Ed ran a hand through his hair. ‘Ah. We moved a while ago. But the people who bought the flat from us are still very good at sending on our mail. Gallery post, mind you, can be a bit hit and miss with so many artists coming and going.’
Did she believe him? He sounded truthful enough. Carla looked up at this still rather handsome man with warm creases round his eyes. There was genuine care there. And admiration too. No doubt about it. An excited feeling rippled through her. This was the man she had idolized as a child. But now she was all grown up.
Perhaps there might be another way …
‘The letters were to tell you I was coming over. I have done my law degree in Italy. Now I am here to do a course in England, and thought it would be nice to look you up.’
‘Wonderful!’ Ed’s hands took both of hers. He was squeezing them tight. Surely for longer than was necessary. ‘I can’t tell you, Carla, how good it is to see you! Welcome. Welcome back!’
29
Lily
Ed’s number is engaged.
I’m really scared now. Stepping back so someone else can go in front of me in the queue, I try again.
‘Lily?’
Thank heavens. He’s answering. ‘What’s wrong?’ I blurt out.
‘Nothing!’ His voice is bubbly with excitement.
I’m filled with relief.
‘Are you busy?’ he asks.
It’s a strange question because he knows I’m always busy. The Portrait Gallery is a rare act of rebellion on my part. I should be in the office.
‘Actually, I’m taking an hour out after the case.’
‘You won?’
Nowadays, Ed takes a keen interest in my work.
I feel a flash of pride. ‘We did.’
‘Well done.’ He’s genuinely proud of me. ‘Can you come on down here then?’
‘To see you?’
‘I’ve got a surprise.’
‘A nice one?’
‘Definitely.’
I feel childishly excited. ‘I can spare an hour,’ I say, walking out of the doors and back into the street.
Ed’s new gallery is in an old basement. It has definite potential, he assured me, especially with that wonderful curved Victorian pillar in the middle.
Quite a lot of people came to the opening. The anonymous buyer (even Ed wasn’t told who it was, since it was all conducted through a dealer) had really helped to stir interest in his work. When clients started to ask me if I was related to Ed Macdonald the artist, I felt a burst of pride at telling them he was my husband. But now, after less than a year, this interest is fading. His acrylic style with garish colours and wide dramatic brushstrokes is not, apparently, to everyone’s taste.
The hurtful reviews have got to Ed, making him feel insecure again. The other night, he came home with three bottles of red. ‘I won’t drink them all at once,’ he said defensively. I said nothing. I know my husband has failures, but then so do I. Instead, we had a relaxed supper together, something we now frequently enjoy during the week, with no Tom screaming because someone has tainted his plate by adding a pea by mistake. (‘I told you. I don’t like green!’)
All Ed needs is another big sale for the sake of his self-esteem and to pay the new gallery bills. Maybe, I tell myself, edging down the narrow stone steps, that’s why he’s summoned me here. Perhaps another buyer has walked in!
As I enter the gallery, I see Ed’s head from the back. It gives me a warm feeling of contentment.
‘Lily!’ He swivels round, saying my name as though it is fresh in his mouth. As if I am an acquaintance he hasn’t seen for a long time instead of the wife he kissed goodbye this morning. ‘Guess who walked into the gallery an hour ago?’
As he speaks, a petite woman with a sleek black bob slides out from behind the pillar. Her hairstyle, apart from the colour, is almost identical to mine. But she’s young. Early twenties, at a guess. Big, wide, sunny smile with glossy bee-stung lips and a flash of fleshy gum. A wide smooth forehead. She’s stunning without being conventionally beautiful. Her face is the sort that makes you stare. I twist my silver bracelet – the one I always wear – with inexplicable nervousness.
‘Hello, Lily!’ she sings. There’s an unexpected kiss on both my cheeks. Then she stands back. I feel a cold slice inside as though a carving knife is paring my body in two. ‘You don’t remember me? It’s Carla.’
Carla? Little Carla who used to live in the same block of flats all those years ago, when Ed and I were first married? The shy at times but also precocious child with the beautiful mother who had been carrying on with Tony? Carla, alias The Italian Girl? Is it really possible that this is the confident young woman who stands before me now with glossy lips and an immaculate complexion, her sharp, cat-like eyes accentuated with just the right touch of eyeliner? Such poise!
It has taken me years to achieve a confidence like that.
But of course it’s Carla. She’s a mini-Francesca, minus the long curls. The spitting image of the single mother from number 7 all those years ago.
‘Where have you been?’ I manage to say. ‘How is your mother?’
This beautiful colt-like creature dips her chin and then tilts her head to one side as if considering the question. ‘Mamma, she is very well, thank you. She is living in Italy. We have been there for some time.’
Ed breaks in. ‘Carla’s been trying to get hold of us. She wrote to us.’
I breathe steadily, just as I do in court when I need to be careful. ‘Really?’ I say.
It’s not a lie. Just a question.
‘Twice,’ says Carla.
She is looking straight at me. Briefly I think back to that first letter with the Italian stamp, which was sent to our old address last year but forwarded to us by the current occupants.
My first instinct was to throw it away like all the other begging letters we received around that time. People assume, rightly or wrongly, that if an artist has one big success, he or she is rich. The reality is that even with the picture sale and Ed’s trust money and my salary, we are still not that well off. Our mortgages on both the gallery and the house are crippling. And of course we also have Tom’s expensive therapy and his unknown future to think of.
I want to help people like any other decent person. But if you give to one, where do you stop? Yet Carla was different. She was right. In a way we did owe our success to her.
I would talk to Ed, I decided. But a critic had just written yet another snide review, questioning why anyone would want to pay so much for a ‘brash acrylic work that was worthy of a Montmartre street artist’. My husband had been hurt. It was all I could do to assure Ed that this reviewer was wrong. Better to leave Carla’s letter, I decided, until things were calmer.
Then came the second one, sent to the gallery where Ed had been exhibiting temporarily before it had been forwarded to our home. Luckily, I happened to bump into the postman on the way to work. Recognizing the handwriting and stamp, I slipped it in my briefcase and opened it in the office. The tone was angrier this time. More demanding. It frightened me to be honest. I sensed Francesca’s hand behind it. If we gave them some money, they might ask for more.
So I put it away, pretending to myself that I would deal with it at ‘some point’. And then I conveniently forgot about it. It wasn’t the right thing to do. I can see that now. But if I had written back to Carla explaining our financial situation, she might not have believed it.
‘We were worried when you left so suddenly all those years ago,’ Ed is saying now. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were going?’
His question takes me back to the last time I saw Carla. That awful row between Tony, Francesca and me. On top of that, I was trying to work out if Ed and I should stay together.
‘Yes,’ I say, gritting my teeth, ‘we were very worried about you.’ Then my eye falls on the painting behind her. It’s hard not to. There are paintings of Carla as a child all over the room.
‘What do you think of your pictures?’ I ask. Might as well play devil’s advocate, I tell myself. Try to draw Carla out. It would also make me look more innocent in the matter of those unanswered letters.