‘Margery Duffle. Margery Duffle.’ Ella kept repeating the name as she danced around her studio. Margery Duffle liked her picture.
A demanding knock at the door stopped her excited moves but her heart started skipping. Devon, bringing Tess back. He’d been out with her for ages. She tripped quickly down the stairs to open the door. He deserved a medal and dinner and maybe dessert this time. Memories of the sofa made her smile as she ran the last few steps to the door and threw it open.
‘Patrick!’
She stopped dead, holding the door in one hand, instinct shouting at her to slam it in his face.
‘Ella.’ He pushed a foot in the door. ‘We need to talk.’
Framed in the door in a waxed jacket and corduroy trousers, holding out a Fortnum & Mason bag, he looked just like Patrick. Not a monster. Although the country attire amused her. Typical.
Oh shit! He was probably right. She’d been running from this since the day she got on the train to Tring.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said in a low voice, as sadness pierced her. This wasn’t going to end well for either of them.
Time to be honest with him and herself, if he gave her the chance to get a word in edgeways. From the determined look on his face, he had it all worked out. Like the last piece of a jigsaw slotting into place, she saw the familiar patterns of the way their arguments had panned out in the past. Patrick being utterly reasonable. Wearing her down with his appeals and entreaties.
‘Ella, I’ve missed you. You’re looking amazing.’ He used the boyish charm that had worked so often in the past. Brown eyes big and soulful. Voice lowered in meaningful entreaty. What once seemed sexy and charming looked posed and artificial. And very different from the naturally masculine man she’d got used to in recent weeks.
‘Really?’ She’d made a bit of an effort for the WI but she hadn’t had her hair cut in weeks.
‘Yes,’ his voice held a note of surprise as he examined her face. ‘Yes. You look different. Maybe it’s the hair. It’s longer than usual.’ He tilted his head and then, as if he’d worked out the answer to a difficult sum, relaxed. ‘I see what it is. You’ve adopted the natural look. Bucolic charm. Roses in your cheeks.’
She raised an eyebrow. Her natural healthy glow came from daily walks in the sunshine which had also lightened her hair, while leaving it to dry naturally, instead of blow drying it into stylish submission, had given it a gentle curl.
It occurred to her that they were standing on the opposite sides of a chasm that couldn’t be crossed except he wasn’t even close to being aware of it. She couldn’t raise the energy to be cross with him when all she felt was a bone-deep weariness.
She led him to the lounge, deliberately avoiding the kitchen.
‘This is nice.’ Patrick surveyed the cream sofas and the deep blue of the wallpaper on the accent wall. ‘Very rustic but in keeping with the exterior. Not my taste but charming all the same. How are you coping living out here? It must be hard adapting?’
‘Patrick. You didn’t come to discuss interior design. Why don’t you take a seat?’
‘You’re upset. I can tell.’ He peeled off his coat. It still had the label inside.
She deliberately sat on the other side of the room but he followed and crouched down beside the arm of her chair, staring earnestly up into her eyes.
‘I don’t blame you.’ His face softened. ‘I’m an arse, but I need you. I love you.’
Guilt tinged with sorrow hit her. He probably did love her in his own way. She’d never given him any reason in the past to think that she’d wandered off the page they shared. Unfortunately, it had become glaringly obvious to her that they were not so much on different pages but reading completely different books in different languages.
‘Ella, we need to get back on track. I admit I made a mistake going ahead with the show without telling you.’
‘That was a mistake?’ Did he think she was stupid? ‘It looked pretty deliberate to me. I don’t think you ever had any intention of telling me about the show. You were hoping that I might never find out about it.’
‘Everyone makes mistakes. I can explain everything.’
‘Really? The list of mistakes is pretty long. Have you got all day?’
‘Ella,’ Righteous confusion furrowed his brow. The sort that might belong to a hen who’d sat on an egg fully expectant of the arrival of a fluffy chick and instead was faced with a small snappy alligator. ‘You’re being unreasonable. Have decency and manners gone out the window? You could at least offer me a cup of coffee.’
Damn, how did he do that, wrong foot her and take the superior high ground?
‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘That would be civilised.’
She sighed and then sighed even more when he followed her into the kitchen.
Ignoring him, she concentrated on the familiar motion of making coffee. Cups. Kettle. Milk.
Patrick pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and in that stupid cowboy fashion turned it round and sat astride. She’d seen him do it a thousand times before, thinking it looked cool. Today she winced. For no reason she could possibly explain, she did not want him in her kitchen. ‘I brought you your favourite Champagne Truffles. I was passing and thought you might like them.’ He took the familiar box out of the bag and left it on the table.
Even though it was the largest box they did, he had seriously underestimated the size of the war with this peace offering.
‘Er, Ella. Don’t you have proper coffee?’ he asked as she spooned instant granules into a mug and pulled a pint of milk out of the fridge. ‘Or skinny milk?’
‘It’s not a flipping coffee shop.’ He didn’t need to know that since George’s return from hospital she took him a cappuccino every morning after she returned from her morning walk with Tess.
She took the two mugs and went back to the lounge. Patrick fitted in better here.
‘So, you were going to explain everything to me.’ She clutched her mug in front of her in two hands. ‘Do we need an agenda?’
Patrick looked dubious.
‘Item One. How come you were selling my pictures in the gallery?’
He had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Ella, I needed the money. The gallery’s not been doing that well recently. I needed the refurb to give it a bit more pulling power. And it would have been all right if you hadn’t decided you wanted a break.’ The disgruntled downturn of his lips signalled his bitterness. ‘I’m having to cover all the bills on my own.’ He settled back into the sofa with a mulish huff.
‘So it’s my fault?’
‘I didn’t say that. However, you didn’t exactly give me time to make alternative arrangements. And with regard to the paintings, I was planning to give you the usual percentage of the sales. It’s not as if you’ve lost out.’
‘Except that I had no intention of selling those pictures.’
‘Ella. What would you do with them? Keep them in storage for ever? They were collecting dust.’
‘They were collecting dust because you’ve always said they held no artistic value and it would damage my artistic reputation if I were to, “peddle” them, I think that’s the technical term you used.’
Patrick’s jaw tightened.
She rounded on him. ‘That’s what upsets me the most. For years you’ve been putting my mice pictures down. And then when you need some money, all your artistic integrity flies out of the window. And do you know what? It’s taken me a while to realise it, but I’m bloody proud of those pictures. They’re honest. They give genuine pleasure to people. That’s worth so much more. I’m gutted that you’ve sold so many of them, that was my work. A body of work but I do take comfort in the fact that the people who have paid your extortionate prices must really like them to have paid that money. I’m hoping that they get great pleasure from them.’
‘I told you I made a mistake.’ He held out a hand in entreaty. ‘An honest mistake. I didn’t realise that people would love them as much as they do. But that’s what art is, completely subjective. If we all liked the same thing, we’d still be rolling in Old Masters.’
Ella’s throat tightened. He didn’t get it. Completely and utterly had no idea what she was getting at.
‘What about the earnings from the books?’
Patrick blanched but rallied with an easy smile. ‘What do you mean? They don’t earn that much.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Patrick. I’ve just had a tax statement.’
‘What do you mean? How? I manage your tax affairs.’
‘I gave my address to Gavin in the art supplies shop for my P45.’
‘Well, I can sort that out for you. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Don’t worry? But I am. My dad says it’s a statement on account. How much they predict I will owe, based on previous earnings. Do you know how much it was for?’
Patrick studied the mirror above the fire with seeming nonchalance. ‘They make mistakes all the time.’
‘Patrick. It was for over seven thousand pounds. They don’t make mistakes that big.’
He frowned. ‘I’ll have to look into it. Without my records I can’t be—’
‘Bullshit.’ She lowered her voice, aware that she’d started to shout. ‘I phoned the publisher. They emailed me royalty statements for the last year. I earn enough to live on but you never told me that. What happened to that money?’
‘Well, it . . . you’ve benefited. The gallery needed a cash injection. I knew you wouldn’t mind. It was for us. We’re a team.’
‘So why not tell me?’
‘Ella, you’re getting this out of perspective. As if I was deliberately stealing from you. That’s a terrible accusation.’
He pursed his mouth, his eyes softening. ‘I know it’s been tough for you recently. I didn’t realise how tough. You’re still a bit off balance. I spoke to Britta and she said you weren’t yourself.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It’s still the hormones, isn’t it?’
Red hot fury raced through Ella and she jumped up. ‘You . . . you . . . ’ Incandescent, she couldn’t find the words.
Patrick jerked back, sloshing a spattered stripe of coffee all down his cream flannel shirt and across the cream cushion of the sofa.
Ella pushed him out of the way and seized the cushion, her heart thudding furiously. If she focused on the cover, she wouldn’t give in to the powerful temptation to punch him. The coffee would stain. It would ruin the sofa for ever. She had to get the cover off the cushion. She had to get the stain out.
She ran into the kitchen, tears fogging her eyes. Bastard, bastard, bastard.
The image of those bloodsoaked jeans filled her head as the pungent cleaning spray tainted the air and she paused as the pain of loss rolled over her, bringing wave after helpless wave of misery. She set to scrubbing at the stain on the cushion, rubbing at the unfocused edges of the dark brown stain which bled into the fabric. Just get it clean. Just get it clean. She kept telling herself the words, as she tried to shut out the explosion of thoughts and emotions jostling for space in her head.
Behind him the dogs explored the undergrowth in the garden as Devon strode up the path eager to hear how Ella had got on. She’d looked so nervous as she’d headed out.
He knocked on the door, watching the dogs as they pottered their way towards him. Tess no doubt would collapse in a heap. He had to admit Ella had done wonders with her. Nothing like the pitiful, overweight and sad-looking creature he’d seen all those weeks ago up in the woods. Now she looked bright-eyed and alert, her tail on warp speed most of the time which was a pretty good indicator that she was one happy dog. Rather like Ella these days.
His pulse quickened at the thought of her opening the door, the sparkle in her eyes and the roses blooming in her cheeks. Her smile came far more readily and she’d lost that stiff repel-the-borders-at-all-costs attitude. He smiled, not sure how Ella would react at being compared with a dog. Probably quite well these days. She definitely found it much easier to laugh at herself. Quick anticipation raced through him as he heard the latch on the door. While out walking he’d decided that he’d take her out somewhere nice for a meal. There was that new place in Wendover, he’d heard good things about.
‘El—’ His voice died.
Patrick stood in front of him.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked with an arrogant tilt of his head, his long neck reminiscent of one of the swans on the reservoir spoiling for a fight.
Devon gave him a pleasant nod. ‘Ella in?’ Tess barrelled past him with her usual enthusiastic pleased-to-meet-you waggle of her back legs, circling and dancing around Patrick, coating his trousers in mud and black hair. It gave Devon some small satisfaction when Patrick reared back with horror, pushing and patting with equal panicked moves to get Tess away and brush off the dirt.
‘Devon!’ Ella came scurrying to the door, her eyes shining with what looked like tears. She gave him a tense smile. ‘Thanks for looking after Tess.’
Patrick was still backing away from the dog.
Devon focused on her face – she looked haunted and sad. He hadn’t seen that look in her eyes for a few weeks. He immediately stepped forward, wanting to take her into his arms. ‘You OK?’
She gave a tiny nod, her mouth pursing. ‘Patrick’s just leaving.’
‘Call me later.’
‘Yes,’ she smiled at him and his heart stuttered at the steady trust in her eyes.