Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing)

by Maggie Dana

  “Can you be a bit more specific?” Sophie says.

  “What the point? He’s married.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “He’s involved. Same difference.”

  “I wonder why he never got in touch.” Sophie feeds her last bit of bacon to the smallest puppy, then scoops up her hair and fastens it with a red plastic clip. “You know, after his dad got in all that trouble.”

  “Why didn’t you didn’t ask him at Keith’s party?”

  “I didn’t want to rake up old hurts.”

  I get up to pour coffee. “I can’t imagine doing that.”

  “Raking up old hurts?”

  “No. Cutting myself off from old friends.”

  Sophie looks at me. “So, what do you call running away to the States, then writing two months later to say you got married?”

  “A monumental blunder?” What began as an extended holiday—touring New England with Richard—turned into something neither of us bargained for: a baby we ended up losing. I feel a familiar stab of guilt. I should’ve told Sophie what was going on, but at the time I was so embarrassed over my dreadful mistakes, I hid from the world, including my best friend. In a brief, blistering phone call, Sophie told me I was a fucking coward. We didn’t speak again for two very long years.

  It was Claudia who saved our friendship. She told me not to give up, to keep in touch with Sophie even if I didn’t hear back. “My daughter’s a wee bit stubborn,” she said. “Just give her time. She’ll come around.” So I wrote cheerful letters and sent baby photos of Jordan, until one day Sophie telephoned to apologize for being, in her words, ‘a bloody rotten excuse for a friend.’

  She drops three lumps of sugar into her coffee. “But there’s one thing I can never forgive you for.”

  My heart sinks. “What?”

  “You cheated me out of wearing peach chiffon and puff sleeves at your wedding.”

  I relax. “Silk ribbons? Stephanotis? Sweetheart roses?”

  “Matching high heels, long pointed toes?”

  “Winkle-pickers.”

  Sophie grins. “Fuck-me shoes.”

  We had it all planned. She’d get married in ecru lace and I’d walk down the aisle in white peau-de-soie. We’d each have six bridesmaids and a flower girl to toss petals in our path. Our mothers would wear outrageous hats. Hugh and Keith would be in morning dress and Sophie and I would stand—veiled, virginal, and vulnerable—at the altar with the men of our dreams. In my case, it was always Colin. In hers? Who knew? Back then, Sophie dated one boy after another in a whirl of parties, point-to-points, and weekends at country houses. I figured it was only a matter of time before one of them put a ring on her finger. But here she is, thirty-five years later, still single and loving it, while I’m divorced with two grown sons, a crumbling beach cottage, and way too much debt.

  Sophie asks again. “What about Colin?”

  I shake my head. What’s the point? It’ll only lead to more hurt. More loss. I take a deep breath. I’m in London. I’m with my oldest friend. It’s time I got reacquainted with my heritage.

  “Let’s play tourist,” I say.

  Sophie raises one eyebrow. “Tacky.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Sophie drives me to Hampton Court, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the Tower. We browse the markets in Camden Town, ride an open double-decker bus through a maze of city streets, and go shopping in Harrods where I buy a tin of Scottish shortbread for Lizzie to thank her for taking care of my cat. We stroll through Green Park and wander up the Mall toward Buckingham Palace to watch the changing of the guard. We view the Elgin Marbles at the British Museum and laugh at the mummers and clowns in Covent Garden. Tired and thirsty, we return to Sophie’s house via a pub where we drink beer and play darts.

  I sink into a squashy old wingchair by Sophie’s fireplace and kick off my shoes. I haven’t done this much walking in years; not on pavement, anyway. Sophie digs into a pile of paperwork that’s accumulated on her desk.

  “I’ve got to get this lot sorted before we can swan off to Cornwall,” she tells me.

  The telephone rings and I answer it.

  “Hi, it’s me,” Lizzie says. “Have you heard about Cassie?”

  “Who?”

  “The hurricane that’s in the Bahamas right now.”

  Is my flood insurance paid up? “Will it hit Connecticut?”

  “Too soon to tell,” Lizzie says. “With luck, it’ll blow itself out. They usually do.”

  “How’s Zachary?”

  “He’s fine,” Lizzie says, “but he’s not eating much. I’ve only had to refill his bowl twice.”

  “No problem,” I say. “He’s probably out in the marsh, snacking on rabbits and mice.”

  There’s a pause. “So, have you seen him yet?”

  “Seen who?”

  “Colin.”

  “No, and I really don’t expect to.” I glance at Sophie. She’s frowning. “We’re going down to Cornwall,” I tell Lizzie. “To see Claudia.”

  Sophie looks up. “You’re going. I’m staying here.”

  I cover the mouthpiece. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve buggered up my calendar,” Sophie says, slamming her desk drawer and scattering papers all over the floor.

  “Lizzie, I’m sorry, but may I call you back tomorrow? Sophie seems to be going into meltdown.”

  Lizzie laughs. “Sure. I’ll be around all day.”

  I hang up and Sophie waves a piece of paper in the air. “That big catering job I booked for a week on Friday is really this week. Thank God I checked their purchase order.”

  “Then I’ll stay here and help you.”

  “Better not. Mum’ll kill both of us if you don’t show up,” she says. “You can either hire a car or take the train.”

  I don’t want to drive. “Have you got a timetable?”

  Sophie nods. “It’s around here somewhere,” she says, rummaging in her desk. “Ah, here it is. Paddington to Cornwall. Mum can pick you up at the station in Truro. She often goes there to buy art supplies.”

  “I think of Claudia every time I smell paint,” I say. “Remember how she taught us to draw?”

  “She taught you, not me. I was hopeless.”

  “I wonder if she’d enjoy drawing on a computer.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No. Seriously. I bet I could teach her to—”

  “My mother,” Sophie says, “can’t handle anything more complicated than a bamboo carpet beater.”

  “She drives a car.”

  “And you,” Sophie says wickedly, “get to be her passenger.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  Sophie’s grin widens. “So, just how brave are you?”

  “I’ll rent a car.”

  “Good idea.”

  Chapter 8

  Cornwall

  September 2010

  Driving southwest, I think about Claudia. When her husband died last year, she was left with debts she didn’t expect and a house she could no longer afford. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she sold everything and trundled off to Cornwall to begin a new life—a gutsy move for someone just turned seventy-three.

  The sun’s getting low by the time I reach Claudia’s village. It’s so small, Sophie says, that if you blink while driving through it, you’ll miss it completely. I stop and check my directions. I’m to go past the church and take the next right turn.

  It’s little more than a cart track.

  Claudia’s cottage lies against the landscape like a small brown animal that’s burrowed into the ground but is slightly too large to fit into its hole. Its thatched roof, interrupted by the curving eyebrow of a blue-framed window, stretches up and out to embrace a center chimney that even now, in the warmth of a September evening, emits a small curl of smoke that hints of welcome.

  For a moment or two, I feel as if I’ve stumbled into the past … a place where things move at their own pace, whe
re clocks and computers and airline schedules don’t matter, and the only sound worth listening to is the muffled roar of waves pounding on rocks. It’s familiar, yet elusive. An impression just out of reach, and—

  I slam on my brakes.

  Heart thumping like sneakers in a dryer, I roll down my window. “Jeez, Claudia, I’m sorry. I almost hit you.”

  “Come along and don’t waste time with your suitcase,” she says. “I need help with these squirrels.” Without waiting for a response, Claudia picks up two wire cages and disappears behind the cottage.

  I abandon my car and follow her.

  The vintage Morris Minor is almost hidden from view, obscured by a vine-covered trellis and a rusty wheelbarrow that’s propped against the wall. Claudia heaves her cages into the back seat, takes off her gardening gloves, and tosses them on the floor.

  “Let’s go,” she says, climbing into her car. She turns the ignition and mashes the pedals with her Wellington boots. The car belches smoke. The engine snorts with surprise.

  I jump in and slam the door.

  Claudia grinds the gear into reverse. Her car shoots backward and hurls me against the dashboard.

  “Oh, bother.” Claudia wrenches the gear lever in the opposite direction. “Sorry about all this. I’ll explain in a minute. Let me get out of here first.” She executes a clumsy three-point turn and we’re off like the clappers, pitching through potholes the size of small bomb craters. I hang onto the armrest and hope Claudia’s mechanic has plenty of spare parts because I think I just heard something fall off. We jerk to a shuddering halt at the end of Claudia’s driveway. “That miserable old bugger drove off half an hour ago,” she says.

  My heart’s still trying to catch up with the rest of me. “Who?”

  “With a bit of luck, he’ll stay down the pub till dark.” Claudia cranes her neck, glances left and right, then swerves onto the main road. Her chin barely reaches the top of the steering wheel.

  “Is it really ten years since the last time you were here?” she says. “Sophie rang me this morning—said you haven’t changed a bit. She’s right, of course. And you look lovely. I like your hair. It’s a bit shorter than I remember, and I hope you’re not too hungry, but I’ve got to get these animals away from here first. I’ll fix dinner when we get back.”

  Have I blundered into the pages of a Beatrix Potter book gone horribly wrong? I turn to look at the tiny Squirrel Nutkins in Claudia’s wire cages. “What exactly are you doing with all these animals?”

  “Relocating them.”

  “Why?”

  “That bloody farmer across the street is setting traps,” Claudia says, swerving around a corner. “Then he drowns them in the pond behind his pigsties.”

  “What have they done to deserve that?”

  “They’re eating his grain.” Claudia’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “But his cows and pigs won’t starve because a few hungry rodents help themselves to some corn now and then.”

  “Gray squirrels are considered vermin where I live.”

  “There are right ways and wrong ways to control pests. Keeping them in cages till they’re half starved and then drowning them is unconscionably cruel.”

  “Where are we taking them?”

  “Right about here.” Claudia yanks up the handbrake and the Morris Minor judders to a halt. “Hurry up. We’ve got to get back before he does.”

  Legs shaking, I clamber out. “Why?”

  “I have to return his cages before he misses them.” Beneath the brim of her soft brown hat, Claudia’s gray eyes twinkle with triumph. “This is a nature preserve with plenty of old oak trees and lots of nice juicy acorns.”

  * * *

  That night I share my bed with a handsome silver-gray tabby named Max and wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs. I pull on a pair of old jeans and an Irish sweater, and follow my nose to the kitchen.

  Its uneven plaster walls are colorwashed in lavender. Pine shelves, heavy and knotted, hold cookbooks and casserole dishes and blue earthenware plates I remember from childhood. Bunches of dried sage and rosemary hang from oak beams that criss-cross the ceiling; copper pans gleam from their hooks on the wall. The middle of the room is dominated by Claudia’s bleached wooden table. The one she used to paint on. The window, unfettered by curtains, looks out across a carpet of heather. Beyond lies the sea.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Claudia says, piling my plate with an old-fashioned English fry-up—grilled kidneys and tomatoes, bacon and eggs, and lashings of fried bread. Between her and Sophie, I’ve eaten more cholesterol and carbs in the past ten days than I have in ten years at home.

  We gossip while eating and then Claudia shoves off to check on her traps. I head the other way, toward the water. The ground ends and I look down sheer granite cliffs to a small, crescent-shaped beach about two hundred feet below. How do people get to it? I don’t see a path. Maybe it’s one of those stubborn bits of coastline that refuses to give way to picnic hampers and daytrippers.

  “Come along, Jill,” Claudia calls out.

  Her back garden is an Impressionist painting—a tumble of textures and hues with bright points of light that focus the eye. Snapdragons and nasturtiums, all the colors in a box of crayons, spill across the path, alongside clumps of Michaelmas daisies that dissolve into clouds of white gypsophila and bright blue plumbago. I smell lavender and thyme. A hint of rosemary. Beside the back door, two stone rabbits crouch beneath a garden bench. A wooden squirrel perches atop a pile of clay pots. My shoes are muddy, so I scrape them on a hedgehog boot brush with beady eyes and an upturned snout. I pat its little head before going inside.

  Claudia’s picking up her car keys when I reach the front hall. “Hurry up. We’re wasting the best part of the day.”

  “Why don’t you relax and let me drive?”

  She hesitates. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  * * *

  It’s a day filled with windswept beaches and tranquil bays; of solitary stone farmhouses and stunted trees that grow sideways out of the soil. We drive through sunwashed villages with streets barely wide enough for a car, and past tiny beaches where old wooden boats lie in the sand waiting for the next tide to release them.

  At four o’clock, we stop for tea in a café near Land’s End. Clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. Milk bottles filled with sweet peas and freesia. Lace doilies, bone china cups. Starched napkins, white linen tablecloths.

  “When’s the last time you saw your mother?” Claudia says.

  I almost choke on a scone. “The day I left England with Richard. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  My mother, if she’s still alive, would be eighty-seven by now. Does Claudia know where she is? If so, I hope she doesn’t tell me because I really don’t want to know. I never talk about my mother, not even with my own sons. Like all small boys, they used to be fascinated by monsters and gargoyles. They played scary games, and their unknown grandmother was always cast as a witch or a vampire. They weren’t far off the mark. I gulp at my tea.

  “Careful, it’s hot.” Claudia looks at me, eyebrows raised, waiting.

  Dammit, if anyone deserves an explanation, she does. “I tried to see her, once, about twenty years ago. Richard had a business meeting in London. I phoned my mother and asked if I could bring the boys out for a visit. I thought, stupidly, it might be easier for us to patch things up if the kids were there.”

  “Surely Edith wanted to see her grandchildren.”

  “You’d have thought so,” I say. “They’re the only ones she’s got.”

  “What happened?”

  “She called me a slut, said my sons were a couple of poor little bastards, and hung up.” Dear God, I can’t believe I’m carrying on like this, telling Claudia stuff I’ve kept hidden for so long, I’ve almost convinced myself it never happened.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Things got worse between us
after Daddy died.”

  “I know, but don’t beat yourself up over Edith’s lack of mothering skills. None of it was your fault. It was—” Claudia rearranges spoons and puts the lid back on the sugar bowl.

  I lean forward. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Claudia stands up. “I’ll take care of this.” She places a ten-pound note on the table and something in the set of her jaw tells me to back off.

  * * *

  It’s dark by the time we get back to Claudia’s cottage. The phone rings, Claudia answers, and hands the receiver to me. “It’s Sophie,” she says.

  “Jill, Lizzie rang up. I’ve been trying to get you for ages.”

  All my alarm sensors go off at once. “What’s wrong?”

  “Cathy’s going to hit Connecticut.”

  “Who?”

  “The hurricane.”

  “Cassie!” I glance at my watch. “What time did she call? Did she sound worried?”

  “I’ve been gone all day. Working. Lizzie left a message.”

  When I finally reach Lizzie, the connection’s so bad we both have to shout.

  “Fergus and I are going to your place now to batten down the hatches,” she yells.

  “Should I come back?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she says. “What would you do? Stand on the beach and pretend to be Moses?” There’s a burst of static, then Lizzie again. “Fergus has a truckload of plywood. We’ll put some on your windows and—”

  The line goes dead.

  Claudia hands me a glass of wine. “What’s wrong?”

  I fill her in and she suggests we turn on the TV. “Maybe the news will have something.”

  But it doesn’t.

  “In less than twenty-four hours,” I tell Claudia, “my living-room furniture could be floating in three feet of water. Not,” I add, “that it would be any great loss.”

  Claudia pats her lap and the tabby jumps up. “Tell me about your cottage.”

  “A few small rooms with a fabulous view.” I shrug. “It was my reward for enduring fourteen years with Richard. He got a new wife and the mansion in Mount Kisko; I got the kids and a beach cottage with rotten floorboards and bad plumbing.”