The Many Colours of Us

by Rachel Burton

  I turn to look at him, trying to understand what he’s saying.

  ‘Really, Julia, I’ve never seen him like this. At least not since…’ He stops, suddenly, as though he’s said too much.

  ‘Since what?’

  He sighs. ‘I said I wouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘I think you have to now.’

  ‘Ed’s had a bit of a thing for you for years. Back when you were teenagers he had a huge crush on you. I used to tease him about it.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t think I’d be far off the mark if I said I think his feelings are reciprocated, would I?’

  ‘I honestly don’t remember him then.’

  ‘No, I know. But what about now?’

  I look away. ‘No, you wouldn’t be far off the mark.’

  ‘Ed’s scared. He’s scared of committing to anyone or anything because he doesn’t want to let me down. And he was totally blindsided by Bruce’s death, more than any of us I think. He tries too hard to please everyone. He just needs a bit of encouragement.’ He stops, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. ‘And to get the bloody stick out of his arse.’

  I laugh then; we both do.

  ‘Talk to him, Julia,’ Robert goes on. ‘Don’t leave it much longer.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise,’ I reply. ‘But what about you? Are you sure you’re OK with this, if it works out? Edwin’s told me about…’

  He holds up a hand to stop me. ‘I’m fine. To be quite honest I could do with a bit more time to myself.’ He pauses, blushing again. ‘I’ve met someone too.’

  ‘Was it one of the girls at Mum’s wedding?’

  ‘Yup, Claudia, the blonde one. Funnily enough we’ve known each other since we were kids too. I hadn’t seen her for years. Luckily, she doesn’t seem much bothered by this,’ he says gesturing at his wheelchair. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll remember her though.’

  I laugh. ‘No,’ I say, holding up my hands. ‘I don’t remember anything.’

  Chapter 33

  I stand in front of my mother’s full-length mirror. Tonight’s dress is made from some navy-blue shot silk that I’ve been hoarding for a special occasion. It’s cut very low at the back with cap sleeves, a cinched-in waist and a full, calf-length skirt. I’ve tried it with both heels and flats but tonight the flats have won. It’s still raining – some days it feels like it will never stop, so I’ve made a version of the coat in a lightweight pale blue showerproof material. This weather will put it to the test.

  ‘Julia,’ Mum calls impatiently up the stairs. ‘Fashionably late is one thing, turning up after it’s over is quite another.’

  She exaggerates; we’ve still got plenty of time. I think my mother is more nervous than I am.

  I take one last look at myself and smile. This is for you, Dad, I think, wherever you are.

  I pick up my bag and my phone and stop to scroll through my texts again. Edwin texted last night, not long after I got back from seeing his brother, to tell me not to worry too much about the speech, that he’d say something if I didn’t want to do it.

  Already written. I texted back. I’d been so sure about what I wanted to say that it was practically written by the time I got back from Notting Hill yesterday. It would surprise him to know I’d finally managed something without procrastination. When my phone beeped again I expected a mildly sarcastic message of shock. But instead I saw a message I hadn’t dared hope for.

  I’m so sorry I wasn’t there yesterday when you came to the studio. I’ve missed you so much.

  I’ve read those two sentences a hundred times in the last twenty hours and every time I see them my stomach flips over. I tried to reply. I must have written and deleted about twenty different texts since last night but none of them do his message justice. What I want to say to him needs to be said in person.

  ‘Julia!’ my mother screeches up the stairs.

  I throw my phone into my bag and take out a small blue box that has been hidden in a drawer for weeks. I open it slowly and slide the Tiffany bracelet on to my wrist, remembering the feel of Edwin’s hand on my arm when he first gave it to me. Whatever happens between us, this bracelet is too beautiful to spend its days languishing in a drawer.

  ‘Julia!’

  I take a deep breath; I can do this.

  Mum and Johnny are standing in the hall waiting for me. Johnny looks as smart as ever in a new grey worsted suit. Mum is wearing a Julia Simmonds original. I told her she didn’t have to but she insisted. With Philadelphia Simmonds wearing my clothes I’ll have no problem flogging them apparently.

  I made her a coat like mine but in navy, because tonight my mother is resplendent in yellow. She is dressed in a mustard cotton sheath dress that I made using an original Simplicity pattern from the 70s. The edges are bound with navy blue ribbon to match the coat and I thought navy shoes would finish off the outfit but I notice Mum has opted for yellow stilettos. She looks fantastic. She must be the only woman in Britain who can pull off yellow shoes.

  ‘You both look amazing,’ I say as I come downstairs.

  ‘As do you,’ Mum replies. ‘Give us a twirl.’ She raises an eyebrow as I take off my coat to show the back of the dress. ‘Subtle,’ she says. I can’t work out if she’s being sarcastic or not.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Johnny says, ushering us out to the waiting cab.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Wait a minute. I want to say something.’

  Mum and Johnny look at me.

  ‘I know tonight is all about Bruce, about my father, but Johnny I’ll always consider you to be my father. You know that don’t you?’

  Johnny nods once. ‘Doesn’t need saying, darling girl,’ he says, opening the front door and heading out. Mum just squeezes my shoulder as we go down the front steps to the cab.

  ‘Has he called?’ she asks quietly. I know who she means.

  ‘He texted. He says he misses me.’

  Mum doesn’t say anything else, but she has that ‘I told you so’ look on her face.

  *

  As the cab drives us east, my mind keeps wandering to Edwin. What did he mean when he said he missed me? Does he miss me but knows he can’t see me? Does he miss being friends? Or does he miss me and want something more? Does he know I saw his brother yesterday? Does he know what Rob told me? I try to work out what I’m going to say to him when I see him. I wish I’d texted him back now, even if just to say I missed him too. I find myself remembering the smell of him, the sensation of him next to me, the feel of his arms around me at Mum’s wedding.

  Even though I know about the reporters and the bloggers and everyone else who is coming tonight, as we pull up outside the studio and I see the place is heaving, my heart leaps into my mouth. How am I meant to give a speech, however short, in front of this lot? Who are they all and where have they come from?

  I notice a group of reporters and photographers standing outside and my blood runs cold. It’s going to be like the day after Mum’s wedding all over again, but this time I can’t just shut myself in the house all day.

  ‘Time to make your grand entrance,’ Mum says with glee. She’s been missing this sort of attention for thirty years.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be like this,’ I say.

  ‘We did warn you, Julia,’ my mother replies. ‘Tonight is a big night. Your father was very highly regarded.’

  ‘I know…I just…there’s so many people.’

  ‘But that’s a good thing,’ my mother says, enthusiastically. ‘Especially for the premiere of the Julia Simmonds collection!’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I reply. ‘But it’s also overwhelming and terrifying. Half of London is here.’

  ‘Oh get on with it for God’s sake.’ Mum is rapidly losing patience.

  ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done, Mum.’

  ‘You are more than welcome.’ Mum looks strangely wistful as she looks over towards the studio. I have the feeling she’s about to have the time of her life.
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  Chapter 34

  We step out of the cab and Johnny holds the umbrellas over us. I feel like a cross between a film star and somebody who has turned up at the wrong place. Mum ushers me through the throng of reporters.

  ‘No time for questions now,’ she screeches at them as they part like the Red Sea before her. ‘We’ll talk to you once the Art Salon is officially open.’ She’s still got it, after all these years.

  As soon as I get through the door, somebody grabs my arm and drags me towards them.

  ‘Hello, Pen.’ She has pulled me over into a corner of the studio where Graeme is standing. Graeme raises a hand to me in greeting. It feels like a million years since I last saw him at Alec’s leaving party.

  ‘Wow, that dress is amazing!’ Pen says.

  ‘Thank you, I hope other people think so too.’

  I look around at all the people that are here. Amongst the journalists and bloggers and representatives from the Council I see Frank and Marco and Edwin’s dad. I see the architect who designed the renovation and I see, surprisingly, Johnny’s sister. Everybody is here.

  And then I see Edwin, talking quietly to his brother, sitting back on his haunches so they are at eye level. I’ve never seen them together properly before, not like this, and there is a tenderness between them, a bond that nobody will break. I understand now what he was trying to explain after Mum’s wedding about his brother always coming first. And I understand properly what I was trying to say to him that afternoon in Kensington Palace Gardens about giving those you love the space and time they need to be themselves.

  Robert sees me and waves across the room. Edwin turns to see who his brother is looking at but I look away, not ready yet to have the conversation I know we need to have. There are more pressing issues to deal with first. I’m feeling overwhelmed again and need to focus. I can’t make a fool of myself in front of all these people.

  ‘That’s Edwin I presume?’ Pen asks. ‘Have you spoken to him since you spoke to his brother?’ Pen and I have already analysed that situation.

  I shake my head. ‘He texted me last night to tell me he misses me but what does that even mean? He misses me but he can’t see me because he doesn’t want to let my dead father down?’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

  Pen opens her mouth to say something but then we both turn to Graeme, who is holding all our coats and chuckling to himself.

  ‘What?’ Pen demands.

  ‘You can be an idiot sometimes, Julia,’ he says, still laughing. ‘I’d say, judging by the way he’s looking at you right now, that he misses you and wants to make beautiful babies with you.’

  ‘Graeme!’ Pen says, gaping at him.

  ‘What? Look at them. They would make beautiful babies together.’

  ‘And I suppose we’ll make bog-standard ordinary babies,’ Pen says scornfully. Honestly she can make an argument out of anything.

  ‘When are you two off to York?’ I ask, changing the subject and trying to ignore the return of the dancing butterflies in my stomach.

  ‘End of October,’ Graeme replies. ‘I’m hoping to open the café in time for Christmas.’

  ‘And I’ve had an offer on the house already,’ Pen says. ‘So you’ll need to come down and help me clear all the junk out of it.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I say, grinning at them. I’m so happy for them. They look so good together.

  I sense him behind me before I see him.

  ‘Hello, Julia,’ Edwin says. ‘How are you?’

  I turn to look at him. Frank’s right, he is exhausted. He looks pale with shadows under his eyes and he needs a haircut, but his suit is impeccably cut and he still takes my breath away. I want to wrap myself around him, feel the familiar solid shape of him next to me.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he says more quietly, so only I can hear.

  I don’t trust myself to reply so instead I just smile at him, hoping I look calmer than I feel, and introduce Pen and Graeme.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Edwin says with a grin as he shakes Pen’s hand.

  ‘Likewise,’ Pen replies sternly. She is the only woman in the world who isn’t going to let that smile or those eyes affect her.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asks, turning to me.

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ I feel his hand on the skin of my back where my dress is cut low and a jolt of electricity flickers up my spine. I take a deep breath hoping Edwin can’t sense how nervous I am.

  ‘I’ll see you in a while,’ I say to Pen.

  ‘Don’t hurry,’ she replies with a wink.

  *

  Edwin strides into the centre of the room, clearing a space around him and tapping his champagne glass. I notice everyone has a glass of champagne apart from me. Typical. I could really do with one as well.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I could just have your attention for a few moments,’ Edwin says in his court voice. Everyone quietens down and a wave of nausea hits me. Last night I was so sure and confident about this, but tonight I don’t think I can do it. I’ve never spoken in public before in my life. All I can do is watch Edwin and learn from the master. Quickly.

  ‘Welcome to Bruce Baldwin’s old studio and to the grand opening of The Bruce Baldwin Art Foundation,’ Edwin begins. ‘Bruce was known, during his lifetime, as an unmarried childless recluse, but also as a wildly talented artist who put British art back on the map. Since his death many of you now know that Bruce had a daughter.’ He pauses to look over at me; I feel a shiver as his eyes meet mine. ‘A daughter who, on finding out who her father was and that he had left everything to her, wanted to use the money to help other artists develop their potential and to open up a community space to the arts. And so here we are.’ He smiles, holding out his arms to the space around him to a scattering of applause.

  ‘It has been a pleasure getting to know Julia over the last few months, and watching her turn the embryo of an idea into a reality,’ he goes on, glancing over at me again. Every time he looks at me my stomach flips over and I feel even more nervous. ‘There were times when we all thought we might have been a bit overambitious by trying to open on Bruce Baldwin’s birthday, but somehow we did it. I know how proud your father would be of you, Julia.’ He looks at me again, as do most of the crowd. I manage a small smile before realising that’s my cue to speak. Edwin walks over to me, squeezing my shoulder in encouragement. He ducks his head towards me.

  ‘That dress looks amazing on you,’ he says quietly.

  That one sentence gives me the all the confidence I need, and I step out into the crowd who stare at me expectantly.

  ‘My father’s identity must have been one of the best kept secrets in London,’ I begin. ‘And the reasons behind his decision to keep his identity so secret is not my story to tell. As somebody wiser than me said recently, the past is the past.’ I pause. I want to look at Edwin but I can’t, so I just focus on a point in the middle distance and hope he’s listening. ‘We all make decisions every day that seem like a good idea at the time – decisions we later come to regret. There’s nothing we can do to change the past; we just have to come to terms with it in our own way and do whatever we can to make the present as good as possible.’ I pause again to catch my breath, wishing I had a glass of champagne.

  ‘I never knew my father,’ I continue, ‘but he did leave me some letters and from reading them I’m not sure he ever came to terms with his past. I’m not even sure if he was happy. I don’t know whether that would have been different if we’d known each other, but I do know that family is about so much more than blood. It’s about those people around you who love you, who would do anything to help you. Hug your families tonight and remember to tell them you love them, because you just never know what will happen.’ I want to stop there, but I also know I need to end on more of a high than that.

  ‘My father left behind one of the greatest art legacies in this country and I hope you all enjoy looking around the exhibi
tion of his work tonight that his brother, Frank, has curated. And I hope that this space helps to inspire a new generation of artists. I don’t seem to have a glass right now but I’d like to ask you to all raise yours to wish my dad a very happy birthday.’

  I stop then and everyone lifts their glasses and says, almost in unison, ‘To Bruce Baldwin.’

  There’s a pause before everyone starts clapping and from somewhere a stereo starts playing Penny Lane. I finally look over at Edwin and he raises an eyebrow with a smile. Suddenly I have no idea whether I want to laugh or cry.

  Chapter 35

  Marco is lurking by the buffet table.

  ‘Hello, Marco,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.’

  ‘Another big occasion and nobody asks Marco to cater,’ he says scornfully.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask, not wanting to get into why spaghetti would be an inappropriate food for a finger buffet.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘This place is wonderful.’ He looks about him grinning.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ I reply, picking up a salmon pinwheel before realising I’m not actually that hungry.

  ‘And how are you?’ he says looking at me rather intently. ‘This has been quite a summer for you hasn’t it, Bella?’

  How am I? Now there’s a question. Tonight has been hard. I’ve had to answer a million questions about a father I never knew and about his artwork, which I’m still only beginning to learn about. With Edwin’s help I think I’ve done him justice without sounding like a complete ignoramus. I’ve spent the last hour and a half in the sewing room answering questions from fashion bloggers, questions that I’m a lot happier answering admittedly, as well as measuring potential customers for orders and fitting and selling the clothes I’ve already made.

  I haven’t had a chance to talk to Edwin on his own and I’ve come back downstairs during a lull in the sewing room to try to find him but it’s impossible. I stand here by the buffet with Marco and look around me at this amazing legacy of my father’s. How did we do this? How did this happen? How is it that only four months ago I was living in Pen’s spare room, working in a job I didn’t like very much. How is it only four months since I split up with Alec?