High Tide (21 page)

25

‘Darling,’ said Squirrel to her daughter, ‘there’s something we need to discuss.’

Vanessa’s heart sank. What now? ‘Is there?’

‘This house,’ said Squirrel. ‘It’s like a bloody mausoleum. Please tell me you’re going to redecorate.’

Squirrel had long thought whoever had been given the contract for the interior design of Pennfleet House should have been taken out and shot. It was more like a tacky Mayfair hotel than a seaside retreat: all marble and high-gloss wood and shiny chandeliers. The drawing room was perfectly suited to a gaggle of hookers, with its L-shaped leather sofas and the smoked-glass coffee table that lay in wait ready to bark your shins. There were hideous paintings of scantily clad women wrapped around wild cats.

Who on earth had looked at a beautiful house like this and decided to rip the heart and soul out of it? Someone who had only seen Spencer’s cheque book; someone who couldn’t be bothered to teach him that less is more.

‘Let’s rip it all out,’ she said to Vanessa. ‘Rip it all out and start again. It will be therapeutic for you.’

‘But it cost a fortune,’ Vanessa protested. ‘Do you know how much that marble is a square metre?’

‘No,’ said Squirrel. ‘Nor do I care. Someone will take it off our hands. I’ll phone round.’ Squirrel had a magical phone book containing the numbers of people who could provide anything, do anything, and take anything away – sometimes all three at once. ‘Gibbo will take it all out and put down some oak floorboards. He’ll get rid of this lot on some tasteless oligarch.’

It upset her that Vanessa, with her wonderful eye and her artistic touch, had had to live in such a monstrosity for so long.

Vanessa looked at her mother and began to laugh. Only Squirrel, she thought.

Squirrel was on a mission. She threw her arms out.

‘It needs wood and chalky paint and linen and velvet. Softness. Pale blues and creams. And Christ – that ghastly artwork. Get a dealer down. Get rid of it.’

‘I can’t just wipe all evidence of Spencer out, Mum. I can’t just pretend he didn’t exist.’

‘Why not? Come on, darling. It’ll be a project. Something to take your mind off things.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘I don’t understand why anyone would put high gloss and stainless steel in a seaside house. You need pale-grey tongue and groove and soft white marble.’

Vanessa could see what Squirrel was trying to do. Distract her. She appreciated her efforts, but looking at a few paint charts wasn’t going to do the trick.

Although maybe it would? From the first day Spencer had brought her to Pennfleet House, she had fantasised about restoring it to its former glory. All the period detail was still there, under the glitz. Spencer had been so proud of what he had made it, almost childlike in the pleasure he took, that she had never had the strength to work on him. So she had concentrated all her efforts on making the shop as beautiful as she could. Adrift was where her energy and spirit lay.

Now, though, there was nothing stopping her bringing that spirit into her own home.

And it might, just might, stop her looking at her phone every two minutes. He hadn’t contacted her. Of course not. She’d been a drunken Friday-night distraction. An anecdote. The comfort she had taken from him had been an illusion.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ she told Squirrel. ‘It could be fun.’ Yep, thought Vanessa. It was time to stop fantasising and join the real world. ‘Anyway, I’m going into the shop this morning. I haven’t been in for nearly a fortnight. I need to catch up with the girls and get back on track. And I’ve got a meeting with an artist later. Will you be OK?’

Squirrel held up a Farrow and Ball paint chart. Vanessa laughed.

‘I’ll see you later,’ she said.

Squirrel watched her daughter go. She had such mixed feelings. It was wrong to be glad that Spencer wasn’t in her life any more – she wouldn’t wish anyone dead – but she was pleased that Vanessa had a chance for a new beginning. It was horrible, as a mother, to know your daughter deserved better. She knew she and Spencer hadn’t seen eye to eye, and there had been a clash of personality, but he definitely hadn’t been the person who was going to make Vanessa fulfil her potential, even though he had spared no expense on her. Their life had revolved around him, for the most part. Yes, Vanessa had her shop, but even that had been controlled by Spencer, quietly, in the background.

She hoped her daughter would blossom and flourish. It was all you could wish for, really, at her age, that your children were happy. She prayed Vanessa would find someone else, eventually, and not end up like she had. Still in love with the man she had married. Even though she couldn’t live with him, and had had to let him go. No one had even come close to David, so she had never bothered. Who wanted a pale imitation? Not Squirrel.

She wondered how he was doing. Whether he had someone else. Lots of someone elses, probably, in the intervening years. David was profoundly attractive, and a ladies’ man, even though she was fairly sure he had never been unfaithful. Drunk, most of the time, yes. And irresponsible. But not unfaithful.

They had loved each other. But he had loved the bottle just that little bit more. And that didn’t sit easily with Squirrel, who took parenthood very seriously. Even now, at over sixty. People could call her bossy and controlling if they liked, but it was done out of love.

She sat at the island. The house was quiet, but for Frank Cooper’s jackhammer purr. She looked at Vanessa’s Mac, on the side. And something drove her towards it. She’d had endless opportunity to Google him before, but something had always stopped her. A sense that the time wasn’t right.

But somehow, with Vanessa free, Squirrel felt released. As if she could revisit the past. She slid the mouse until the screen came up, clicked on the browser and typed in his name.

David Brown. Antique dealer. There he was, living in a tiny village in south-west France.

The girls who ran the shop were delighted to see Vanessa. She was the perfect boss. She left them to get on with things and trusted them to use their initiative, but injected a burst of infectious enthusiasm whenever she came in, full of praise and ideas.

The three of them spent an hour going over what had sold in the past week or so, debating samples that had been left, making appointments with new artists they were interested in, and deciding on a new theme for the shop windows. The silver and blues of summer seemed too bright now.

‘Anything golden or copper or bronze,’ suggested Vanessa. ‘We need to mellow it down. Give it an autumnal feel. Maybe use the bronze hare sculptures as a centrepiece?’

The door opened and a woman walked in, carrying a large canvas swathed in bubble wrap. She was dainty, about Vanessa’s age, with a black bob and smiling eyes, in a red military jacket, jeans and boots.

‘I’ve come to see Vanessa,’ she said.

Vanessa came forward.

‘You must be Alexa,’ she said, and they shook hands. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. Come into the back – I’ll make you a coffee.’

They went into the back room. Alexa had sent her some jpegs of her artwork a few weeks previously, and Vanessa had been interested, but needed to see the work in the flesh. Alexa laid the canvas on the table.

‘Let’s have a look,’ Vanessa said, and Alexa undid the bubble wrap.

Vanessa took in a deep breath.

It was recognisably Pennfleet harbour. A very loose impression of the river and the boats and the houses and the sea beyond, it was painted over in a wash of the brightest and most vibrant colours imaginable – turquoise and orange and fuchsia and yellow. It was bold, yet subtle.

Vanessa felt a flutter in her gut, the one that told her she had found something really special. She was untrained, but she had a good eye, a good instinct. This was one of those paintings that, every time you looked at it, you saw something new. It drew you back in, time and again.

‘I absolutely love it,’ she told Alexa.

‘Oh!’ said Alexa, looking rather overwhelmed.

‘Is this the sort of thing you always do?’

‘No. I’ve just started doing this since I moved here. At the risk of sounding horribly, horribly pretentious, I’ve tried to put my urban influence over a more traditional maritime theme. I hope it works.’

‘I think these would fly.’ Vanessa held up the canvas to inspect the technical detail. It was flawless. ‘I’d really like to do an exhibition.’

She never usually offered an exhibition on the basis of one painting. She liked to put things in the shop first to see if they sold. But something told her to snap Alexa up. Take ownership of her.

‘You’re kidding?’ Alexa went pink. ‘An exhibition?’

‘I’d need about a dozen pieces. For spring?’

Alexa looked floored. ‘Well, of course, yes. I mean, that’s amazing. Though I don’t know how I’m going to manage it. It’s not so much time, as space. I’ve got four kids. I have to clear off the dining-room table every morning when they go to school, then clear away my artwork when they come home.’

Vanessa bit her lip. ‘I can see the problem. These pictures must take – how long?’

‘Well, a couple of weeks each, at least. Which would leave me enough time. It will be difficult. But I’ll find a way round it.’ She smiled, and her face lit up. ‘I can’t miss this opportunity. It’s way more than I hoped for.’

‘I think you’ve got something really special. I’d love to work with you. And let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I don’t want you to bite off more than you can chew.’

‘No! The last thing I want to do is mess up.’

Vanessa held out her hand and the two women shook on it.

‘We’re going to put you on the map,’ said Vanessa. ‘Would you leave this with me? So I can think about how we curate the exhibition?’

‘Of course,’ said Alexa, who would, quite frankly, have left her right leg with Vanessa if she’d asked for it.

Alexa walked back home in a daze. She was part delighted, part terrified. Spending weeks on a painting to get it just right was very different from producing twelve pieces to order. But she was going to do it if it killed her.

She’d taken a big risk, moving down here with the kids, after her stupid husband had gone and let her down. She’d been terrified that Oscar would go off the rails and start getting into trouble, and that the others would follow suit, inheriting their dad’s irresponsible, rebellious streak. She’d gambled there would be less trouble to get into in Pennfleet and so far she had been proved right. But money was tight. She was on benefits, up to her eyes in them, and that didn’t make her proud. Her art had been her only way out that she could see. With four children it was difficult to go out to work. The minute the smallest had gone to school, she had thrown herself into her painting, which had been on hold for so many years. But it came back to her, the magic.

And now someone else had seen that magic. She couldn’t believe it. She had no idea how much she would make. An exhibition was only the first step. People still had to buy the paintings. And she would have to invest a lot of money in canvases and paints up front. She didn’t know how she was going to fund that, just yet.

But it was the most wonderful opportunity. Alexa decided to celebrate and went into the café on the hill to buy the biggest, squidgiest brownie they had.

‘And a skinny soy latte.’

The man behind the counter smiled at her.

‘That’s a bit of a contradiction.’

‘I wouldn’t usually do the brownie. But I’m celebrating.’

‘Won the lottery?’

‘Not in so many words. But almost. In fact, better.’ Alexa took the brownie from him, wrapped in a brown paper bag. She’d sit out in her tiny garden and eat it when she got home.

She waited while he made her coffee. Her eyes fell on an advert on the wall. Puppies, she thought, and her heart contracted at the thought of the kids’ faces if she brought one home. She’d been thinking lately that they needed a dog, something to get them all out.

A hundred quid would buy an awful lot of paint. But what was paint in comparison to dog joy? She put the contact number into her phone, then took the coffee that was being held out to her.

‘I’m tempted too,’ said the man.

‘Aren’t they cute?’ said Alexa. But what’s a bitzer?’

The man grinned. ‘Bitzer this, bitzer that. A Heinz fifty-seven, in other words.’

Alexa laughed, and handed him her money.

She left, and Sam watched after her. She’d lit up the café in the few moments she’d been in there. He wondered who she was. Then his next customer arrived, and in a moment she was forgotten.

Vanessa was going through her price lists, deciding what to mark down over the winter months to make space for new work, when the door tinged and an elderly man walked in. He was typical Pennfleet, with a weather-beaten face and bright-blue eyes and a shock of white hair, wearing blue overalls. Not a typical customer.

‘Can I help you?’

He pointed a finger at her.

‘I want a word with you,’ he said, ‘if you’re Vanessa Knight.’

Vanessa frowned. What had she done? Parked somewhere she shouldn’t? Parking was a constant problem round here, and there were often altercations.

‘I am.’

His voice was tight with anger.

‘You can’t just go trampling over people. You in your big house, with your big boat. I don’t care if you just buried your husband.’

Vanessa’s mouth fell open. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘My grandson lost his job on your account. Not that you’re bothered. You just take what you need and leave him on the scrapheap.’ He looked round the shop. ‘Look at you, with your bloody overpriced paintings. Where’s he supposed to get work from now, eh? In case you don’t know, jobs are like hen’s teeth round here in winter. But I don’t suppose you’re bothered.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Vanessa again, ‘but I don’t know who your grandson is.’

Though she had a horrible feeling she might be able to guess.

‘Nathan Fisher. Although I don’t suppose you even bothered to ask his name.’

His face was red with fury, and he was trembling. Vanessa thought she could see tears in his eyes. But before she could mollify him, the man turned and stormed out of the shop.