‘I am merely an observer then; my daughter, by contrast, a creator. Not, I suggest, in the same tradition. Though perhaps different sides of the same fence, shall we say?’
‘Yes.’ Andrew was keen to agree. ‘And is she successful?’
‘In what sense?’ Conrad tilted his head a fraction to one side in that way he had of looking at you as if you were an intriguing but clearly defective object, like a drawing with a bad tear across it.
‘Well… in the sense of… of… being… er… successful, I suppose.’ Conrad was possibly the most intelligent, erudite person Andrew had ever known, but no one else had such a gift for making him feel like a blithering idiot.
‘Financially? Artistically? Does her work make my daughter fulfilled? All of the above?’
‘Er… yes… well. All of those. I mean, any. Not all. Any of them. One of them. I guess.’
Conrad raised his eyebrows, and leaned back against the wall with his hands in his pockets, entirely at ease.
‘Hmm. Well, financially, I guess…’ Conrad lingered a little too long on the word as if he had come across an unusual yet ugly little stone at his feet and was curious to examine it for a few moments before discarding it with contempt. ‘Not. Artistically – yes, certainly. Her work is of a consistently high standard: technically accomplished. And the prints are definitely attractive, charming and so on and so forth. My daughter is highly professional and capable at whatever she turns her hand to. From a personal satisfaction perspective?’ Conrad paused for a long time. Although he was someone who rarely spoke without forethought and due consideration, it seemed to Andrew that this was a lengthy pause, even for him. Conrad frowned, apparently puzzled.
‘Insufficient data, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry? Data?’
The kettle came to the boil and clicked off automatically, but Conrad didn’t move. Andrew would have to lean right past him to get to the kettle.
‘Er… shall I…? The kettle…? Sorry – may I…?’ He manoeuvred awkwardly around Conrad for the kettle.
‘I mean I have no information on that score.’
Andrew thought he must have missed a step somewhere, but didn’t want to feel even more stupid by asking for clarification, so he simply said: ‘Oh. I see.’
‘I have no data.’ Conrad took his tea with a nod of thanks. ‘My daughter…’ He looked down into his mug. ‘… is something of a closed book. Impossible to read.’
‘Emotionally opaque?’ Andrew offered.
‘Quite so.’ Conrad nodded in acknowledgement. He looked slightly surprised that Andrew did indeed seem to understand.
Well, there’s a surprise. Like father, like daughter, Andrew thought. It was possible – probable even – that Conrad did occasionally experience some sort of emotion, but who knew what on earth went on behind that impregnable façade?
‘Hmm. And do you have other children?’ Andrew thought it best to move on from what was clearly an awkward area.
‘No,’ Conrad said immediately, then after a moment, ‘Yes. I mean, yes, a son – but he’s – he’s away at present.’
It was so unlike Conrad to change his mind or to say something that came across as an unforced error that Andrew was quite shocked.
‘Ah. Travelling. For work, is it?’
‘Not as such.’
Andrew held out the milk, a question, and added some at arm’s length in response to Conrad’s nod.
‘My son does not.’ Conrad stopped. ‘Is not.’ Usually, even Conrad’s most casual utterances were exemplars of grammatical perfection, so Andrew was struck by these odd, amputated phrases. He glanced at Conrad’s face but, as ever, could read no indicator there – those glittering blue eyes like polished glass, that high forehead, that erect posture even while seated born to command. ‘Benedict has been. Away. For a considerable period of time. In fact, it would be true to say that we are not certain when he will return. Or.’ He inhaled and jutted out his chin. ‘Or if.’
‘Oh. I see,’ said Andrew, though he wasn’t sure he did see at all. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Conrad snorted as if Andrew had suggested they pop out to the forecourt and do Morris dancing.
‘Nothing to be sorry about. Things are as they are.’
‘Yes, but still… you… it must be—’
‘Things are as they are.’
Clearly, this was a thorny topic. Andrew poured himself some coffee and looked for safer ground.
‘Oh, if you have another minute, I meant to say how much I enjoyed working on your painting. It really was such a pleasure. It sounds silly, but I’ve missed having it around.’
The cloud lifted from Conrad’s face and his lips curved into something akin to a smile. It was such an atypical expression for him that Andrew didn’t quite recognise it straight away. The man looked suddenly ten years younger.
‘It certainly is a fine painting.’ Conrad nodded. ‘In my opinion. And you did an exceptional job, Andrew. Exceptional. Not a word I use often, I assure you.’
‘Well… um… thank you very much.’
They sipped their hot drinks in companionable silence for a few moments.
‘It has an irresistible atmosphere. I find myself thinking about it at odd moments, wondering who she was, your flame-haired temptress…’
There was a pause.
‘Temptress?’
‘Yes, the woman. In the painting.’ Perhaps the old fellow had been thinking about something else; he seemed to have lost the thread rather.
‘Why do you refer to her as a temptress?’ Conrad stood up then and turned to face Andrew, unsmiling. He drew himself up to his full height. God, he really was a tall bugger.
‘Well, I… you know… she’s beautiful and… well…’ Andrew felt himself flush, as if he had been caught lying or stealing. ‘And alluring… so, it was just…’ He shrugged.
‘Ah.’ Conrad looked down at him. ‘I see.’ He turned, apparently to look out of the window, though it gave only on to a blank brick wall a few feet away. His expression was unreadable. Insufficient data, Andrew thought.
Andrew shoved his hands deep in his pockets, wishing he’d never embarked on this conversation. Conrad did this sometimes: took some completely nothingy, unimportant, passing remark and worked it to death until you wanted to curl up in a corner, whimpering.
‘Well… not “temptress” then… It was just, you know, shorthand for an attractive woman.’ Andrew took a cautious sip of his coffee. ‘So anyway, I was wondering who the painter was. The signature’s a bit of a scrawl.’
Conrad shrugged. ‘Philip – something, I think.’ He paused. ‘Actually, no. Perhaps Peter. It’s a long time ago. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m just interested. Thought I might Google him, see if he’s still painting. Maybe even find out who the sitter was – the woman.’ Andrew looked down into his coffee. ‘Are you sure you can’t remember? It’s just—’
‘Of course, it’s many years ago, as I said. Well, I’d better crack on. Good talking to you, Tyler.’
Had Conrad really just called him by his surname? In earnest? God, no one had done that since the miserable afternoons of football or rugby in the wind and rain at his grammar school. One of the games teachers had previously taught at a private school and was in the habit of calling boys by their surnames, usually at a volume audible even if they had been in a different county, and in his case always accompanied by injunctions to pull your socks up, get a move on, pick up your feet, move your bloody backside, run, weave, kick, or for Christ’s sake, Tyler, just bloody pass it to someone who knows what to do with it.
Andrew took out his mobile and scrolled to the before and after close-ups he’d taken of his restoration work on the painting. He zoomed in on the signature. It was illegible but true, the initial letter did look like a P, then a dot, the scrawl of the surname, possibly beginning with – was that an N? Or maybe an H? Still, it didn’t solve the question of the hidden initials on the back. He’d discovered them when he’d r
emoved the damaged frame and was very keen to ask Conrad if he knew about them. Oddly, they were in single quote marks. Very odd, really. Perhaps they were the initials of the woman, the title of the painting, or some sort of private joke by the artist? ‘ML’ – like that. Conrad would be unlikely to know anyway, Andrew reasoned. Maybe he’d ask him another day when he was in a better mood. He turned to the sink to wash out his mug. Conrad’s tea remained where he had abandoned it on the worktop, undrunk.
10
Getting Away From it All…
‘Must we go?’ Roger sighed and put down his pudding spoon with a clatter.
Clearly, the invitation to spend next weekend at their friends’ seaside cottage was less alluring than she had hoped. Eleanor offered him another slice of homemade tarte tatin and topped up his coffee cup.
‘Honestly, I’ve never understood the point of a country cottage. Why on earth do relatively sane people with a perfectly comfortable, warm house in London think nothing of slogging through appalling traffic for three, four hours to go and stay in a much smaller, darker, colder, less well-equipped house where there’s sod all to do other than walk in the rain, sit about talking and eating too much or – with you two – waste hours at the farmers’ market, fondling the vegetables.’ He laughed.
‘But I love it there. It’s so cosy and I really like—’
‘Cosy! Hardly, darling. Last time, you kept your dressing gown on in bed!’
‘Well, I was feeling a bit… but it’s—’
‘And what kind of person buys a place in Suffolk, for God’s sake? The Cotswolds are miles nearer! That’s where we’d have a second home if we had one, isn’t it, darling? Decent restaurants, good road links, charming villages and all that sort of thing.’
‘But Sarah and Mark’s house is so close to the sea. You can walk to the beach in five minutes.’
‘You funny thing. It’s not been transformed since the last time we went, has it?’ He tilted his head on one side and took off his glasses. ‘I mean, it is still a cold, rainy, windy, English beach, with no sand, no palm trees, and no clear, turquoise ocean?’
Eleanor’s voice was quiet: ‘I just really love being by the sea. I don’t mind about it being cold and grey… it’s so beautiful there. The sky is incredible. It changes all the time.’
‘I’m not sure it’s ideal timing. I’m bound to have some work to do next weekend.’
There was no point trying to push Roger into anything he didn’t want to do; her shoulders sagged, then a small thought struck her: ‘Sarah mentioned that Mark would… um… really appreciate your expert advice about some problem he’s had at work with a supplier… if you wouldn’t mind…?’ She fought the urge to emphasise the word ‘expert’.
Roger nodded. ‘He’s a bit of a babe-in-the-woods when it comes to business, isn’t he?’ He stood up and took his dirty cafetière over to the worktop, and left it there. ‘Well, I suppose we’ve nothing more exciting on. And you’ll only be hankering after it if I say no. Tell her we’ll come then.’
‘Thank you.’ Eleanor went over, kissed him on the cheek, and made a mental note to tell Sarah to brief Mark about his supposed work problem.
‘And you can fondle as many vegetables as you like at the market. I promise not to rush you. I can sit in that surprisingly good coffee shop with the paper while you ogle the cauliflowers to your heart’s content.’
On the Friday, Eleanor was ready by half-past three, as agreed, as Roger had said he would come home straight from his lunchtime meeting. She had packed their bags, and set them in the hallway, ready to transfer into Roger’s car. It would be simpler to use her own car, of course, but Roger was voluble on its shortcomings in terms of size, comfort, lack of under-seat heating and so on. He’d better come very soon, otherwise they would be caught up in the weekend exodus from London. She sat on the stairs in her coat, waiting, so that they could leave the moment he returned.
Quarter to four. If she went and relaxed with a cup of tea and a book, he’d be bound to come through the door that very minute and catch her. In the kitchen everything was clean and tidy; it would be a shame to start making a mess by having a cup of tea. Still, he was late and hadn’t called. She put just enough water in the kettle and clicked it on. The phone rang then, making her jump. It was Roger, saying his meeting had overrun but he’d be back in half an hour and could she please have everything ready.
Eleanor drank her tea standing by the sink, then she zipped round the house, double-checking the lights, the window-locks, and the back door.
When she heard Roger’s car pull in forty-five minutes later, she quickly opened the front door to greet him. He deposited a kiss on her cheek, and swapped his dark cashmere overcoat for a padded jacket, his black business shoes for tan loafers.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this show on the road then.’ He nodded at the bags in a neat row, with his pillow lying on top in its own sealed bag. ‘Well done, you remembered my pillow. And my phone and laptop chargers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Water, etc., for the journey?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, good. Now, bring me the bags, starting with mine, then – let’s see – that one, my briefcase, the pillow, then yours. I’ll go and open the boot.’
Roger positioned the bags in the boot as Eleanor ferried each one out to him. He tucked tartan picnic blankets around everything with care, something akin to affection even, to minimise movement during transit. Eleanor popped a bottle of wine into each of her wellies, which were wedged in one corner, pleased with the efficient use of space.
‘Darling! Whatever are you doing?’
‘But it’s saving space…’
‘You funny old thing.’ Roger shook his head and laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Do you actually want your wellingtons full of glass and wine? Do try to think, darling.’
‘But the bottles are protected by—’
‘Darling, we don’t want you ending up in casualty with glass in your foot, do we?’ He sighed. ‘Let’s do things properly, eh?’
‘Shall I get some bubble wrap?’
‘No, no, we don’t want to be faffing about all night. I’ll do it.’ He stomped up the front path.
‘There should be some in the cupboard under—’ she called after him.
‘I do live here too, you know.’
Roger returned to the house a final time to double-check that Eleanor had set the lights on timers and double-locked and bolted the back door, as she had claimed. It was now well after five. Perfectly timed to hit the exodus at its peak.
‘Oh, did you remember new blades for my razor?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And my slippers?’
‘I did.’
‘And yours? Your birthday ones?’
‘Mmm, I think so.’ She frowned, as if trying to remember, although she could picture them clearly in the hall in the closet under the stairs, where she was hoping that with any luck they might biodegrade in the darkness. ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure…’
His hand was on the ignition key.
‘You’d better go back and check.’
‘I can manage without them. I don’t want to hold us up.’
‘It won’t take a minute. You know how much you hate being cold. Go on.’
She went back to the house. Maybe she could accidentally leave them behind at the cottage? She had a sudden image of dormice nesting very happily in them, luxuriating in their snuggly new home.
‘I can’t believe you forgot them.’ Roger laughed. ‘You dozy thing!’ He patted her leg beside him. ‘Think of that freezing flagstone floor in the hallway!’
When on her own, Eleanor loved to listen to music when she drove, or to sing. She would practise whatever they’d been working on in the choir or sing along to anything she chose – blues, musicals, opera. When Roger drove, which he preferred when they travelled together unless he intended to drink, he opted for Radio Four or a talking book. Roger liked mu
sic, too, but he preferred to listen in the comfort of his own armchair, via his outsize headphones. He did not like his music unfettered, free range, loose in the air very much. Occasionally, they went to a concert together, but Roger was vehement on the subject of why it was a waste of time and money when you could hear the same music at home and put your feet up while you were at it. No doubt he was right. Saying that when she was in the same room as the orchestra, it made her heart beat a little faster, her skin fizz with goosebumps – she shrugged the thought away – well, it was ridiculous, of course.
Now, finally skirting the fringes of Ipswich to head towards the coast, Roger sighed. Again. Eleanor had the strangest sensation that, somehow, the traffic congestion was her fault, even though she’d been ready to leave the moment he arrived.
‘If we’d left even ten minutes earlier, it would have been fine,’ he said.
‘It’s generally pretty bad even by four, though,’ she pointed out. ‘I suppose we could have used my car instead so I—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. The boot’s the size of a matchbox.’ He sighed and fiddled with the radio knob. ‘It would have been helpful not to have to faff about hunting high and low for bubble wrap at the very last minute.’
‘I don’t think the wellies idea was so bad.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, darling.’ He turned to smile at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said automatically.
Eleanor looked out of the window. It was properly dark now, and she caught glimpses into lit-up windows where people had not yet drawn their curtains – fragments of lives: a woman reading a newspaper, a man standing on a chair to change a lightbulb, a mother with a child on her lap; other lives. She wondered what it would be like to be that mother, that child even, to be small again, held safely by someone bigger than you. Earlier, there had been a beautiful sunset, with glowing orange streaks merging into pink in a delicious discordance, and long banks of dark grey cloud. Roger had declared that it was an especially fine one precisely because of this juxtaposition of the dark clouds and the brighter colours, that was what made it so effective, you see. He was almost certainly correct; no-one could analyse a sunset quite like Roger.
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