‘Really?’ There was definite disappointment in his voice.
Carla shrugged as they wandered back out of the park, towards Ed and Lily’s house. ‘My mother, she relies on me. It is up to me to make money for us so we can live the lives we should have done.’
‘Wow. That’s amazing. I like that.’
‘In fact, I must return now. Or I will be behind with my work.’
‘Surely you have time to make me a cup of tea first?’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘Come on.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘It’s what friends do.’
They were on Ed and Lily’s steps now: smart black and white steps leading up to the black front door. It seemed rude not to agree.
Inviting Rupert to take a seat, Carla swiftly cleared away her books to make room at the table in the huge kitchen which acted as a casual sitting room too. The sofa, she noticed with irritation, was a mess of cushions and blankets.
‘What do you think of …’ she started to say.
But suddenly Rupert moved towards her and boldly, but so very gently, began to trace the outline of her lips with his forefinger. ‘You’re beautiful, Carla,’ he murmured. ‘Do you know that?’
He drew her towards him.
For a minute, she was tempted. Rupert was so good-looking. So charming. Such a gentleman. But she must not allow him to distract her. Just as she was about to step away, there was the sound of the key in the lock.
It was Ed! Horrified, she watched him take in the rumpled sofa and Rupert stepping quickly away from her. His face was blotched with anger. ‘So this is why you didn’t want to come to Devon, is it? So you could use our home as a love nest? How dare you? Just as well I got back early.’
Carla’s body went hot and cold and hot again. ‘No. You’ve got it wrong.’
But Ed’s voice overrode hers as he turned to Rupert. ‘Get out. NOW.’
Stunned, Carla watched Rupert leave. He should have stayed, she told herself. Stood up for himself. ‘How dare YOU?’ she yelled, quivering with anger. ‘I was doing nothing wrong. And now you have embarrassed me in front of my friend.’
He would tell her to leave now, she told herself. She’d have nowhere to live. No hope of getting what she wanted.
Yet instead, he crumbled, falling down to the ground at her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Carla. I really am. But it’s been a hell of a weekend. You should have been there. You could have calmed Tom down. He was awful. Do you know what his current obsession is? Some computer game which keeps him up all night so he barely sleeps. When we tried to take it away from him, he went stark raving mad. We argued about it. Lily’s mother wanted to let him have his way. She’s so scared he’ll end up like Daniel …’
‘Daniel? What happened to him?’
‘Daniel’s gone.’ Ed made a wild dismissive gesture with his hands. ‘You wouldn’t think it from the way that family talks about him. Daniel’s dead!’
‘I don’t understand.’
Ed caught her by the hand. His grip was tight. ‘Daniel was Lily’s adopted brother. He was very disturbed – had been since childhood. Poor bugger.’
Now it was her turn to hold his hand as the horrific words came spilling out. The argument Lily had had with her brother. The stables. The way they found him. Ed was not sure of the exact details (‘Lily can’t talk about it’). But one thing was clear. Whatever Lily had said, it had made her brother take his own life.
‘It’s like there’s always this thing between us. She’s never let me in.’ Ed collapsed in sobs on the sofa.
How terrible! And poor Ed. It wasn’t fair that he should have to suffer for his wife’s guilt. Lily treated him so badly. She didn’t even look after him properly. What kind of woman didn’t have dinner ready for her husband? Or went to bed long after he did? Mamma had taught her the importance of these things, no matter how outdated they might seem.
Yet why should she be surprised? Lily was a lawyer. Clinical and cold. Used to setting murderers and rapists free.
Somehow she managed to calm poor Ed. A friendly arm on his shoulder. Poured him a drink (just a touch of hot water with the whisky). And then, even though his hand was still shaking, she persuaded him to start painting.
Thank you, Rupert, she said silently, as she sat in front of Ed. (‘Nose to the left a bit, please, Carla.’) With any luck everything was going to work out after all.
43
Lily
Despite my recent court losses, and my own reservations, the other partners agreed to my ‘favour’ and Carla duly started work with me in the middle of July. ‘You’ve got a bright girl there,’ said one of my colleagues by the end of the week. ‘She might look stunning but she’s on the ball.’
He spoke as though looks were a disadvantage, which in a way they are. If you’re more than averagely attractive, especially in a profession like law, people don’t always take you seriously. I’m aware that I will never be considered beautiful, even though I take pleasure in the fact that I have grown into my skin. Perhaps that’s a good thing.
But Carla turns heads wherever she goes. And not just because of her face or because she is doing well at my firm. Ed’s portrait of her is finally finished. After one of our weekends in Devon, for once without Carla, everything seemed to fall into place. We’d argued, and he’d left early, but sometimes I think our difficulties spur him on. When I returned, he was working on the hardest part – the eyes.
Now the painting has been accepted for a big London show in the autumn and the national press has got wind of it.
Suddenly, Carla’s everywhere. In women’s magazines. In the Times art pages. And in the cocktail party invitations we begin to receive. Of course, everyone wants to know the story. How we came across her again. Or rather how she came across us. When I open one magazine, I find that Carla has managed to tell the story with barely a reference to me. It’s as though it was Ed who offered her a home after the hostel fire. Ed who is her mentor rather than me. Ed who says how wonderful she is with our son, Tom, who is in a ‘special school’, far away in Devon. She doesn’t refer to the fact that he lives with my parents.
How dare she?
‘You have no right to mention Tom,’ I say to Carla, trying to control my voice.
We’re on our way to work. Walking briskly. It reminds me of the mornings when I used to see her at the bus stop with her mother.
‘He is part of our private life,’ I continue, still hot with rage after spotting the offending article in one of the lobby magazines.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says but in a tone that suggests anything but. Her chin juts out. It seems more angular than usual. Almost pointy like a cat’s. ‘But it is true, is it not?’
‘He is,’ I say, struggling to remain composed, ‘in the best place for him.’
She shrugs. ‘In Italy, we keep our family close, whatever the circumstances. It is better that way I think.’
‘You are living in the UK now,’ I splutter, almost unable to believe her audacity. We’re going into the office building now. I can say no more. But later that day, I receive a note from one of the other partners.
Luckily this has not yet gone out to the client. One of the trainees spotted the mistake, highlighted below. Please amend.
I’ve made a mistake in drafting a document about a company fraud. It isn’t big. But big enough. Yet the worse thing is that the trainee, according to the initials on the correction, is our Italian ‘guest’.
Later that night, Ed turns on me. ‘Why were you so horrid to Carla about Tom?’
A cold feeling crawls over me. I feel like the school prefect, reprimanded by a teacher for snitching on a girl caught smoking in the loo. Why should I be blamed for something she’s done? ‘Because Carla shouldn’t have mentioned Tom or the fact that he’s at a special school. He’s private.’