Stunned, she read on.
‘Ed Macdonald has given hope to all up-and-coming artists everywhere after a collector made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. “I actually painted The Italian Girl some years ago and entered it for an award where it won third prize. However, it didn’t find a home. I was stunned when a buyer, who has asked not to be named, recently walked into a gallery where I exhibit and bought it on the spot.” ’
It wasn’t fair! If it were not for her, there would have been no painting. So Carla wrote to Ed. She had not been paid for her services as a model, she pointed out. Perhaps Ed might like to share some of the money he had been paid.
After three weeks, there was no reply. Maybe they had moved. So she sent a second letter to the gallery mentioned at the end of the article.
Still nothing. How dare he not acknowledge her? The more she thought about it, and the more phone calls she had from poor, housebound Mamma, the more she became convinced that she was owed something. The bitterness grew and grew inside her.
Then a chance remark from a tutor gave her an idea. ‘You are fluent in English, yes? Perhaps you should consider a transfer course in the UK. It will increase your earning power.’
It would also take her nearer to the people who had hurt Mamma, including Larry. To claim what was rightfully hers. And to have what Lily had. Money. A good job. A new look – maybe a bob would suit her too. And whatever else she could take.
There was a gentle touch on her arm. Carla started. Woken from the dream-like memories of the past. ‘We are about to land,’ said the man with the terrible tie. ‘I thought I ought to tell you.’
Peeling off her eye mask, she smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all. Where are you going to stay in London?’
‘King’s Cross,’ she said confidently, thinking back to the hostel she had found on the Internet. It had looked so nice, and it was reasonably priced too.
‘Have you been to London before?’
‘Of course. But many years ago.’
‘Things have changed.’ He took a business card out of his pocket. ‘Here is my number in case you feel like a drink sometime.’
She glanced at the silver wedding band on his left hand. If Mamma’s experience had taught her one thing, it was that married men were not worth it. ‘Thank you but that is not necessary.’
His lips tightened. ‘Your call.’
There was a bump, followed by a high screaming of brakes. They were hurtling forward so fast that she wondered if they would be able to stop. This time, there was no comforting pat on the arm. Instead, her companion was restless. Keen to get up and grab his bag. If she’d accepted his card, Carla told herself, he might have taken her out to dinner.
But nothing must be allowed to distract her from her plan.
EU ARRIVALS THIS WAY.
Heathrow was so busy! The queues were never-ending. It took so long for her little red suitcase to come bumping down on the conveyor belt that Carla had almost convinced herself it had been lost. Relieved, she started to haul it off, but a nice young man stepped in to do it for her.
Where should she go next? Bewildered, Carla stared at the various signs. Taxi? Perhaps the Tube would be cheaper. Nonno had given her some money for the course and her living costs, but it was not very much.
It took a long time to reach King’s Cross station after taking the wrong train twice. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the man selling newspapers outside, ‘but can you tell me where this street is?’
Ignoring the address she put before him, he served the customer behind. It was getting dark now and she’d forgotten how much colder England was than Italy. Shivering and hungry, she asked directions from person after person in the crowds swanning past. Each one walked away as if she hadn’t spoken. Eventually, after going into a ‘Late Nite’ chemist, she found someone who was kind enough to get out their phone and warn her that it was a ‘good fifteen-minute walk’.
Eventually she found it. Carla stared with distaste at the dirty concrete building with peeling green paint on the door. Two girls came out, arm in arm, wearing tights with big glaring holes in them. Over the tights were denim shorts.
Smoothing down the neat cream linen jacket which Mamma had made specially for the trip, Carla went in. ‘I have booked a room,’ she said politely to the woman at the desk.
‘Name?’
‘Carla Cavoletti.’
The woman sniffed and handed her a key. ‘Third floor. First on the right. Lift’s out of order.’
The steps smelled of pee. Someone had scrawled rude words on the wall in red paint. Carla’s heart sank. This room was like a monk’s cell! The bed was narrow with a scratchy grey blanket. There was a desk, but the lighting was so poor that it would be hard to study there. The ‘en suite’ bathroom was a cupboard with a washbasin. The notice on the wall informed her that the toilets on this floor were not in use. PLEASE USE THE FACILITIES ON THE SECOND FLOOR.
Carla sat down on the edge of the bed and flicked on her phone. ‘Ring when you arrive,’ Mamma had said.
‘Hello? It is me. Yes, the flight was wonderful and the hotel, she is beautiful. You know what my plans are, Mamma. I’ve told you so many times. Tomorrow, I register at the college. Yes, Mamma. I told you. I will also find Larry to tell him where you are. I love you too.’
As Carla ended the call, a cockroach scuttled out from under the bed. Ugh! She swiftly ground it into the floor with her stiletto heel. There was a scrunching sound. Disgusting! Yet also strangely satisfying.
Kicking the dead body under the bed, she took out her cigarette case, despite the NO SMOKING sign on the wall, lit one and inhaled deeply. That was better. Then she walked to the window. Outside, London glittered with lights and roared with the constant hum of traffic and possibilities. Somewhere out there were the three people she needed to find. And find them she would.
25
Lily
‘No. NO! You have moved my shoes. Now I can’t wear them. Why did you do that? WHY?’
Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe. Don’t shout. Don’t snap. Don’t try to reason. None of it works. It only serves to make me feel temporarily better, and then the guilt will set in. Guilt that I’m leaving all this – yes! – in ten minutes to get the London train. Guilt that I’m leaving Tom with Mum to escape back to my job and my home with my husband. Guilt at the thought that perhaps we shouldn’t have had him in the first place …
No. That’s not right. Of course I love my son. Love him fiercely with every inch of my body. The second I had him I knew I’d never go back. But we didn’t know what we were doing. And it’s hard when your eleven-year-old behaves like a toddler at times and an intellectual, with a reasoning worthy of a genius, at others. It’s why we’ve never had another child.
‘I’ll sort it, darling. Don’t worry.’ Mum’s smooth, reassuring voice cuts in as she rearranges the offending shoes, which had been moved out of line from Tom’s precise positioning of the evening before. It’s one of his ‘little things’, as Ed calls it. A ritual which appears to give our son a security that we’re unable to provide ourselves.