‘Shh,’ hissed someone from the other side of the library, and they smiled at each other in complicity.
‘What did you get for your last essay?’ he asked over a skinny latte in the students’ union cafe.
‘Seventy-five per cent,’ she answered proudly.
His eyes widened. ‘Fantastic.’
‘What about you?’
He groaned. ‘Don’t ask. Actually, maybe you could help me with this awful essay on contracts! We could talk it through over dinner.’
‘What dinner?’
‘Come on, Carla. I’ve asked you enough times. I won’t bite. Promise!’
He took her to a small Italian restaurant off Soho Square. She’d expected him to falter over the order in the way that the English did when speaking her language. But instead, his accent was flawless.
‘You are familiar with my country?’ she asked as the waiter walked away.
He shrugged, pleased. ‘My parents believed it was essential that we spoke both French and Italian fluently. We were always being packed off abroad during the holidays to improve ourselves. Frankly, I think it was to give them some peace, even though we were away at school during term time.’
Just like poor Tom. Somehow, Carla found herself telling this good-looking, intelligent boy about Tom and Lily and Ed.
‘You live with Ed Macdonald? The painter?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘Isn’t he the artist who did The Italian Girl? The one which sold for all that money to some anonymous buyer?’
She flushed. ‘You know of that too?’
‘I love art. So does my mother. All my life, she’s been dragging me off to some exhibition …’ His eyes widened. ‘Don’t tell me that the model was … it was you, wasn’t it?’
She nodded, embarrassed and yet flattered too.
‘I’d love to meet him one day.’ Her companion was getting quite flustered. ‘But only if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ she promised.
Carla let a few weeks go by, not wanting to bother her hosts. Ed was too busy with her portrait – it seemed to take up all his time, even when she wasn’t there to sit for him. And Lily was working so late that sometimes Carla heard her come in long after she had gone to bed. (There was usually a murmur of voices along with the sound of Ed’s disapproval.)
But eventually she summoned up courage to talk to her hostess, who was surprisingly enthusiastic.
‘Lily wondered if you’d like to come to dinner one night next week,’ said Carla as they sat over their lattes in what had become their favourite coffee shop.
Rupert’s face shone. ‘I’d love that. Thanks.’
No. The pleasure was all hers. Rupert could be just what she needed.
When Carla got back that day, there was a letter waiting for her on the hall table. It was a copy of the report on the formal fire investigation. The hostel had sent it to all former inhabitants. The cause of the fire, it informed her, was probably a cigarette. However, it had been impossible to pinpoint the culprit due to the extent of the damage and the fact that so many inhabitants had admitted to smoking in their rooms.
That was lucky.
Even better, her travel insurance would now pay out for her clothes and books. (She’d exaggerated the value slightly – the company could afford it.)
The letter also informed her that the hostel would remain closed until further notice.
Things were definitely looking up.
‘He’s just a friend,’ Carla had told Lily, shyly. ‘Someone who’s been kind to me at law school.’ But from the minute that Carla walked through the door with Rupert at her side, she sensed Ed’s hostility.
‘So you’re the Rupert that our Carla has been talking about?’
Carla flushed at the way Ed had accentuated the ‘you’re’. And the ‘talking about’ suggested she was keen rather than the other way round. What would Rupert think? Suddenly, Carla began to have reservations about the evening.
‘That’s good to hear, sir,’ said Rupert, shaking Ed’s hand with a sideways glance at Lily.
Thankfully, Lily (who’d been quite distant recently) seemed to pick up on Carla’s distress. Smoothly, she changed the subject, but all through dinner Ed was difficult. It wasn’t just that he was particularly tetchy when it came to his wife. (‘We’re lucky to have the pleasure of Lily’s company, you know. She’s usually working at this time.’) But he also made snide comments about Rupert and his old school. ‘One of my cousins went there when he flunked Eton.’
Ed didn’t like their guest, she was beginning to realize. Poor Rupert. He could see that too.
Afterwards, they went downstairs to the basement to see Ed’s paintings. ‘Carla tells me that you appreciate paintings.’ Ed crossed his arms.
‘I do, sir. These are wonderful.’
‘They’re crap.’ Ed glanced dismissively at the pictures of old women, young women, the florist, the tobacconist, a mother in the park. ‘None have done anything. The only thing that worked was my painting of our lovely Carla here.’
Ouch! Ed was squeezing her shoulder so hard that it hurt. He stank of wine: at dinner, he’d got through an entire bottle on his own. She knew Lily had noticed too.
‘But now I am painting her again. Has she told you that?’
Ed’s face was close to Rupert’s. Part of her felt triumphant. Yet she was also crawling with embarrassment.
‘No, sir. She hasn’t told me.’
‘So you aren’t privy to everything that goes on in our Carla’s pretty head then.’
‘That’s enough, Ed.’ Lily was next to him now, taking his arm. ‘Time to call it a day, don’t you think?’
‘Nonsense. I expect you’d like to see the painting, wouldn’t you, young man?’
Rupert was as red as she was now. ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble, sir.’
‘Well, it is. And you know why? Because I never show my paintings to anyone until they’re ready. Never.’
And with that, Ed stomped up the stairs and left them alone in the basement.
‘I am so sorry.’ Lily shook her head. ‘He’s tired and this is a big time in his career at the moment. He’s hoping for a break with his new portrait of Carla. It’s in pastels this time. Quite a new departure for him.’
‘I understand.’ Rupert appeared to compose himself, showing those beautiful manners. ‘Artistic temperament and all that. Thank you so much for a lovely evening.’
But it hadn’t been lovely and they all knew that. That night, Carla listened as Ed and Lily had one of their biggest rows yet.
‘Why were you so rude? Almost as if you were jealous of him for being head-over-heels with Carla.’
‘Rubbish. I just didn’t like some pup looking at my paintings and making patronizing comments.’
‘He wasn’t. He was being entirely polite.’
‘I know what he was being. Anyway, what would you care? You’re never here.’
‘Maybe it’s time for Carla to leave. There are other hostels she could stay at. I don’t know why you asked her to stay on. It was meant to be temporary.’
‘So now you want to throw out my model just when I’ve got my inspiration back? It’s like you want me to fail.’
It’s happening, Carla told herself, hugging her knees in bed.
Yet in the morning, it was as though the argument had never taken place. ‘Would you like to come down to Devon this weekend with us?’ asked Lily.
Carla shook her head. ‘I’ll stay here if you don’t mind.’
Ed looked disappointed. ‘Really? Tom will be sad not to see you. He might not say so. But I just know it.’
So will I, said his eyes.
Good.
‘I’m afraid I need to work on my next assignment.’
‘Sure.’ Ed sounded put out. ‘When I’m back, Carla, I’d appreciate some more of your sitting time for the portrait.’
She flushed. ‘Of course.’
41
Lily
Weeks and then months are growing along with the portrait. Easter shoots past with its nodding yellow daffodils. Early summer roses have already, in our little patch of ground at the back, come into bloom. And so too has Carla.