The Snow Angel Read online

  ‘But . . .’ She stopped, bewildered, looking down at the step as she doubted herself, then she turned her gaze back to his face and felt the same instant jolt of recognition. ‘You were on the bus.’

  He smiled again, but a frown creased the space between his brows and he peered more closely at her. ‘What?’

  ‘The bus . . .’ She felt distinctly odd; not ill but giddy and wrong-footed, as though she’d jumped off a spinning roundabout onto the still ground. ‘Piccadilly. You helped me on. I was chasing the bus.’

  His eyes narrowed – grey, flecked with green and gold, deep-set beneath straight brows; she felt as though she knew them intimately but she’d only seen them once before in her life – and a look of recognition filled them. His smile grew broader, his lips lifting at one corner more than the other as they revealed the straight white teeth beneath. ‘Of course. I thought I’d seen you before. You’re the runner girl. Did you manage to make your appointment?’

  She nodded. It was like meeting a friend again even though he was a stranger.

  ‘Glad to hear it. And what are you doing here?’ He lifted his hand from the door frame and brushed away the lick of hair that fell over his forehead, pushing it back out of his eyes. It fell forward again almost immediately.

  ‘I . . . I’m late.’

  He looked enquiringly at her. ‘Late? For what?’

  ‘For you!’

  ‘Me!’ Surprise filled his eyes.

  He’s so beautiful. It was the same thought she’d had the first time she’d seen him on the bus. She’d been half looking for him ever since that day last week, but with only the vaguest hope of ever seeing him again. Now here he was, right in front her.

  He’s the artist.

  She said, ‘Yes. If you’re Ralph Few.’ The strange giddy feeling washed over her again. It was like some kind of pleasant sickness – the sort of excitement that meant it was Christmas Day or that some wonderful news was expected. ‘I’m Cressida Fellbridge. I’m here for the sitting. At least, I’m late for it. It was at two thirty. Aren’t you expecting me?’

  He was evidently astonished to hear it, his eyes widening as he looked her up and down. ‘You’re Cressida Fellbridge?’ Then he burst out laughing, and slapped his hand against the door frame. ‘Well, you’d better come in then.’

  ‘Weren’t you waiting for me?’ she asked, taking a step towards him, half hurt to see him laughing so much at the mention of her name.

  ‘In a way. If I’m honest, I’d completely forgotten you were coming. I’ve been painting and it tends to wipe things like that from my mind. But you see, Catherine and I were wondering what you’d be like and . . . well, we had someone quite different in mind.’ He turned and led the way into the hallway. ‘Come this way.’

  She went through the front door after him. There was a marble-floored communal hall and a staircase that led up to the first floor and down to the basement. Ahead of them was a glossy black door, half ajar.

  ‘Catherine usually keeps me on track,’ he said over his shoulder, pushing the door open further and stepping inside the ground-floor flat. ‘But she’s not here today. I’ve been left to my own devices. Look.’ He pointed at a large square of black paint on the plain wall of the hallway. On it in white chalk was written a message in a firm, clear hand:

  R

  Cressida Fellbridge is coming at half past two. Don’t forget! Please offer her tea. I’ll be home at five.

  C

  Beneath it was more writing which Cressie couldn’t understand. It read: Med: 11, 3.

  It looks like a Bible reading, she thought. The Book of Med, chapter 11, verse 3.

  ‘There, you see? What did I say?’ Ralph said cheerfully. ‘She tries her best, but I’m a tricky customer.’ He read the message again and said conversationally, ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Who’s Catherine?’ she asked.

  ‘Catherine?’ He stood still, his hand going up to his hair again. He pushed the forelock out of his eyes. ‘Why . . . she’s my wife.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt deflated, as though a sharp pin had pierced her skin and let out the giddy excitement she’d been feeling. How stupid. As if it matters that he has a wife. Why should it affect me? ‘I don’t want any tea, thank you.’

  ‘All right. There’s some good stuff, Fortnum’s Royal Blend. My current favourite. If you change your mind. Come through to the studio. Catherine was hoping to meet you,’ he said, leading the way, ‘so she’ll be glad of the change of time.’

  ‘I don’t think I can stay long,’ she said lamely. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve made rather a mess of today.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry at all,’ Ralph replied with a shrug. He opened the door to the studio. It was, she realised, the sitting room of the small flat, a well-proportioned room with a high ceiling, a marble fireplace and a huge arched window that stretched almost from floor to ceiling and nearly the width of the wall. It gave out onto a lush green garden and a splendid view of the church she had passed, its spire reaching up into the clear blue sky, the gold hands of the clock on the tower glinting in the afternoon sun. The window framed the picture perfectly. Inside the room was furnished in shabby good taste: a battered old carved wooden sofa, a round mahogany table with mismatched chairs of various ages and stages of decline, a pocked and speckled mirror in an ornate Empire frame propped over the fireplace. On the floor by the hearth was a large marble bust of some hollow-cheeked, Roman-nosed statesman. The wooden floorboards were bare and covered with paint, except where rugs were placed as if to claim a little space for living away from the room’s main function as a studio. The walls were hung with pictures – some portraits and some abstract creations in bright jewel colours – and a number of canvases were stacked against them. Near the window stood a large easel with a canvas in progress upon it, and beside it a side table held jars of brushes, old palettes, bottles of oils and spirits, boxes of paints and a pile of stained rags.

  ‘Well, I do think it’s strange.’ Ralph looked at her gravely, then smiled. It seemed to be his way to stare earnestly, and then to unleash a smile that transformed his solemn handsomeness into delightful boyish charm. The effect on Cressie was powerful: the smile seemed to create a miniature tornado inside her.

  ‘Strange?’ she echoed, still gathering her impressions of the room. She wanted to study the paintings and see what they revealed about Ralph.

  ‘That you should be who you are, of course.’ He was so tall, almost a foot taller than her. His height gave his boyishness a strength and presence he might otherwise lack. It made something in her respond to him.

  She stared at him, unsure what he meant.

  ‘You’re the girl I helped on the bus. Very odd that we’ve already met like that, isn’t it? I held your hand long before I knew your name.’

  His gaze was strong, direct, and she felt herself almost overcome with giddiness again. Her hands tingled with the memory of his grasp. ‘Yes,’ she said weakly. ‘It’s very odd.’ She felt as though that first link had pulled them together across time and distance. But that’s so silly – Papa had already started this whole thing. It had nothing to do with the bus.

  Ralph eyed her with a touch of concern. ‘Are you sure you won’t have that tea? You look a little tired.’

  ‘I . . . perhaps I will, thank you,’ she said, glad of a moment to recover herself.

  ‘Good. You won’t regret it. Now, you make yourself at home, I won’t be a moment.’ He headed out of the studio and a few seconds later she heard him turning on a tap. The flat, she realised, was very small: the ground floor of one of those Regency houses that made up in height what it lacked in depth.

  She turned to look at the paintings that had been almost vibrating in the corner of her vision as though desperate for her attention. She went to examine them, moving slowly past the hanging unframed canvases, taking them in at a first pass. There were around a dozen, most unfinished, and the portraits seemed to her to be masterly: vivid, intense and lifelike to
a point that was almost photographic, and yet with a painterly style that made them the creation of an artist. The colours had a translucent strength as though they were lit from behind, and a particular shade of bright blue appeared again and again: in the colour of a hat, a dress, a tie, a flower in a vase. Many of the subjects were middle-aged men, some in uniform and most in formal suits, but a few were women. One caught her eye: a young woman sitting against a stormy sky, caught in a three-quarters profile. She had short dark curly hair and intense eyes almost as grey as the sky behind her, and wore a man’s overcoat that was too big for her and hung off her shoulders, a shapeless green tunic beneath it. Tucked in her hair was a flower, star-shaped and in that particular shade of rich bright blue. The subject stared out of the picture, her gaze direct and her slight smile unable to conceal the stubbornness of her mouth. One hand was on her hip in an attitude almost of challenge.

  ‘Here we are. Tea for two.’ Ralph had returned with a tray bearing a china teapot and two cups and saucers. Nothing matched but everything had a certain loveliness to it. It was good china, she could tell, even though it had the air of something scavenged.

  Ralph put the tray on the table and poured out the tea. ‘Have you been having a look?’

  She nodded. ‘What amazing pictures. You’re very talented.’

  Ralph shrugged. ‘Nice of you to say. I’m quite pleased with some of them. Others I can’t stand the sight of. But often that has to do with the people I paint. I can’t always be choosy.’ He flashed her another smile. ‘We starving artists have to eat, you know. I take commissions where I can, and most often they’re the portrait of some businessman for the boardroom, or a colonel for the mess, or a headmaster for the school hall. Nothing lovely or inspiring about them, just so much puffery and self-importance. But they pay.’

  She looked back at the portraits. ‘They look brilliant to me.’

  ‘You’re very kind. I’m just starting out. I’ve got to fight for commissions. I’m up against all the members of this or that royal society, the hoary old knights of the art world and the aristocratic lady painters who do the children of dukes. All of them. I’m unknown. And besides, I don’t love it.’ He gestured with the tea strainer to one of the abstract canvases, spraying drops of tea over the tabletop and the floor. ‘That’s what I really want to do. But no one wants them. They don’t pay the bills. Every time I paint one, Catherine gets furious with me. But I can’t help it.’

  Cressie stared at the abstract painting. It meant nothing to her except that the colours, like those in the portraits, hummed and vibrated with extraordinary vividness. It was entrancing and seemed to promise revelations if only she could look long enough.

  ‘Here’s your tea.’ He came towards her, holding out the china cup. She noticed his long, slender fingers. As he came closer, she felt the buzz of his presence and everything about him – the pale fineness of his skin, the thickness of his dark hair – became intense.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took it, clutching it in both hands, wondering at the sudden weakness in her arms.

  ‘There’s no sugar. Catherine won’t allow it.’

  ‘I don’t need sugar.’ She stared down at the milky surface of the tea, and then looked back up into his grey-gold eyes.

  ‘So.’ He stared down at her. The half-smile played at the corner of his mouth. ‘What are we going to do with you?’

  He seemed to be looking at her in a way that she’d never been looked at before, really seeing her in intense, microscopic detail – noticing everything about her face and hair but also reading her whole character from the way she held herself and how she returned his gaze.

  Why does he make me feel this way? She had to drop her eyes. She couldn’t take the power of his stare, the way he seemed to be able to look right into her soul. When she managed to raise her eyes again, he was frowning, thoughtful.

  ‘Yes. I think it’s going to be interesting. I think . . .’ His voice trailed off. He looked around as if he was trying to find something. ‘I wonder how . . . perhaps in profile . . . what you wear will matter . . .’ He seemed suddenly irritated. ‘Oh, where is Catherine? She should be here.’

  Cressie’s gaze went to the clock on the mantel. It showed that it was nearly five o’clock. She remembered with a nasty plunge in her stomach that she was supposed to meet her father at half past six. She hastily put her tea down on the table. ‘I have to go.’

  Ralph looked surprised. ‘But Catherine will be here soon. We can discuss what you want, how you’ll sit. I can make a preliminary sketch.’

  ‘No, I can’t stay. I’m sorry. We’ll have to make another appointment.’

  ‘But your tea . . .’

  ‘I’m sure it’s delicious but I have to go. I’m sorry, it’s my fault – I was so late today. I shouldn’t have come at all but I felt I must.’ She looked about, agitated. She felt sure that if Catherine returned, she would be kept here another half an hour at least, and that mustn’t happen. ‘Please forgive me.’

  ‘Of course.’ He looked startled but not annoyed. ‘You’re the sitter. We must do whatever suits you. I’m usually here.’

  ‘Do you have a telephone?’

  ‘There’s a communal one in the hall that receives calls. Usually we get to it first as we’re on the ground floor. I put the number on the letter.’

  ‘Then I’ll telephone.’ She felt as though she’d woken from an afternoon nap: groggy and shaking off dreams. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said, leading her back down the narrow hall to the front door. He watched her as she hurried down the steps and towards the gate.

  ‘Thank you!’ she called over her shoulder as she went.

  He waved after her but said nothing.

  Chapter Five

  Diana brought Carrie and Joe home the same day Emily returned from the hospital and the moment they pelted back into the house, yelling with excitement at seeing her again, life and light seemed to return to it. They dashed into her arms, not even noticing the plaster on her leg or the bandage on her face, overwhelmed with delight at being with her, and covered her with wet kisses. Everything about them – their bright faces, the touch of their soft skin, the sweet scent of their hair – filled her with a pleasure that made her feel alive again for the first time since the accident. They were with her, at home. Her two reasons for being were back and she could begin to face the work that had to be done to protect them.

  Tom made a cup of tea for Diana while the children played at Emily’s feet, rushing off to get toys from the playroom and then settling back close to their mother as though loath to be far from her. Emily reached out to touch their hair or their arms as they played, wanting continual reassurance of their presence. Each touch seemed to dispel the emptiness she’d been feeling, the longing she’d had for them. Strength began to creep back into her body.

  ‘How are you going to cope, Emily?’ Diana asked, her expression worried. ‘I’m exhausted even though I’ve had plenty of help with the temporary nanny, and I’m not recovering from a serious accident.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Emily said firmly. ‘Besides, I’ll have plenty of help and the leg will be mended before too long.’

  Diana looked down at the plaster with scepticism. ‘Really? But you’re some weeks off that, aren’t you? I don’t like to think of you here all on your own like this. Perhaps you should come and stay with me. It’ll be a bit of a squeeze but we’ll manage. That way I won’t have to worry about you as well as Will.’

  Emily stared at her with dismay. The thought of being taken from home, after the huge struggle she’d been through to get back here, was horrible. She didn’t want to live by someone else’s rules in a place that wasn’t her own. Diana’s house was comfortable enough – warm, orderly, tasteful and always spotlessly clean – but she would be a guest and no matter how kindly Diana’s intentions might be, Emily could foresee that most of her time would be spent keeping Carrie from playing with precious ornaments and Joe from sp
illing food on the cream carpets. ‘Oh, no . . . really . . .’

  Tom spoke from the sink where he was rinsing out mugs. ‘There’s no need, Diana. I’m going to be here.’

  ‘You?’ Diana looked over at him as though she’d seen him for the first time. She was well aware of Tom’s existence but he counted for little in her assessment of the world and the worth of the people in it. Here was a man in his thirties with no apparent career – freelance graphic design didn’t really count for much – no property, no family of his own. To her, he had slipped through the net, one of those children for whose parents one felt sympathy because their offspring had failed to amount to anything.

  Emily stared at her brother. She’d expected him to be around but even though he’d offered to move in, she’d imagined there would be too many practical difficulties. Was he serious?

  He gazed back at Diana with a frank, open look. ‘That’s right.’ He put a rinsed cup on the draining board. ‘I’m happy to. I’m perfectly able to help Emily when she needs me.’

  Perhaps he’s right, Emily thought. The children adore him. Why not? She felt relieved that she would not be entirely alone, and looked over at Diana, who was absorbing this.

  ‘Well,’ her mother-in-law said, ‘if it’s been decided—’

  ‘It has,’ Tom said firmly.

  ‘All right then.’ She looked to Emily. ‘I’m glad you’ll have help, dear. I can’t pretend I haven’t had some sleepless hours thinking about it all.’ She sighed and looked suddenly older, her eyes tired, the skin beneath them dark and puffy. ‘This has all been so terrible.’ She shook her head, then mustered a smile. ‘But we can’t be beaten by this. We have to stay strong. For Will.’ She leaned over and took Emily’s hand, her eyes anxious. ‘You’re coming to the hospital on Thursday, aren’t you? For the progress report?’

  Emily nodded.

  ‘Good.’ She tightened her grasp around Emily’s hand. ‘Together we can bring him back. I’m certain of it.’