Jane Corry 15 страница

My mind goes back to the conversation I had with Tony all those years ago. The panicky phone call I made after Joe Thomas had proudly admitted his guilt. ‘What do we do? ’ I begged.

‘Nothing, ’ Tony replied. ‘He’s free and that’s it. ’ His lack of surprise was all too clear.

‘You knew he was guilty? ’

‘Suspected it. But I wasn’t sure. Besides, that doesn’t matter. ’

‘Yes it does. ’

‘Look, Lily. When you’re older, you’ll realize that this is a game. One which we have to win even if we’re dealt a bad card. There wasn’t enough evidence against Joe Thomas. Besides, it would have jeopardized all those other cases on the back of it. Just get over it. Move on. ’

And that is the real reason I’ve tried not to cross paths with Tony Gordon again. It isn’t just the double life he led and the consternation on poor little Carla’s face as she tried to work out why her mother’s Larry was really called Tony. It’s because I don’t want to be a lawyer like him. My principles are higher. Or they should’ve been.

But now, here we are. Face to face. ‘What about him? ’ I say, glancing at my watch. Just ten minutes until we’re due in the courtroom.

‘He’s written to me. Wanted me to pass on a message. ’

I think of all the unsigned birthday cards that I’ve received over the years. All sent to the office. All bearing the same handwriting in capital letters. All bearing foreign stamps from countries as far afield as Egypt. Including the latest one, which now lies in bits inside a Waterloo bin. At least, I presume it was a birthday card. My mind briefly flickers back to the low-key thirty-eighth birthday dinner I had last week with my husband. No fuss. No fanfare. Just a quiet celebration of beating the odds. Of staying married. But now a reminder of my failures stands right in front of me.

‘He needs to speak to you, Lily. ’ Tony pushes a piece of paper into my hand. ‘Said it was urgent. ’

Then he’s gone. His black coat flapping. No hat. He’s striding through the open-arched hallway before I have a chance to express my sympathies about his illness.

Meanwhile, I have my work cut out for me. An innocent lorry driver, whose life was ruined when a teenager cycled across the road in front of him without warning. One might expect the cyclist to be the victim. After all, we’re always reading about such cases. But that’s the challenge in law. Nothing is as it seems.

Right now, I have to get the poor man off. Have to maintain my record of more wins than anyone else in the office. It’s the only way to prove that I’m not such a bad person after all.

Then, against my better judgement, I stuff Joe Thomas’s number into my pocket and walk on.

26 Carla

Carla woke early in the morning to a series of shouts and a loud clattering. Flinching with cold as her bare feet made their way across the floorboards to the window, she could see men emptying bins into the lorries in the narrow street outside the hostel.

It felt comforting that rubbish collection could go on here too as well as in Italy. Made her feel slightly less homesick. Then, as she stretched out her arms – Mamma had long instilled the importance of exercise first thing to keep trim – one of the men looked up and whistled.

Ignoring him, Carla returned to bed and huddled down under the thin duvet (there wasn’t even a radiator in here! ) before switching on her computer and clicking on the link she’d saved under ‘Favourites’: ‘Tony Gordon. Lincoln’s Inn. ’

And then another article:

The Honourable Society of Lincoln’s Inn is one of four Inns of Court in London to which barristers of England and Wales belong and where they are called to the Bar. It is recognized as one of the world’s most prestigious professional associations for lawyers. It is believed to be named after Henry de Lacy, 3rd Earl of Lincoln.

Carla had of course looked all this up back in Italy. But what she still hadn’t worked out, despite her assurances to Mamma that she would find Larry, was whether she could simply go to this place in the hope of surprising him. Or whether she should make an appointment, posing as a client.

As she pondered, yet another cockroach crawled out from under her bed. It stopped for a moment, as if pleading Do not kill me. I will make an appointment, Carla decided. That way, she would be certain of seeing him. However, she wouldn’t ring. She would turn up in person.

Getting out of bed, she slipped into the pink silk dressing gown which Nonna had bought her as a goodbye present, and carefully tiptoed around the cockroach. It wasn’t a matter of being soft, she told herself as she headed for the shared toilet downstairs. It was a question of being practical. She couldn’t kill every cockroach in the room.

But she could make Larry see what he had done.

Half an hour later, she was ready. A slim beige pencil skirt which showed off her figure but was also classic. Black skinny-knit jumper with a wide belt to accentuate her waist. Yesterday’s cream jacket. Red stiletto heels. A squirt of Chanel from the sample bottle she got at Duty Free (no one had been looking). A bag slung crosswise over her chest, because there were, apparently, as many thieves here as there were in Rome.

At the hostel reception desk was a pile of London Underground maps. Carefully side-stepping a young girl with a tattoo on her neck and slashed jeans, Carla helped herself. She stared at it, puzzled.

‘Where do yer want to go then? ’ asked the girl.

‘Holborn, ’ answered Carla primly.

‘Get the blue line then. ’ A dirty finger jabbed the map. ‘Want to buy a cheap Oyster card? ’

‘Please, what is that? ’

There was laughter from behind her where another girl was hovering. They reminded Carla of the school in Clapham where everyone had been horrid to her.

‘You use it to get on buses and tubes. Just twenty quid. It’s a bargain. ’

‘I have only euros. ’

‘Then give me forty. ’

Carla handed over the money and headed for King’s Cross station. She could just about remember the way from her journey last night. When she held the Oyster card against the barrier like everyone else, there was a loud bleeping.

‘You ain’t got no money on that, love, ’ said a man in a neon jacket.

‘But someone sold it to me for forty euros! ’

‘’Fraid you’ve been done then. Only get your Oysters from a proper station or online. ’ He jerked a finger towards a machine and a long line of people.

Furious, Carla bought another. These English! Robbers! All of them.

Still, Lincoln’s Inn was even more beautiful than the pictures on the Internet. For a moment, Carla stood and marvelled at the tall buildings with their big sash windows and wide window ledges. Despite being in the middle of London, it felt like the countryside with those beautiful squares and neatly clipped hedges. That building over there with its domed roof reminded her of the Basilica in Florence, where she had gone once on a school trip.

To her relief, she found Larry’s chambers quite easily thanks to the directions she’d written down from Google.

‘May I help you? ’ asked a woman at the desk.

‘I would like to make an appointment with Mr L- I mean Mr Tony Gordon. ’

The girl gave her a questioning stare. ‘Are you a solicitor? ’

‘Not exactly. I used to know Mr Gordon and would like to get in touch again. ’

The stare grew cooler. ‘Then I suggest you email one of the clerks. He will pass on your message. ’ She pushed across a compliments slip. ‘Here are the details. ’

‘But I need to see Mr Gordon now. It’s important. ’

‘I’m afraid it’s impossible. Now I am going to have to ask you to leave. ’

The voice was no longer cool. It was angry and firm. Determined not to show her embarrassment, Carla walked out, her head high. Then she found a cafe with Wi-Fi and composed a brief message.

Dear Tony,

You might remember me from some years ago. I am in the UK now and have a message to pass on to you from my mother Francesca.

Kind regards,

Carla

That will do. Polite and to the point. Personally, Carla didn’t share her mother’s hopes that Larry, or rather Tony, might miss her. But with any luck, he might agree to see Carla. If nothing else, she might be able to extract some guilt money from him.

Now for the next two tasks on her list. Registration at the college, near a station called Goodge Street, was far more successful. Everyone was so friendly! Lectures would start tomorrow. Did she have the reading list that had been emailed out during the summer? Yes? Good. There was a freshers’ drinks party tonight. It would be a way to meet people.

But, Carla told herself as she headed for the Tube again, she had more important things to do.

27 Lily

I wait until after the innocent verdict before making the call. The lorry driver case was tight. The other side had produced film of the ‘victim’: a happy, laughing teenager on her bike. It had almost swayed the women on the jury, most of whom had children.

But not quite.

‘Thank you. ’ The lorry driver’s wife flings her arms around me outside the courtroom. ‘I thought we were going to lose at one point. ’

So did I, although I’d never admit it. Drugs. Drink. It’s usually one or the other that leads to the cells or death. That memory of the Highgate pub still haunts my mind. It’s why I don’t touch alcohol any more.

‘We’re going to go out now and celebrate, ’ says the lorry driver’s wife, glancing up adoringly at her husband. ‘Aren’t we, love? ’

But the lorry driver, like me, is looking across the marble-floored foyer at the middle-aged couple who are silently holding each other. The woman’s head is against her husband’s chest. As if sensing our gaze, she turns and gives me such a look that I doubt the very existence of my soul.

‘I’m sorry, ’ I want to say. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Most of all I’m sorry that your memory of your daughter has been tainted for ever. But justice has to be done. ’

Then she walks up to me and I brace myself. This is an intelligent family. Much was made of this in court. The father is a professor. The mother spent her life bringing up her children. Luckily there are three more. But loss makes human beings into animals, as I have discovered.

The lorry driver’s wife gasps as an arc of spit hits me straight in the face. It’s directed not at the lorry driver but at me. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, ’ hisses the bereaved mother.

I wipe the spittle off my cheek with the handkerchief that I keep especially for this purpose. It’s not the first time this has happened. And it won’t be the last. The woman’s husband is taking her away now, casting me baleful looks.

‘I’m sorry, ’ said the lorry driver. His eyes are wet.

I shrug. ‘It’s all right. ’

But it’s not. And we both know it. Thanks to an anonymous tip-off (you’d be surprised how often this happens), I was able to name the dealer supplying drugs to the teenager who had ridden her bike into the lorry driver’s path. If it weren’t for that, we couldn’t have established that the cyclist was a regular user, which in turn contributed to her degree of culpability.

Justice has been done. It doesn’t always look like you’d expect. But there is always a price to be paid.

I walk down the steps and into the bracing wind outside. It’s another world out here, I remind myself as I cross the road towards the park, narrowly avoiding a cyclist without a helmet. A world where I can choose to bin Tony’s piece of paper with Joe Thomas’s number on it.

Or ring it.

We have to have closure. It’s a phrase I hear again and again from my clients. Even if the verdict is guilty, they need to get rid of this sword hanging over their heads. I thought I’d got rid of mine. But every time I receive one of those birthday cards I realize I can’t escape. And now I have a phone number.

If I don’t ring, I will always wonder what he wanted to say. If I do, I am pandering to him. A woman walking past me drops her purse. Loose change spills out of it and I watch her pick up a clutch of silver. Why not? I take a fifty-pence piece out of my bag and throw it in the air. Heads I don’t ring. Tails I do.

Swiftly I catch it before it hits the damp grass.

It’s tails.

I should go back to the office. But I need time to think. My conversation with Joe has unsettled me. So I head for the National Portrait Gallery. It always calms me down to see other faces bearing the same kinds of expressions that I see on my own at different times.

Emotions don’t change through the centuries. Fear. Excitement. Apprehension. Guilt. And, when I snuggle up to Ed at night, relief that somehow we’re all still together. A family unit. Marriage has its ups and downs, my mother has always said. It’s true. It’s all too easy to throw in the towel. But I’m not going to allow Joe Thomas to do that to me.

I’m staring at a picture of Thomas Cromwell when my mobile goes. ‘Sorry, ’ I mouth to a disapproving couple wearing matching scarves.

Swiftly, I head for the foyer, where a tourist is questioning the price of the exhibition ticket. ‘Where I live, our museums are free, ’ I hear her saying.

I fumble in my bag, but my mobile is right at the bottom and I don’t get it out in time.

Missed call.

Ed.

My mouth goes dry. My husband never rings during my working day unless there’s an emergency with Tom. We haven’t had one for a while. It’s about time for another. It’s how it works.

Fingers shaking, I call him back.

28 Carla

Carla had been expecting something grand. Not like the Royal Academy, of course, which she was looking forward to seeing. But something that was, well, significant. Yet this narrow building was wedged between a shoe shop and a newsagent. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you might walk straight past. You even had to go down some narrow stone basement steps to find the entrance.

Then she stopped. Held her breath. All around her were walls. White walls. And on those walls was… her.

Carla, as she used to be.

The small Italian girl who always felt so different.

There was no mistaking her. Some of the paintings she recognized. But there were new ones too. Laughing. Frowning. Thinking. Dreaming. In big frames. Small frames. In bold strokes of red and raven black.

Oh my goodness! Silently, she gasped. There, in the corner, with a stick of charcoal in his hand, was Ed. Older than she’d remembered, with more lines on his forehead. He had glasses too, which she didn’t remember. But it was definitely him.

Sit still, Carla. Please. Think of something nice. Your new pink bike perhaps. Your friend at school. What is her name again? Maria! That’s right. His words came filtering back to her as she approached him.

‘Mr Macdonald? ’

Reluctantly his head rose up to meet her gaze. She could see he was annoyed at being interrupted. His eyes hardened. Then they softened. He made to stand up but sat down again. ‘Carla? ’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Little Carla? Is it really you? ’

She’d been prepared for all kinds of reactions. But not this. Not this genuine look of pleasure. There was no shame. No embarrassment. No attempt to hide.

‘I wrote to you, ’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘But you didn’t reply. ’

Those bushy eyebrows rose. ‘Wrote to me? When? ’

‘Last year. And then I wrote again. ’

‘You addressed it to the gallery? ’

‘Yes – no, not this one. ’ Carla felt a tremor of doubt. ‘I sent the first to the flat and the second to a different gallery from this. Where you had an exhibition. ’

Ed ran a hand through his hair. ‘Ah. We moved a while ago. But the people who bought the flat from us are still very good at sending on our mail. Gallery post, mind you, can be a bit hit and miss with so many artists coming and going. ’

Did she believe him? He sounded truthful enough. Carla looked up at this still rather handsome man with warm creases round his eyes. There was genuine care there. And admiration too. No doubt about it. An excited feeling rippled through her. This was the man she had idolized as a child. But now she was all grown up.

Perhaps there might be another way…

‘The letters were to tell you I was coming over. I have done my law degree in Italy. Now I am here to do a course in England, and thought it would be nice to look you up. ’

‘Wonderful! ’ Ed’s hands took both of hers. He was squeezing them tight. Surely for longer than was necessary. ‘I can’t tell you, Carla, how good it is to see you! Welcome. Welcome back! ’

29 Lily

Ed’s number is engaged.

I’m really scared now. Stepping back so someone else can go in front of me in the queue, I try again.

‘Lily? ’

Thank heavens. He’s answering. ‘What’s wrong? ’ I blurt out.

‘Nothing! ’ His voice is bubbly with excitement.

I’m filled with relief.

‘Are you busy? ’ he asks.

It’s a strange question because he knows I’m always busy. The Portrait Gallery is a rare act of rebellion on my part. I should be in the office.

‘Actually, I’m taking an hour out after the case. ’

‘You won? ’

Nowadays, Ed takes a keen interest in my work.

I feel a flash of pride. ‘We did. ’

‘Well done. ’ He’s genuinely proud of me. ‘Can you come on down here then? ’

‘To see you? ’

‘I’ve got a surprise. ’

‘A nice one? ’

‘Definitely. ’

I feel childishly excited. ‘I can spare an hour, ’ I say, walking out of the doors and back into the street.

Ed’s new gallery is in an old basement. It has definite potential, he assured me, especially with that wonderful curved Victorian pillar in the middle.

Quite a lot of people came to the opening. The anonymous buyer (even Ed wasn’t told who it was, since it was all conducted through a dealer) had really helped to stir interest in his work. When clients started to ask me if I was related to Ed Macdonald the artist, I felt a burst of pride at telling them he was my husband. But now, after less than a year, this interest is fading. His acrylic style with garish colours and wide dramatic brushstrokes is not, apparently, to everyone’s taste.

The hurtful reviews have got to Ed, making him feel insecure again. The other night, he came home with three bottles of red. ‘I won’t drink them all at once, ’ he said defensively. I said nothing. I know my husband has failures, but then so do I. Instead, we had a relaxed supper together, something we now frequently enjoy during the week, with no Tom screaming because someone has tainted his plate by adding a pea by mistake. (‘I told you. I don’t like green! ’)

All Ed needs is another big sale for the sake of his self-esteem and to pay the new gallery bills. Maybe, I tell myself, edging down the narrow stone steps, that’s why he’s summoned me here. Perhaps another buyer has walked in!

As I enter the gallery, I see Ed’s head from the back. It gives me a warm feeling of contentment.

‘Lily! ’ He swivels round, saying my name as though it is fresh in his mouth. As if I am an acquaintance he hasn’t seen for a long time instead of the wife he kissed goodbye this morning. ‘Guess who walked into the gallery an hour ago? ’

As he speaks, a petite woman with a sleek black bob slides out from behind the pillar. Her hairstyle, apart from the colour, is almost identical to mine. But she’s young. Early twenties, at a guess. Big, wide, sunny smile with glossy bee-stung lips and a flash of fleshy gum. A wide smooth forehead. She’s stunning without being conventionally beautiful. Her face is the sort that makes you stare. I twist my silver bracelet – the one I always wear – with inexplicable nervousness.

‘Hello, Lily! ’ she sings. There’s an unexpected kiss on both my cheeks. Then she stands back. I feel a cold slice inside as though a carving knife is paring my body in two. ‘You don’t remember me? It’s Carla. ’

Carla? Little Carla who used to live in the same block of flats all those years ago, when Ed and I were first married? The shy at times but also precocious child with the beautiful mother who had been carrying on with Tony? Carla, alias The Italian Girl? Is it really possible that this is the confident young woman who stands before me now with glossy lips and an immaculate complexion, her sharp, cat-like eyes accentuated with just the right touch of eyeliner? Such poise!

It has taken me years to achieve a confidence like that.

But of course it’s Carla. She’s a mini-Francesca, minus the long curls. The spitting image of the single mother from number 7 all those years ago.

‘Where have you been? ’ I manage to say. ‘How is your mother? ’

This beautiful colt-like creature dips her chin and then tilts her head to one side as if considering the question. ‘Mamma, she is very well, thank you. She is living in Italy. We have been there for some time. ’

Ed breaks in. ‘Carla’s been trying to get hold of us. She wrote to us. ’

I breathe steadily, just as I do in court when I need to be careful. ‘Really? ’ I say.

It’s not a lie. Just a question.

‘Twice, ’ says Carla.

She is looking straight at me. Briefly I think back to that first letter with the Italian stamp, which was sent to our old address last year but forwarded to us by the current occupants.

My first instinct was to throw it away like all the other begging letters we received around that time. People assume, rightly or wrongly, that if an artist has one big success, he or she is rich. The reality is that even with the picture sale and Ed’s trust money and my salary, we are still not that well off. Our mortgages on both the gallery and the house are crippling. And of course we also have Tom’s expensive therapy and his unknown future to think of.

I want to help people like any other decent person. But if you give to one, where do you stop? Yet Carla was different. She was right. In a way we did owe our success to her.

I would talk to Ed, I decided. But a critic had just written yet another snide review, questioning why anyone would want to pay so much for a ‘brash acrylic work that was worthy of a Montmartre street artist’. My husband had been hurt. It was all I could do to assure Ed that this reviewer was wrong. Better to leave Carla’s letter, I decided, until things were calmer.

Then came the second one, sent to the gallery where Ed had been exhibiting temporarily before it had been forwarded to our home. Luckily, I happened to bump into the postman on the way to work. Recognizing the handwriting and stamp, I slipped it in my briefcase and opened it in the office. The tone was angrier this time. More demanding. It frightened me to be honest. I sensed Francesca’s hand behind it. If we gave them some money, they might ask for more.

So I put it away, pretending to myself that I would deal with it at ‘some point’. And then I conveniently forgot about it. It wasn’t the right thing to do. I can see that now. But if I had written back to Carla explaining our financial situation, she might not have believed it.

‘We were worried when you left so suddenly all those years ago, ’ Ed is saying now. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were going? ’

His question takes me back to the last time I saw Carla. That awful row between Tony, Francesca and me. On top of that, I was trying to work out if Ed and I should stay together.

‘Yes, ’ I say, gritting my teeth, ‘we were very worried about you. ’ Then my eye falls on the painting behind her. It’s hard not to. There are paintings of Carla as a child all over the room.

‘What do you think of your pictures? ’ I ask. Might as well play devil’s advocate, I tell myself. Try to draw Carla out. It would also make me look more innocent in the matter of those unanswered letters.

The young woman in front of me flushes. ‘They are lovely. ’ Then she flushes again. ‘I do not mean that I am lovely, you understand -’

‘Oh, but you are, ’ breaks in Ed. ‘Such a beautiful child. We both thought so, didn’t we, Lily? ’

I nod. ‘Remember that portrait of you which he entered for an award all those years ago? It got third prize. And although it didn’t sell then, it was recently bought by a collector. ’

I watch her intently. She had mentioned both the competition and the sale in her letters. So I knew that she knew about them. But now she gasps as if in surprise, placing fingers to her mouth. Both are exquisitely painted in matching rose. The nails are a perfect oval. Not one chip on the polish. ‘Fantastic, ’ she coos.

Perhaps she’s embarrassed now about the demanding tone of that second letter that she thinks we haven’t received. I can understand that.

‘That’s why I was trying to find you, ’ adds Ed eagerly.

Really? If so, that’s news to me. Sometimes Ed says things just to please people.

‘I got quite a lot of money, ’ my husband babbles on. He’s getting excited, almost high. I know the signs. It means he is capable of behaving recklessly. I touch his arm, hoping to slow him down, but he continues. ‘It helped me get a gallery of my own! ’

There’s a slight pause as my husband and I both think the same thing. That happens quite a lot nowadays. Maybe it’s the same for all couples who have been married for a long time. ‘We ought to thank you, ’ I say, reluctantly accepting that this would indeed be the honourable thing to do, even though we can’t afford it.

‘We should, indeed, ’ agrees Ed. He’s looking away from me, but I know his mind is going round. How much should he pay? What could we afford?

‘Where are you living? ’ I ask, to buy time.

‘In a place called King’s Cross. In a hostel. ’ She sighs. ‘There are cockroaches everywhere. ’

Suddenly that confident woman is no longer there. I see a young girl who has just left her native country and is now finding her feet in a city that has probably changed a great deal. I stop wondering about how much we owe her and how her presence makes me feel nervous because it reminds me of the past. Once more, I want to help. Partly out of guilt.

‘You must come over for dinner. ’

‘Yes. ’ Ed is glowing with excitement. I know why. Already he is painting her in his head. It’s a great angle. I can see that. Italian Girl Grown Up. No more curls. A bob instead. A new look. Maybe pastels instead of acrylics. He’s been talking about changing style. It suddenly occurs to me that Carla’s reappearance in our lives could be exactly what my husband needs.

‘Come over tonight, ’ Ed says.

No. Not so soon. We need time to talk. ‘Tonight isn’t so good, ’ I say, reaching into my bag for a pen. ‘Give me your number and I’ll call you. ’

Carla scribbles it down eagerly. ‘I start college soon, but I am sure I will have some free time. ’ Then she stands up straight. ‘I have done a law degree in Italy and now I am going to take a transfer course and then qualify as a lawyer in England. Like you, Lily! ’

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