Blood Sisters(29)

‘Me too.’

My other students are at the far end of the table. I should talk more to the stranger on my left but I find that I want to know more about Lead Man. Despite everything, there’s something which draws me to him in a way I cannot explain.

‘Where do you work?’ I ask, tucking into my prawn cocktail. A slightly naff choice, I know, but I’ve always loved it. My father used to make it sometimes, according to my mother. It was one of the few things she’d ever told me about him.

‘One of my offices is nearby,’ he says casually, distracting me from my moment of sadness.

One of his offices?

‘I own a manufacturing business.’ He places his fork down on the plate as he speaks. He too has chosen prawn cocktail. ‘Sounds a bit dull, doesn’t it?’

I feel myself go red. It’s as if he’s read my mind.

‘Not at all,’ I lie, picking off another star from my trousers.

‘My people in the Far East make pretty paper lanterns that I then sell over here.’ He’s leaning towards me in the way that people do when they’re enthusiastic about something. ‘I love beautiful things. Especially if they’re a pretty colour. Always have done. It’s why I signed up for your course.’

Then he leans back with a little sigh. I often do the same myself. It escapes through your mouth without you realizing it.

‘My parents expected me to go into law or accounting. So I compromised with a business degree. Did my time, as it were.’ We both make a half-smile in recognition of the ‘time’ word in relation to his work and mine. ‘Then I made some good investments and set up my first venture.’ His eyes meet mine again. ‘What about you? How did you get into art?’

My back starts to sweat. My mouth goes dry. I take a swig of sparkling water. ‘I was going to read history at university but then changed my mind and did art instead.’

‘Really?’ He flicks back that flop of hair. ‘Why?’

I shrug. ‘Last-minute change of plan.’

Thankfully, he appears to find that amusing.

‘Now I freelance,’ I say swiftly. ‘I prefer it.’

‘Me too. Couldn’t bear to work for someone else now.’ He bats away the air as if the threat is actually physical.

Swiftly, I turn the subject to other things. We talk about art exhibitions. The Royal Academy is his favourite gallery. We both love films in translation and running along the Thames (something I haven’t had time to do for ages). Neither of us mentions our family. Nor do we ask each other that question that everyone else does at this time: ‘What are you doing for Christmas and New Year?’

The evening goes faster than I realize.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he says, ‘but I have an early start.’

Immediately, I’m embarrassed. I’ve delayed him by talking too much. And I’ve ignored the others around me.

Then he says something that assuages my fears. ‘I wish I could stay longer.’

He doesn’t explain why he has an early start. But I am reminded of the child’s watch in his pocket. Does he have kids? I want to ask. But I don’t want to appear too forward.

‘I need to go too.’

‘May I walk you to your car?’

Horsey-woman’s eyebrows rise as she watches us go. I’m embarrassed. But also flattered.

‘So,’ he says, as he accompanies me to my scuffed Beetle which, ironically, is parked just behind his shiny silver Porsche, ‘do you have any spaces left on your next course?’

‘Just the one,’ I say lightly.

There’s a man sitting in a doorway beside us. I wish I had something to give him but my companion silently drops a pound coin into the bowl by his feet.

‘I can’t commit yet because of work,’ continues Lead Man, without referring to his charitable act. ‘But I’d love to do it if I can. May I confirm with the college in January?’

My euphoria is now replaced with a sickening rush of disappointment. ‘Of course.’

Then I drive off. Telling myself that I had no right to expect anything else. It was just a Christmas college dinner. Perhaps he doesn’t fancy me. Maybe he’s committed. After all, he didn’t even ask me for my number. Would I have given it to him if he had? Yes. No. I’m not sure.

Letting myself into the flat, I head straight for my emergency box of glass bits. Quickly I press one to the palm of my hand. A small trickle of blood starts to seep out. I feel a flash of pain combined with relief.

Just as I’m about to go further there’s a knock on the door.

It’s my landlord, shifting from one maroon-slippered foot to the other as if embarrassed about troubling me. ‘I picked this up from the hall table by mistake,’ he says, handing over an envelope. ‘Thought I’d bring it round in person with my own card.’

Luckily I’ve written him a Christmas card too. I thank him and hand it over. Then I shut the door.

I open the envelope and pull out the contents. It’s a pretty, glittery scene of a young woman and man in a horse-drawn carriage from Victorian times.

Then I look inside.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS, it says.

Followed by the words MAY ALL YOUR SINS BE FORGIVEN.





18


Christmas Day 2016