Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (8 page)

“It is?”

“Don’t let on I told you,” Claudia warns. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

I stare at her. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Oh dear,” Claudia says. “I said too much already.”

Lizzie rings up at ten the next morning. “It wasn’t as bad as we expected,” she says. “Hardly any damage. Just a few broken branches and a ton of leaves. Some areas are still without power, but your place is all right.”

“How about Zachary? Is he okay?”

There’s a burst of interference and all I hear is “—’s fine.”

I relax. “Thanks for taking care of things, Lizzie.”

“No problem. So, tell me. What’s up for today?”

“Sophie’s having a few friends for lunch.”

“Is Colin on the menu?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Lizzie says. “When’s your flight coming in?”

“Thursday, at seven thirty.” I pause. “I’ve bought you a huge tin of shortbread.”

“In that case,” Lizzie says, “I won’t send Fergus. I’ll come pick you up myself.”

I hang up and offer to help Sophie, but she shooshes me from the kitchen. So I go upstairs, have a bath, and get changed. Somehow, I’ve got to force feed myself into pantyhose, tie a scarf the way Sophie does, and make friends with a pair of malevolent shoes.

An hour later, I’m tumbling out of control down Sophie’s narrow stairs.

London

September 2010

I’m coming round, I think. I can hear people talking.

Claudia, her voice faint, says, “Keith, clear that stuff off the settee and gather pillows. This leg needs to be elevated.”

“I’ll get some ice.” Sophie sounds distant.

Oh, shit. My ankle.

It’s killing me.

“Jilly, I’m so sorry.” Colin’s voice. Deeper, older.

“Help me get her on the couch.” Claudia, loud and clear this time.

Strong arms lift me up and I’m swaying, weightless. The plank is stretched between us. I’m scared of falling.

Come on, Jilly, you can do it
.

Why didn’t Sophie tell me he was coming to lunch? Needles of pain shoot up my leg. I tighten my arms around Colin’s neck. He’s lowering me to the couch but I don’t want to let go.

Something cold, ice cold, flops onto my foot.

“Ouch!” I open my eyes. A bag of frozen peas lies across my ankle.
“Peas?”

“I didn’t have enough ice in the freezer,” Sophie says. “Poor Jill. You look wrecked.”

I close my eyes. This is a dream. I’ll wake up in a minute, in bed, and this will be something to laugh about. I didn’t really fall downstairs, did I? This is happening to someone else, isn’t it? But the pain in my ankle is real, and so’s Colin Carpenter, sitting at the end of Sophie’s couch in a dusky pink shirt. A cotton shirt, heavy and well pressed, with bronze buttons shaped like miniature cartwheels. A corner of one cuff is frayed.

God! What if my ankle’s broken? The peas shift. I feel fingers touching, probing. “Damn! That hurts!”

“Can you wiggle your toes?”

I open my eyes. Colin’s glasses are shoved on top of his head and he’s examining my foot, moving it gently from side to side. “A stretched ligament, but no broken bones.”

“I didn’t think so,” Claudia says.

Colin replaces the peas. “It’s a sprain, Jilly.”

Jilly
. No one else has ever called me that. Not even my dad.

Sophie’s oven timer pings. “Lunch is ready,” she says. “Okay, everyone. Into the dining room. Not you, Jill. I’ll set up a tray.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Colin says. His hair is thick and streaked with silver. Lines add character to his face, and the dimples, thank God, are still there when he smiles. “Does it hurt badly?” he asks.

I nod. “How do you know it’s not broken?”

“I was a medic in the army.”

Thirty-five years.

There’s so much I don’t know about him.

Sophie hands me a glass of champagne and asks Colin what he wants to drink.

“Ginger ale—or water.” He smiles again. “I have a long drive home.”

Where does he live? Bubbles tickle my nose as I gulp my champagne, hoping Sophie will float by with more.

“Here you are, you two.” She refills my glass and sets a tray of food on the side table.

“I’m starving,” Colin says, leaning toward it.

He’s as slender now as he was back then. I’ll start my diet tomorrow. “Sophie said you and your wife run a bed and breakfast.”

“Yes, we do, but Shelby’s not my wife.”

So that’s her name.

“I was married once,” Colin goes on. “It lasted fourteen years and I never want to do it again.” He maneuvers the tray onto his knees. “Would you like some of this?”

“No, thanks. Not yet. I’m still trying to cope with falling downstairs.”

And seeing you again.

He spears a piece of chicken. “Tell me about your life in America.”

I watch his mouth and want to kiss it. “I was married and then divorced,” I say. “I have two sons and a cat, and I live on a beach.” Maybe we could sneak upstairs. No. I can’t walk. He could hardly carry me up. Or could he? Does he want to kiss me? There’s a speck of mayonnaise on his lower lip. What would he do if I licked it off?

“Do you have kids?” I ask.

“A daughter. She lives with her mother.”

“Did Sophie tell you I was here?”

“Yes.” Colin puts down his fork, turns to face me. “She wanted to surprise you,” he says, glancing at my ankle. “I’m sorry you fell.” His eyes, soft and warm behind his glasses, are the color of moss.

“Colin, are you happy?” I blurt out.

He looks at me, surprised. “Yes, I suppose I am. Shelby and I have been through a lot of ups and downs. I was a wreck when we met, and she helped me pull through.” He pokes at a wedge of cheese. “I owe her for that.”

“Your marriage was as bad as mine, then.”

“Did you try a second time?” Colin asks.

“No.” How do I tell him I’m not brave enough to risk another loss?

“But what about you, Jilly?” he says. “Are
you
happy?”

The clock on Sophie’s mantel ticks off the seconds.

“I have good friends, a house I love,” I say, swallowing hard. “The beach. My sons. I’m—” I grope for the right word. “I’m content.”

“Don’t you want more than that?”

Of course I do. But am I willing to admit it? To Colin? To myself? In a mad moment, I opt for honesty. “I’m fifty-two and there are days I ask myself ‘what else is there? Is this it? Is this all there is to my life?’” It’s hard to believe I’m unloading like this but with Colin it seems so easy. So right, somehow.

There’s a crash from the kitchen and the mood is broken. Colin sighs, and we move to safer ground—my life in Connecticut and his in Gloucestershire; his dog and my cat. He tells me about North Lodge, his seventeenth-century house in the Cotswold hills that’s now a popular inn and hotel. A bit more than a bed and breakfast, he says.

I try to explain what I do for a living and discover Colin is only slightly less traumatized by computers than he is by spiders. “I’m a graphic artist,” I say. “I design brochures, logos, and promotion pieces for local businesses.”

The others drift in from the dining room. Roddy Slade, flushed and overweight, Hugh Neville, almost bald but with that same cheeky smile, and Keith Lombard whose once carroty-red hair is now totally gray. He introduces his wife. Penny Lombard has the sleep-deprived look of a mother whose infant keeps her up all night.

Roddy produces a digital camera and takes several group shots. He snaps one of Colin and me on the couch. “Give me your e-mail address and I’ll send it to you,” he says, before being waylaid by Sophie to take pictures of the dogs.

The boys—I still think of them that way—and I laugh over old memories and exchange bits of gossip, but nobody asks Colin why he disappeared without word.

Hugh and Keith slope off and Penny follows Claudia upstairs. Colin and I are alone. Again.

“Have you ever been to the States?” I ask.

“No, but I’ve always wanted to go.”

“Come over for a holiday.” Christ! Am I really saying this? What the hell. I’ll keep going. “You could stay with me.”

“That sounds great,” Colin says. “I’ll ask Shelby.”

Oh yes, Shelby. My face warms, reddens. What was I thinking?

His eyes lose their sparkle. His voice is distant and I turn away. For him, this has been nothing more than a pleasant interlude—a Sunday afternoon reminiscing about the past with an old friend.

After the last guest leaves, I round on Sophie. “Why didn’t you warn me he was coming?”

“And have you go into hiding upstairs with the dogs?” Sophie throws herself into the wing chair and hooks her legs over one of its arms.

I snatch up a pillow. “I’m not a child.”

Sophie looks at my ankle, now the size of a small cantaloupe. “Oh, Jill, come on. What would you have done if I’d told you?”

“For openers, I wouldn’t have fallen down your bloody stairs.”

“I doubt that,” Sophie says. “You always did have weak knees where Colin’s concerned.”

I hurl my pillow at her.

Sophie catches it and says, “So, what did you guys talk about?”

“The usual. Kids. Jobs. You know.”

“What about his wife, Shirley?”

“Shelby,” I tell her. “They’re not married—they live together.”

Sophie kicks off her shoes. “Does Colin want to see you again?”

If only he did. I shake my head.

“He is
enormously
attractive.” Sophie’s voice is a breathless gush.

I cover my eyes and she pounces. “I knew it!” she exclaims, clapping her hands.

London

September 2010

On Monday morning, Claudia insists she doesn’t want help getting to her doctor appointment. I don’t need a chaperone, she says.

Sophie folds her arms and looks at me. “Three weeks ago, the doctor’s receptionist phoned and bawled me out because Mum didn’t show up.”

“The sun was shining,” Claudia says. “I went to the park instead.”

They leave ten minutes later, still arguing. A couple of Sophie’s customers call, and one of them complains her photocopied price lists and menus are barely legible.

An idea takes shape. I look around for some paper and find Claudia’s sketch pad lying on the coffee table, and good, there’s a pencil tucked into its spiral binding.

I begin to draw.

Sophie’s face is furrowed with worry lines when they return.

“What’s wrong?” I bundle my sketches beneath a pillow.

“A touch of heartburn,” Claudia says, patting her chest. “I ate too much yesterday, that’s all.”

“Mum, doctors don’t order expensive tests for indigestion.” Sophie frowns at her. “I’m going to do the washing up.”

“What kind of tests?” I ask.

Claudia sinks into an armchair. “Something electrical.”

“An electrocardiogram?”

“That was one. There were others. Quite unnecessary, so I refused them and now my daughter is”—there’s a ferocious crash from the kitchen—“a bit cross with me.” Claudia looks at her sketch pad, now back on my lap. “What’s all this?”

“A gift.” I show her the layouts. “To thank Sophie for having me. Stationery, business cards, price lists and menus. I’ll finish them off at home, on the computer.”

“Perfect,” Claudia says. “Just what she needs, but wait till she gets through playing cricket with the crockery before you show them to her.”

The telephone rings and Sophie answers it in the kitchen. “It’s Colin,” she calls out. “He wants to know how your ankle’s doing.”

Claudia glances at my foot. “Tell him it’s Prussian blue with a nice touch of ocher.”

Sophie steps into the living room and hands me the phone. “Here. You tell him.” She turns to her mother. “Come on, Mum. Let’s take the dogs for a walk.” She grabs a handful of leashes from a hook on the wall. “We can continue our squabble outside.”

The front door slams shut.

“Jilly? Are you there?” His voice is so faint, I can barely hear it.

I grip the phone with both hands. “Yes.”

“Look, I can’t talk long, but I’ve been worried. Are you okay?”

My ankle throbs. “I’m fine.”

“Jilly—?”

There’s a long pause. “Colin?”

“I’m here,” he says. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come right out with it.”

I hold my breath. He’s going to tell me he’s changed his mind about coming over. That it would be best to leave things as they are. I can handle this. No, I can’t.

“I’d like to see you again,” he says.

I’d like to see you again.

My breath comes out in a rush.

“When are you leaving?” he asks.

“Thursday afternoon.”

“I’ll come to the airport. Heathrow, right?”

I’m a teenager being asked out for a first date. “Yes. Terminal Three.”

“What time is your flight?”

“Three thirty.”

“British Airways?”

“Virgin.”

“I’ll meet you at their information booth. How does one o’clock sound?”

“Great.”

Wonderful
.
Perfect
.

Colin says, “I’ve got to go,” and hangs up.

I’m still clutching the receiver when Sophie and Claudia get back. “Long conversation?” Sophie asks, removing the phone and putting it back on its base.

“No, rather short, actually.”

She lifts an eyebrow.

“He’s coming to the airport,” I whisper, “to say goodbye.”

“See,” Sophie says. “I told you!”

London

September 2010

Three days later, Sophie drives me to Heathrow. “What you need is a bloody good love affair.” She swings out to overtake another car. “Meet Colin a few times a year in places like Tahiti or St Tropez.”

“I couldn’t,” I say, checking my seatbelt. Sophie’s driving alarms me. She must take after her mother, or maybe Claudia takes after her.