Sheer Blue Bliss (13 page)

‘His … well, you will know about him, you will have read his book … his eccentricity you might say which was, in the end, trying.'

‘Trying?'

‘Yes, trying.'

‘Right.' He taps his pen in a staccato rhythm while she nibbles the corner of her sandwich.

‘Takes me back,' she says. ‘You're wobbling the table, dear, do you mind?'

‘Sorry.'

The waiter is there. ‘How is it?'

‘It's splendid, thank you.'

‘I understand you want nothing to do with any film version of the story … you and Patrick Mount, your life together, his …'

‘You understand right,' Connie says through a mouthful of bread and sugar. ‘If they want to make a film, well … I might go and see it but otherwise …'

‘It would be odd to see yourself portrayed on the screen …?'

‘Mmmm.'

‘All right, let's change track.'

‘Tack?'

‘I have been reading Mount's Memoir and the Seven Steps to Bliss. I understand you were involved in the development of his principle.'

‘Phytosophical. No, he'd sorted all that out before he met me.'

‘His process then.'

‘Yes, dear.' The table wobbles again. ‘Could you lean your weight on it or something? He leans forward and presses his elbow down. The table edge digs into his belly. ‘I wonder who they'd choose?'

‘?'

‘Which film stars.'

‘Were you involved in the experimentation?'

‘The other thing, of course, was cinnamon toast.'

‘He developed seven elixirs.'

Connie feels sorry for the man all of a sudden with his dented paunch and his fruitless squiggles. ‘He never perfected the seven. Let me think, there was Pleasure, Harmony, something, something, Euphoria, Bliss. Is that seven?'

‘An extraordinary idea, an extraordinary thinker.'

‘An extraordinary man,' Connie agrees, finishing her sandwich and wiping a gritty trail of sugar off her chin. ‘But do you know, living with someone extraordinary can be very … Sometimes I wonder if I had chosen an ordinary man life might have been …'

‘Easier?'

‘Oh I don't know, dear. One life or another life, what's the difference?'

‘Quite a bit, I'd have said.'

‘Did you want to talk about my painting?' Connie has a sudden memory of Patrick's skin, the amazing tenderness of it as she pulled the razor over his cheeks and chin. Her heart lurches inside her, the sandwich a mistake, sugar too sweet, she doesn't like sweet. The shock of that accusation, not accusation, suggestion, just a word.
Murder
. The very word in connection with Paddy sickens her. She sips her tea to try and take away the sweetness. He is going on and on, questions, questions, but she can't listen any more, can't think. Patrick, Paddy … she looks over at Deborah who catches her eye and comes across.

‘Sorry,' Connie says. ‘Sorry,' to the man. Tears rise in her eyes which have been dry for years.

‘OK. OK.' He puts his pad and pen away.

‘I'll get a cab,' Deborah says and Connie, looking up, catches the look that passes between them – a look of exasperation, amusement and pity. And it's that look that tells her that she can bear no more of this, not another single thing. She must go straight home.

TWENTY-THREE

The sun came out again, weak and nebulous. The paintings were propped up all round the walls. Not twenty, nineteen. Connie sat on her pad of blankets, knees drawn up to her chest, heart bumping against her thighs. She watched the backs of Sacha and Patrick, watched their shadows falling across her work that seemed so facile, pointless now. Neither of them spoke. Harry, who had followed them up, walked round sniffing at the paintings, his claws clicking on the bare floor.

Connie's palms were wet, her cheeks burned. In a moment she knew they would turn and speak to her. They would say something kind. Neither of them were cruel people. What a waste of canvas, she thought, what a waste of beautiful paint. Sacha would find her something else to do: sew or garden, or learn to play the piano. And that would be that.

Sacha moved aside and a ray of watery light quivered on Patrick in the vegetable garden, a small bent shape, foot on spade, the vegetables and flowers exploding round him, scarlet runner-bean blossoms stretching forward as if out of the painting, drawing the eye in to Patrick. A cheap trick, maybe. How would she know? The greens – yellow-green and blue-green and everything in between and cobalt and chrome – scarlet, Patrick's brown corduroys, the dark intense shape of him in the heart of the brightness. It was what she meant, her heart began to lift, but then she blinked and saw it again as they might be seeing it, childish, an exaggeration. You might even call it ugly, all that clashing of vegetation and the gardener practically lost within it, almost laughable maybe. And laughable certainly, the first one. Patrick and Sacha on the lawn, Patrick's naked back a luminous patch, almost a vacancy beside the sturdy blob that is Sacha, the dog's tail like a snake, the grass a vulgar, unmodulated green. Compared to Sacha's work … oh she cringed at her own cheek.

The room darkened and rain lashed the window. Connie felt cold. It was cold. Autumn suddenly come, after an Indian summer, swallows gone, time to close windows and light the fire. With a weary sigh, Harry settled himself beside her, nudging her leg with his damp nose. She stroked his silky head. She couldn't bear this silence. Why didn't they speak? Why didn't they at least look at each other so that she could intercept their look and know for sure how disappointed they were? Appalled. Poor them. How could they tell her kindly that her three months' toil, urgency, her three months of
purpose
, were a waste of time? All for nothing. Still, she thought, letting go her legs, flopping back on to the blankets and staring up at the stained ceiling, at least the time had passed, that was something. That year was gone.

The door banged. They had left the room, gone downstairs without a word. How
could
they? Harry hauled himself up and followed them. Connie stayed where she was, staring at a thread of cobweb hanging from the ceiling. She scanned the plaster for a spider but couldn't see one. She remained motionless listening to their footsteps on the stairs until she could hear them speaking downstairs, their voices low. A tear rolled sideways into her hair and she scrubbed it away. The dreary sound of rain again, the sunshine gone.

She hauled herself up and went to the window, pressed her face against the glass. All grey out there, even the green grey, everything grey, the sunlight of a few moments ago impossible to believe in. She looked back at the terrible mortifying canvases with their dolly bright colours. Funny that she had painted so gaudily while she was mourning. What would she do now? She hated Sacha and Patrick for their silence. They should know, Sacha especially should know how much that hurt. That they had said
nothing
. She could leave. But where could she go? The sickening punch of grief again. Nowhere to go. It was war and she was alone, an orphan. Awful. With a shiver she remembered Patrick's arms around her,
Fantastic. Should I kiss you?
How could she stay? The wind got up and leaves whirled about like dark snow.

‘Con.' It was Sacha calling. ‘Con, coming down?'

She hesitated. Felt almost a revulsion thinking of them down there, talking about her, judging her. What did it matter what they thought anyway? The first tendrils of a headache crept round her forehead. It was so gloomy in the room, gloomy and cold. The wind moaned.

‘I've made tea,' Sacha called.

The big brown teapot and half a fruit cake waited on the kitchen table. The range warmed the room and the lamp was lit which made it seem darker and bleaker than ever outside. The windows were steamy. The curtains should be drawn if the lights were on, even though it was only afternoon, what if a stray German bomber …? But Sacha and Patrick were careless about the blackout, almost contemptuous, and at that moment Connie hardly cared.

‘Gone quite wintery,' Sacha said. She smiled at Connie as if nothing was wrong. ‘You all right?'

‘Headache.' Connie sat down and received a cup of tea.

‘Difficult day,' Patrick said. ‘Headache, heartache, no doubt.'

How
could
they say nothing? They should understand. But she could not bring herself to ask what they thought. She didn't care what they thought. But it was cruel of them not to say.

Sacha cut the cake into three huge slices. ‘Might as well finish it off,' she said. ‘I'm baking later. Want to help, Con?'

So this was it. She was to learn to cook. That was her sentence, something useful and wholesome. Nothing wrong with cooking. She would like to cook. But it felt all over now. The summer a dream. Flour and sugar were to be her canvas; carrots, spinach, blackberries her palette. That would be it. They would garden and paint. Patrick conduct his lunatic experiments and she would feed them. She would be the cook. She swallowed against a lump in her throat. She would not submit to that. She would not stay.

‘Not hungry,' she said as Sacha pushed the plate towards her.

‘It's good,' Sacha said. ‘It's got carrots and honey for sweet – no butter. I enjoy this rationing. Stretches one's ingenuity. Try it.' Sacha took a bite, made happy chewing noises. ‘We must get you some more canvases, paints – oh it's a trial, this war, a bloody nuisance. What we need is to get you to some galleries – Paddy, we must invite Waverley, see what he advises.'

Patrick nodded, his beard sprinkling crumbs. ‘Yes, yes.' He met Connie's eyes and gave her such an admiring, approving smile that her blood seemed turned to honey in her veins. She sat absolutely still, scared to breathe too hard or move too suddenly. They looked at her, both of them, waiting.

‘So you … you don't hate them?' she whispered.

‘Hate!' Sacha laughed.

Connie raised her two thumbs to her mouth and nipped the ends with her teeth.

‘You must know that they are … well, we are stunned … Paddy?'

Patrick nodded, beaming. ‘Oh yes yes, so fresh.'

‘Fresh, yes, fresh, unselfconscious, they come from the heart – the use of colour is … stunning … oh yes, you need focus, direction blablabla, training. They will say naive charm … training? Yes or we can ignore all that if you like … whatever you like … what you must remember, Connie, what you must
know
, is that you have real ability. Do you know that? Real talent.'

Time stuttered and slowed. A whole beat lost. Connie pulled a sliver of carrot from her cake and chewed, trying to stop a stupid grin. What to say? She could not think. There is nothing that could make me happier than this, is what she thought at last. This moment would remain for ever in her memory: warm kitchen, rain lashing the steamy windows, brown teapot, cake – and most of all the excitement on Sacha's face, the way Patrick's eyes bathed her in warmth. ‘Thank you,' she said at last.

Sacha smiled. ‘So we'll bake this afternoon? It's Christmas pudding time. Now that
will
take some ingenuity. What we'd do without Paddy's bees …'

Patrick got up from the table and rubbed his hands together. He put one arm round Sacha's shoulders, one round Connie's and gave them a squeeze. ‘Call me when you get to the stirring bit. I want to make a wish,' he said. He picked up the big black umbrella from beside the back door, winked at Connie and went off out to his shed.

Connie watched Sacha bend down to take the big brown mixing bowl from a low cupboard. She noticed how broad Sacha's hips were, how her own hands were soft and trembling and most of all how a smile was spreading gradually through her, tugging upwards from her footsoles to the roots of her teeth.

‘How's your headache?' Sacha straightened up and rubbed her hip.

Connie put her fingers to her forehead. ‘Completely gone,' she said.

TWENTY-FOUR

Patrick is definitely with him pushing his eyes towards the woman, strap-hanging, gum-chewing in a short tight orange skirt. Imagine the warmth of the back of her leg, smooth in its black nylon, how it would feel to slide a hand right up from her ankle to her thigh inside that tight skirt. No harm imagining that, is there?

The train slows, Leicester Square. Tony stands, the train lurches and he is thrown against the wearer of the orange skirt. She grins round at him, bold grin, squelch of fruity gum between her teeth. He squeezes past and off. A shudder. Christ, it could be so easy. A cold wind blows down the stairs as he mounts on to the wet street. Seven-fifty-five and they didn't agree which exit. Have to wander about like some prat. Looks good though, clean hair tied back, best faded Levi's, black leather open to show white shirt. Yes indeed.

Stops at a flower stall. Should he buy flowers? Say it with flowers – say what though? Seems appropriate somehow, a tribute to Patrick. His gut is tight. Can't remember what she looks like. This is stupid. Shouldn't be here, should be anywhere but here. Burrowed under Donna's pink duvet? No. Because he has received the sign. Patrick has pointed him in the right direction, provided the clue he needs to continue and now it is up to him. She isn't there. What if she stands him up? No. Buys a bunch of tall blue flowers, the man says they're called irises. Their stalks bleed wetly through the wrapping paper. Now he feels a complete prat, hanging about in the pissing rain with a bunch of flowers. Crosses the road, nearly hit by a taxi, gives it the finger. Not at this entrance either. A drop of water trickles down the side of his face. A woman gives him the eye, black hair, short black shiny coat. Christ, they do ask for it, the bitches. Not bitches,
people
, not to think like that, Tony. Could give
her
the fucking flowers and leg it. Forget it, go home, give up. Then what? Life, what's the fucking point?

Another circuit of the entrances. Eight-ten now. About to bin the flowers when she arrives. Fair hair, pale fake-fur jacket and that face.
Her
, yes. She scans the pavement before she sees him, smiles, pretends not to notice the flowers. ‘Here.' He shoves them at her. Her smile is better than he remembers, soft lips, pale and sort of padded. No lipstick, good, he doesn't like lipstick, but a bit of stuff round the eyes. Nice. Classy. They stand for a moment, smiling, what to say?