Twenty

Cordelia slips the grey trouser suit from the hanger. Perhaps this will do. The jacket feels tight as she eases it over her shoulder. The material of the lining settles round the skin of her arm. She does up the buttons, smoothes the jacket over her hips and turns to the mirror.

Savannah comes into the room and stands, arms folded, surveying her. ‘You look like an air hostess.’

Cordelia’s eyes shift from her reflection to her daughter. Savannah’s hair has been cut and seems to launch itself straight from her scalp. The effect requires complicated work with straighteners and gel. Her eyes are smudged with violet shadow and her lips are painted the colour of blackberries. Her T-shirt, carefully torn across the shoulder, reveals the butterfly tattoo that has recently appeared on her upper arm.

Cordelia’s scrutiny moves back to the mirror. The two images stand side by side. Her reflection: sensibly combed dark hair, reaching to her shoulders, pale face, almost featureless next to Savannah’s accentuated eyes and mouth. The grey jacket looks insipid against the lurid green of Savannah’s top.

‘This is my interview suit.’ She draws her shoulders back and sticks her chin forward.

‘When did you last go for an interview, Mum?’

‘Before I worked at the shop, I went for a job at an estate agents.’ She twists round and studies her back view in the mirror. ‘And I got it.’

‘Yeah, you look perfect for it in that suit.’ Savannah flops down on the bed. She lies back on the pillow with her hands clasped behind her head. ‘You want to wear something funky. Aren’t artists supposed to rebel against society?’

Cordelia pulls off the jacket and drops it on the chair. ‘I don’t know. I thought artists were good at art!’ She drags open the wardrobe door. Hangers jangle against each other as skirts and trousers swish from one side of the rail to the other. She burrows through the shelves of T-shirts and tops.

‘Shit, Mum. What are you so worked up about? I mean, like, you’ve only got to talk about painting, haven’t you? As long as you look grungy and as if you’re out of your head most of the time, you’ll do great.’

‘Your smart comments are not helping.’

Savannah sits up. ‘Okay. Whatever.’ She swings her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Thought we’d do a bit of bonding. But if you don’t want me around – ’

Cordelia clutches Savannah’s shoulders. ‘Help me. If I looked like you instead of me, I’d be bound to get a place on the course.’

‘Hey, cool, Mum.’ Savannah grins. ‘Shall I do your make-up for you?’ She sits cross-legged on the bed, staring at Cordelia expectantly.

‘First impressions count. What sort of image shall I go for?’

‘Middle-aged eccentric?’

Cordelia swings round from the wardrobe. ‘I’m not middle-aged.’

Savannah’s eyes widen. ‘Did I say you were? How about rock chick? That’s your period, isn’t it?’

‘Savvy! You’re getting me seriously worked up.’

‘This is crazy, Mum.’ Savannah chews at the leather thong on her bracelet. ‘They’ll want to talk about your work. And you’ve done brilliant stuff.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Anna says you’re good.’

‘I’ve got no experience. I just do water colours and oils. I don’t try out different media.’

‘Isn’t it their job, to teach you all that.’

‘I don’t think they do teach you at these places.’

‘What’s the point of going then?’

‘They allow you to experiment, so you find things out for yourself.’

‘I wish old Harry would do that in history. She’s obsessed with dates and events – You can’t interpret until you have the facts – silly cow.’

Cordelia studies herself in the mirror again. She’s put on a pair of jeans, a scooped-neck white T-shirt and a brocade jacket she bought in a charity shop. ‘What do you think?’

Savannah lets out a shrill wolf-whistle. ‘Yeah. Cool. Granny would be pleased with you.’

‘What’s Granny got to do with it?’

‘She’s great with clothes. Now, shall I do your make-up?’

‘Not if you’re going to make me look like some freak.’

‘What do you take me for?’

‘Go on then.’

Savannah pats the chair facing the mirror. ‘Sit here, can you?’

‘And don’t be too long. I’ve still got to sort out what work to take with me.’

‘Chill, Mum.’

Savannah tips the contents of Cordelia’s make-up bag on to the dressing table. She sniffs at a bottle of foundation, her nose crinkling. ‘That’s disgusting! How long have you had it?’

‘I don’t know. A few months.’

‘And the rest. It stinks!’ Savannah holds up some brown eye shadow. The centre of the palette is scooped out and a thin line of powder clings round the sides. ‘How can you get anything from here? And look at this.’ Savannah waves a mascara brush in front of Cordelia’s eyes. It’s clogged with lumps of black gunge. ‘You’re a disgrace, Mum. I’m going to get my make-up.’

Cordelia’s left staring at her face in the mirror. She rarely wears much make-up – a few twirls of the mascara brush and a flick of eye shadow. She leans forward and studies her skin more closely. When did those red threads criss-crossing her cheeks appear? She hears her mother’s voice: ‘Moisturiser, Cordelia. Older skin needs more care.’ Vanessa’s complexion is wonderful for someone of her age: skin the colour of cream, tiny freckles across her nose like a cluster of stars, and if anything, she’s got fewer wrinkles round her eyes than Cordelia.

‘Here we go.’ Savannah returns with a large cosmetic bag under her arm and an array of brushes. ‘Keep quiet until you see the end result. In fact, I’m going to turn the chair away from the mirror.’

Cordelia closes her eyes as Savannah dots her face – nose, cheeks, chin, forehead – with a cool sweet-smelling lotion. Savannah massages it into her skin. Cordelia’s aware of tissues, more lotion, something astringent being applied to her cheeks. She keeps her eyes shut.

‘I’m trying some of my foundation,’ Savannah tells her. ‘It might be the wrong shade, but you’ll see how it evens out the colour of your skin.’

‘How do you know so much about make-up?’

‘Sadie’s Mum’s a beauty therapist. She’s ace.’

Cordelia feels pressure on her eyelids.

‘I expect she’d give you a make-up lesson. Do you want me to ask?’

‘It’s okay, Savvy. I’m supposed to be painting canvases, not my face.’

‘Mum?’

Cordelia recognises Savannah’s wheedling tone. ‘Yes?’

‘You know you’ll never talk about family stuff?’

‘Won’t I?’

‘You know you won’t. I’ve asked you loads of times about my granddad but you change the subject.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that.’

‘What?’ Savannah’s fingers slide across Cordelia’s cheeks.

‘Granddad.’

‘Why?’

‘Because … oh, never mind. What’s all this about?’

‘History is one of my A level options, and Harry’s given us a project to do over the summer. We’ve got to chart our family trees and show how we got the information.’

‘Oh.’

‘Open your eyes now. I want to put some mascara on. Look down.’

Cordelia stares at her lap. Her knuckles are white.

‘The thing is, Mum.’ Savannah’s breath makes a soft draught on Cordelia’s cheek. ‘I’ve only got you and Granny, and her parents. You’ve never even told me your dad’s surname. And for my dad, I’ve got Jason Fitzgerald and that’s it. Can you look up now?’

Cordelia lifts her eyes. Savannah’s finger rests against her cheek and she can feel the brush stroking her lashes.

‘Harry won’t believe I don’t know about my own family. She’ll think I’ve been skiving.’

Cordelia concentrates on a point above Savannah’s head. Black specks have formed a halo. They twist and swoop. Gyrate faster and faster – a black snowstorm. Consciously, she stretches out her fingers and lets her shoulders drop. She slows her breathing. She feels her chest rise and fall.

‘Can you keep still, Mum. And stop blinking all the time!’

The storm stops abruptly. The black flakes disappear. ‘Blackstone,’ Cordelia says.

Savannah brushes some powder on to her cheeks. ‘Blackstone?’

‘My father’s name.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course, really!’

‘Gerald Blackstone. What an ace name.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘So, that’s your name, isn’t it?’

‘My name’s Heaney.’

‘Yeah, I know, but really you’re Cordelia Blackstone.’

‘Savannah, I’m Cordelia Heaney.’

‘I know, but I mean, Heaney’s a bit ordinary, isn’t it, but Blackstone … and if it’s your name, then it’s my name.’

‘There’s no satisfying you, Savvy. Not so long ago, you wanted to be called Sarah.’

‘I changed my mind. It’s too boring.’

Cordelia feels light feathery movements on her cheekbones.

‘I’m putting on blusher. It’s funny when you think about it …’ Savannah’s voice is close to Cordelia’s ear ‘… how you, me and Patrick are all called something different from our real names.’

‘Is it?’

‘I wonder why he changed his name? Did you ever ask him?’

Cordelia’s throat tightens. She shakes her head.

‘Hey, Mum, I’m going to call myself Savannah Blackstone. Here take the mirror. You look fab.’

Cordelia stares at herself. Her skin looks smooth and glows with peachy-coloured tones. A dusting of blusher makes her cheekbones stand out in a way they never do normally. Her eyes are wide, the lashes long and curling.

‘What do you think?’

Cordelia has almost forgotten Savannah’s there. ‘I look like a different person.’

Cordelia waits for the man sitting across from her to say something. He’s got white cropped hair, a wiry yellowing beard and a pair of the most amazing eyebrows; tufts of hair sprout in all directions: he looks like Father Christmas or a story-book great uncle rather than her prospective art tutor.

‘That’s fine.’ He gestures with a limpid wave at the folder of work she’s brought. ‘Very good. Very good.’

She senses dismissal and shuffles her drawings and sketches back into the folder, tying it shut with its pink ribbon. She looks across at him and waits.

‘If you go to the office … ’ He half turns towards the door as if expecting the office to materialise there. ‘Sonia will sort out the paperwork with you.’

‘Have I got a place on the course?’ Cordelia squeaks out the question. He doesn’t seem to hear. She stares at a long grey hair protruding from his left nostril. Several students outside the window let out a shout of laughter. The words ‘Fuckin wanker’ are lobbed into the room’s stuffy silence.

‘Sorry, what was that?’ the tutor asks.

‘Have I got a place?’ Second time round, the question doesn’t stick in her throat as much.

‘Yes, yes. Didn’t I say? Foundation course – art and design. Start in October. Sonia will sort it all out for you.’

Cordelia stops at a coffee shop on her way back to the station and buys a large cappuccino and a chocolate chip muffin. She sips the frothy liquid and allows her achievement to lap at her senses. She takes the sheet of paper from her bag and rereads the words: Place Offered - yes. Status – unconditional. ‘I’m going to be an art student.’ She mouths the sentence aloud. It sounds tentative, and she remembers the counsellor’s insistence on positive affirmations: ‘Not going to be, Cordelia. Are. You are.’ She tries out the new version, opening and closing her lips over her teeth with exaggerated movements: ‘I am an artist.’

‘That’s nice, dear.’

Cordelia looks up. The woman at the next table is nodding and smiling. Sheepishly, Cordelia smiles back.

Her eyes return to her sheet of paper. What would her father think of her going to art college? She imagines phoning to tell him. How his deep rumbling voice would quicken when he realised it was her. The past flares in her mind, half-grasped memories of her small feet balanced on his suede boots, dancing; of his eyes swooping on the new slide in her hair, the gold star at the bottom of her schoolwork; of his big fingers clasping the pencil that could conjure spiders, crocodiles, elephants on to the page. The images flutter away like fragments of paper caught by the wind.

Savannah’s staying at a friend’s and Patrick is working late. He doesn’t phone or text as he would have done once. He and Lance have a big project on, and for the last few weeks it’s been nine or ten o’clock by the time he’s got back. He’s had a quick supper, a shower and gone straight to bed. In the mornings, he’s up and out before Cordelia surfaces. It’s funny how easy it is to share the same house with someone, yet avoid them. There’s nothing obvious – they haven’t rowed, there are no moody silences, slammed doors, averted eyes. When you come to pinpoint exactly what it is, it’s hard to define. Just a strange quality of absence. Like the solar eclipse a few years ago. It was an eerie experience, she remembers, but less for the daytime darkness and more because of the stillness, the silence: it was as if the natural world was waiting, ear cocked for the earth to turn again.

Cordelia spends a couple of hours clearing out her studio in the conservatory: paint pots; sheets covered with old drawings, the paper, dog-eared and discoloured from the sun; brushes past their best. As a pink light starts to fill the sky, she goes upstairs to shower and change. It’s been hot all day and the air is thick. From outside the bedroom window comes the thrumming of a cricket. She pulls on a thin vest and a light cotton skirt.

In the kitchen she prepares a salad. She holds lettuce leaves under the tap, letting the cold water run until her fingers ache. She sets out some slices of ham and a slab of cheddar cheese on a plate and removes the tissue paper wrapped round the loaf she bought that afternoon. There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge and she pours herself a glass. If Patrick had known about the interview, he would have bought champagne. He’s good at celebrations.

She hears the clatter of his keys as he drops them on the table in the hall. He comes into the kitchen and flicks on the light.

‘Cordy!’ He stops when he sees her. ‘What are you doing in the dark?’

She screws up her eyes against the sudden glare. ‘It’s restful.’

He wipes his hand over his face. ‘I’m shattered. I was ready to come home hours ago.’ He bends down and kisses her cheek.

She catches a whiff of perspiration. ‘Is the project nearly finished?’

‘Day after tomorrow. It’s got to be at the printers by then.’

‘Have you eaten? I put stuff out just in case.’

‘Thanks.’ His hand rests lightly on her shoulder. ‘We had takeaway pizza at lunchtime.’ He sits down and cuts himself a slice of bread and some cheese. ‘I’ve almost gone past food now.’

She watches him bite into the bread. His skin looks washed out, its paleness emphasising the scar. His hair is flat and lifeless.

‘If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?’

Patrick’s question takes her by surprise. She was expecting him to eat, make some excuses and then disappear to bed.

‘How can I whittle it down to one thing?’ She laughs. The sound is loud and false. ‘I’d like to be smaller and prettier, have my parents stay married, not be a single mum, be a brilliant artist … ’ She listens to her voice prattling into the silence. This isn’t what Patrick’s question was about. The counsellor’s told her people often ask something they want you to ask them. ‘What about you?’ she says. ‘What would you change?’

He tears a piece of bread into small pieces. ‘I’d rewind the tape and meet you for the first time again.’

‘Would you?’ She pictures the party in Oxford. It’s a cold night in February, and she’s wearing the green dress. Snow fell earlier and the toes of her black suede boots are stained white where she’s walked through wet slush. She hasn’t eaten all day, and she’s drunk two glasses of wine and feels sick. But then the picture changes and a different scenario begins to unfold: Patrick doesn’t catch her eye across the room; he doesn’t smile and thread his way through the crowd; he doesn’t arrive in front of her and say ‘My friend over there dared me to come and speak to you’; they don’t look to the other side of the room to where they both know there is no friend, and laugh together. It’s not going to be the wonderful beginning she remembers, because Patrick wants to change it.

His voice interrupts: ‘I owe you an apology.’

I led you on. I made you think I was genuine. Convinced you I loved you. That you were worth loving: the words pound in her head. She’ll pretend she doesn’t understand what he’s trying to tell her. ‘You can’t help being busy.’

He pushes bits of bread around on the plate. ‘I’m not talking about work.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I haven’t been honest.’

‘No?’ This is it then. It’s over. He doesn’t love her. He thought he did, but … he’s met someone else. The knots in the pine table spin as she focuses all her energy on them. Not that. Please don’t let it be that. Please don’t let him have met someone else. Concentrate. If she starts counting, she won’t be able to hear what he’s saying. Perhaps that’s the answer. If she can’t hear him, it’ll be as if he hasn’t said it. It won’t be real. It can’t be real, can it, if she doesn’t hear what he says?

‘Are you listening to me, Cordy?’

She makes herself look across at him. It’s the first time their eyes have met for weeks. She nods.

He clasps his hands together as if he’s saying a prayer. He raises them to his mouth and presses them against his lips. Minutes seem to pass, though she knows it’s only seconds.

He opens his eyes, but he doesn’t look at her. ‘This is going to be difficult,’ he says. ‘I’ve been trying to think how to tell you for days. How to package it, so it wouldn’t sound so bad. But there isn’t any way to soften it.’

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Charlie at the window. His mouth is open in a miaow. He’s usually fed at this time, but she doesn’t move.

‘I told you both my parents are dead. I thought I could leave it at that, but I’ve realised I was stupid. I want you to know about me. Understand what makes me tick, and you can’t do that if I don’t tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘My father was violent.’

‘What? You mean he hit you?’

‘Not me – my mum. Nobody knew. He had his own business, was well respected in the town where we lived. Nobody would have believed it if they’d been told. It was all behind closed doors. I wanted her to leave him, but she said she had no money, nowhere to go. When I got to sixteen, I was bigger than him, and it stopped for a while. I got a job in London, so I could only go home at weekends. I hated leaving her but I earned more money in London. I rented this bedsit and I saved my wages so that I could get somewhere for my mum to come and live with me. One weekend when I went back, she had this huge black eye and it hurt her to breathe – I think she must have had a cracked rib or something.’

‘Oh my God!’

‘I couldn’t stand it. I had a go at him that time.’ Patrick fingers the scar on his cheek. ‘He slashed a bottle down my face.’

The scar seems to grow redder and more livid, the longer she stares at it. ‘The injuries got worse: she had a fractured jaw and a broken wrist.’ Patrick speaks in a monotone, as if he’s reciting facts he’s learnt by heart. ‘The police said they couldn’t do anything unless my mum complained. I went to his office and I told him I’d kill him if he hurt her again.’

‘What did he say?’

Patrick laughs, a harsh barking sound. ‘That I was as neurotic as she was and he’d never laid a finger on her.’

‘But the injuries. How could he explain those?’

‘He said she was clumsy and always falling over.’

‘You didn’t believe him?’

‘After what he’d done to me? Of course I didn’t, but I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Oh, Patrick. What happened then?’

‘I finally had enough money to buy a flat and I persuaded her to leave him. We kept it all a secret and she left while he was at work.’

‘How was she afterwards?’

‘She was still terrified. But I could have made her better. I know I could. But a few weeks later I came home from work and she was on the kitchen floor. She was unconscious.’

‘You mean he’d found out where you were living?’

‘That’s what I thought at first. It turned out she’d had a massive stroke. She died the next day.’

Cordelia’s fingers are white where she’s clutching the table.

‘He’d killed her as if he’d put his hands round her throat.’

‘I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it.’

‘It doesn’t feel good to let your mum down so badly. Not be able to protect her.’

‘You were young. What could you do?’

‘He came to the funeral. I couldn’t stop him. But after that I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He wrote me loads of letters, but I sent them back unopened. I hated him so much, and that frightened me. I thought I might have inherited something from him. I might be violent too.’

‘But you’re one of the gentlest men I know.’

Patrick smiles at that. ‘Thank you, but it’s a hell of a thing to have in your background. I decided I could never have a relationship in case. I moved away. I changed my name. I did everything to erase him from my life, but I couldn’t get him out of my head. Then last year, he died. He hanged himself. And I was free. Free for the first time since I was five and realised what was going on. That was when I found you.’

He looks at her. He’s still got a half smile on his lips from when she said how gentle he was. He’s waiting for her to say it’s okay, none of it matters. But suddenly she can’t. A sliver of ice slides along her spine.

‘You ‘found’ me?’ she says.

‘Yes. I couldn’t believe my luck.’

‘You ‘found’ me?’

‘Don’t keep saying that.’

‘You make me sound like something washed up on the beach.’

Patrick leans forward. She thinks he’s going to take her hand and she wraps her arms round herself, so that he can’t touch her.

‘Cordy, you know how I feel about you. I chose the wrong word, that’s all.’ His face is near, but she won’t look at him. She presses her arms closer against her chest and her fingers dig into the soft flesh under her arms.

‘No,’ she says, ‘you chose the right word. You found someone as lost and vulnerable as you.’

‘You’re wrong. I love you, Cordy.’ He clutches his head in his hands and leans back on the chair. His breath comes out in a gasp.

There’s a spot of candle wax on the table and she scratches at it with her thumbnail. It slides off in one piece. She moves her hand to the right and starts on another blob. A pile of white wax begins to grow.

Patrick rests his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. ‘Talk to me, Cordy. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

‘Why should I? I poured my heart out to you about my dad, but you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about yours.’

He runs his hand through his hair. It sticks up in tufts, and she wants to reach out and flatten it.

‘It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you,’ he says.

‘No, you wanted me to be the pathetic one. The one with all the problems, while you were the super-hero.’

‘If that’s what you think, I don’t know what else I can say.’