Nothing to Lose (27 page)

‘There’s more?’ April grinned, after breaking off to serve a failed professional golfer and two born-again rock stars. ‘You ought to do this chauffeuring thing more often. Go on.’

‘Well, then Brittany said that she’d heard from that geezer that helped us out at Ampney Crucis – Ewan, was it? – and he’s coming up to town to see her apparently. And Sebby didn’t seem too concerned to be honest – and then she gets all bitchy and flings this Jasmine thing at him.’

‘What, like a bunch of flowers? Or a twig? Or, no, jasmine is a bit shrubby, so I suppose it would be a branch, then. What – in the car? That’s pretty dangerous.’

‘April – shut up. Jasmine, as far as I could gather, is part of the Ampney Crucis setup and Brittany sounded dead sarky, which means it could be someone Sebby fancied. Anyway, if he’s interested in someone from Ampney Crucis, and Brittany gets the nark about it, then it doesn’t look good for the Platinum being held either here or there, does it?

April mulled it over. ‘No, I suppose not. But then, if Brittany is going to be seeing Ewan, that makes things even more complicated, doesn’t it? Does she go with Ampney Crucis because of Ewan? Or against it because Sebby is dallying with the fragrant Jasmine? Christ, it’d finish Martina off completely if we lost out at Bixford because she thrust Sebby and Brittany together and they’ve each found someone else. A true case of biter bit or what?’

‘I know – but I suppose the best part of it is, as long as they’re preoccupied worrying about Ewan and Jasmine, and whether or not Bixford will get the Platinum, it’ll certainly take the heat off Sebastian finding out about you having Bee and Cair Paravel in the flat, won’t it?’

April smiled. ‘Too true. God bless Ewan and Jasmine then, that’s what I say. Oh, sod it. Here comes Martina – you’d better make yourself scarce.’

Jix unpeeled himself from the bar. ‘I’ve got to be getting back to the cinema anyway. Look, if I don’t see you before, good luck for tomorrow.’

‘Thanks,’ April nodded, watching him as he forged a path through the cocktail drinkers. The Lycra ladies all drooled in unison. It was kind of Jix to be so magnanimous, she thought. He’d never liked Noah.

Martina, dizzyingly resplendent in the skin-tight sequins, looked like an enraged twizzle stick as she wobbled her way towards the bar. Serve her damn well right, April thought, if Bixford lost out on the Frobisher’s Brewery sponsorship and the subsequent massive influx of money that the Platinum Trophy would bring in, simply because of her meddling.

‘April!’ Martina’s eldritch screech rocked the plastic palm tree to its man-made roots. ‘You get them bloody shoes back on this minute!’

September the twenty-sixth, the day that had been ringed in fluorescent marker pen for weeks, dawned blue and golden and misty-warm. April, who having overnight made at least one decision, had opted against the father-daughter introduction taking place at the gallery, and dispatched Bee upstairs to Daff. She’d also taken Cair Paravel out for his run at dawn because she couldn’t sleep, and was now shaking from head to foot.

‘Stand still,’ Sofia said. ‘I can’t get these damn pins in. God, girl, anyone would think it was your wedding day.’

April, with her teeth chattering, felt that in a way, that’s exactly what it was.

Sofia and Tonio, who like Jix had lambasted Noah after his defection with the loft-liver, had turned up trumps. Antonio’s brother had a nearly-new clothes stall on Bixford market, and Tonio and Sofia had arrived just as April and Cairey were returning from their morning exercise, with carrier bags full of potential outfits.

Sofia had again donated the Manolo Blahniks – it had been decided that today the glamour must outweigh the discomfort – and was now shortening a navy-blue cashmere sweater dress with ruthless determination.

‘It’ll look wonderful,’ Sofia mumbled through a mouthful of pins. ‘Elegant, classy – and like you’re now worth a million dollars. Turn!’

April turned. ‘I won’t need a jacket or anything, will I?’

Sofia shook her head. ‘Going to be warm. Just this and the shoes – oh, and a shoulder bag for your hankie for when you bawl. Not a handbag, mind. You’ll need to keep your hands free. Turn!’

Antonio came through from the kitchen with more coffee supplies. April, who knew she couldn’t eat anything, felt that she’d be jizzing with caffeine fizz for days. Never before had she been so nervous – not even when she went into labour with Beatrice-Eugenie, or when Cairey was about to run his first race.

‘Hair up or down?’ Sofia demanded when the hem was the right length and the dress had been whisked off to be pressed under a damp cloth.

April, in borrowed Agent Provocateur underwear from one of the other waitresses at the Copacabana, huddled on the sofa with her teeth rattling against her coffee cup. ‘Down. Noah liked my hair long.’

‘Make-up?’

‘Just mascara and a touch of lippy. Noah hated made-up women.’

Sofia heaved a sigh and carried on ironing.

The taxi arrived at ten. April had decided to fork out for a cab from the chocolate tin money, because she knew she’d be far too anxious to cope with buses and the tube. Anyway, she’d thought, if by any chance Noah saw her arrive, it would do more for her image to be stepping from a black cab than to emerge blinking from Swaffield underground station with the rest of the tourists.

With everyone from number 51 waving her off – except Jix, of course, who had to be working at the Gillespies’ house that morning – and Sofia and Antonio beaming at their handiwork like proud parents seeing a child off for its first day at school, April gave directions to the cab driver, and shrank back into her seat, feeling sick.

The journey took a little over half an hour, and tottering onto the pavement outside the Corner Gallery, April paid the driver, tipping generously because she knew better than most how important tips could be, then dared to look at her reflection in the gallery’s plate-glass window. She had to admit that given the raw material, Sofia had done a stunning job. She looked elegant, assured, and had just the right amount of daytime glamour.

If she could just prevent her knees from knocking, she’d be fine.

The Corner Gallery’s windows, white and spot-lit, all proclaimed that world-famous artist Noah Matlock would be attending to discuss his latest work and meet people during the day. It didn’t say exactly when, but April was sure she couldn’t have missed him. Noah wasn’t an early riser. There were two of his paintings on display in the window, neither of which she’d seen before, but she guessed they belonged to his new French period. They were all greens and greys and blocks of granite-coloured shadows.

Trying to stop her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, she pushed open the door.

Inside, the Corner Gallery was a smaller version of the one where she’d sold the painting. Noah’s pictures were all displayed on three-sided open screens, giving the room the air of a rather haphazard and unfinished maze. The gallery owner – at least April presumed the large woman in the autumn-hued caftan with matching lips and eyelids who was huddled in a corner with several people in baggy suits and thinning hair – was the gallery owner, was energetically extolling the virtue of a triptych of dark squares. Several other people were standing in front of the hessian-mounted paintings, referring back to their catalogues and murmuring.

Black and white photographs of Noah were dotted around the reception desk, and April felt the tears stinging her eyes. She’d had very few photos of him, and those she did have had been put away to show Bee when she was old enough to understand.

His image drew her like a hypnotised snake. These must be recent pictures, obviously taken against the rugged French landscape, but Noah hadn’t changed. His gorgeous battered rugby player’s face still brooded, his shirt was well-worn denim, his jeans were faded.

Swamped with lust and memories, April turned away from the desk. She wanted to go home. Even if Noah turned up he’d probably have forgotten her, or worse, he’d remember her and not want to know. She must have been mad to do this. Then she remembered the dream: the cottage – and her and Bee and Noah living like a proper family – in Ampney Crucis – and knew that she owed it to Beatrice-Eugenie at least to try.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ The caftan-wearer rounded the nearest set of screens and beamed kindly. ‘Is there a particular painting in which you’re interested?’

‘Um – no, not exactly. Er – I just wondered if – um – that is, what time Noah was going to be here?’

The caftan woman nodded knowingly. She was obviously used to dealing with Noah Matlock groupies. ‘Mr Matlock will be giving a little talk at midday, after which I’m sure he’ll be delighted to answer any questions.’

Not mine, he won’t, April thought. She worked some more saliva into her mouth. ‘I don’t actually want to ask him sort of arty questions.’

The caftan-lady tapped her orange lips with a podgy forefinger. ‘Well, I’m afraid Mr Matlock won’t have time to sign autographs or anything. This is for serious art lovers only.’

Not for serious ex Noah lovers, then April thought. She shrugged. ‘Oh, right . . . well, I’ll just sort of wander for a bit.’

The orange caftan lady tsked a bit at the term ‘wander’. However, one of the balding suits seemed to want to write a cheque, so with a final disparaging glance at April, she wobbled away.

Midday, April thought. She couldn’t wait until midday. She’d burst all over the vinyl floor long before then.

More people were arriving now, and April scurried between the display screens, staring at the rather violent daubs of colour. Probably done when he was cross, she reckoned, wondering if he had the same blazing, blinding fits of temper with the loft-liver as he’d had with her. The rattle of glasses and the cool smell of cucumber made her peer round the screen. Waitresses were laying a centre table with French wines, French bread, and rustic salads. The balding people swooped down on them.

April, pretty sure that she was going to be sick, sidled round the next set of screens.

‘. . . gets to be a bit of a chore sometimes, to be honest ... I just want to paint – this sort of public stuff is a drag – especially with the plebs asking pathetic questions . . .’ Pause for laughter. ‘Oh, no – don’t write that down! What? Oh, no – she prefers to stay at home when I’m on the tours . . .’

April felt the floor whooshing up to meet her. Sweatily, giddily, she clung on to the nearest screen.

Noah, with his back to her, was talking to a rather drab woman in a limp grey cardigan who was taking notes.

Peeping back round the screen again, she swallowed. The brown hair was still unruly, almost curly, down to the collar of the denim shirt; the buttocks and thighs, like a fly-half’s, were squeezed into stretch denim; the shoulders were broad . . .

The journalist closed her notebook with a sycophantic smile, just as several of the balding suits trundled round the screen.

Noah’s shoulders stiffened. ‘Question time later, gentlemen . . . Right now I’m going to fortify myself with some of that delicious-looking wine. What? Oh, yeah, thanks – I’m very proud of them, too. They’re good, aren’t they?’ Now completely giddy with desire, April propelled herself forward, bouncing off one of the suits.

‘Hey!’ Noah swung round. ‘Careful! Mind where you’re – Fucking hell!’

‘Hello, Noah . . .’

All April’s carefully rehearsed lines flew out of the gallery window. She’d forgotten how huge he was. Feeling dwarfed by his physical presence, and knowing that the suits were all staring, she tried a smile. It didn’t work. Noah, looking completely poleaxed, seemed as tongue-tied as she was.

Clearing her throat, she attempted to speak normally. It came out squeaky. ‘Er – it’s nice to see you again . . .’

‘Is it?’ Noah blinked. ‘Oh, yeah, right ... You look – well, great. Yeah.’

There was a deafening and profound silence between them. The gallery browsers who had discovered the food and drink were clattering glasses and rattling plates. April suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to throw her arms round Noah and kiss him to death.

‘You’ve – um – done very well . . .’ She indicated the hessian screens. ‘You must be proud – that is – pleased . . . ’

‘Yeah. It’s gone well. Er . . .’ He looked round as though wanting to escape, but failing to find a bolt hole, simply shrugged. ‘And you? What are you doing with yourself?’

‘This and that . . .’ April knew that to talk to him properly, to be able to tell him that he was a father, it would have to be away from here. ‘Are you and . . . ?’ She couldn’t mention the loft-liver; anyway she’d never known her name. ‘That is – are you in England for long?’

‘A week or so.’ Noah looked her up and down. ‘And no, Anoushka has stayed in France. You know, you do look exceptionally pretty ... Tell you what, if you’d like to hang about until this little do is over, maybe we could have a drink together? Just for old times’ sake?’

‘Oh, yes!’ April forgot all about being cool. She forgot the agony of his leaving, the nights she’d cried, the struggle to survive, the awfulness of having a baby alone. She was here, and Noah was here, and he was seducing her with his eyes – and the dream was going to come true. ‘Yes, that would be wonderful.’

‘Oooh – this is the life.’ Clara stretched out in her deck chair on the beach hut’s veranda, a depleted glass of Chardonnay dangling from one lethargic hand. ‘I can’t believe that it’s officially autumn. It must be even hotter today than it was in July.’ Lazily, she raised the glass in salute. ‘God bless global warming and all the little holes in the ozone layer.’

‘The end of September’s always the best time for a heatwave,’ Jasmine agreed. ‘Most of the tourists have gone, and the beach is practically deserted – not to mention the Crumpled Horn.’

Clara drained her glass, dropped her Raybans down over her eyes, and surrendered herself to the sun. Jasmine, having dared to bare her legs in a pair of cut-off jeans and most of her upper body in a vest, swigged the last drops from a bottle of Old Ampney ale, propped her feet up on the balustrade, and settled down into her canvas chair.