The Snow Angel Page 9

  ‘I must have offended you,’ he said, his tone mournful. ‘Did I say something stupid? I often do.’

  ‘No, it isn’t you, it’s my job. I’m working very hard.’

  ‘You didn’t like the pictures.’

  ‘Of course I did!’

  ‘Then you don’t want your portrait done.’ His voice took on a tone of intensity. ‘You should do it, Cressida. I mean it. As soon as I saw you, I wanted to paint you. I think you could be my best portrait ever. There’s something about you that I long to capture on the canvas. Please, will you think again?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She looked up and saw her own face staring back at her in the mirror. She was pink-cheeked, her eyes wide. ‘I’m so busy . . . there’s so little time—’

  ‘It won’t take as long as you think. Come back and see me, one more time. Let me convince you. I’ll start to sketch you. It’ll be rough at first but I know exactly how I want you to look, how I want it to be. It’ll be amazing.’ His voice dropped to a whisper, becoming more intimate, and it buzzed in her ear. ‘You’ll look incredible.’

  She began to tremble at what he seemed to promise her: a connection between them that would be unique, creative, intimate. Could she really allow that to happen, knowing how she responded to Ralph’s presence? Would she make a fool of herself?

  ‘Please, Cressida. Come tomorrow? It’s Saturday, isn’t it? Come and have lunch with me and Catherine. Give this whole thing another chance, please. If you don’t want to be painted, then fine. But let’s at least be friends.’

  She didn’t know how she could refuse him. ‘All right. Thank you.’

  ‘Come at twelve. We’ll expect you then.’

  It was a fine autumn day, and Blackheath seemed almost like a country village, with its quiet streets lined with sleepy houses, and the air filled with the sound of birdsong. Cressida felt too warm in her coat and small brown hat. Outside the station, she stopped to buy a bunch of roses from a flower seller’s stall and she held them carefully so that she could admire the velvety furls of dark red petals as she walked. She didn’t hurry – there was no need to rush towards whatever she felt, obscurely, was coming for her. Just as the clock tower rang with the chimes of midday, she turned into Ralph’s street, scattered with the first fall of leaves, and made her way to his front door.

  At her ring, the door was flung open almost immediately, and a woman stood there beaming at her. She had curly dark hair cut short in a bob that stood out springily from her head, and well-shaped grey eyes with a dark blue rim around the iris. Despite their cool colour, they were dancing merrily at her as she spoke through her smile. ‘You’re here! Oh, I’m so glad! I’m so happy you came back!’ She reached out and grabbed Cressida’s hand, and for a moment, Cressie thought she was going to lean over and kiss her, or even lift her hand and kiss that, but instead she grasped it tightly and shook it.

  Cressie proffered the bunch of roses she was holding in her other hand. ‘These are for you.’

  The other woman gasped. ‘Oh! They’re too beautiful! You’re so kind, thank you.’ She took the bunch and pressed her nose into the blooms. ‘Divine.’ She looked up with sparkling eyes. ‘I might have known you’d do something like this. Ralph told me all about you. I guessed you would have delicious impulses and perfect taste. Please, come in. Let me take your coat.’

  She turned to lead the way into the hall. Cressie followed, slipping her coat from her shoulders, noticing the other woman’s plain dark skirt and white smocked blouse, and the thick woollen stockings and sensible shoes. She felt suddenly awkward and overdressed in her brown wool frock, the gold snakeskin belt from Hermes that had been her Christmas present, and her high heels. Feeling that she ought to make an effort for her portrait, she’d set her hair so that the ends curled and it was heavy with lacquer, the little hat firmly pinned to its crunchy surface. She’d carefully made up her face and put on lipstick and now she felt full of artifice next to the other woman’s naturalness.

  ‘I’m Catherine, by the way,’ she said as she led Cressie into the flat. ‘I’ll put your coat here. Now . . . I thought we’d eat in the garden. It’s too delightful out there in this balmy autumn weather – the colours are magnificent, like being in a scarlet, green and gold drawing room. Ralph’s already out there. I’ll show you the way.’

  Cressie followed her down the corridor past the studio to where a pair of doors opened onto the back garden she’d glimpsed during her last visit.

  Catherine threw them open and raised her arms with a flourish. ‘There!’

  The garden did look beautiful, in a romantic, shaggy way, the grass long and the trees tall, their leaves turning yellow and golden brown. There were late summer blooms bright in the undergrowth, and pots of lavender still had plump bees hovering around them. Nothing was neat or kempt, but everything had charm and beauty. The view was made complete by the great golden church rising high just beyond the wall of shrubbery at the back of the garden, but all Cressie could see was Ralph, sitting in a wrought-iron chair by an iron table, his long limbs stretched out before him, a hat tipped low over his face so that he could block out the sun and concentrate on whatever he was sketching on the pad he had propped up against the table’s edge.

  ‘We’re here, Ralph!’ Catherine called down, and he looked up, acknowledging them with a lift of his pencil.

  Cressie swallowed, realising her mouth was dry and her hands were tingling lightly. Good. He doesn’t care I’m here. Perhaps it’s going to be all right. She’d been restless the night before, replaying their telephone call and wondering what it meant when he had whispered to her how much he wanted to paint her and how incredible he could make her. It had been a kind of delicious agony to wonder if he felt anything of the same intensity and magnetic attraction that she did towards him. Seeing him react so casually to her presence ought to be a relief, and yet . . . a gloom settled inside her. Of course it’s all a dream. And that’s how it ought to be. That’s all it can be.

  Catherine turned to her confidingly. ‘I hope Ralph didn’t put you off horribly when you came here last. He’s got such strange manners sometimes; you know how it is with artists, they live by different rules to the rest of us. He meant to be charming and friendly but often when he tries hardest, he gets it most wrong. Do forgive him if he offended you.’

  ‘No, really, he didn’t,’ Cressie said, not wanting Ralph to be blamed for her avoiding them. ‘He was very charming, really.’

  ‘Oh good.’ Catherine put her hand on Cressie’s arm and fixed her with an earnest look. ‘He was utterly bowled over by you, you know. Enraptured! He’s talked of nothing else since but how much he’d love to paint you. Believe me, he doesn’t say that about many people.’

  Cressie blinked at her, surprised and somehow embarrassed that Catherine should admit so freely that her husband was charmed by another woman. She must mean that he was enchanted by the possibilities of her as a sitter, surely. Perhaps it was normal to express it like this in painterly circles.

  I wonder why she looks so familiar. Cressie felt sure she’d seen Catherine before – the thick short hair and firm gaze, the high cheekbones and the slight cleft in the chin – and then she remembered. Of course. She’s one of the portraits in the studio. The girl in the overcoat against the stormy sky.

  ‘Would you like a drink? I think we should have champagne, to celebrate your visit,’ Catherine said. ‘I’ll go and get it. You sit down with Ralph. Ralph!’ she called. ‘Put the drawing down! It’s time to entertain our guest.’ She turned back to Cressie. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  She disappeared back into the flat and Cressie went carefully down the lichen-stained steps in her high heels. At the bottom, she had to tiptoe across the grass so as not to sink down into the lawn. It was still damp with the morning dew where the sun had not yet reached.

  Ralph seemed to ignore her, his pencil still moving in rapid back-and-forth movements over the paper. When she reached the table, she stood by another of the i
ron chairs, seeing that it was still wet. At last he looked up, his hat tipping back so that she could see his eyes.

  It was almost too much. She reached out and grasped the cold iron of the chair to steady herself against the giddiness that seized her when their eyes met. What was it about him that affected her so strongly? It was as though his gaze was too powerful for her, stripping away everything she kept close to protect her tender soul from the world.

  That’s it. I feel naked in front of him. That thought made her head whirl. She hadn’t been naked with any man, but every cell in her body seemed to want to offer itself to Ralph. She tried to get control, gripping the chair hard and letting its iron chill eat into the palm of her hand, as though that would help her steady herself.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said softly and smiled, his lips curling slowly upwards, more at one side than the other. The sight of his mouth made her stomach twist and drop with pleasurable agony.

  ‘Hello,’ she replied, hoping she sounded normal. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’

  ‘Isn’t it just? How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘So now you’ve met Catherine. Did you like her?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She nodded, feeling a little awkward as she stood on tiptoe on the wet grass. ‘She seemed very nice, very welcoming.’

  ‘She couldn’t wait to meet you. She’s afraid I scared you off. But I didn’t, did I?’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘No . . . you didn’t.’

  Ralph looked back down at his sketch. ‘I knew you’d come back eventually. You had your reasons not to ring at once, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been very busy. I’m teaching at a school in the East End.’

  ‘Really? How fascinating.’ He looked back up at her, frowning. ‘Why on earth don’t you sit down? Are you going to stand there all day?’

  ‘The chair is wet.’

  He glanced at it. ‘So it is.’ He pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket, leaned over and mopped the drops of water off the chair. ‘There. Now you can sit.’

  She obeyed, glad to take the weight off her toes. Ralph watched her and then there was silence, his eyes fixed on her and hers on the patterns of the wrought-iron table as she concentrated on keeping herself from trembling under his gaze.

  ‘I meant it, you know,’ he said softly.

  ‘Meant what?’ she said, following the loops and turns of the iron as it laced in and out.

  ‘What I said on the telephone. That I want to paint you more than anything. I’ve honestly thought about nothing else since we met. I don’t know why you’ve captured my imagination but you have. I don’t think I could be happy again if you don’t let me.’

  His words made a sharp heat flash through her. She bowed her head slightly so he couldn’t see the way her eyelids fluttered and closed. ‘Really?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes. You’re like a muse. You seem to hold the promise of my art inside you. I don’t know why that should be or why it has happened . . .’ His voice was low and musical, the way she’d first heard it on the bus in Piccadilly. ‘But it has happened, and I can’t resist its siren call. Promise me you won’t run away again. Promise me you’ll let me paint you.’

  She swallowed again and pulled in a breath, feeling faint. She looked up at last, and somehow managed to return his stare. ‘I promise. You can paint me.’ It felt as though she was offering him her deepest self. The look in his eyes, of deep satisfaction and calm after a fight or struggle, seemed to confirm it.

  ‘Good,’ he said in a heartfelt voice. ‘Thank you. I’m more grateful than I can say.’

  ‘Champagne has arrived!’ called Catherine, stepping out of the house and bearing a tray with a bottle and glasses. ‘Ralph, you must open this quickly while it’s cold!’

  She came across the grass, confident in her sensible shoes, smiling broadly again. She put the tray on the table. ‘There. Open it, boy, do . . .’

  He lifted the bottle and pulled off the gold paper, letting it fall on the grass where it glinted and flashed like forgotten treasure. Then he put the bottle between his knees and his thumbs against the cork, wiggling it out until suddenly it popped with a satisfying noise and a gush of white spume.

  ‘Oh, well done!’ cried Catherine, clapping. She looked at Cressie. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Champagne in the garden! And we’ll eat here too. Lunch is almost ready.’

  ‘Catherine’s a wonderful cook,’ Ralph said, pouring out the champagne. ‘She’s really a marvel. You won’t believe she’s made it all herself, but she has.’

  ‘Flattery,’ she reprimanded him, but in a mild tone.

  ‘There’s more to celebrate, Cat,’ he said, looking up at Catherine, squinting against the sky in a way that made him seem almost more adorable to Cressie. He looked over at her. ‘Cressida has agreed to sit for me. The portrait is back on.’

  Cressie glanced over at Catherine and saw an expression of great relief pass over her face.

  ‘Has she? Well, that’s marvellous, it really is! I’m so glad. Ralph’s so talented – he can’t say that himself, but he is – and you’ll be very happy with the result, I promise you.’ Catherine sat down on another of the iron chairs, ignoring the wetness. She raised a glass. ‘Let’s drink to it. To the portrait!’

  They all lifted their glasses. Cressie sipped her drink, the bubbles prickling over her tongue. She felt as though she was simultaneously part of a secret plan, and its object. Who was in charge? she wondered. Who was manipulating things to their own end? Perhaps we all are.

  ‘I’ll get my diary after lunch and we’ll map out the sittings,’ Catherine said. ‘We’ll need at least eight sessions, won’t we, Ralph? There’s the underdrawing, then the grisaille, then the tones to add, hot and cool; sometimes the paint will need to be dry and sometimes wet . . . well, we can explain all of this as we go along. The main thing is that we can make a start!’ Catherine smiled at her again. ‘I’m so happy. I really am.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Cressie, smiling back. She sipped the drink again. This place feels enchanted. The whole thing seems a little unreal. But it’s strange – I am happy. I really am.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘The big day.’ The nurse smiled at Emily as she scrubbed her hands in the sink. ‘I expect you’ve been looking forward to this.’

  ‘In a way.’ Emily took a deep breath as she sat down on the bed, settling herself as well as she could with her feet dangling off the floor. ‘And in another way, not.’

  ‘That’s understandable. Right. Let’s get this off.’ The nurse approached her, her expression now serious as she examined the dressing at the side of Emily’s head that had been left on after her last appointment at the hospital. ‘So you’ve had some plastic surgery on the wound, haven’t you? The notes say it was healing well the last time they examined it. Let’s see.’

  She came and stood close, her chest almost pressed against the side of Emily’s head as she began carefully to undo the bandages. Not so long ago, Emily would have felt uncomfortable with someone so close, but her experience of being nursed over the last few weeks had made her accustomed to it. In a way, she felt comforted by the warm nearness of the nurses. She had no mother to hug her, stroke her hair and hold her hand, and give her physical reassurance. There were Tom and the children, of course, but the tender touches of the doctors and nurses as they looked after her healing were the nearest thing she had to that type of maternal care.

  No husband now either, she thought. That was something nobody had yet wanted to talk to her about. Was she still a wife when her husband was in a coma? He was technically alive but it was no more use than being married to a table or a gatepost. Was she supposed to muddle through, giving all she could to a man in a permanent sleep while she faced a lifetime of loneliness and physical abstinence?

  But I’d rather that than him being awake. She felt obscurely as though it might be some kind of cosmic bargain: she taking a nun-like vow of chastity in return for Will�
�s permanent state of sleep. And that’s fine with me. As long as he stays that way.

  The idea of sex and love seemed ludicrously inappropriate in her circumstances. She’d been more on edge than ever as the doctors had removed the coma-inducing drugs that had been keeping Will in oblivion. They’d said that the drugs should leave his system within a few days and, as the time passed, her nightmares grew more intense until she’d woken screaming, sure that Will was scrabbling at her upstairs window, trying to get in and kill her. Tom had rushed in to her, panicked by the noise, and helped her sob her way back to calm. The hospital reported that Will’s breathing had gone through some dangerous times – when he breathed too much or too little and disrupted the oxygen flow to his brain -but that it had subsided to a fairly regular pattern. Other than that, there was still no sign that he was emerging from his coma. Scans had shown great areas of damage in the frontal lobes.

  ‘The nurse who was on today said he’ll never wake up,’ Diana said in one of her nightly telephone calls. ‘I told her not to be so ridiculous. Of course he will. We don’t need that negativity.’

  ‘No,’ Emily replied mechanically. Diana’s certainty did not seem to require much more than that.

  ‘I don’t know why you can’t be at the hospital more,’ she said snappily. ‘You’re never there. I asked the nurses; they say they haven’t seen you. It’s not very supportive, Emily. I know you’ve had your own problems, but Will needs you if he’s going to get through this.’

  ‘It’s not easy,’ Emily said, trying to sound reasonable. ‘I’ve got the children at home. My plaster doesn’t come off for another three weeks so I can’t drive. And to be brutally honest, Will’s in a coma. What’s the point in sitting by his side day and night when I’ve got Carrie and Joe who need me? Especially with their father gone.’

  ‘Most patients in intensive care have someone with them constantly.’ Disapproval soaked Diana’s voice. ‘Poor Will looks quite abandoned.’