Beneath the Skin(26)
Sophie guffaws, the red wine splattering over the side of her glass. ‘Don’t be such a drama queen. Anyway, you can’t go, we haven’t discussed the book yet and I believe it was your choice.’
Antonia sits down, her handbag clutched on her knee and she gazes at the drops of red wine as they seep into the carpet. So very much like blood, she thinks.
The glazed chintz curtains of the high-ceilinged room are drawn and the lamp is dimmed by a matching fringed shade.
‘What’s up, David? You’ve gone quiet again. I told Seamus I’d take over the bar at ten.’
‘Sorry, I’m in a funny mood.’
‘I gathered that, love. Cheer up or you’ll make me think I’m losing my touch.’
‘I’d like to talk more. It’s just … Or don’t you have time?’
Misty peers at her watch, the gold wristband loose on the tanned skin of her wrist. ‘If it was up to me you could stay all night, you know that. But I’m not the person you should be talking to, am I? I’m hardly Brain of Britain, but I can see that you need to talk to Charlie. As soon as. Or Seamus might be able to help, he knows people with money. Maybe a short-term loan would do the trick?’
David shakes his head, his eyes on the wallpapered ceiling. As usual with Misty, he’s said too much. It usually helps; him wittering, her listening, her eyes kind and supportive. Knowing she won’t tell another soul. But that was just stuff, small irritations, petty concerns, things forgotten the moment they’re voiced. Whereas this problem is huge and talking just made it seem bigger. He doesn’t want to think about it any more.
‘And there’s Irish Mike. You like him, don’t you? He seems kind and discreet. He might be able to help.’
He strokes the back of Misty’s hand absentmindedly. She’s in her fifties now and the flesh is loosening, but it’s soft, it’s welcoming. ‘At least you don’t suggest a friendly little chat with Sami.’
‘He’s all right. A bit full of himself, perhaps. I don’t know why you have it in for him. He seems pleasant enough.’
Feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, he roughly shakes his head. ‘There’s no way I’d let Sami have one over me.’
Misty glances at him and smiles. ‘Because he knew Antonia before you did? That’s silly. He married Sophie, not her.’
It’s something David has never asked. Was there prior history between Sami and Antonia? He doesn’t really think so, certainly not if Sophie had anything to do with it. But occasionally he thinks of Sami’s dark hands on Antonia’s flawless skin.
Propping his head on his hand, he studies Misty’s dimmed beauty for a moment. ‘How many years has it been now? At least twenty since you and Seamus took in a poor orphan! God knows where I’d be without this, without you—’
‘A pleasure,’ Misty says with a soft smile. ‘But, seriously, love, you need to speak to Charlie. To sort things out, not just for you, for Antonia too.’
David leans against her shoulder and closes his eyes. He can feel her fiery-coloured hair soft against his cheek. ‘Trust me, I know,’ he replies. ‘I know.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Antonia expects a wall of heat and the usual fetid smell as she’s beeped through the door of The Ridings. As the door opens, the heat is still there but the smell is long gone. If Antonia looked, she’d see sofas with cheerful cushions in the reception area, wallpapered walls, fresh flowers and chirpy staff. But Antonia doesn’t look. She hasn’t looked since she was a teenager.
Candy is in the lounge in her usual chair by the window. Jeremy Kyle is mouthing silent words on the television screen, his frown prominent. She is looking at her hands, examining their backs and then turning them over to gaze at her palms, as though the answer is there. Antonia notices that someone has painted her mother’s fingernails and it gives her a jolt of memory and of surprise. Candy has put on weight over the years and there’s little resemblance between mother and daughter, but Antonia has Candy’s hands, her youthful soft hands with long slim fingers and nails that are now painted bright red.
The flash from childhood hits Antonia’s chest and for a moment she’s breathless. But as usual she rallies. ‘Hello, Mum.’ She bends and kisses her mother’s solid cheek and then pulls up a seat, careful not to disturb an elderly man in the next chair. His eyes are closed, his mouth wide open. He might be sleeping, he might be dead. She supposes the former as two of the carers stand chatting in a corner with folded arms. ‘How are you, Mum?’
Candy lifts her head and after a moment her large eyes focus on her daughter. ‘Hello, love. Oh, look at you. Don’t you look lovely.’ Reaching out her hand, she softly strokes Antonia’s hair. ‘Your hair has grown long again!’ She breaks her gaze after a moment and turns to the carrier bag. ‘Have you been shopping?’
‘Not today, Mum. But I’ve bought you some new slippers and a box of chocolates. What have you been up to then?’
It’s the question Antonia always asks and Candy always replies that she’s been to see Sacha, the German shepherd they owned when Antonia was a child.
‘She was so pleased to see me, jumping all over and she licked my face. I took her some treats.’
There was a time when Antonia tried to put her mother straight, to tell her she was wrong or forgetful. She wanted to argue, to shout at her, to shake the mother she missed so much out of this placid, blown-up version.