisting they be viewed in their entirety. The results said more about conspicuous consumption than love of art or good taste. Oh, there were always lots of big egos about.
Making an offer to Penmorfa that he thought Coralie couldn’t refuse – wasn’t that just him flaunting his great big ego? Or something? Perhaps that’s what Coralie thought, too, since she’d turned out not to be the pushover suggested by her soft-heartedness. The only reason he could see for her to reject his offer was that she’d seen him for the conceited prick he’d become. What other reason would she have for not playing nicely when her refusal risked hurting Penmorfa?
‘Now, this is a wonderful example of what Fuller meant when she talked about lines as being points in motions,’ Laura murmured, looking at the string exhibits with great reverence. Everyone else in the gallery seemed equally enthralled. Gethin noted that whilst they represented many different ethnic backgrounds, all were linked by a particular kind of well-bred, well-educated upbringing and a certain self-conscious cool. He felt a great wave of nostalgia for Delyth and Mair and had to pull himself together.
Laura hadn’t noticed his lack of response. ‘One day, your work could be rubbing shoulders, so to speak, with a Quinn, an Ofili or a Koons,’ she whispered, pressing a pale fingertip to the space between her clear grey eyes as if trying to erase any imminent frown-lines.
Now why didn’t that make him jump for joy?
‘Pamala takes the long view, she’s not there for the shock of the new,’ Laura went on, smiling to show white, even-spaced teeth. ‘She really takes care of her artists. What she sees in you is tremendous ability along with huge imagination and a touch of edginess. She has great expectations for your exhibition.’
Gethin stared past her at the courtyard below with an artificial tree, an amoebic blob of a sculpture, a square pond and some paving slabs and found himself thinking about the crashing exhilaration of the waves breaking on the cliffs at Penmorfa; their wild, untameable energy. How come he kept getting the feeling that he’d left something important behind? As if he was living in a monochrome world and waiting, like the wisteria arbour in the Shakespeare Garden that he had passed through that morning, for a change of temperatures to bring him some colour and life.
Laura was wearing a clever grey jumper that managed to be both flattering and tasteful; something the aesthetic part of his brain appreciated. Yet all he could think of was Coralie: the copper curls, eyes flecked with gold, a peachy-soft mouth and all the glow of whatever colour combination of crazy clothes had taken her fancy that morning. How would he set about capturing all her changing kaleidoscopic character and setting it on canvas?
Forget about Coralie, he told himself. Be smart and keep following the money. Like this guy who was literally pulling the wool over the critics’ eyes with string, he thought, shaking his head at another meaningless installation. Except trying to be smart wasn’t making him happy, so perhaps it was time to do something crazy?
‘Laura,’ he said, surprising them both. ‘Would you excuse me? I have to make a phone call.’
In the lobby he paced the floor whilst a phone on the other side of the Atlantic rang itself off the wall. Just as he was about to give up, he heard her soft Home Counties voice say hello.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, rubbing his hands over his jaw. ‘Beg?’
Kitty waited until Adam had got most of the way round the greenhouse he was cleaning, then set up at one of the long tables. His eyebrows rose, but at least he didn’t object to her company. Good start.
‘I’m getting ahead with some early sowing,’ she announced, separating the plastic seed trays. ‘You never know what Mam’s going to come up with next.’
Kitty had always looked up to Alys and admired her for her energetic, no-nonsense approach to life, but part of her wished that her mother would simply admit that she was backing a lost cause. ‘Why she’s putting herself out to rebuild the church hall for the benefit of people like Delyth and Mair, who’re always looking down their noses sneering at everything she says, beats me. I don’t know why they always have to take a pop at her.’
‘Well, she looks half her age,’ said Adam, ‘and she moves with the times. But she shouldn’t let those two get to her. Everyone else appreciates her hard work.’
Kitty sighed. Had Coralie been willing to play along with Gethin, her mother might not have had to have worked quite so hard, but Alys, undeterred, had carried on seizing funding opportunities with as much tenacity as Edith grappling Huw’s socks.
‘I’d just wish she’d save some of that energy for home, where it’s needed. Dad’s already being treated for high blood pressure – I found his tablets in the bathroom cabinet.’
‘Then at least you know he’s doing something about it,’ Adam pointed out. ‘Besides, it’s not fair to blame Alys when she’s trying to do something positive. Your dad might have other worries.’
Kitty refused to meet his eyes. All she knew was that with the usual work of the garden centre to be carried out and concerns about finding anyone suitable to run the Summerhouse Café when it reopened in the spring, it was little wonder that her father was becoming increasingly withdrawn.
‘I know Mam was delighted that so many people turned up for the St David’s Day event last week,’ she said, on a more conciliat
ory note – after all, Adam had gone out of his way to help set up the garden centre when Alys had decided to turn one of their regular garden events into something much grander – ‘but I never want to hear the Abersaith Male Voice Choir or smell another Welsh cake ever again.’
Battling another wave of nausea just thinking about the pervasive scent of warm cakes that seemed to suck out all the oxygen in the marquee where she’d been stationed, Kitty swallowed hard and turned her attention to Adam. Chucking-up was not the way to convince him that whilst her body might have been taken over her mind was still very much her own.
‘I’d have lugged that compost in for you,’ he said, tutting at her.
‘I don’t recall you being so worried last year.’ She smiled, determined to remind him of those long, hot summer days.
‘Sleeping all right?’ he asked, stretching up and showing an inch of tanned, toned stomach.
Perhaps he was about to volunteer to help tire her out? She pretended to fiddle about with the first cell tray.
‘Only my mate, Flat Sam – the guy with the dreads I surf with – he was telling me that when his sister was at your stage of the game, you know, when the mother and baby are sharing limited space, she found it much easier to sleep on her left side. Keeps all the blood flowing to your extremities, apparently.’
Kitty resisted the urge to tell him it was not the blood flow to her extremities she was interested in. ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, resigning herself to firming compost rather than Adam.
‘Some gentle activity’s good, too.’ He nodded at her. ‘But if you’re going to be standing there, make sure you squeeze your toes from time to time. You don’t want to faint, do you?’
No, thought Kitty, she wanted to scream. All this fussing was precisely why she’d tried to keep the pregnancy to herself. Although she’d called a truce with the baby, she still wasn’t ready to let it dominate her. She scowled at her cell tray and the packets of seeds, feeling that it was rapidly becoming her lot to be the bringer of new life. At one time she’d hoped Adam would worship her, but she hadn’t foreseen him casting her as a fertility goddess.
‘Have you made a birth plan yet?’ he asked, a splash of water across his cheek giving him a look of shiny-faced enthusiasm.
‘Pain free,’ she snapped. ‘With lots of drugs.’ She looked up, grateful for a change of subject as Alys ambled in with the cordless house phone and beckoned at her.
‘Someone for you. Sheena Milsom?’
Oh God, she hoped it wasn’t an ante-natal appointment. Kitty took the phone and held it to her chest, waiting for her mother to leave, but Alys picked up the seeds instead. ‘Greyhound,’ she noted. ‘A good do-er. Oh, yes, Sheena’s the editor of West Life Journal,’ she added, pressing a seed into the compost. ‘She wants to talk to you about your twmpath photos – the ones of the Summerhouse Café all dressed up for the evening that I posted on the garden centre website.’
Kitty went over to the open doorway away from her mother and Adam who, she noted, had fallen into easy conversation whilst Alys picked up a spare cloth and wiped off a smear Adam had missed.
‘It’s very Country Living,’ the editor told her, after a brief preamble. ‘It’s just what we’re looking for, just right for the bride on a budget – all those flowers in jam jars and homemade bunting. So we’d really like to use the photo, for a fee, of course.’
She mentioned a sum and Kitty’s sharp intake of breath drew concerned looks from Adam and her mother. Kitty waved her free hand to show that she was ok, although she was very tempted to stand over one of Adam’s window-washing puddles and pretend her waters had broken just to see what he would do.
‘Who was the stylist?’ asked the editor, making her frown. ‘Did you bring in anyone special?’
‘Oh, that was me,’ said Kitty. By now Adam and her mother had stopped talking and were shamelessly eavesdropping.
‘Fantastic!’
Kitty glowed at the praise. At last there was someone in the world wanting to talk about the person she was rather than the one she was creating!
‘Well I must say you’re very talented. What’s the name of your business, so I can include it in the article?’
Kitty did some rapid thinking. ‘Flair on a Shoestring,’ she announced confidently. ‘And I’ll give you my email address too.’
‘Wonderful!’ the editor trilled. ‘Thank you! I do hope it creates lots of interest for you.’
‘Who or what is Flair on a Shoestring?’ said Alys, grinning at her as she took back the phone.
Kitty couldn’t help but laugh. ‘The idea just came to me! I wanted to convince that editor that I knew what I was talking about. Then it occurred to me that this is something I could actually do. I’m not flustered by all the preparations for big events and I reckon I’ve proved that I can make an ordinary room fit for a party. Put the two together and what have you got? My new styling business: weddings, birthday parties and celebrations. A-list styling on a Z-list budget.’
Adam threw his cloth into the bucket at his feet and laughed. ‘Brilliant! You won’t even have to get off your backside. I mean, who’s going to want anything like that around here?’
Kitty felt the flush of annoyance. ‘I’m serious, Adam. Everyone’s worried about spending cuts and the loss of public sector jobs. They’ll be plenty of potential customers in Cardiff looking for ways to cut the cost of big celebrations.’ At least her mother, perching on one of the benches, had sat down to look at her thoughtfully.
‘Do you know, I think you might be on to something, Kitty. And it’s a business you could grow from home. Even when you were a very little girl, you had very firm ideas about your birthday parties,’ she observed, looking, thought Kitty, a bit misty-eyed. ‘What do you think you’d need to start up?’
‘Well, the money the West Life Journal’s going to pay me for the photo will buy me a few mismatched plates and some trinkets,’ she volunteered, thinking aloud.
‘Half your gran’s stuff is still in the loft,’ Alys said, leaning forward. ‘We brought it with us when we moved and I never did get round to sorting it out. You should have a look at that, too.’
For the first time in months, Kitty began to feel some control over her life. She would start small, do plenty of research, accumulate some stock, maybe try an ad in the local paper. It was a really great idea and would show Adam that she wasn’t going to slob around waiting for her parents to bail her out. She glanced over, hoping to catch a look of approval, just in time to see him pick up his bucket and trudge past her with his mouth set in a grim line. The baby joined in with a little kick of protest. Too bad, thought Kitty; her life-changing moment had arrived and nothing was going to stop her.
Penmorfa, thought Coralie, spotting the small gathering in the glasshouse, had been a safe haven, at least until Gethin Lewis showed up, but unless she wanted a very lonely life, there were risks she would have to take. It seemed to her, on her last visit, that Ned was dealing better with his situation. She was less afraid of what he might do. It would be a relief to send the occasional letter and maybe it would help her own compulsion to turn up in person every month.
Sullen clouds threatened rain and a stiff wind shook the life out of some of the display plants. As she quickened her pace, Adam came storming out of the glasshouse, looking as if he’d like to shake someone too and she just managed to jump out of the way as he flung a bucket of dirty water over one of the raised beds.
She was already feeling jittery about what she was facing, but no one could say that she hadn’t done her bit to save Penmorfa from going the way of so many small villages dying for lack of resources. Alys, sitting on one of the benches, looked up and scowled as she came in. It wasn’t quite the reaction she was hoping for. Looking at her expression, Coralie felt quite sorry for Kitty. If she’d been on the receiving end of that a few times no wonder she’d been a bit hesitant about telling her mother she was pregnant.
‘I thought we were friends,’ Alys said, wagging a f
inger at her. ‘You’ve been living here for the best part of a year now. We thought you were one of us.’
‘I am.’ Coralie blinked, feeling some of the wind leave her sails. ‘That’s why I need to talk to you.’
Kitty stopped pretending to fiddle around with a seed tray and scuttled over to sit next to her mother. Leaning back, she forgot to hide her stomach and Coralie could see that although the exceptionally cold weather meant that outside only a few buds were swelling, Kitty didn’t seem to have been affected.
Now two pairs of eyes blazed at her.
‘Does the Hall Management Committee still have access to the ACORN loan?’ she asked, quietly.
Alys folded her arms, and Kitty laid a protective hand on them.
‘I’ve been thinking it over and I can’t not help, can I? Not when this is the only way to pay off the loan quickly. So, I’ve told Gethin that if you can take care of Rock and Sweet Cleans for me, I’ll sit for a portrait.’
Alys rushed over and gave her a hug, then Kitty joined in, too.
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Alys, pinching her cheek. ‘That’s brilliant, I’m so glad you’ve agreed to help the village. Just think of all the people who’ll benefit from this, all the coffee mornings, cake sales and classes that can be restarted – you won’t regret it.’
No, thought Coralie, crossing her fingers. But they might.
Chapter Twelve
‘Welcome to New York, Coralie,’ said Gethin, looking pleased with himself as he bent his head to kiss her lightly on the cheek. ‘I knew I could count on you to do the right thing.’
‘For Penmorfa,’ Coralie added, still trying to catch her breath. Hardly surprising then that her head was spinning. And if her legs felt unsteady, she told herself, it was nothing to do with the rough touch of his stubble setting her skin tingling, nor was it the low, delicious murmur of his voice as he said her name. Gethin’s cramped diary had meant squeezing the sittings in during the week leading up to his new exhibition. Alys might have been delighted with the speed of events, but it had meant a frantic three weeks for Coralie, who’d scrambled to leave the business in a state that someone else could manage whilst she was away.
Move Over Darling Page 11
