The Many Colours of Us

by Rachel Burton

  There is a huge buzz of excited noise all around me and everyone is huddled together in groups; all the artists seem to be talking to the right people, checking out the different studio spaces. A few of them are even setting up to show off their skills. The press are talking to Frank, while Mum and Johnny hold hands and tell stories about Bruce Baldwin to anyone who’ll listen. Pen and Graeme are huddled together in a corner, drinking champagne and talking about their future. Even Edwin is uncharacteristically exuberant. I see him sharing a joke with his brother, his head thrown back in laughter. I can’t catch his eye.

  ‘Marco,’ I say realising he is still staring intently at me, waiting for an answer. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ I put the salmon pinwheel down and start to walk away.

  ‘Bella,’ he calls after me, but I don’t turn around to look as I walk away, because I know I need to get out of here, away from all these people who’ve known each other for ever. People who knew the father that I never did. I walk out of the back door without a second glance. Nobody apart from Marco will even notice.

  It’s still pouring with rain and I realise Graeme still has my umbrella and coat. My dress is going to get ruined, but I don’t care. I’m not dressed for running, which is what I want to do, so I walk as fast as I can, grateful for the decision to wear flats, with no thought as to where I am or where I’m going. I just need to move.

  As I move the whirlwind of thoughts that has been flying through my head since my mother’s wedding, since the press got hold of the story, finally starts to slow down and I’m hit by that overwhelming sense of sadness that I felt when I first saw Bruce Baldwin’s Notting Hill flat. More than anything I wish I’d known him. Even if only for a week or two towards the end. I wish I could share some of Edwin’s memories, some of the stories he tells me about my dad. I wish Edwin could have changed his mind.

  And then I wonder if it was my fault. If I didn’t try hard enough. If I’d given up looking too easily. Maybe I shouldn’t have run away to Cambridge to try to forget.

  I wish we’d wanted to find each other.

  The tears are pouring down my already rain-soaked face and I feel suddenly dizzy and weak. I have absolutely no idea where I am. I find a relatively clean-looking porchway, vomit-free and without too strong a smell of urine and sit down on the step, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes to try to stop the tears. I try to remember that the past is the past. That there is nothing I can do to change things now. That I should grab life by the horns and live the best possible version of it I can. But sitting here alone tonight it’s hard to believe that.

  There is nobody about at all. I can hear a siren wailing somewhere in the distance, foxes knocking over dustbins and then suddenly, frighteningly, the sound of footsteps getting nearer.

  I shrink back into the doorway, hoping whoever it is won’t notice me and will just keep on walking and then the owner of the footsteps calls my name.

  ‘Julia.’

  It’s Edwin.

  I stick my head around the porch and see him, standing in the middle of the road under a huge golfing umbrella. He sees me and comes over.

  ‘Julia,’ he says, out of breath. ‘What are you doing? You’re soaked.’

  I realise what an absolute state I must look. I make a half-hearted attempt to fluff up my drenched hair.

  He takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. ‘You must be freezing,’ he says as he sits next to me on the step. ‘Come here.’ He puts his arm around me, pulling me towards him.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask.

  ‘I saw you leave. I followed you to see if you were OK. God, you can walk fast! I thought I’d lost you.’

  ‘What about your brother?’

  ‘Rob’s fine, he’s with Dad. It was him who insisted I come after you. To see if you were OK. He told me about seeing you yesterday.’

  ‘Did he tell you what we talked about?’

  He nods and my stomach flips over. I wonder how much Rob told him.

  ‘I know I need to start letting go,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry about walking out. I just couldn’t be there any more; it was all too much. Everyone was so happy and I just felt so alone. Like I should be part of it all but I never knew Bruce so I feel as though I can’t be.’

  I shiver again and he draws me closer. Despite everything those damn butterflies are starting up their dancing again.

  ‘You’re as big a part of this as anyone,’ he says. ‘You’re the biggest part. Without you, none of this would have happened. None of it. Remember when we went to see his paintings in the Tate?’

  I nod.

  ‘Well, remember how you felt. And hold it in here.’ He points to my heart.

  We sit there together then, not saying anything. It’s so quiet I can hear him breathing.

  ‘You don’t have to stay here with me,’ I say eventually. ‘One of us should be there. Who’ll clean up? Who’ll lock up?’ I start to panic. ‘I should go back.’

  ‘We don’t need to be there. We hired a manager and cleaners for a reason. We can’t be there every day. I’ve got a job, and you? You’ve got a business to run.’

  I smile despite myself. ‘I sold all the clothes I made tonight,’ I say. ‘And took loads of orders.’

  ‘See, I told you. I knew you’d be brilliant.’

  ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Edwin. Frank told me how busy you’ve been at work. You didn’t have to do all this for me as well.’

  ‘Yes, I did. I had to make sure it was perfect. You don’t deserve anything less than perfect. I didn’t know how to apologise for what I said. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I didn’t mean that it was a good thing that I didn’t get to kiss you after the wedding.’

  He stops, his fingers stroking the top of my shoulder.

  I look up at him, but he’s gazing at a point somewhere over my head. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Julia, listen to me. I have to tell you something. I know everything is really complicated and overwhelming for you right now, but I can’t keep pretending that I’m just your parents’ lawyer any more.’ He stops, takes a breath in. ‘I love you, Julia. I think I’ve loved you since the day you first walked into my office.’

  I think about what his brother said, about how Edwin’s feelings might run even deeper than he’s admitting. The butterflies are riverdancing now.

  He finally looks at me again. ‘I watched Mary Poppins,’ he says. ‘You’re right, they are the perfect couple. Can we be like that do you think? Can we…’ He’s blushing. I can’t let him struggle on like this.

  I reach up to touch his face, wiping away the raindrops sitting on his eyebrows.

  ‘I love you too,’ I say.

  He looks at me for a moment as though he can’t believe it, and then he kisses me, tentatively at first and then more intensely. I let myself melt into him realising how I’ve been waiting all summer for this, since the day we had ice creams in Hyde Park and he gave me the letters. I turn my head to bury my face in his hair, breathing him in.

  ‘I know you have a lot of stuff going on too,’ I say. ‘And it’s fine; I don’t care. We can do this together.’

  ‘You’re amazing,’ he whispers as he pulls away from me a little, stroking the damp hair out of my face.

  ‘Do you think they’ll miss us back at the party?’ I ask snuggling into his shoulder.

  ‘With Philadelphia Simmonds holding forth about her days with Bruce Baldwin at the Royal Garden Hotel?’ He grins. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Besides, Frank can hold the fort. I’m all yours.’

  I stand up then, pulling him up with me. He wraps his arm around me again and I realise how cold I am. ‘I’m freezing,’ I say. ‘Can you take me home?’

  He kisses the top of my head. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  15th February 2013

  My dearest daughter,

  This is the last letter I will ev
er write. I’m near the end now. When you’ve been ill for as long as I have, and you’ve been in and out of hospital for years, you learn to spot the signs. They don’t really give me any treatment now, just morphine for the pain. It won’t be long until the morphine levels will be too high for me to be able to write at all.

  It’s been twelve long years since I last wrote, but I have thought of you every day. I’m an old man now, lying here on my deathbed, and I have a lot of regrets. I wonder if it’s possible to live life with no regrets? The biggest regret of them all though is being too much of a coward to come and find you.

  Don’t let fear get in the way of you living your best life. Don’t be too scared to go after the things you want. Don’t grow old regretting things you didn’t do. You tend to regret the things you didn’t do the most. More than the drinking, more than the stupid things I’ve said in interviews (and there were a lot of them), I regret not trying harder with your mother. And more than anything I regret not spending more time with you.

  I hope you’re happy. I hope you’ve found the life you deserve. I hope that you can somehow forgive me for never coming to get you.

  Other than a trust for your mother, I’ve left everything to you. I have a feeling you’ll know what to do with it. Look after your mother, Julia, and find it in your heart to forgive her, even if you can’t forgive me. I have a feeling the next few months will be hard for you all and for that I am truly sorry.

  Edwin came to see me this afternoon for what I think will be the last time. I gave him the letters, all the ones I still have. Edwin will explain better than I can. He will look after you better than I was able to. Trust him, just as your mother and I trusted his father.

  This letter I will give to Frank. He’ll know when to give it to you. For now though, go and live your best life and try not to waste too much time thinking about me or the things I never did. Just try not to make the same mistakes.

  I love you, Princess.

  Your Father

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  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

  Copyright © Rachel Burton 2017

  Rachel Burton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008243920