I currently had a rota of five clients – we preferred the word client to patient – either referred through the NHS, or privately by word of mouth.
At seventeen, Katya was the youngest. She reminded me a little of myself at her age, discovering that art was an escape and a solace as well as an all-consuming passion. I had no doubt that one day, Katya MacDonald would be a name that people would recognise. She had a talent as natural as breathing, yet until she came to Fernley House, she had no idea how good she was.
Abandoned by her mother at the age of eight, after the sudden death of her father, she’d been thrust into the care system and fostered but never adopted. No one wants children, they want babies. She’d emerged from school with good grades but no self-belief, her arms and thighs criss-crossed with scars from years of cutting herself.
She hadn’t done it since coming to Fernley House, she’d told me shyly. Painting had filled the void she’d felt for the past nine years – that and her growing attachment to me, which had lately begun to be a slight concern. Not enough to raise with anyone, but enough to remind me how vulnerable she was, and how easily she might interpret everyday kindness and attention for something more. It wasn’t a crush, despite the gifts I’d occasionally found pushed in my bag – a star-printed scarf identical to one of hers I’d admired, and a miniature portrait she’d painted and put in a cheap, silver frame – more that she saw me as a mother figure, or older sister.
‘Hey, Beth,’ she said, her voice high and soft, approaching my desk before I’d put down my bag. ‘Did you have a nice birthday?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ I looked at her, surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘Oh, I remembered.’ Her fingers played with the ends of the gauzy scarf she’d tied round her high, black ponytail, which fell over her shoulder. She was make-up free as usual, dressed in pale denim dungarees and a long-sleeved T-shirt, the glitter of a tiny nose stud her only adornment. ‘July 18th?’
I couldn’t recall discussing my birthday, but must have mentioned it in passing. It was surprising the direction conversations took during a session.
‘You look nice,’ she added.
I was wearing my usual work outfit of cargo pants and sneakers, with an unbuttoned shirt over a white vest top, but I knew she felt the need to compliment me. ‘Thank you.’ I rolled up my sleeves and went to open the windows. The heat in the room felt oppressive.
‘Did you take some nice photos?’ Katya was studying me with her wide-apart eyes, the irises an ethereal shade of blue that made me think of frozen lakes.
‘How did you know I’d been taking photos?’
Her smooth, pale cheeks flushed raspberry pink at my tone. ‘You said you were going to take some pictures, for inspiration?’ Her voice rose, turning it into a question.
‘Sorry, of course I did.’ I softened my tone, pulling my mouth into a smile. I had mentioned it, when Katya asked what I was doing over the weekend. ‘Yes, I took lots. Mostly of buildings.’
‘Buildings?’ She wrinkled her nose, looking a lot like Hayley did when presented with a plate of vegetables. ‘Is it for a new project?’
I knew she wasn’t keen on some of my painting exercises, designed to challenge my clients’ perception of themselves and explore their creativity.
‘I know you prefer painting people, but it’s good to try different forms.’
‘Like you do?’
I hesitated, aware of my hypocrisy considering I mostly painted Oxford landscapes these days. Buyers seemed to like my pastel images of the city’s medieval buildings and colleges, the Bridge of Sighs and botanic gardens, and I’d discovered I enjoyed painting them. ‘You might discover you love it,’ I said, dodging the question. ‘Buildings are a good way to practise precision.’
‘I’m happy to give it a try.’ Katya’s tone was touchingly eager to please – too eager, perhaps. ‘Did you get that for your birthday?’ Her gaze slipped to my bracelet, one slender hand reaching out as if to touch it.
‘Yes, it’s from my daughter.’ I’d debated leaving it at home. I never normally wore much jewellery, but now I had on the ruby necklace as well as the bracelet from Hayley.
‘It’s really pretty.’ Seeing sadness cloud Katya’s face, I could have kicked myself. The last thing she needed was me thrusting my loving relationship with my daughter in her face. Though she had a good bond with her foster mum, Dee, she could never forget being abandoned by her birth mother. ‘I got you something.’ Brightening, she dipped her hand into her Aztec-patterned tote bag, and something about the movement and flash of colour made me stiffen.
‘Katya, did you come straight here this morning?’
She raised her head, her eyes wary. ‘What do you mean?’
I hesitated. Even if Katya had been outside my house earlier, it was unlikely she’d admit it. Anyway, I was certain she didn’t have my address. ‘Oh … I just, I thought you might have gone to Nell’s,’ I said, referring to the community café down the road, where my paintings hung for sale alongside some of my clients’ work. ‘I know you love her pastries.’
‘No, I didn’t go to Nell’s.’ She lowered her gaze and pulled out a lilac tissue-wrapped gift. ‘Happy birthday for yesterday.’
She hadn’t answered my question, but I took the gift, trying not to betray my reluctance. It was the third time that morning I’d been handed a package I wasn’t expecting. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ I said as I pulled at the silver ribbon around it, wondering whether I needed to set some boundaries.
‘It’s OK, I wanted to.’
Perspiration beaded my forehead. I glanced at the windows again, where a listless fly was buzzing. The sun pressed against the glass, slanting beams across the wooden floor and up the wall, decorated with rows of artwork.
‘Do you like it?’ Katya’s anxious voice drew my attention to a book nestled in the delicate wrapping. I froze for two, three seconds, staring at the cover.
‘Beth?’
I dragged my gaze from an artist’s impression of leaping waves, crashing against granite-black rocks. ‘What is this?’
‘It’s a book of famous seascape artists.’ Her brows hardened into a line above narrowed eyes, reminding me for a second how her usually mild expression could suddenly switch to rage. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No, I mean yes, it’s lovely.’ I turned the book over to look at the description on the back, but the words jumped and distorted. ‘You shouldn’t have, Katya. It looks expensive.’
‘I thought you’d like it.’ Her voice flattened into disappointment. ‘You said you used to love painting the sea. I thought it might inspire you.’
Struck by the oddness of our exchange, which was almost identical to the one I’d had earlier with Matt, I said, ‘I’m happy doing what I do now,’ injecting my voice with an authority I didn’t feel. ‘But it’s a beautiful book.’ I let my eyes graze the cover again, a tremor passing through me. ‘I’ll treasure it.’
I looked up to see her smile, revealing her slightly crooked front teeth. ‘I bet your paintings are way better than theirs.’
‘I doubt that very much.’ Back on firmer ground, I slid the book into my bag while Katya headed to her usual spot by the window. As I reviewed my previous session notes, trying to marshal my thoughts, I could feel the weight of her gaze. I glanced up, but she was facing the window, her expression unreadable.
*
I managed to push everything out of my mind during my session with Katya, guiltily glad when she became too absorbed in her work to talk. Once she’d left – unusually swiftly – I was kept busy with Tom, an ex-soldier with PTSD who talked non-stop as he pushed great blocks of paint across his canvas, the action of moving his brush seeming to unlock his emotions.
After typing up my notes on both sessions, I went to find Marianne, hoping she’d be free for lunch, but when I nudged open the door to the creative writing room she was deep in discussion with two of her students and gave a discreet shake of her head. She never minded if her sessions ran over, was happy to grab a quick sandwich at her desk, but I liked to get out for some air.
I emerged into bright sunlight, my rumbling stomach reminding me I’d left the house that morning without breakfast. I headed to Nell’s, aware of Katya’s book in my bag as it bumped against my hip. Nodding to Nell through the café window, I sat at a table outside, trying to keep my mind fixed in the present. Across the road was a church, and a gift shop displaying framed prints in the window. It reminded me I’d had a voicemail from a gallery near Christchurch, which had sold my paintings in the past, about an upcoming exhibition. I pulled out my phone to call them back, relieved to see I hadn’t had any new texts.
Tabitha, the gallery owner, sounded delighted to hear from me. When I told her I had several seascapes I’d like her to consider, she suggested I send her some photos.
‘We can take about ten,’ she said.
I thought of all the canvases stored at my parents’ house, which I’d never intended to exhibit or sell. ‘I’ve got plenty,’ I told her. ‘I’ll pick a few of my favourites.’
‘Do you have a title? It would be good to start a social media campaign and of course there’ll be a press release.’
‘Making Waves.’ I hadn’t known I was going to say it until the words popped out, but it was as good a title as any. Better than ‘Drowning’, which had been my first thought.
‘Great.’ I could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I can’t wait to see them.’
As I ended the call, I was hit with a horrible thought.
Will I still be alive then?
‘Carrot and coriander,’ Nell said, making me jump as she placed a bowl in front of me, her fragrant soups too good to resist, even during summer. ‘You look serious.’
‘I do?’ I returned her smile, which was also hard to resist. She was small, with a round face and spiky white hair, her short frame clad in an apron with the café’s name on the front. Pushing seventy, she showed no signs of slowing down, the café her life as well as her livelihood. Nell was distantly related to Hugo Stanning, who’d donated Fernley House – but without his wealth, she often joked.
‘I was thinking about work,’ I said.
‘You lot do a good job up there.’ She nodded in the direction of the house, which was as much a fixture of the landscape in this part of Oxford as the café. ‘Helping those poor souls. You never know what people are going through, do you?’ She dipped her head to the left, where a middle-aged couple at the next table were chatting quietly over glasses of iced tea. ‘They were at each other’s throats before you got here,’ she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Now, they look like butter wouldn’t melt.’ She pointed to the soup. ‘Eat up, before it goes cold,’ she said in her normal voice, distracted by the arrival of a group of teenage girls, loudly deciding what flavour of ice-cream they were going to choose – a recent addition at the café.
‘Ew, soup,’ I heard one of them say as they passed. ‘Gross.’
Nell threw her hands up in mock despair before following them inside. My smile faded as I watched her retreating back. I picked up my spoon and began to eat, but Nell’s words rang loudly in my ears.
You never really know what people are going through, do you?
I picked up the freshly baked roll that accompanied the soup, but my stomach had twisted into a knot and there was no way I could eat. I felt suddenly exposed out there on the pavement, in full view of anyone passing – or watching.
The back of my neck went cold. I turned, but apart from a pair of mums with toddlers in pushchairs coming slowly up the street, and an elderly man with a dog on a lead, there was no one there.
But how would I know, if they were hiding?
My eyes skimmed the pavement opposite. Someone was coming out of the gift shop; a man, tall and dark-haired, wearing business clothes. He paused and looked over at me, waited for a car to pass, then crossed the road.
Gripped by sudden panic, I rose, bumping the table so that everything jumped and my spoon clattered to the ground.
‘Sorry I’m late, I wanted to get this,’ the man said. He wasn’t even looking at me. I turned to see a woman, waiting outside the café, her face lit up in a smile. She exclaimed with pleasure when he held out the bag he was carrying and opened it for her to peer inside.
‘Oh, it’s gorgeous,’ she said, pressing a kiss on his cheek. ‘Mum will love it.’
Heart thumping, I bent to pick up the fallen spoon, meeting the curious gaze of the middle-aged woman who’d been chatting to her partner. It seemed to say, What’s going on with her? I gripped the back of the chair, but was too on edge to sit down again.
‘Sorry, it was delicious, but I have to go,’ I said to Nell, thrusting a ten-pound note across the counter, ignoring her cry of, ‘What about your change?’ as I hurried out.
I practically jogged back to Fernley House, glancing over my shoulder as if I was being chased. When I reached my car, I threw myself inside and locked the doors, panting like a dog. Catching sight of myself in the mirror was a shock. I looked out of control; wild-eyed, with strands of hair escaping my topknot, my face sweaty and red.
Making myself breathe deeply, I pushed air out of my lungs – in, out, in, out – until my heart had stopped racing and my cheeks had cooled down. I had to think clearly, and stop looking for connections that didn’t exist. I couldn’t – mustn’t – let myself fall apart. That was exactly what someone wanted me to do.
What I should be doing, was trying to find out who.