Selena knew, as Claire drove her to the hospital, that there was no hope. She had known from the first moment in the gallery as the pain gripped her abdomen and held that she had miscarried, although the nurse told her the certain truth in a soft Scottish brogue as she perched on the end of the hospital bed.
‘It was early days. Lots of babies miscarry before twelve weeks. And there wouldn’t have been anything you could have done to make the outcome different – you mustn’t keep saying that it was your fault.’
‘It was because of the anxiety I’ve been through recently.’ Selena wiped her eyes with the tissue she balled in her fist. ‘I’ve been under a lot of stress.’
The nurse shook her head. She was young, in her twenties, freckles on her nose. ‘Do you have someone who will support you? The baby’s father? A relative or friend?’
‘My flatmate has been lovely.’ Selena took a huge breath. ‘I’ve just split up with my partner. He didn’t want children.’
‘You have plenty of time to decide about starting a family.’
‘I’m thirty-eight,’ Selena blurted.
The nurse’s voice was soft with sympathy. ‘Lots of women give birth in their late thirties, early forties. Royalty, Madonna, David Bowie’s wife.’ She touched Selena’s arm. ‘You take your time and heal first, both physically and emotionally.’
Selena nodded. Claire would be waiting outside to take her back to the flat. This time, she was returning without a baby; she was empty, alone. As the tears began again, she realised that she had no idea what she would do next.
Later on, around six o’clock, Selena installed herself on the sofa, her legs raised on cushions, a cup of tea in her hands; she intended to spend the whole evening watching television, although she doubted that she would take much in.
Claire moved to sit next to her, wrapping an affectionate arm around her shoulders, her voice filled with sympathy. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Selena forced a smile. ‘Are you off out tonight? Wine bar? The usual crowd?’
‘Do you want to come?’ Claire asked gently.
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’
‘Then we’ll have a night in together, shall we?’ Claire snuggled closer. ‘Are you up to a takeaway, pizza, a bottle of wine?’
‘I wasn’t drinking any alcohol because of the baby…’ Selena’s eyes filled with tears and she was immediately cross with herself. ‘It doesn’t seem right, not yet.’
‘Of course,’ Claire said. ‘You’ve been through an awful lot…’
‘I feel like – my life’s a crumbling house, everything falling to pieces, every room filled with rubbish. There’s nothing at all to hope for. Everything I thought I had – the baby, David, a future – it’s all suddenly gone. And I’m cross with myself – I was too eager to believe David when he promised the earth, but I’d seen the signs. I should have known – and now I just feel stupid and embarrassed and sad.’
‘I’m sure you do – but everyone makes mistakes and you’ll move on in time.’ Claire sighed. ‘It will take a while. The hypothetical house might seem a mess right now, but we’ll clear all the rooms one by one, you’ll see.’
‘I thought about going to my parents’ place in Buxton, maybe staying there for a few days,’ Selena said quietly. ‘But I’m too old to go running back to Mum and Dad with my problems.’
‘Whatever feels right – you know best.’
Selena gasped; a sudden thought had come to her. ‘Claire, do you think I should tell David? I mean, should I phone him and say that the baby is…?’
‘And what would he do?’ Claire flushed with sudden anger. ‘It doesn’t concern him. He left you. He has no right to know anything now…’
‘What if I bump into him? He’s a photographer, he goes to all the big exhibitions, our paths are bound to cross.’
‘In your place, I’d just ignore him – I don’t respect him for what he did to his wife or to you, but you know what I think about it all. He’s a smooth operator. I could see that he was untrustworthy from the get-go, and it was awful to watch you fall for his lies.’ Claire’s hands became small fists. ‘He let you down. He should have stayed with Veronica in the first place. He’s deceived you both.’
Selena nodded. ‘You’re right. He must have denied that we were ever together; he told her that I was chasing him. Oh, what a mess.’
‘You’re better off without him. He’s a cheat – no doubt he’ll do it again and again,’ Claire snorted. Then she made her voice light. ‘Now, I’m going to get us some nibbles and we’ll watch a whole box set of something really good.’
‘Nothing weepy, nothing romantic, please,’ Selena begged. ‘I don’t want to blub all night.’
‘Peaky Blinders it is, then.’ Claire said. ‘Or Breaking Bad.’ She leaped up from the sofa and rushed into the kitchen. Selena could hear her bustling around, opening cupboard doors.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Her mind was blank. Then she thought about the baby, the child she would never meet. Would it have been a boy or a girl? Would it have had her red hair and brown eyes, or David’s dark curls and his blue gaze? She would never know.
Her phone buzzed and Selena reached out, almost in a daze, picking it up without thinking, holding it to her ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Selena, you and I need to talk.’
‘Veronica?’ Selena froze.
‘I’m just so confused.’ The voice rose with anxiety. ‘Why did you make a play for my husband? I need to know what happened – it doesn’t make any sense. David has told me that it was embarrassing, how you followed him around – he felt sorry for you. So, when did it all start?’
Selena caught her breath. She didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t mention the baby: there was nothing that she could say that would give Veronica peace of mind. It was better to say nothing at all.
Veronica continued, her voice strained. ‘I just don’t understand how you came to have his phone number. David tells me he didn’t encourage you. Explain to me what went on between you, why you kept pestering him. All he told me was that you wouldn’t keep away. When did you meet him?’
‘I’m sorry… I can’t talk about it…’ Selena pressed the button, cutting her off, and quickly placed the phone on the arm of the sofa at a distance from her, as if it had just burned her fingers.
Claire arrived behind her, holding out a bowl of guacamole and tortilla chips. ‘Was that his wife on the phone? I heard you say the name Veronica…’
‘She’s very upset,’ Selena said. ‘She wants to know all the details and I can’t tell her, can I? She doesn’t know the whole story, which is awful because if I could tell her the truth, she might understand. Or it might break her heart.’
‘Poor Veronica is a victim too.’ Claire sat down. ‘She thinks that you’ve tried to take away the man she loves. At least you’re rid of David now. She still trusts him.’
‘But what if she rings me again? What if she comes back to the gallery when I’m there?’
Claire shrugged. ‘She’ll need space if she’s going to get her marriage back on track, although I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until David does the dirty on her again. Perhaps you should go to your parents’ place for a week or so after all, until it all blows over.’
Selena leaned her head back against the soft comfort of cushions. ‘I do understand that she’s hurt and insecure, but at the moment I need some time alone. I don’t need this, not after the last twenty-four hours.’
‘Let’s forget about Veronica. And let’s forget about pathetic David too. If she calls, don’t answer. I’ll look after things at the gallery – if she comes in, I’ll tell her you’re not available – or I might even tell her what a cheat David really is.’ Claire reached for the bowl of tortillas and pressed a button on the remote. ‘Let’s lose ourselves for a few hours and watch Cillian Murphy. I’ve seen the whole series twice. You’ll love it – it’ll certainly take your mind off other things.’ She patted Selena’s arm as the television screen burst into life. ‘I know this is tough for you. I’m here for you all the way. But you’re strong – you’ll come through. Time is what you need now. Time and space.’
Selena nodded, concentrating on the flickering screen. She wasn’t taking in the storyline as the images washed over her: a man wearing a coat and a flat cap was riding a horse through a cobbled street; it was probably the nineteen twenties or thirties, possibly somewhere in the Midlands; there was a family, men arguing. Selena was thinking about the baby, her hand on her belly, massaging the emptiness as if her round palm might heal the aching. Her thoughts drifted to David, who was most likely somewhere not many miles away, with Veronica. She imagined them out for a meal together, Veronica’s expression troubled, asking how he had met Selena, and David smiling and squeezing her hand gently as he fabricated lies in a smooth tone. Veronica would hang hopefully on every word, wanting to believe him. Selena knew only too well how convincing he could be. Claire was right: David had hurt both women. He was the villain in this melodrama, and Selena felt a surprising rush of sympathy for Veronica, who was trying to save her marriage.
On the screen, two brothers were arguing; a man was smoking a cigarette, his blue eyes hard and determined. Selena thought about the baby again. She had imagined a little girl, a soft bundle of warmth, little fists, tufts of light hair, that sweet smell. Selena swallowed hard. Tears had started to prick her eyes. On the screen, the man in the flat cap had left the town and he was in the countryside now, in a large field with several other men. They were identically dressed in flat caps, smart jackets, and they each carried a shotgun over their shoulders as they walked purposefully through pale tufty grass. The man at the front still had a cigarette in his mouth; he wore leather gloves and a smart watch and fob chain across his waistcoat. Then Selena noticed the tree in the background, a broad oak, its wide branches stretching towards a pale sky heavy with clouds. She was suddenly lifted by the urge to create the picture – not the men, but the peacefulness of the open field, the strength of the oak tree, the breadth of the sky. She knew exactly how the painting would be, once finished, the hues of gold and pale green, the silver greys and ochres. Then it came to her. She needed to paint in the countryside, surrounded by nature, its calm, its peace.
She could leave Manchester for a month or two, longer even. Why not? The gallery would take care of itself and she would take care of her own healing. Claire had said it: she needed time and space, and that was exactly what a stay in the countryside would bring. She would paint lots of pictures, she’d experience the daily stillness and solitude; she’d focus on herself and complete many pieces of art, creating something fresh in an entirely new setting. And she’d be away from Manchester, from David, and, by the time Selena was ready to return, her affair with David would be a thing of the past. She’d start again, she and Claire: the gallery would go from strength to strength; she’d be ready for the city, for friends, for a social life. And she’d take it from there.
Selena reached for her phone, thinking. She’d go somewhere a long way from Manchester, somewhere rural. Cornwall and Devon were just a little too far away, so her fingers typed the words Somerset and cottages to rent into the search bar and instantly hundreds of homes appeared on the screen: expensive, extravagant houses. Selena refined the search, moving her thumb: two bedrooms, garden, village location, rural. This time just three houses appeared. One was a chocolate-box thatched cottage in the middle of a village, not far from the local pub. The second was a bright yellow house, very charming, with a swing in the garden and a trampoline, clearly suitable for a small family: the rent was high. The third cottage stood behind a wooden gate; there were plants, bushes and several trees in the garden and an old stone well. It was a seventeenth-century building, with a porched door, cob walls partially limewashed in white, that had been modernised and updated over the years. It had an oil-fired Aga and a newly refurbished kitchen. Selena stared at the rent: she couldn’t believe that was the monthly rate: it was so cheap, it must be a misprint, surely.
She scanned the website, gazing at the interior: two bedrooms, beautifully furnished, an extended kitchen, an oak-framed conservatory at the back that would make a wonderful room in which to paint. Her eyes were drawn to the whitewashed living room. There was a huge fireplace with a new wood burner, a wide window, a comfortable sofa. She imagined herself there, quiet, at peace, surrounded by her paintings. She would begin by painting the garden, the new March blooms, the April buds.
Selena pressed a button on her phone. The owner was a Mrs Lesley Russell and Sloe Cottage was immediately available to let. There was no harm in giving her a call.