“But look!” Maddie said, her face wrought with anxiety as she pointed at the tantalizingly blank canvas. “Look!”
“You can’t paint on it yet,” John said. “I have to prime it. It will take an afternoon to dry.”
“I don’t want to wait an afternoon, I want to do it now!” Maddie demanded furiously. Rose sighed; it was these outbursts that other people found so hard to understand, seeing her daughter as a spoilt brat. The truth was that Maddie really did need to paint now, at least in her world.
“Maddie . . .” Rose began, feeling that familiar sense of awkwardness and ineffectuality creep up her spine.
“You need to draw first, anyway,” John told Maddie with a shrug. “All the great artists draw and draw for weeks before they start to paint. You haven’t drawn a stroke so far, very amateurish.”
“Drawing is boring. I don’t draw, I paint,” Maddie told him emphatically. John did not know that Maddie was not one to be swayed by reverse psychology if it conflicted with her idea about how things should be, either.
“Here.” John opened a drawing chest, pulled out a large sketchbook, and waved it at his work in progress. “These are my drawings for this painting. This is what you do if you are a real artist. Just painting splodges of color, as lovely as they are, is actually very childish, but then again I suppose you are a child.”
Rose’s eyebrows shot skywards as she expected Maddie to be infuriated by what her daughter would certainly see as an insult, but instead Maddie seemed to consider what he said.
“I’m not like other children,” she said after a moment, with something like a touch of sadness.
“Good,” John said emphatically. “I don’t like other children.”
“What should I draw, then?” Maddie asked him, climbing down from her position with unusual grace and ease.
“Well, if your mother would let you, you could come out and do some drawing with me now. We’ll find a nice spot on the hillside and pick a view. You will be amazed how much movement, depth, and texture you can get with one of these.” John held up a pencil. “As long as you explain yourself to my wretched agent why I’ve wasted most of today on a demanding little girl, that is.”
“Can I?” Maddie asked Rose, who looked uncertain.
“I’m not sure I should just leave you here . . .” she said.
“She’ll be perfectly safe,” John said, a little affronted.
“No, it’s not that, it’s just . . . do you really want to do this?” She stared at John pointedly, giving him time to consider exactly what he’d just proposed.
“I find that I do,” John said. “It puts me in mind of late afternoons on the beach with you as a child. We would make drawings in the wet sand and then wait and watch as the tide washed them away.”
Rose found that she was unable to respond; that memory, long forgotten until that moment, was now suddenly so vividly present it took her breath away.
“Let me take her out to draw. I’ll bring her to you in time for tea.”
“I want to draw,” Maddie said, in her usual forthright way.
“OK,” Rose said. “But will you indulge me and take that mobile phone you hate so much, just in case? Maddie knows my number.”
“Very well.” John sighed, going to his drawer, finding the phone, and putting it in his pocket.
“Right, well. So.” Rose looked at Maddie, who was sitting on the floor poring over John’s sketchbook. “See you in a bit, then?”
She did not reply, of course.
• • •
Rose could not find Shona in her room, or Jenny in any of the places she usually frequented, but the sound of banging and bashing about, and the background fuzz of a distant radio playing told her they had to be somewhere in the building. After a little further investigation Rose found a sofa in the living room that normally sat across an unused doorway, pulled away, and the door swinging wide open. Stepping through a small, dingy hallway and feeling a little bit like she was crossing into Narnia, Rose opened a second door to find Shona and Jenny cheerfully stuffing garbage bags with what looked like old clothes, books, and more.
“Hello?” Rose said. “What are you doing and where am I?”
“This was Brian’s mum’s annex,” Jenny told her. “She died a couple of years back, and since then it’s been a junk room. Anything Brian’s not sure what to do with he’s put it in here. But I was thinking it’s a waste, all this space. Maybe it could be more rooms.”
“Not that you are exactly fully booked as it is,” Shona said mildly, winking at Rose as she stuffed some aged-looking curtains into a bag. But instead of her usual sharp-tongued reply, Jenny stopped what she was doing and nodded.
“You’re right there,” she said sadly, looking around. “This place is on its uppers. When Eve used to be in here, we were a real busy little place. Not always fully booked, but almost always. I loved it, doing all those breakfasts, meeting all those people. Now, though, last couple of years it’s like the world’s forgotten us. If you haven’t got a flat-screen TV on every wall, velvet wallpaper, and the word ‘boutique’ attached to your name, no one wants to know.”
“You could try updating a bit, perhaps?” Rose suggested tentatively, thinking about the candlewick bedspreads.
“I don’t know. I think I’m too old for all that modern nonsense, offering a choice of eggs at breakfast, herbal tea,” Jenny said, wrinkling her nose, clearly horrified by the notion that the customer might even sometimes be right. “Eve was a terrible old cow, don’t get me wrong, she was the mother-in-law from hell, always making me run around like a blue-arsed fly, and whenever Brian was stood in front of her he turned into a blithering ten-year-old lad again, but she must have brought us some luck—or cursed us on her deathbed—because after she went, that’s when it all started to go wrong.”
“Maybe she still could bring you luck,” Shona said, picking up a framed photo that had been lying on its back, its glass filmed in dust. She cleaned it with the palm of her hand before showing it to Rose. It revealed a sepia print of a wedding photo, from around the 1930s, Rose guessed. A chubby-faced smiling young woman, in a long cream dress that trailed down the steps of the church, stood arm in arm with an equally well-built young man, who looked the spitting image of Brian.
“I don’t see how,” Jenny said. “We’ve got maybe another six months here, then we’ll have to sell up and live on what Brian brings in. It’s not that I mind living carefully, it’s just I like to be busy, and I had all the kids here. Oh, sod it, it’s just bricks and mortar, when all’s said and done.”
Rose looked around the annex. It was a large single living room–cum-kitchen with a bedroom off it, and what she guessed must be a bathroom.
“The pub was packed on gig night,” she said thoughtfully.
“What are you saying, that I should start a nightclub? I don’t think so!” Jenny snorted.
“No, I’m just saying, if you could think of something the local people would use as well as tourists . . . I bet gig night is what pays most of Albie’s bills.”
“A lap-dancing club,” Shona offered, shimmying her shoulders. “I could be the star attraction.”
“I did think of a café,” Jenny said, “but the start-up cost is too much and there are ten a penny around here.”
“What about a community space?” Rose said. “I mean, do you have a village hall?”
“Not anymore,” Jenny said. “They pulled it down a few years back. It was dangerous, apparently. Some old prefab that was meant to be temporary and then lasted fifty years. There was talk of rebuilding but nothing’s ever happened.”
“Well, what if you just made it a place where . . . I don’t know, people could have parties, or knitting circles could meet, or my dad could give drawing and painting classes.”
“Your dad teach a class? Never!” Jenny snorted.
“Never say never. He’s just elected to spend the afternoon with Maddie. Anything is possible,” Rose said, pleased to see that
she had surprised both the other women with her news. In truth, she’d been rather anxious about leaving Maddie with John, despite the girl’s keenness. He looked so . . . faint sometimes, as if he were barely there. Rose was worried that Maddie’s strident determination might be too much for him.
“I saw this thing on the telly. Well, half of this thing, because it was quite boring,” Shona said. “But anyway, it was some village stuck out in the middle of nowhere, bit like this. They brought in a hairdresser once a week, a beauty salon too, other things, services that you don’t get local anymore, because there’s not enough demand for them to be permanent. Did a storm, it did. This space would be great for that.”
“You could have local crafts displayed, charge a commission for anything that sells,” Rose said excitedly.
“How am I going to fit all this into here?” Jenny asked her. “Craft and hairdressers and the like?”
“I have no idea.” Rose laughed. “I tell you what, you make us a cup of tea and I’ll help you clear the rest of this stuff out, and we can think about it.”
“So,” Shona said as soon as Jenny had safely left the room.
“So what?” Rose asked demurely. “You and Jenny are getting on OK now, aren’t you? I thought you two had more in common than you realized.”
“She’s not as bad as she seems, but if you ever say that again I will kill you. Anyway, did you fuck Ted?”
“Shona!” Rose gasped, looking back at the open door, expecting to find Jenny lurking there. “No, I did not!”
“Look at me.” Shona attempted and failed to secure eye contact with Rose. “Look at me! You did something, you dirty cow. What did you do?”
“Oh, OK, we did some kissing, but that really is all,” Rose said, unable to stop her mouth curling into a tiny smile at the thought. “I didn’t think I wanted to kiss him, and then, well, then I thought, why not? Why not do something crazy and stupid for once in my life? I’m never the crazy one, I’m never the stupid one . . .”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Shona said.
“So we kissed and it was nice—kissing was nice—and I didn’t think about anything else, not Richard or Frasier or Maddie or Jenny, just about kissing. And now I feel sort of terrible about it and I don’t know what to do next.”
“Nice?” Shona screeched in an excited whisper. “Kissing Ted was nice? So he didn’t exactly make the earth move, then?”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t want him to do that,” Rose said. “The kissing was nice. Sweet. It felt innocent and clean. At the time. Now I feel all stupid and confused. I mean, I know it was wrong, I’m still married, I’m still hopelessly in love with Frasier, and there’s Maddie, but . . .”
“But?” Shona asked her expectantly.
“It didn’t feel that way.” Rose giggled unexpectedly, covering her mouth with both her hands. “I was so worried I’d feel scared of feeling guilty, or worse, dirty, but I didn’t. I just felt like a girl kissing a boy because it’s nice. And that was lovely.”
“Why would a bit of kissing make you feel any of those things?” Shona asked, perplexed.
“What would make you feel what things?” Jenny asked as she came in carrying a tray of tea and cake.
“Seeing her . . . dad?” Shona said.
“Clearing out this place,” Rose said at the same time, and equally inappropriately.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, you know,” Jenny said, pursing her lips. “Whatever it is, I’ve a distinct feeling that I don’t want to know.”
Chapter
Ten
Rose was attempting to get oil paint off Maddie in the shower when her phone rang. Normally the bleep of the ancient ringtone would send shivers down her spine, as almost the only person who ever tried to ring her, who even had her number, was Richard. But just before dinner she had texted her number, having made herself delay for what seemed like an agonizing period of time in order not to seem too keen, to Frasier, and he had texted straight back saying he would call later. Without having to look at her phone she knew this would be him. Was it wrong to want to see him again?
“Be OK for a second?” Rose asked Maddie, who nodded, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shower, as the water cascaded over her shoulders, rather enjoying peeling the flakes of paint, which she had somehow got everywhere, off her skin.
Rose took a breath when she saw Frasier’s name on the display, attempting her best casual you-could-be-anyone-my-phone-never-stops-ringing hello.
“Hello?”
“Rose, hello, it’s Frasier. Now a good time?” he said softly into her ear. Rose felt her heart rate quicken and her knees buckle as she sat down on the bed. Not even Ted, with all his good looks and charm, and definitely skillful lips, had cured her of the feeling that Frasier gave her.
“Now’s fine,” she said, careful to sound noncommittal and casual.
“So I hear you were with your dad today? I couldn’t believe it, he actually answered his mobile! How was it?”
“Odd,” Rose said thoughtfully. “Confusing, interesting. Nice.”
“So mainly good, then?” Frasier spoke with a smile in his tone.
“I think so,” Rose said. “Maddie thinks he is the most interesting person she has ever met.”
“Ha, I bet he likes that,” Frasier said. “The thing your father forgot when he decided to hide himself away for good is that he really does rather like being admired. If only I could get him to lecture, teach, make appearances. I think I could make him quite the celebrity of the art world. Still, he has his reasons and I respect them.”
“That he is a miserable old git?” Rose said, smiling.
“That is one of them,” Frasier admitted.
“Thank you. I know you spoke to him.”
“Oh.” Frasier sounded embarrassed, as if he’d been caught out. “It was nothing.”
“Anyway, dinner. I’m coming down tomorrow. The van will be going back to Edinburgh, but I could stay. Take you out? There’s this incredible place near Ullswater where they actually invented sticky toffee pudding.”
“Please don’t feel obliged . . .” Rose said.
“Don’t be silly,” Frasier said pleasantly.
“I’d need a babysitter,” Rose said, not so sure if now was the right time to break down that dam of emotion after all.
“Surely your friend would oblige? And if not, I know—” Frasier began, but before he could finish, a screech and a thump came from the bathroom, followed by a rising cry.
“Got to go,” Rose said, hanging up and rushing into the bathroom, where she found Maddie splayed out on her back, her legs in the air, the water still pelting her.
“Oh, no, did you slip?” Rose asked her as she climbed into the shower, fully clothed, and switched off the showerhead. Maddie nodded, sobbing noisily as Rose pulled her up and bundled her into a soft warm towel that was waiting on the heated towel rail outside. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. What hurts?”
Maddie pointed to the small of her back, which Rose rubbed, as she hugged the girl until she eventually stopped crying.
“Will I have a bruise?” Maddie asked her, attempting to look over her shoulder at the sore spot.
“Shouldn’t think so,” Rose said. “Maybe just a small one. I think it was more the shock that upset you.”
“This bruise has nearly gone now,” Maddie said, slipping the towel off her shoulder and looking at the now gray and yellowish bruise that covered most of her shoulder and extended down her back. “Purple and yellow are complementary colors. See how that yellow looks really yellow?”
Rose bit her lip as she looked at the bruise, her heart clenching as she remembered how Maddie had got it.
“Why did Daddy do it?” Maddie asked Rose, as she continued to examine herself. “It hurt a lot. That shocked me too, but mainly it hurt a lot.”
“He was angry,” Rose said. “He was completely, completely wrong. And bad. He was angry and he lashed out at me, and you got in the way. I’m so sorry, darling. I’
m so, so sorry.”
“So he didn’t mean to hurt me, he meant to hurt you?” Maddie asked her, putting her hands on Rose’s face, so that she had to look the child in the eye.
“Yes,” Rose said, silent tears sliding down her face. She hadn’t expected Maddie to choose a moment like this to face up to what had happened on the night they had left. She hardly wanted to do it herself. But Maddie was talking about it, she wanted to try and understand what was impossible for a little girl to grasp—the reason why her daddy had hurt her—and Rose could not let that moment pass to help her. “I’m so, so sorry. You were never meant to be hurt.”
Maddie looked pained and confused, uncertain again, all of the things that so often characterized her when they were at home, that strange little girl, the odd one out, the one that no one understood and who never fitted in, her shoulders hunched against the memory, the truth.
“That night,” Rose said, struggling to contain her sobs, “you were in bed, Dad and I were . . . talking. Fighting. I made him very, very angry, so angry he wanted to hit me. I didn’t know you were coming down, I didn’t know you were there until . . .” Rose stopped, picturing the moment Richard grabbed his seven-year-old daughter by the shoulder and slammed her into the door so hard it banged shut, as he made his way towards Rose, who was already sprawled on the floor, put there by a slap that numbed the side of her head and made her ears ring.
“Maddie,” Rose had shrieked, seeing her daughter’s stunned face, too frightened, in too much pain to cry. Richard had seen her too, then, her cries snapping him back into the room. He’d turned and looked at Maddie, horror sweeping over his blanched face. And that was when Rose knew what she had to do. Scrambling to her feet, she picked up Maddie, who clung to her, barged past Richard while he was still too shocked to react. She grabbed her secret bundle from where she kept it hidden at the back of the broom cupboard and a few still damp things from the wash basket. Then she picked up her bag and the car keys.
“Where are you going?” Richard asked. “What are you going to do? You can’t say anything, you know . . . my job, my reputation . . . I didn’t mean it!”
The Runaway Wife Page 19
