To the Moon and Back (9 page)

He couldn't remember the last time he'd looked forward so much to seeing someone again. It almost felt like a date. As he made his way up the hill, Tony had to force himself to slow down. He wanted to see if she was there but didn't want to be panting and gasping for breath when he reached the top. Or red in the face. Apart from anything else, the color would clash with his purple shirt.

Then he climbed the last section of the hill and there she was, sitting in the same spot as yesterday but this time with her easel facing further to the west. Tony stopped to look at her and felt his heart lift. She was wearing a long emerald-green dress today, with some kind of bright pink necklace around her throat and flat pink sandals on her feet. There was something about the way she held herself, the sense of how supremely comfortable she was in her own skin, that was utterly beguiling. Just looking at her made him want to smile. And not because she was giving him a free painting…

Martha spotted him as he made his way towards her. She waved her paintbrush in greeting and called out, ‘Hooray, you turned up!'

Her voice was mesmerizing, warm and velvety and redolent of the Caribbean.

‘Did you think I wouldn't?' Up close, he saw that the necklace was composed of huge uneven pebble-shaped beads painted a dazzling shade of fuchsia pink.

‘No, I thought you would.' Martha smiled. ‘I hoped you would. Otherwise I'd have lugged this thing all the way for nothing.' Leaning to one side, she reached down for a flat canvas bag lying on the grass.

Tony's heart began to beat faster as she slid her smooth brown arm into the oversized bag and drew out the completed painting, professionally double-mounted on ivory bevel-edged board.

‘I still can't believe you're doing this. You didn't have to have it mounted.'

‘Oh, shush, that was no bother at all, I did it myself.' Her eyes sparkled. ‘I'm a demon with a Stanley knife. Anyway, it finishes it off nicely. You can choose your own frame. Here, take it. Have a proper look. It's yours.'

The added pen and ink detail enhanced the quirky characters she had observed yesterday afternoon. The result was charming, and captivating in every way.

‘I have no idea how to thank you.' Tony shook his head. ‘This means a lot to me. You don't know how much.'

‘I'm just happy you like it. And I certainly do know how much it means.' Reaching up to touch the pink necklace, Martha said, ‘I felt exactly the same way when my son made me this.'

OK, that explained the lumpy pink pebbles. Tony wondered how old she was. Had she had her son when she was in her early forties?

‘Of course, that was a while ago.' Answering the unspoken question, she said, ‘He's twenty-eight now, and a criminal lawyer. It embarrasses him no end that I still wear it. Which is always good fun. But every time I touch this necklace, I see him as clear as day, sitting at the kitchen table in his little shorts, rolling up the clay to make the beads, then painting them with my brand new bottle of nail varnish.'

Tony nodded, a long-forgotten memory flashing up of the day Jamie had rushed home from school and presented him with a clay pot. Glowing with pride, he'd announced, ‘It's a thumb pot, Daddy! We made them with our thumbs! You can keep your cufflinks in it!'

What had happened to that funny little blue pot? He had no idea. OK, don't think about Jamie now, don't mention his name, don't announce that you had a son too, but he died. It would only create awkwardness and bring the mood crashing down.

Instead he said, ‘It's a great necklace. It has character. I took a look at your website, by the way.'

Took a look. That sounded as if he'd glanced at it, clicking casually through the pages for a few seconds before moving into something else. Whereas in reality he had pored over them for almost two hours. It wasn't the glitziest of sites; indeed, it was a modest, home-built affair with no photos of Martha herself and only the briefest of introductions to her work, along with the gallery of paintings past and present. Potential buyers were requested to send an email. Each of the paintings was a delight, as individual and heart-warming as the one he was currently holding in his hands.

‘And…?' She clutched her chest in mock terror. ‘I always get nervous when people say that. It's like being back at school and your teacher saying he's read your essay.'

‘Well, you get an A plus from me. I'm officially a fan of your work.' Tony paused. ‘And I'd like to buy more. But this time you'd have to let me pay for them.'

‘Really?' Martha looked delighted.

‘Really.'

‘Now I feel like a drug dealer. Giving you the first taste for free, making sure you come back for more.' She searched his face. ‘Seriously, so long as you aren't doing it just to be polite.'

Tony said gravely, ‘I'm very rarely polite.'

She smiled. ‘Which ones would you be interested in?'

‘The swimmers in Hampstead Ponds. The one with the fireworks on the Thames. Possibly the wedding party.'

‘Oh, sorry. That one's sold.'

‘Oh.'

‘But there are plenty more at home.' Martha brightened. ‘I haven't got round yet to putting them on the website. They're still waiting to be photographed.'

‘Right.' He nodded slowly. ‘Well… I'd be really interested in seeing them.'

‘OK, great.' She carried on painting.

What did that mean? Tony said, ‘So, will you put them on the website? Or is there some way I could get to see the actual paintings?'

Martha sat back and surveyed the half-finished scene on her easel. ‘Is that what you'd prefer?'

‘Yes.'

‘We can go now, if you like. If you have time.'

‘I have time.' It was what he wanted, more than anything. ‘Are you sure this is OK?'

She smiled. ‘If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't say it.'

Together they packed away her things. He folded up the easel and the collapsible chair. Martha slid everything else into her canvas carrying case. They headed down the hill and she said, ‘It's a mile and a half from here. Can you manage that on foot?'

And Tony, who never walked anywhere in LA because… well, because no one there ever did, said, ‘Are you calling me decrepit?'

***

She lived on Lanacre Road in Tufnell Park, in a terraced redbrick house with bright hanging baskets either side of the topaz-yellow front door.

‘Why doesn't it surprise me that you have a yellow front door?' said Tony.

‘Ah, I'm a lady of color.' Martha opened the door. ‘It's one of life's joys. Come along in.'

He inhaled the light summery scent she was wearing as he followed her into the living room. Cleverly, she hadn't overdone the color. Three walls were white, one was a vivid shade of peacock blue. The sofa was upholstered in bottle green velvet, and there were white rugs on the polished wooden floor. Bookshelves were crammed with books. There were paintings on the walls and bowls of flowers everywhere.

‘They're not yours.' He indicated the framed paintings.

‘I couldn't hang my work in my own living room. That would be too weird.' Pulling a face as she unloaded her canvas bag, Martha said, ‘Like a novelist choosing to read their own book.'

Tony glanced once more around the room. ‘You don't have a TV?'

‘Not for years now. I listen to the radio. Sing, sometimes.' She smiled. ‘Now, I can either cart everything down here or we can go upstairs to see my paintings.'

She genuinely had no idea who he was. Charmed by her manner, by her character… OK, by pretty much everything about her, Tony put down the folded easel and the mounted painting she had given him and said, ‘Let's go up and have a look at them, shall we?'

The front bedroom had been converted into a studio. Here were the paintings, propped up against all four walls, some familiar to him from the website, others not. The sun streamed in through the windows, another easel was set up in the center of the room and paint-spattered white sheets covered the carpet.

‘They have to be there,' Martha apologized, ‘because I'm such a mucky pup. Mind you don't trip on them. Now, let me talk you through the paintings you haven't seen before.' Resting her hand on his arm and leading him towards them, she said confidingly, ‘I tell you what, see if you can guess which one's my favorite.'

From that moment on, Tony was lost. It was almost impossible to concentrate on whatever it was she was saying. All he could think of was how close she was to him, how wonderful she smelled, how unbelievable it was that she could make him feel this way. Yesterday he hadn't known her. Now he did. She had a voice like honey and a smile capable of lighting up any room.

‘…Well?'

OK, he needed to pay attention. ‘Well what?'

She surveyed him with amusement. ‘Have you been listening to me at all?'

‘That one. That's your favorite.' He pointed to a painting of a picnic on the beach.

‘I just asked you what color your walls were. Where you're going to hang them.'

‘Oh, sorry. I'm distracted.' Should he say it? Could he? Bracing himself, Tony said, ‘By you.'

‘Me? Why?'

‘Because you're such a lovely surprise.' Did that sound completely ridiculous? Well, it was true. Aloud he said, ‘You don't know how happy I am to have met you.'

Martha looked away, then back at him. Finally she exhaled. ‘Me too. You're a very nice man.'

‘It's not just me, feeling it?'

She shook her head and swallowed. ‘Not just you.'

‘I want you to know that I don't make a habit of doing this.' Reaching for her hand, he stroked the brown ringless fingers. ‘But I want to do it now.'

The next moment she was in his arms and he was kissing her, and it was like being twenty again. Martha's soft body pressed against his, her silver bracelets clinking as she ran a hand through his hair. She was trembling with emotion. He wanted to carry on holding her and kissing her for ever. God, she was
so beautiful…

‘Tony?' Breathlessly she pulled away to study his face. ‘Are you single?'

He nodded. ‘Divorced many years ago. I've been on my own for a long time.'

‘Me too.' He felt her sadness. The next moment it was dispelled. ‘And I want you to know that I've never done this before either.'

Another kiss, then she led him out of the studio and across the narrow landing. Her bedroom was smaller, ultra-feminine in shades of cream and gold.

Tony turned her to face him. Wonderingly, he stroked her face. ‘You're sure this is all right?'

There was a world of emotion in her golden eyes. Her voice unsteady, she whispered, ‘I've never wanted anything more in my life.'

An hour had passed. Possibly the most incredible hour of his life. When he said, ‘OK, there's something I have to tell you,' Tony saw a flash of fear.

‘What?'

‘I probably should have said this before. But it's all right, it's workable.'

Martha had gone very still. ‘Tell me.'

‘I don't live here in London. My home's in Los Angeles.'

She sank back against the pillows. ‘Oh. That's a long way away.'

‘But we can sort something out. I want to keep on seeing you. I hope you want to keep seeing me. I can come over every few weeks. I don't know, maybe you could come out and stay. There's plenty to paint, believe me.'

‘You work over there?' She searched his face. ‘What do you do?'

‘I'm an actor.'

Her eyebrows went up. ‘Really? Any good?'

‘Pretty good, yes.'

‘Successful?'

‘Yes. Yes, I am.'

Martha thought for a moment then said slowly, ‘Are you famous?'

He nodded.

She broke into a huge smile. ‘Well, that explains it, then! While we were on our way back here, I saw a couple of people looking at you. But more than just a normal look, you know? More
interested
. I thought it was because you were so attractive. But it wasn't, was it? They recognized you. Oh my God, what's your name?'

‘Tony Weston.'

‘I've heard that name!' Martha clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘You
are
famous! You were in that film about the two brothers… ooh, what was it called…
Mr and Mr Black
!'

‘That's right.'

‘I heard all about it on the radio! They said you were very good.'

Tony smiled. ‘They were right.'

‘I always mean to go to the cinema, then I never get round to it. You must think I'm completely hopeless. I should have known who you were!'

‘Don't be daft.'

‘Oh God!' This time she clutched the side of her head. ‘I just had sex with a film star!'

‘Fantastic sex,' Tony corrected.

‘Fantastic sex. Absolutely. God, sorry, I've come over all unnecessary now. This is just bizarre.'

‘Can I tell you something?' He traced the tips of his fingers along her collarbone. ‘It's the most miraculous thing that's happened to me in years.'

Martha nodded, her eyes filling up. She whispered, ‘Me too. When do you go back to the States?'

‘The day after tomorrow. You could come with me.' But she was already shaking her head.

‘I can't. But thank you. Oh my word, is that the time? I didn't realize it was so late.' Pulling on a white cotton robe, she said, ‘I have to be somewhere by six. And you haven't had a proper look yet at the other paintings…'

***

‘Oh, wow, look at those. They're so… happy!' Home from work, Ellie encountered the four paintings lined up on the sofa. She pointed to the Primrose Hill picture. ‘That's the one you told me about last night. Did she give you all of these?'

Tony shook his head. ‘I paid for them. We went back to her house and she showed me her work. I bought the other three.' He kept the rest to himself. Much as he longed to talk about Martha, he was Ellie's father-in-law; there was no way he could tell her what else he'd done this afternoon.

‘You should buy paintings more often.' Ellie was smiling at him. ‘It suits you.'

His soul was singing. If only she knew. ‘I might do that.'

***

The next morning was taken up with meetings, followed by lunch in Soho with an old actor friend he couldn't let down. By two thirty, as the taxi took him to Tufnell Park, Tony's heart was flick-flacking away in his chest. Fifty-five years old, and he felt like a teenager on a first date.

This was unbelievable. It had never occurred to him that something like this could happen. At his age too. Love—or something perilously close to it—at first sight. Martha, Martha, just saying her name in his head gave him a thrill.

They reached Lanacre Road and he paid off the cab. Turned to look at the topaz-yellow front door. Martha. He'd barely been able to sleep last night for thinking about her and reliving every second of yesterday. He raised his hand and rang the bell. What would she be wearing today? It would be their last time together for weeks; would she let him spend the night here? If she did, he'd have to phone Ellie and come up with some plausible fib as to why he wasn't coming home.

The door opened and there was Martha, wearing a violet shift dress and looking… completely different. As if seeing him on her doorstep was the very last thing she wanted. Even her head was shaking fractionally from side to side as she said, ‘Oh hello, is this about the paintings? I'm afraid it's a bit of an awkward time.'

‘Who is it, Martha?' Behind her, another woman came into view. Older, Afro-Caribbean, taller, and thinner, with gray hair and sensible shoes. Over Martha's shoulder she surveyed him with an unwavering, miss-nothing gaze.

‘Nobody, just someone interested in my work…'

What's going on?

‘My name's Tony.' He held out his hand to Martha and shook it, then reached past her and said pleasantly, ‘Hello there. Tony Weston.'

Forced to shake his hand, the gray-haired woman nodded briefly in return. She had a tight bony grip and a habit of blinking slowly like an owl.

‘Could I come in? I've sent my taxi away now.'

Martha swallowed and said fearfully, ‘OK, just for five minutes.' The prospect clearly didn't thrill her but she stepped aside. Tony followed the older woman into the living room.

‘I'll bring the pictures down.' Hurrying upstairs, Martha said, ‘Eunice, why don't you make Mr Weston a cup of tea?'

Eunice raised an eyebrow. ‘Are we a café now?'

‘It's fine, don't worry.' So much for charming her into submission. Yet again Tony smiled and failed to get a response. ‘I'm a great fan of Mrs Daines's work. Are you a friend of hers?' Because if she was, he was going to have to reassess Martha's taste in friends.

‘Sister-in-law.'

‘Oh.' Did that mean Eunice was the ex-husband's sister? Or was she married to Martha's brother? And could he ask her that? No, of course he couldn't.

In less than thirty seconds Martha was back with an armful of mounted prints. One thing was for sure, she was like a cat on a hotplate. Every minute he was here under this roof was a minute too long. As soon as the paintings were spread out on the table, she said, ‘There you are, that's all of them. Which one would you like?'

The tension in the room was palpable, like an overdose of air freshener. Realizing he was in a no-win situation, Tony put her out of her misery and pointed. ‘I'll have that one.'

‘Excellent.' Martha managed a smile and exhaled with relief. ‘Good choice.'

And that was it. Within four minutes of ringing the front doorbell, he found himself being propelled back out onto the pavement. With a painting under his arm and his plans for the rest of the day well and truly scuppered. On his way out he said in desperation, ‘Could I have your number, in case I wanted to buy another one?'

Eunice replied crisply, ‘She doesn't hand out her telephone number to strangers. Do you, Martha?'

Martha swallowed. ‘If you want to contact me about my work, my email address is on my website.'

‘Fine, I'll do that then.' Pointedly Tony said, ‘I'm going to be out of the country for the next couple of weeks, but I'll be back at the beginning of July.'

‘OK. Well, it's been nice to meet you, Mr Weston.' Clearly desperate to close the door, Martha said, ‘Enjoy your painting. Goodbye.'

‘Or I could give you my number?' It was a last-ditch attempt; he so badly needed to speak to her before he left.

‘That won't be necessary,' Eunice coolly intervened. ‘Why would she want to phone you?'

Because we spent yesterday afternoon in bed together, you bloody interfering old witch. And I'm in love with her.

But of course Tony didn't say this out loud.