Chapter Sixteen #3
Devon laughed. ‘But it’s all right, because you’ll be there to find it for him.’ He shook his head. ‘Bets has taken complete advantage of me being here and has introduced all sorts of systems and new software while Dad’s not looking.’
‘You know they’ve improved things, so don’t try and pretend they haven’t.’ Bets defended herself, waving her hand airily at him. ‘Admit it, you even said how good the new stock management system is. You’re not a complete luddite.’
‘No, technology is great but I’d rather spend my time helping animate objects that respond. Stock control leaves me cold but new equipment – that would be brilliant.’
‘You’re so right,’ chipped in Britta, her eyes widening in appreciation.
‘Personally I refuse to have any sort of relationship with anything that contains a chip. I can’t bear it that all these corporate conglomerates are introducing all these devices, which are all immediately obsolete the minute they come out, and are sapping our nation’s long history of cultural brilliance and innate creativity.
’ She turned to Devon. ‘You don’t rely on a silly computer to diagnose what’s wrong with a suffering animal.
I’m sure it’s intuition and gut feel. You’re in tune with your world. In your own way, you are an artist.’
She grabbed one of his hands and held it up. ‘Yes, these hands that tend to the animals are the hands of an artist. I can see it.’
‘He’s not flipping Mother Teresa.’ Bets rolled her eyes and smirked at Ella.
Ella smiled back. Devon looked slightly uncomfortable as Britta traced her pale long fingers across his palm and up to the broad tips of his fingers.
Ella shifted in her chair, wishing Britta would let go.
It was all wrong. She didn’t know him. He was a kind man, too kind to snatch his hand away, but Britta was barking up the wrong tree with the artist tack.
His hands she knew were slightly rough, with a callous on the third finger of his right hand, possibly because of the way he held his pen.
She’d seen him writing, his biro clamped oddly between those two middle fingers.
From seeing him running, she knew the length of his strides came from long well-muscled legs and from walking next to him, she knew he was tall and broad.
Despite their rocky start, he was a nice man.
A very nice man. Warmth bloomed in her cheeks as she watched him.
When he smiled, tiny lines crinkled around his eyes.
Too nice for Britta. Far too nice, in fact.
Ella watched as Devon responded to something Britta said with a bark of laughter.
She wanted to wade in and protect him, which was ridiculous.
He was a grown man, but she knew his heart had been left bruised by Marina and Britta didn’t.
They left the pub crossing the road to the cottage. Britta gleaming like a ghost in the dark.
Tess, of course, was delighted to see them, and leapt about with enthusiastic affection bordering on the hysterical.
‘Good God, what’s wrong with it?’ asked Britta doing her best to fend off Tess’s flypasts and keep the black fur from her trousers. ‘Is it having a fit or something?’
‘No,’ Ella hid her face, smiling at Britta’s stick insect antics, ‘it’s just her way of making sure we know how pleased she is to see us and that we really shouldn’t ever leave her again.
’ She stroked Tess’s head, trying to contain her and keep her away.
‘Should we? You are daft.’ She gave the dog’s head another ruffle before turning back to Britta.
‘She’ll calm down in a minute. Do you want a coffee? ’
‘Lord, yes. With the exception of the rather divine Devon and surprisingly well made gimlets, it was a touch tedious in that place. I don’t how you do it.
That is what passes for civilised entertainment round here?
’ She sniffed. ‘Last Friday we, the gang,’ she shot Ella a look, which made it clear that Patrick had been there too, ‘went to a brilliant opening at Hoxton Arches, that fabulous gallery under the railway arches, to see a show entitled Retrospective of Perspex, which was quite good and they had sublime canapes and red wine served in little pewter buckets. Then we decided to try out that hot Mexican place down by the old Hackney Empire, except it was rammed, honestly no tables before eleven, so we ended up in Bar Esmerelda, which is still a dive.’
Ella frowned, suddenly remembering all those nights, darting from here to there in a constant hunt looking for the social equivalent of a pot of gold, most of which was spent travelling either on the Tube or some godforsaken bus route.
‘That’s what you’re missing out on, here.’ Britta sighed. ‘Although Devon can entertain me any time. I bet under that outdoorsy big man jumper there’s quite a body.’
Ella’s mouth tightened. The thought of Devon naked brought a sudden flush to her cheeks.
‘Coffee,’ she said decisively and marched into the kitchen.
Britta trailed after her. ‘Aren’t you going to open this baby?’ She tapped her glossy nails on the parcel which Ella had forgotten all about.
Ella hesitated, unwilling to share the magical whimsy of one of Magda’s gifts.
‘Secret admirer?’ asked Britta, prodding the box, openly curious now, tugging at the ribbon. ‘Shall I open it for you?’
Ella wanted to snatch it away but instead, she eased it out of Britta’s hands and undid the ribbon.
To lose yourself in the dance
is to live the dance of life
Dance on and free your heart.
‘What does that mean?’ Britta tilted her head, considering the words.
‘It doesn’t mean anything. My godmother is quite the spiritual type.’ Ella didn’t even want to begin explaining that Magda had decided she was the descendant of a witch.
Britta cast the blue note aside and pushed into the tissue paper.
‘Holy Moly, call the fashion police!’ She waved a strappy red satin-covered shoe with a stacked heel at Ella.
‘Heinous shoe crime. And look,’ with horror she pointed to the diamante trim across the ankle strap.
‘She bought you these?’ Incredulity stretched her voice out to a Minnie Mouse pitch. ‘What the hell are they?’
They were dancing shoes, Latin dancing shoes – and the exact pair she’d hankered after when she was fifteen. Magda had remembered all this time later. Yes, they were naff, loud, vulgar and . . . perfect for dancing.
Ella shrugged and rescued the shoe and box, putting the lid firmly back on and stuffing the box on the seat of one of the chairs under the table.
Ella made two coffees and Britta took a suspicious sip before saying,
‘Thank fuck you have decent coffee.’
Britta settled into one of the kitchen chairs, crossing her legs and sitting up straight.
Ella looked at her watch. ‘I need to take the dog out in a minute.’
‘God, what a fag. Do you have to do that every night?’
She shrugged. ‘You get used to it.’ And she rather enjoyed the solitude of that last walk of the day. Tess pattering at her feet, the stars in the huge open sky. It always grounded her. Reminded her she was part of something so much bigger.
‘Don’t you find it a bit creepy?’ asked Britta, casting a suspicious glance towards Tess watching them from her bed. She’d already collected her lead from the hall table and had it in her mouth.
‘No, to be honest. It’s quite comforting having another . . . ’ Ella laughed, ‘I was going to say person, but then it is like having someone else around. I quite like it now.’
‘How on earth do you cope? It’s worse than having a child.’ Britta shuddered.
‘Do you think you might have children one day?’ The question just popped out of Ella’s mouth before she could stop it. Trying to look guileless she traced a knot in the wood on the table.
Britta took in a sharp breath. ‘No.’
‘Really?’ Ella asked. How could Britta be so certain and decided?
‘Kids don’t do it for me. Commitment. Homes. Routine. Being tied down. Can’t think of anything worse.’
All the things that scared Patrick.
‘So were you serious in the pub about staying for the whole weekend?’
Britta gave a calculating smile. ‘Only if Devon the hottie was on the cards. I could spend a bit of time with him. But seriously babes, no!’
‘I think he might be on call this weekend,’ Ella lied, knowing full well that on Sunday he was picking her up to take the dogs to Ivinghoe Beacon for a walk. ‘You could come for a walk with me and Bets.’
‘You have to be joking. Far too bloody Pollyanna. She would drive me insane with her pinky perky ways.’
A wave of shame rolled over Ella making her snap, ‘She’s all right. She’s been very kind.’
‘Oooh! Kind, eh?’ Britta taunted.
Heat burned in Ella’s face. ‘Well, she has.’
Britta rolled her eyes. ‘Ella, babes. You need to get back to the city. Seriously, the girl has not got a sophisticated bone in her body.’
She suddenly gripped Ella’s arm, her blue eyes intent and almost frantic.
‘No disrespect but . . . you’re letting yourself go a bit.
Going native. I tell you, it’s not pretty.
Your hair, those jeans, and I saw trainers in the hall.
Make it up with Patrick. Come home. You could even, if you had to, kip on my sofa for a few days while you sort yourself. ’
A few weeks ago, she’d have packed her bags and boarded the next train without a backward glance, but now she sat silently for a moment, rigid tension making her limbs stiff and awkward.
She looked at Britta, the ice-white hair and the floaty scarves, and thought she looked just like bloody Ophelia or the Lady of Shallot. Too studied. Too false.
It was as if she were stuck between two worlds, neither of which had a place for her.
Tess yawned, stood up and shook herself, rattling the choker on the lead.
‘I think someone’s dropping a hint. I ought to take her out.’ Although it was tempting to take the cowardly way out, Ella couldn’t bring herself to do that. ‘And I think you’re being very rude about Bets – she might not be to your taste but she’s not done you any harm and she’s really helped me.’
Ella stomped along at a furious pace. Shame and anger burned together. It was as if someone had taken away blinkers. She almost winced. Had she really been that pretentious?
She screwed up her eyes, acknowledging her guilt in that department.
Yes, she had. Just like that. Art for Art’s sake.
The 10cc lyrics ran through her head mocking her.
Oh, yes. Definitely Art for Art’s sake. A memory surfaced: she and Britta at a small niche gallery opening gushing about a white basket of nuts painted black with a red plastic fish on the top. What the hell had that been about?
She couldn’t even claim that it was a one-off.
And then there was the way they treated other people.
One of their friends had ditched his new girlfriend when Britta had berated him long and hard about being seen with someone without an ounce of style or originality, because the poor girl had worn a branded T-shirt.
Patrick had joined in and Ella hadn’t said a word in her defence.
Just like she hadn’t said a word about how much she loved her new red shoes.
Ella completed her usual nightly route but rather than turn at the edge of the green to return home as she always did, she carried on with a second circuit, reluctant to return.
Her earlier furious burst of energy had left her and she dragged her feet with sluggish steps, a sense of discontent dogging her.
Her centre of gravity had shifted and suddenly she wasn’t sure of her bearings any more.
Tilting her head back as far as it would go, she looked up at the stars. There were thousands of them, like pinpricks piercing a black veil. Her neck ached as she considered the hugeness of the sky. Even when she circled her head, she could see only a tiny part of the panorama spread out above.
Funny, those same stars could be observed from the London pavements and she’d never seen them properly. Had city life, like light pollution, prevented her from seeing what was in plain view all the time? Was going back to London really what she wanted? Suddenly she wasn’t so sure.