A Girl’s Best Friend by Jules Wake (16)

Ella could have predicted how the visit was going to go when she picked Britta up at the station. Britta let out a startled bark of laughter. ‘My God. A dodgem.’

‘It gets me from A to B,’ she replied, equably determined not to let Britta’s comments get to her. ‘And none of us have cars in London. This little Citroën is fine and pretty essential.’

‘I know, but,’ she looked pained, ‘it’s ugly, like a washing machine on wheels.’

With great show, Britta gathered up the folds of her trademark white culottes and elegantly slid into the passenger seat. Ella turned on the ignition and sent up a silent prayer that nothing was likely to transfer onto the pristine white of her clothes.

‘Here we are. The cottage on the end.’

‘Quaint,’ said Britta, warily eying the street. ‘Is this it?’

‘This is it. Wilsgrave. The pub. The shop’s down there and we passed the church on the way in.’

‘I thought you were kidding about there not being anything here. What the hell do you do all day? You must be going out of your mind with boredom.’

‘It’s not that bad. I’ve got lots of illustrations for the new book done. And I’ve started,’ she paused, ‘a new style of work.’

Britta’s eyes gleamed with avarice. ‘Ooh, you kept that quiet. I’m dying to see that.’

Ella swallowed, suddenly not sure that she wanted anyone to see her new painting.

What would Britta think of her shadowy abstract landscape? It wasn’t edgy or urban, but hinted at secrets in the landscape, something hidden beneath the surface. Nature was beautiful but also cruel. Her hand crept to her stomach. Very cruel.

She led the way up the path, tension in her shoulders as she prepared herself for Britta’s comments about the cottage.

‘You’ve got mail.’

‘What?’

‘A parcel on the doorstep. Someone’s trying to impress you.’

Ella frowned. Another navy blue box, like the others, perfectly tied with the silver-grey ribbon.

She snatched it up wondering who else Magda had got in on the act and what well-meaning gift was in there this time.

Unlocking the front door, Ella paused for a second, meaning to warn Britta, but it was too late, an excited Tess burst through the door, tail wagging, running backwards and forwards in animated delight, her whole body quivering with happiness.

‘Stupid dog, I’ve only been gone for half an hour. Honestly, anyone would think you’d been locked up all day.’

Britta gaped at her. Ella bit her lip and smiled apologetically.

‘Sorry, don’t mind me. This is Tess . . . the dog.’

Britta gave her an icy glare. ‘I can see it’s . . . a dog. And since when have you had a dog?’

‘She’s not mine. I sort of inherited her with the cottage but don’t worry, she’s all right really, aren’t you, you stupid animal.’ Ella shook her head as Tess continued to bounce about like a lunatic.

‘All right?’ Britta’s lip lifted in disdainful disbelief, bending to brush her hands down the white culottes now speckled with black hair.

‘Sorry.’ Ella grasped Tess’s collar. ‘Behave. Britta doesn’t want you jumping all over her. Calm down, you daft thing.’ She stroked Tess’s silky ears.

Britta backed away and put her purple carpet-bag back down. Ella held on tight to the collar, feeling Tess start towards it. Knowing Britta it probably cost an absolute fortune and she’d go mad if it became covered in dog slobber.

Britta shot another unfriendly look at the dog and then lifted her head to take a good look around the tiny hall. ‘Well, this is cottagey.’ Her foot tapped on the stone flag floors. ‘Real as well.’

‘Let me just shut Tess in the kitchen and I’ll show you round. Not that there’s much to see.’

Britta wrinkled her nose. ‘Shouldn’t dogs live outside? In kennels? It can’t be very hygienic having one in the kitchen.’

Ella thought of the recent cold and misty mornings. Tess wouldn’t like being outside at all. ‘No, she’s very good,’ she lied. Britta didn’t need to know about rubbish bins being savaged, being pitched head first into the canal, irate fishermen or early morning presents on the kitchen floor.

As soon as Ella shut the door, after dumping the latest parcel on the table, Tess began to whine and scratch at the wood. She wasn’t used to being locked in during the day. Ella gave the door a worried glance. It wasn’t for long. Britta would soon get used to her.

The tour didn’t take long and she saved the best til last.

‘What do you think?’ asked Ella letting Britta enter the room ahead of her. Britta stood and considered, her head tilted as she paced the length of the room underneath the pitch of the roof. At last she nodded, her face non-committal. ‘Big windows. Good light. Plenty of space. Not bad.’

‘Not bad?’ Ella echoed, feeling as if Britta had stuck an unnecessarily large pin in her balloon. She looked around the room, seeing it with fresh eyes. Even on a grey, dank day like today, light flooded in through three large skylights, which were bare of blinds or curtains so that nothing encroached to stop maximum light entering. Her feet had grown accustomed to the grooves and dips in the marked and scratched wooden floorboards which diluted the impact of the stark white of the walls and she knew to avoid the splintery board which needed some sanding so that it wouldn’t catch at her socks when she got down from the high stool at the draughtsman’s table. Apart from a faded blue sofa bed, piled with white and grey cushions which added colour and comfort to the simplicity of the room, there was nothing else in here. It was the perfect studio.

Britta shrugged. ‘It’s OK. Have you seen Xander’s studio? You’d struggle to do any kind of serious installation in here. Unless you were filming. Although can you imagine how much it would cost to get a crew out here? Remember how much that video installation cost, the one that Bryce did. I think the location fees for a week alone were more than a grand.’

‘I’m not aiming to do an installation,’ said Ella, a little shortly. ‘This is perfect for my work.’

Britta pulled a conciliatory face which Ella knew from experience heralded anything but.

‘Exactly. Perfect. That’s shorthand for settling. You don’t want perfect. You want to be challenging. Settling is . . . settling for what? You’re limiting your horizons.’ She pursed her mouth before bursting out. ‘Seriously, Ella, what are you playing at. You shouldn’t be messing around with this stuff.’ She tossed a contemptuous arm towards the draughtboard and the makeshift washing line to which Ella had pegged pictures of Cuthbert and Englebert.

Ella bit back her words. Her fingers stiffened into angry fists.

‘Excuse me . . . ’ Her heart beat a little faster; she didn’t like confrontation. ‘That’s my work you’re talking about. It might not be to your taste but . . . ’

‘Ella, babes. Taste doesn’t come into it. You’re talented. That stuff’s,’ she lifted a shoulder in stylish dismissal, ‘beneath you. You can do so much better than these silly little illustrations.’

If Britta thought that a backhanded compliment was going to take the sting out of her words, she had another think coming.

Ella straightened.

‘Actually, I find that quite offensive. Plenty of people like my books. Just because something is popular doesn’t mean it’s no good.’

Britta pursed her lips and gazed away out of the window.

Ella was suddenly glad she’d tucked her new painting behind the stack of blank canvasses and the red monstrosity was under her bed. She didn’t want to know what Britta would have made of the misty blues and greens of her fairytale glade at the edge of the water ringed by her fanciful tree dancers.

‘Now this is more like it.’ Britta advanced to the corner of the room, a tiny almost forgotten alcove under the dormer window. ‘This I like.’

Ella frowned. What the hell was she on about? She watched Britta stalk into the corner with stately grace, like a tiger circling its prey. With a whirl she rounded on Ella.

‘You beauty! This is brilliant, babes.’

Ella followed her to look down at the coil of discarded barbed wire and dead tulip petals, some of which hung from the bared points of the wire.

‘This is so interesting.’ Brita put a hand on her right breast, reminding Ella of a Roman emperor making some important declaration, and said, ‘This speaks to me.’ Her eyes flashed with enthusiasm and fervour. ‘Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic. Patrick will bite your hand off. I can see this as the centrepiece in the gallery.’

Ella stared at her. Solemnly she tugged at her lips with her teeth. She didn’t dare say a word or even open her mouth. She swallowed hard.

‘Blood on a wire.’ Britta declared as she circled the coil of barbed wire in a long loping mince which teamed with the white knee socks and flared culottes suddenly struck Ella as utterly ridiculous. She stared at the ribbed socks, which were more than ridiculous. Britta was a grown woman. Ella pinched her lips together even harder, doing her best to maintain an impassive expression. It was very hard.

‘Babes, I thought you were mad coming out here but this . . . this is genius. I knew you could do it.’ Her ice blue eyes softened as their gaze shifted from the mess on the floor to Ella’s face with a slightly patronising smile.

Ella still couldn’t say anything.

‘I need the loo.’ With that she bolted and fled down the stairs to lock herself in her bathroom where she sat on the edge of the bath trying to decide whether to be angry with Britta’s rudeness or amused by her pretentiousness. She let out a snort worthy of a pig in truffle heaven. Laughter bubbled up. She sniggered and then the giggles burbled out, she couldn’t stop them. Tears streaked down her face, but she could barely lift her hand to wipe them away as she clutched her stomach which ached from laughing so much.

Her shoulders shook. She needed to get a grip. The wire and flowers had been dumped in the corner after she’d come back from the church after dancing with Devon. Putting her hands over her mouth she tried to contain herself but every time she thought she’d calmed down, another gale of laughter would surprise her. What would Devon make of it? She pressed her lips together, screwing up her eyes. It was too ridiculous for words.

After splashing cold water on her face and taking lots of deep breaths as well as pulling admonishing faces at herself in the mirror, she finally pulled herself together. Britta was nuts. Once again she felt a million miles away from her old life but this time it didn’t feel quite as bad. She no longer felt exiled.

How could anyone think that was art? But with a sudden forlorn insight, she thought of all the galleries and exhibitions she’d been to over the years. What was art? Maybe you could palm ‘Blood on a Wire’ off to an audience but if it didn’t mean anything to her, then it was cheating. It wasn’t real. Not in the way her new painting was. The secret world she’d tried to capture felt real, a glimpse of an alternate nature. Painting it felt right. As pretentious as it sounded, it satisfied something inside her soul, even though it would never garner artistic acclaim.

Straightening her shoulders, she left the bathroom and guiltily started as she heard Tess whine downstairs.

‘Britta, fancy a drink?’ she called up the stairs, unable to go back into the studio.

When everyone’s head in the pub turned at the exotic vision of Britta in flowing white palazzo pants, a long white shirt and yards of white chiffon wrapped around her neck and trailing down the length of her body, Ella tried hard to ignore their avid gazes. Britta looked exotic anywhere.

‘You sit down and I’ll go get some drinks.’

Leaving Britta at the table in the corner slightly tucked out of the line of sight of the row of regulars lined up at the bar, she went up to order.

‘Hi, can I have a white wine and a gin and lime, please?’

‘Coming right up. What sort of wine?’

‘What have you got?’ asked Ella as Greta pushed over a menu.

‘And I’ve just added a French Viognier which isn’t on there yet. And do you want fresh lime in the gin?’

That would please Britta no end. Ella nodded. ‘Yes, that would be great and I’ll try the Viognier.’

‘Good choice.’ Greta grinned. ‘Good job on the flowers by the way. Magda will be pleased you kept the side up.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, the flower arranging thing is very competitive. Rather you than me.’ Greta worked with easy competence, gracefully swiping glasses from the overhead shelves, sliding the wine from the fridge and with an easy twist yanked out the cork. ‘Got roped into the salsa dancing yet?’

‘No.’

Greta grinned. ‘You will be.’

Ella smiled politely.

‘Here you go, one gimlet.’

‘Thanks.’ Ella’s eyes widened giving away her surprise.

‘We’re not complete philistines out here, you know,’ admonished Greta with a sharp look. ‘We’ve just opted for a better quality of life. You’ll learn,’ she added with an almost pitying smile.

Wrong-footed, Ella offered her a vague nod as she paid half the price she would have done for the same drinks in London.

‘So, babes.’

Ella didn’t like the sudden sharpening of Britta’s features, as if they were being schooled to go into attack, especially not when she took what looked like a steadying sip of her drink. ‘Whoa! Fan my little tush.’

Britta’s unexpectedly enthusiastic response allowed her to breathe more easily.

‘This is bloody marvellous. The good landlady knows her onions. I’m impressed.’ Britta examined her glass and looked towards the bar, where Greta gave them both a mocking salute. Ella lifted her glass in a slight toast. Despite Greta’s prickliness she rather liked her combative attitude. You knew exactly where you were with her.

The respite was brief.

‘About you and Patrick, come on, you’ve punished him enough with this break business. Stop pratting about with the “I vant to be alone” crap. I’m no young romantic but you two, come on, you guys fit. The smart art team. Patrella.’ With a sudden lightbulb bing moment, she sat up. ‘You should so name a gallery that. I can see it now. Somewhere in Hackney, lots of brick walls, fractured lighting and the last word in installation art. A vision of your combined talents. The two of you merged. The ultimate creation.’

At this, Ella looked down into her glass. Britta’s words couldn’t have been more ill-chosen. They had created something together. Far greater than a stupid art gallery, and Patrick didn’t want it. Her heart twisted at the utter irony of it all. A couple of months ago she’d have been giddy and excited at the idea of a new gallery linking their names.

‘Hello – come in Ella.’

She swallowed and focused back on Britta. ‘Can we just not talk about this, please?’

‘That’s the problem. You won’t talk about it. Not to me. Lord knows not to Patrick. Poor guy, he doesn’t understand. What went wrong? One minute everything was hunky dory, I saw you that night at Gallery 99, the next thing I know you’ve packed up and moved out here.’

Which just showed what a brave face she’d managed to put on while dying inside.

‘I just need time to think about things.’

‘He wants you back, you know.’

With sudden insight Ella looked at her friend across the table. ‘Did he put you up to this?’

Britta stilled, her eyes unable to quite meet Ella’s.

It all made sense. Britta’s uncharacteristic desire to visit.

Ella sighed and then almost sagged with relief at the sight of frantic waving through the window.

Bets burst through the door, her happy smile at a lower wattage than normal. ‘Ella! Hi. How are you? Crikey, what a day, I’m dying for a drink and I brought old Grumpy Git with me.’ She tossed her head of curls over her shoulder towards Devon bringing up the rear.

‘Hi, Ella.’ Devon shook off his coat.

‘Devon, Bets, this is my friend Britta. She’s come up from London for a visit.’

‘Hi, Devon.’ Britta’s voice appeared to have dropped several octaves and had acquired a chocolate depth that Ella had never heard before. Oh Lord, it wouldn’t have occurred to her in a million years that Devon might be Britta’s type. She normally favoured emaciated artists whose facial hair outweighed their bodyweight and who rarely ever took their hats off. With his lush almost too long curls and broad shoulders, Devon made Britta’s previous conquests look like the living dead. With incredulous disbelief, Ella watched Britta.

Thankfully Devon seemed oblivious, but then he’d never met Britta before and had no idea that this was a far cry from her usual cultivated languid, indifferent air.

‘Nice to meet you.’ He stood awkwardly in front of them.

‘Who wants a drink?’ asked Bets, giving Britta a cheery smile to which the other girl responded with a cool nod. ‘After today, I need a very large one.’ She shot Devon a disparaging glance.

‘Just got one, thanks.’ As always with Bets, Ella felt as if a whirlwind had just passed by. Seconds later, Bets had abandoned her coat on top of one of the bar stools at their table and sailed off to the bar, cheerily hailing people as she went. A bit too cheerily. There was an almost frantic edge to her voice.

Devon smiled fondly after her and shook his head.

‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Despite the fact that it was a done deal, Ella liked that he bothered to ask. She gave him a rueful smile. ‘No, it’s fine. Looks as if Bets has already decided.’

His face dropped. ‘She’s a bit disappointed. Jack cancelled at the last minute. He was due home this weekend.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Bets had done nothing but talk about him the other morning as they did their usual walk.

‘So what do you do, Devon?’

‘I’m a vet.’

‘Oh! How interesting,’ lied Britta. ‘Lovely. Gosh, it must be so complicated. Knowing the insides of all those different animals. If Damien Hirst hadn’t got there first, you might have just given me an idea for an installation. It must be so fascinating dealing with them all day.’

Ella thought of poor Tess who’d been shut in the kitchen since Britta’s arrival in order to protect the purity of all those white clothes. Britta’s fascination had been in short order then.

‘Every day is different, especially compared to when I was in London.’

‘London? Where were you?’

‘Islington.’

‘Do you know the Green Bean bar?’ Britta almost batted her eyelashes at the mention of London. ‘Ella, they make the most amazing decaffeinated coffee. It’s the place to go for brunch at the moment.’

‘What happened to Frankinelli’s?’ asked Ella.

‘That’s so last year, darling. Honestly, you are so out of date already.’ She shook her head and smiled conspiratorially at Devon. ‘So will you be going to back to London?’

‘Not sure.’ The familiar bleakness descended on his face but Britta missed it.

Ella wished she could have clued Britta in to spare Devon the obvious pain that her subtle probing dredged up.

‘I think you should. I can’t imagine there’s a lot round here to entertain a man like you. It must be quite limiting.’

Ella imagined that life with Marina must have been more than entertaining and wondered if maybe he’d had enough of that. Like her, he was looking for a period of respite.

Devon shrugged. ‘I’ve been quite busy running the practice for Dad.’

‘And trying to update some of his systems,’ added Bets as she came up behind him and handed over his pint of beer. ‘Poor Geoffrey isn’t going to be able to find a thing when he comes back.’

Devon laughed. ‘But it’s all right, because you’ll be there to find it for him.’ He shook his head. ‘Bets has taken complete advantage of me being here and has introduced all sorts of systems and new software while Dad’s not looking.’

‘You know they’ve improved things, so don’t try and pretend they haven’t.’ Bets defended herself, waving her hand airily at him. ‘Admit it, you even said how good the new stock management system is. You’re not a complete luddite.’

‘No, technology is great but I’d rather spend my time helping animate objects that respond. Stock control leaves me cold but new equipment – that would be brilliant.’

‘You’re so right,’ chipped in Britta, her eyes widening in appreciation. ‘Personally I refuse to have any sort of relationship with anything that contains a chip. I can’t bear it that all these corporate conglomerates are introducing all these devices, which are all immediately obsolete the minute they come out, and are sapping our nation’s long history of cultural brilliance and innate creativity.’ She turned to Devon. ‘You don’t rely on a silly computer to diagnose what’s wrong with a suffering animal. I’m sure it’s intuition and gut feel. You’re in tune with your world. In your own way, you are an artist.’

She grabbed one of his hands and held it up. ‘Yes, these hands that tend to the animals are the hands of an artist. I can see it.’

‘He’s not flipping Mother Teresa.’ Bets rolled her eyes and smirked at Ella.

Ella smiled back. Devon looked slightly uncomfortable as Britta traced her pale long fingers across his palm and up to the broad tips of his fingers. Ella shifted in her chair, wishing Britta would let go. It was all wrong. She didn’t know him. He was a kind man, too kind to snatch his hand away, but Britta was barking up the wrong tree with the artist tack.

His hands she knew were slightly rough, with a callous on the third finger of his right hand, possibly because of the way he held his pen. She’d seen him writing, his biro clamped oddly between those two middle fingers. From seeing him running, she knew the length of his strides came from long well-muscled legs and from walking next to him, she knew he was tall and broad.

Despite their rocky start, he was a nice man. A very nice man. Warmth bloomed in her cheeks as she watched him. When he smiled, tiny lines crinkled around his eyes. Too nice for Britta. Far too nice, in fact. Ella watched as Devon responded to something Britta said with a bark of laughter. She wanted to wade in and protect him, which was ridiculous. He was a grown man, but she knew his heart had been left bruised by Marina and Britta didn’t.

They left the pub crossing the road to the cottage. Britta gleaming like a ghost in the dark.

Tess, of course, was delighted to see them, and leapt about with enthusiastic affection bordering on the hysterical.

‘Good God, what’s wrong with it?’ asked Britta doing her best to fend off Tess’s flypasts and keep the black fur from her trousers. ‘Is it having a fit or something?’

‘No,’ Ella hid her face, smiling at Britta’s stick insect antics, ‘it’s just her way of making sure we know how pleased she is to see us and that we really shouldn’t ever leave her again.’ She stroked Tess’s head, trying to contain her and keep her away. ‘Should we? You are daft.’ She gave the dog’s head another ruffle before turning back to Britta. ‘She’ll calm down in a minute. Do you want a coffee?’

‘Lord, yes. With the exception of the rather divine Devon and surprisingly well made gimlets, it was a touch tedious in that place. I don’t how you do it. That is what passes for civilised entertainment round here?’ She sniffed. ‘Last Friday we, the gang,’ she shot Ella a look, which made it clear that Patrick had been there too, ‘went to a brilliant opening at Hoxton Arches, that fabulous gallery under the railway arches, to see a show entitled Retrospective of Perspex, which was quite good and they had sublime canapes and red wine served in little pewter buckets. Then we decided to try out that hot Mexican place down by the old Hackney Empire, except it was rammed, honestly no tables before eleven, so we ended up in Bar Esmerelda, which is still a dive.’

Ella frowned, suddenly remembering all those nights, darting from here to there in a constant hunt looking for the social equivalent of a pot of gold, most of which was spent travelling either on the Tube or some godforsaken bus route.

‘That’s what you’re missing out on, here.’ Britta sighed. ‘Although Devon can entertain me any time. I bet under that outdoorsy big man jumper there’s quite a body.’

Ella’s mouth tightened. The thought of Devon naked brought a sudden flush to her cheeks.

‘Coffee,’ she said decisively and marched into the kitchen.

Britta trailed after her. ‘Aren’t you going to open this baby?’ She tapped her glossy nails on the parcel which Ella had forgotten all about.

Ella hesitated, unwilling to share the magical whimsy of one of Magda’s gifts.

‘Secret admirer?’ asked Britta, prodding the box, openly curious now, tugging at the ribbon. ‘Shall I open it for you?’

Ella wanted to snatch it away but instead, she eased it out of Britta’s hands and undid the ribbon.

‘What does that mean?’ Britta tilted her head, considering the words.

‘It doesn’t mean anything. My godmother is quite the spiritual type.’ Ella didn’t even want to begin explaining that Magda had decided she was the descendant of a witch.

Britta cast the blue note aside and pushed into the tissue paper. ‘Holy Moly, call the fashion police!’ She waved a strappy red satin-covered shoe with a stacked heel at Ella. ‘Heinous shoe crime. And look,’ with horror she pointed to the diamante trim across the ankle strap. ‘She bought you these?’ Incredulity stretched her voice out to a Minnie Mouse pitch. ‘What the hell are they?’

They were dancing shoes, Latin dancing shoes – and the exact pair she’d hankered after when she was fifteen. Magda had remembered all this time later. Yes, they were naff, loud, vulgar and . . . perfect for dancing.

Ella shrugged and rescued the shoe and box, putting the lid firmly back on and stuffing the box on the seat of one of the chairs under the table.

Ella made two coffees and Britta took a suspicious sip before saying,

‘Thank fuck you have decent coffee.’

Britta settled into one of the kitchen chairs, crossing her legs and sitting up straight.

Ella looked at her watch. ‘I need to take the dog out in a minute.’

‘God, what a fag. Do you have to do that every night?’

She shrugged. ‘You get used to it.’ And she rather enjoyed the solitude of that last walk of the day. Tess pattering at her feet, the stars in the huge open sky. It always grounded her. Reminded her she was part of something so much bigger.

‘Don’t you find it a bit creepy?’ asked Britta, casting a suspicious glance towards Tess watching them from her bed. She’d already collected her lead from the hall table and had it in her mouth.

‘No, to be honest. It’s quite comforting having another . . . ’ Ella laughed, ‘I was going to say person, but then it is like having someone else around. I quite like it now.’

‘How on earth do you cope? It’s worse than having a child.’ Britta shuddered.

‘Do you think you might have children one day?’ The question just popped out of Ella’s mouth before she could stop it. Trying to look guileless she traced a knot in the wood on the table.

Britta took in a sharp breath. ‘No.’

‘Really?’ Ella asked. How could Britta be so certain and decided?

‘Kids don’t do it for me. Commitment. Homes. Routine. Being tied down. Can’t think of anything worse.’

All the things that scared Patrick.

‘So were you serious in the pub about staying for the whole weekend?’

Britta gave a calculating smile. ‘Only if Devon the hottie was on the cards. I could spend a bit of time with him. But seriously babes, no!’

‘I think he might be on call this weekend,’ Ella lied, knowing full well that on Sunday he was picking her up to take the dogs to Ivinghoe Beacon for a walk. ‘You could come for a walk with me and Bets.’

‘You have to be joking. Far too bloody Pollyanna. She would drive me insane with her pinky perky ways.’

A wave of shame rolled over Ella making her snap, ‘She’s all right. She’s been very kind.’

‘Oooh! Kind, eh?’ Britta taunted.

Heat burned in Ella’s face. ‘Well, she has.’

Britta rolled her eyes. ‘Ella, babes. You need to get back to the city. Seriously, the girl has not got a sophisticated bone in her body.’

She suddenly gripped Ella’s arm, her blue eyes intent and almost frantic. ‘No disrespect but . . . you’re letting yourself go a bit. Going native. I tell you, it’s not pretty. Your hair, those jeans, and I saw trainers in the hall. Make it up with Patrick. Come home. You could even, if you had to, kip on my sofa for a few days while you sort yourself.’

A few weeks ago, she’d have packed her bags and boarded the next train without a backward glance, but now she sat silently for a moment, rigid tension making her limbs stiff and awkward. She looked at Britta, the ice-white hair and the floaty scarves, and thought she looked just like bloody Ophelia or the Lady of Shallot. Too studied. Too false.

It was as if she were stuck between two worlds, neither of which had a place for her.

Tess yawned, stood up and shook herself, rattling the choker on the lead.

‘I think someone’s dropping a hint. I ought to take her out.’ Although it was tempting to take the cowardly way out, Ella couldn’t bring herself to do that. ‘And I think you’re being very rude about Bets – she might not be to your taste but she’s not done you any harm and she’s really helped me.’

Ella stomped along at a furious pace. Shame and anger burned together. It was as if someone had taken away blinkers. She almost winced. Had she really been that pretentious?

She screwed up her eyes, acknowledging her guilt in that department. Yes, she had. Just like that. Art for Art’s sake. The 10cc lyrics ran through her head mocking her. Oh, yes. Definitely Art for Art’s sake. A memory surfaced: she and Britta at a small niche gallery opening gushing about a white basket of nuts painted black with a red plastic fish on the top. What the hell had that been about?

She couldn’t even claim that it was a one-off. And then there was the way they treated other people. One of their friends had ditched his new girlfriend when Britta had berated him long and hard about being seen with someone without an ounce of style or originality, because the poor girl had worn a branded T-shirt. Patrick had joined in and Ella hadn’t said a word in her defence. Just like she hadn’t said a word about how much she loved her new red shoes.

Ella completed her usual nightly route but rather than turn at the edge of the green to return home as she always did, she carried on with a second circuit, reluctant to return. Her earlier furious burst of energy had left her and she dragged her feet with sluggish steps, a sense of discontent dogging her. Her centre of gravity had shifted and suddenly she wasn’t sure of her bearings any more.

Tilting her head back as far as it would go, she looked up at the stars. There were thousands of them, like pinpricks piercing a black veil. Her neck ached as she considered the hugeness of the sky. Even when she circled her head, she could see only a tiny part of the panorama spread out above.

Funny, those same stars could be observed from the London pavements and she’d never seen them properly. Had city life, like light pollution, prevented her from seeing what was in plain view all the time? Was going back to London really what she wanted? Suddenly she wasn’t so sure.