Chapter Sixteen
Ella could have predicted how the visit was going to go when she picked Britta up at the station. Britta let out a startled bark of laughter. ‘My God. A dodgem.’
‘It gets me from A to B,’ she replied, equably determined not to let Britta’s comments get to her. ‘And none of us have cars in London. This little Citroen is fine and pretty essential.’
‘I know, but,’ she looked pained, ‘it’s ugly, like a washing machine on wheels.’
With great show, Britta gathered up the folds of her trademark white culottes and elegantly slid into the passenger seat. Ella turned on the ignition and sent up a silent prayer that nothing was likely to transfer onto the pristine white of her clothes.
‘Here we are. The cottage on the end.’
‘Quaint,’ said Britta, warily eying the street. ‘Is this it?’
‘This is it. Wilsgrave. The pub. The shop’s down there and we passed the church on the way in.’
‘I thought you were kidding about there not being anything here. What the hell do you do all day? You must be going out of your mind with boredom.’
‘It’s not that bad. I’ve got lots of illustrations for the new book done. And I’ve started,’ she paused, ‘a new style of work.’
Britta’s eyes gleamed with avarice. ‘Ooh, you kept that quiet. I’m dying to see that.’
Ella swallowed, suddenly not sure that she wanted anyone to see her new painting.
What would Britta think of her shadowy abstract landscape? It wasn’t edgy or urban, but hinted at secrets in the landscape, something hidden beneath the surface. Nature was beautiful but also cruel. Her hand crept to her stomach. Very cruel.
She led the way up the path, tension in her shoulders as she prepared herself for Britta’s comments about the cottage.
‘You’ve got mail.’
‘What?’
‘A parcel on the doorstep. Someone’s trying to impress you.’
Ella frowned. Another navy blue box, like the others, perfectly tied with the silver-grey ribbon.
She snatched it up wondering who else Magda had got in on the act and what well-meaning gift was in there this time.
Unlocking the front door, Ella paused for a second, meaning to warn Britta, but it was too late, an excited Tess burst through the door, tail wagging, running backwards and forwards in animated delight, her whole body quivering with happiness.
‘Stupid dog, I’ve only been gone for half an hour. Honestly, anyone would think you’d been locked up all day.’
Britta gaped at her. Ella bit her lip and smiled apologetically.
‘Sorry, don’t mind me. This is Tess . . . the dog.’
Britta gave her an icy glare. ‘I can see it’s . . . a dog. And since when have you had a dog?’
‘She’s not mine. I sort of inherited her with the cottage but don’t worry, she’s all right really, aren’t you, you stupid animal.’ Ella shook her head as Tess continued to bounce about like a lunatic.
‘All right?’ Britta’s lip lifted in disdainful disbelief, bending to brush her hands down the white culottes now speckled with black hair.
‘Sorry.’ Ella grasped Tess’s collar. ‘Behave. Britta doesn’t want you jumping all over her. Calm down, you daft thing.’ She stroked Tess’s silky ears.
Britta backed away and put her purple carpet-bag back down. Ella held on tight to the collar, feeling Tess start towards it. Knowing Britta it probably cost an absolute fortune and she’d go mad if it became covered in dog slobber.
Britta shot another unfriendly look at the dog and then lifted her head to take a good look around the tiny hall. ‘Well, this is cottagey.’ Her foot tapped on the stone flag floors. ‘Real as well.’
‘Let me just shut Tess in the kitchen and I’ll show you round. Not that there’s much to see.’
Britta wrinkled her nose. ‘Shouldn’t dogs live outside? In kennels? It can’t be very hygienic having one in the kitchen.’
Ella thought of the recent cold and misty mornings. Tess wouldn’t like being outside at all. ‘No, she’s very good,’ she lied. Britta didn’t need to know about rubbish bins being savaged, being pitched head first into the canal, irate fishermen or early morning presents on the kitchen floor.
As soon as Ella shut the door, after dumping the latest parcel on the table, Tess began to whine and scratch at the wood. She wasn’t used to being locked in during the day. Ella gave the door a worried glance. It wasn’t for long. Britta would soon get used to her.
The tour didn’t take long and she saved the best til last.
‘What do you think?’ asked Ella letting Britta enter the room ahead of her. Britta stood and considered, her head tilted as she paced the length of the room underneath the pitch of the roof. At last she nodded, her face non-committal. ‘Big windows. Good light. Plenty of space. Not bad.’
‘Not bad?’ Ella echoed, feeling as if Britta had stuck an unnecessarily large pin in her balloon.
She looked around the room, seeing it with fresh eyes.
Even on a grey, dank day like today, light flooded in through three large skylights, which were bare of blinds or curtains so that nothing encroached to stop maximum light entering.
Her feet had grown accustomed to the grooves and dips in the marked and scratched wooden floorboards which diluted the impact of the stark white of the walls and she knew to avoid the splintery board which needed some sanding so that it wouldn’t catch at her socks when she got down from the high stool at the draughtsman’s table.
Apart from a faded blue sofa bed, piled with white and grey cushions which added colour and comfort to the simplicity of the room, there was nothing else in here. It was the perfect studio.
Britta shrugged. ‘It’s OK. Have you seen Xander’s studio?
You’d struggle to do any kind of serious installation in here.
Unless you were filming. Although can you imagine how much it would cost to get a crew out here?
Remember how much that video installation cost, the one that Bryce did.
I think the location fees for a week alone were more than a grand. ’
‘I’m not aiming to do an installation,’ said Ella, a little shortly. ‘This is perfect for my work.’
Britta pulled a conciliatory face which Ella knew from experience heralded anything but.
‘Exactly. Perfect. That’s shorthand for settling.
You don’t want perfect. You want to be challenging.
Settling is . . . settling for what? You’re limiting your horizons.
’ She pursed her mouth before bursting out.
‘Seriously, Ella, what are you playing at. You shouldn’t be messing around with this stuff.
’ She tossed a contemptuous arm towards the draughtboard and the makeshift washing line to which Ella had pegged pictures of Cuthbert and Englebert.
Ella bit back her words. Her fingers stiffened into angry fists.
‘Excuse me . . . ’ Her heart beat a little faster; she didn’t like confrontation. ‘That’s my work you’re talking about. It might not be to your taste but . . . ’
‘Ella, babes. Taste doesn’t come into it. You’re talented. That stuff’s,’ she lifted a shoulder in stylish dismissal, ‘beneath you. You can do so much better than these silly little illustrations.’
If Britta thought that a backhanded compliment was going to take the sting out of her words, she had another think coming.
Ella straightened.
‘Actually, I find that quite offensive. Plenty of people like my books. Just because something is popular doesn’t mean it’s no good.’
Britta pursed her lips and gazed away out of the window.
Ella was suddenly glad she’d tucked her new painting behind the stack of blank canvasses and the red monstrosity was under her bed. She didn’t want to know what Britta would have made of the misty blues and greens of her fairytale glade at the edge of the water ringed by her fanciful tree dancers.
‘Now this is more like it.’ Britta advanced to the corner of the room, a tiny almost forgotten alcove under the dormer window. ‘This I like.’
Ella frowned. What the hell was she on about? She watched Britta stalk into the corner with stately grace, like a tiger circling its prey. With a whirl she rounded on Ella.
‘You beauty! This is brilliant, babes.’
Ella followed her to look down at the coil of discarded barbed wire and dead tulip petals, some of which hung from the bared points of the wire.
‘This is so interesting.’ Brita put a hand on her right breast, reminding Ella of a Roman emperor making some important declaration, and said, ‘This speaks to me.’ Her eyes flashed with enthusiasm and fervour.
‘Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic. Patrick will bite your hand off. I can see this as the centrepiece in the gallery.’
Ella stared at her. Solemnly she tugged at her lips with her teeth. She didn’t dare say a word or even open her mouth. She swallowed hard.
‘Blood on a wire.’ Britta declared as she circled the coil of barbed wire in a long loping mince which teamed with the white knee socks and flared culottes suddenly struck Ella as utterly ridiculous.
She stared at the ribbed socks, which were more than ridiculous.
Britta was a grown woman. Ella pinched her lips together even harder, doing her best to maintain an impassive expression. It was very hard.
‘Babes, I thought you were mad coming out here but this . . . this is genius. I knew you could do it.’ Her ice blue eyes softened as their gaze shifted from the mess on the floor to Ella’s face with a slightly patronising smile.
Ella still couldn’t say anything.
‘I need the loo.’ With that she bolted and fled down the stairs to lock herself in her bathroom where she sat on the edge of the bath trying to decide whether to be angry with Britta’s rudeness or amused by her pretentiousness.
She let out a snort worthy of a pig in truffle heaven.
Laughter bubbled up. She sniggered and then the giggles burbled out, she couldn’t stop them.
Tears streaked down her face, but she could barely lift her hand to wipe them away as she clutched her stomach which ached from laughing so much.