My Husband's Wife(92)

‘That’s good to hear, sir,’ said Rupert, shaking Ed’s hand with a sideways glance at Lily.

Thankfully, Lily (who’d been quite distant recently) seemed to pick up on Carla’s distress. Smoothly, she changed the subject, but all through dinner Ed was difficult. It wasn’t just that he was particularly tetchy when it came to his wife. (‘We’re lucky to have the pleasure of Lily’s company, you know. She’s usually working at this time.’) But he also made snide comments about Rupert and his old school. ‘One of my cousins went there when he flunked Eton.’

Ed didn’t like their guest, she was beginning to realize. Poor Rupert. He could see that too.

Afterwards, they went downstairs to the basement to see Ed’s paintings. ‘Carla tells me that you appreciate paintings.’ Ed crossed his arms.

‘I do, sir. These are wonderful.’

‘They’re crap.’ Ed glanced dismissively at the pictures of old women, young women, the florist, the tobacconist, a mother in the park. ‘None have done anything. The only thing that worked was my painting of our lovely Carla here.’

Ouch! Ed was squeezing her shoulder so hard that it hurt. He stank of wine: at dinner, he’d got through an entire bottle on his own. She knew Lily had noticed too.

‘But now I am painting her again. Has she told you that?’

Ed’s face was close to Rupert’s. Part of her felt triumphant. Yet she was also crawling with embarrassment.

‘No, sir. She hasn’t told me.’

‘So you aren’t privy to everything that goes on in our Carla’s pretty head then.’

‘That’s enough, Ed.’ Lily was next to him now, taking his arm. ‘Time to call it a day, don’t you think?’

‘Nonsense. I expect you’d like to see the painting, wouldn’t you, young man?’

Rupert was as red as she was now. ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble, sir.’

‘Well, it is. And you know why? Because I never show my paintings to anyone until they’re ready. Never.’

And with that, Ed stomped up the stairs and left them alone in the basement.

‘I am so sorry.’ Lily shook her head. ‘He’s tired and this is a big time in his career at the moment. He’s hoping for a break with his new portrait of Carla. It’s in pastels this time. Quite a new departure for him.’

‘I understand.’ Rupert appeared to compose himself, showing those beautiful manners. ‘Artistic temperament and all that. Thank you so much for a lovely evening.’

But it hadn’t been lovely and they all knew that. That night, Carla listened as Ed and Lily had one of their biggest rows yet.

‘Why were you so rude? Almost as if you were jealous of him for being head-over-heels with Carla.’

‘Rubbish. I just didn’t like some pup looking at my paintings and making patronizing comments.’

‘He wasn’t. He was being entirely polite.’

‘I know what he was being. Anyway, what would you care? You’re never here.’

‘Maybe it’s time for Carla to leave. There are other hostels she could stay at. I don’t know why you asked her to stay on. It was meant to be temporary.’

‘So now you want to throw out my model just when I’ve got my inspiration back? It’s like you want me to fail.’

It’s happening, Carla told herself, hugging her knees in bed.

Yet in the morning, it was as though the argument had never taken place. ‘Would you like to come down to Devon this weekend with us?’ asked Lily.

Carla shook her head. ‘I’ll stay here if you don’t mind.’

Ed looked disappointed. ‘Really? Tom will be sad not to see you. He might not say so. But I just know it.’

So will I, said his eyes.

Good.

‘I’m afraid I need to work on my next assignment.’

‘Sure.’ Ed sounded put out. ‘When I’m back, Carla, I’d appreciate some more of your sitting time for the portrait.’

She flushed. ‘Of course.’





41


Lily


Weeks and then months are growing along with the portrait. Easter shoots past with its nodding yellow daffodils. Early summer roses have already, in our little patch of ground at the back, come into bloom. And so too has Carla.

I watch our ‘lodger’ take form on Ed’s canvas with increasing amazement and respect. My husband’s hand, which had been so unsteady over the last few years, partly due to lack of confidence – and sometimes, let’s be honest, due to drink – has taken on a sureness of its own.

Carla’s beautiful almond-shaped eyes within that elfin face follow me whenever I glance at the easel. She is there now all the time. A living fixture in the studio that faces the garden at the back of the house, where there is more light. A living fixture too in our house, where she takes my coat when I come in from work and announces that dinner is almost ready.

And she’s exciting a great deal of interest.

‘You are painting the same Italian girl again?’ asked a journalist who came round to interview us for an ‘at home’, a gig that Ed’s agent had somehow arranged.

I’d been standing by the canvas which Ed had, quite purposefully, left out rather than putting it away as he usually did with a work in progress. ‘Yes,’ my husband said in a casual way, which of course I could see right through. ‘Carla – the little girl whom my wife and I used to look after when we were first married – has come back into our lives. She’s in her early twenties now – training to be a lawyer, actually – and has been kind enough to allow me to paint her again.’