My Husband's Wife(74)

If I don’t ring, I will always wonder what he wanted to say. If I do, I am pandering to him. A woman walking past me drops her purse. Loose change spills out of it and I watch her pick up a clutch of silver. Why not? I take a fifty-pence piece out of my bag and throw it in the air. Heads I don’t ring. Tails I do.

Swiftly I catch it before it hits the damp grass.

It’s tails.

I should go back to the office. But I need time to think. My conversation with Joe has unsettled me. So I head for the National Portrait Gallery. It always calms me down to see other faces bearing the same kinds of expressions that I see on my own at different times.

Emotions don’t change through the centuries. Fear. Excitement. Apprehension. Guilt. And, when I snuggle up to Ed at night, relief that somehow we’re all still together. A family unit. Marriage has its ups and downs, my mother has always said. It’s true. It’s all too easy to throw in the towel. But I’m not going to allow Joe Thomas to do that to me.

I’m staring at a picture of Thomas Cromwell when my mobile goes. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth to a disapproving couple wearing matching scarves.

Swiftly, I head for the foyer, where a tourist is questioning the price of the exhibition ticket. ‘Where I live, our museums are free,’ I hear her saying.

I fumble in my bag, but my mobile is right at the bottom and I don’t get it out in time.

Missed call.

Ed.

My mouth goes dry. My husband never rings during my working day unless there’s an emergency with Tom. We haven’t had one for a while. It’s about time for another. It’s how it works.

Fingers shaking, I call him back.





28


Carla


Carla had been expecting something grand. Not like the Royal Academy, of course, which she was looking forward to seeing. But something that was, well, significant. Yet this narrow building was wedged between a shoe shop and a newsagent. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you might walk straight past. You even had to go down some narrow stone basement steps to find the entrance.

Then she stopped. Held her breath. All around her were walls. White walls. And on those walls was … her.

Carla, as she used to be.

The small Italian girl who always felt so different.

There was no mistaking her. Some of the paintings she recognized. But there were new ones too. Laughing. Frowning. Thinking. Dreaming. In big frames. Small frames. In bold strokes of red and raven black.

Oh my goodness! Silently, she gasped. There, in the corner, with a stick of charcoal in his hand, was Ed. Older than she’d remembered, with more lines on his forehead. He had glasses too, which she didn’t remember. But it was definitely him.

Sit still, Carla. Please. Think of something nice. Your new pink bike perhaps. Your friend at school. What is her name again? Maria! That’s right. His words came filtering back to her as she approached him.

‘Mr Macdonald?’

Reluctantly his head rose up to meet her gaze. She could see he was annoyed at being interrupted. His eyes hardened. Then they softened. He made to stand up but sat down again. ‘Carla?’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Little Carla? Is it really you?’

She’d been prepared for all kinds of reactions. But not this. Not this genuine look of pleasure. There was no shame. No embarrassment. No attempt to hide.

‘I wrote to you,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘But you didn’t reply.’

Those bushy eyebrows rose. ‘Wrote to me? When?’

‘Last year. And then I wrote again.’

‘You addressed it to the gallery?’

‘Yes – no, not this one.’ Carla felt a tremor of doubt. ‘I sent the first to the flat and the second to a different gallery from this. Where you had an exhibition.’

Ed ran a hand through his hair. ‘Ah. We moved a while ago. But the people who bought the flat from us are still very good at sending on our mail. Gallery post, mind you, can be a bit hit and miss with so many artists coming and going.’

Did she believe him? He sounded truthful enough. Carla looked up at this still rather handsome man with warm creases round his eyes. There was genuine care there. And admiration too. No doubt about it. An excited feeling rippled through her. This was the man she had idolized as a child. But now she was all grown up.

Perhaps there might be another way …

‘The letters were to tell you I was coming over. I have done my law degree in Italy. Now I am here to do a course in England, and thought it would be nice to look you up.’

‘Wonderful!’ Ed’s hands took both of hers. He was squeezing them tight. Surely for longer than was necessary. ‘I can’t tell you, Carla, how good it is to see you! Welcome. Welcome back!’





29


Lily


Ed’s number is engaged.

I’m really scared now. Stepping back so someone else can go in front of me in the queue, I try again.

‘Lily?’

Thank heavens. He’s answering. ‘What’s wrong?’ I blurt out.

‘Nothing!’ His voice is bubbly with excitement.

I’m filled with relief.

‘Are you busy?’ he asks.

It’s a strange question because he knows I’m always busy. The Portrait Gallery is a rare act of rebellion on my part. I should be in the office.