Liberty Silk (44 page)

Along with the handful of appointments she had lined up, shopping for a new outfit was on Lisa’s agenda: Gervaise was to be honoured soon with a retrospective at a chic gallery on the Croisette. As she strolled along the boulevards and in and out of the exclusive boutiques, she could not resist the fripperies that clamoured for her attention. How she would love to be young again! To wear flirty skirts and fringed silk gilets and sheer chiffon blouses and tiny bandeau bikinis and feathers in her hair! As she handed over a silly amount of money for a velvet purse, the vendeuse enquired, ‘Is it for a present, Madame?’ and Lisa said, ‘Yes. It’s for my daughter.’

‘Would you like me to show you something else? We’ve just taken delivery this morning of a brand new range of Missoni stripes!’ The vendeuse spoke with barely disguised glee, and Lisa – feeling excited as a teenager herself – said, ‘Yes, I would. Thank you.’

The Missoni stripes were just the beginning. Lisa emerged from the shop with three glossy bags full of packages wrapped in tissue and tied with ribbons and sprinkled with dried lavender.

After her spree she had lunch in one of the waterfront cafés, and treated herself to crab mayonnaise, a chilled glass of Sancerre and a copy of British
Vogue
, scanning the pages with anxious eyes to make sure she’d bought the right things. She was amused to see that the retro look was in fashion, that tiered silk dresses were featured in the forefront of Liberty’s new season’s trend, and that their prints were now collectors’ items. She wondered what design archivists would make of the fabulous gowns stashed away in the boudoir in the Villa Perdita.

She was pleased with her own look today, and guessed it had something to do with the fact that Raoul had made love to her this morning after breakfast. She had found herself running late as a result, and had flung on faded blue jeans and a kaftan top before quitting the house, leaving her hair loose and managing only a desultory make-up job. But she must have done something right, because on her way past the Villa Perdita with the soft-top down, Gervaise, out for a morning stroll had hailed her to tell her she looked
magnifique
, more desirable even than Brigitte Bardot.

Draining her espresso, Lisa gathered up her shopping bags and set off for her last ‘real life’ appointment of the day. On her way, she stopped by the fish market. She’d treat Raoul to sardines tonight, grilled with olive oil and lemon juice, and parsley fresh from the garden. Perhaps they could share a bottle of champagne? It wasn’t a special occasion, but it was good sometimes to celebrate the fact that life was so very sweet.

THE CLICK AND
whirr of Cat’s camera was the only sound in the hushed wilderness that was Connemara. She had made the long journey by ferry and road from London a week ago, having won a commission to photograph a series of landscapes for an Irish postcard publishing company.

The distributors had finally come round to Cat’s proposal of a more tasteful take on the traditional image of seaside towns and nondescript piers and kids posing with donkeys, that had been peddled to tourists in Ireland for years. Amongst the mountains on the doorstep of the little town of Clifden there were no red-haired children or smiling colleens or windburnt old men brandishing shillelaghs to distract you from the beauty of the landscape. Here you could walk for miles without coming across another living soul. In Connemara, you might startle a hare or a pine marten or a pheasant, but human beings were rarely seen.

So that was why Cat was more than a little surprised to see a woman sitting by the edge of one of the myriad lakes that dotted the landscape, skimming stones across the black water. The sudden call of a kestrel made her look up and push her hair back from her face, and as she did, her eyes met Cat’s. It was Lisa.

‘Hi,’ she called. ‘Róisín told me I’d find you here.’

‘Lisa! Hi!’ called back Cat. ‘What an amazing surprise!’ Laughing, she made her way down through the dense heather, until she drew level with her aunt and pulled her into a tight embrace. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I thought it was about time I revisited Connemara,’ said Lisa. ‘And Róisín told me where exactly I’d find you.’

And suddenly her aunt did an extraordinary thing. Her hands flew to her mouth, and then she hunkered down on the ground and started to cry.

‘What is it?’ asked Cat, alarmed.

But Lisa didn’t answer; she simply continued to sob. At a loss how to respond, Cat got to her knees and began to stroke Lisa’s hair. It seemed to be the right thing to do, because gradually the sobbing subsided.

‘Has something happened? Something awful?’ Cat asked.

‘No,’ said Lisa, pulling a handkerchief from a pocket in her shoulder bag. ‘No. I’m just being utterly silly and sentimental. I used to holiday here, and they were such happy, happy times. How lucky you were, to grow up surrounded by all this beauty.’

Lisa blew her nose and wiped her cheeks, and then she slid a pair of sunglasses over her eyes, masking her expression.

‘Let me look at you!’ she said. ‘Oh, how lovely you are, my little Cat!’

Cat didn’t think she was looking particularly lovely today. Up since dawn, anxious to get the early morning sunlight slanting across the mountain slopes and the rising mist on the lakes, she hadn’t bothered even to take a shower. As for her clothes: stout walking boots teamed with shorts, T-shirt, camera jacket and a bandana were hardly the last word in style.

‘When did you arrive?’ she asked Lisa.

‘I got to Clifden around midday.’

‘And how did you get out here to the back of beyond?’

‘I have a little hire car.’

‘Is Raoul with you?’ asked Cat.

‘No. I came alone. He couldn’t take time off.’

‘Shame!’

‘Don’t worry – I have lots of photographs and home movies to bore you with.’

‘Home movies I would love to see! Have you had lunch?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘I made myself a sandwich before I came out. But I’m always starving after a day spent taking photographs. It’s the fresh air.’

‘Maybe I could buy you dinner tonight? I’m staying at Ballynahinch Castle.’

Cat looked dubious. Ballynahinch Castle was quite posh, and she had absolutely nothing to wear. ‘Aren’t you staying in Clifden with us?’

‘No. I didn’t want to intrude – I know you’re a little strapped for space. But I thought it might be nice if you could join me in the hotel for a couple of nights, as a treat. I booked two rooms.’

‘That’s really kind of you, Aunt Lisa—’

‘Oh, please stop calling me “aunt”! You know I hate it! It makes me feel like such an old frump.’

Cat smiled. ‘The thing is, Lisa, I don’t have anything to wear to a swanky hotel; I don’t think they’d allow me into the dining room. It’s the kind of joint where men have to wear a tie, isn’t it?’

‘I guess – I guess it is.’

For a horrible moment, Cat thought that Lisa was going to cry again, and she knew she really wouldn’t be able to handle it.

‘But, wait! I have an idea,’ she said. ‘I have a friend who has a cottage to rent. Would you fancy that? It’s a really nice little one, with half-doors and an inglenook and all that jazz. He lets it out to holidaymakers, and since the season’s hardly started, we might be in luck. I’ll call in to him on the way home, shall I?’

Not even the dark lenses of her sunglasses could conceal the look of relief on Lisa’s face.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I should love that!’

The cottage was as picture postcard perfect as Cat had remembered. While Lisa drove back to her hotel in her hire car to fetch her luggage, Cat did some grocery shopping, lit a fire and made up the beds, putting hot-water bottles in for good measure. Then she opened a bottle of wine to let it breathe, picked some sea pinks and put them in a jug beside Lisa’s bed, and set about making supper. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she could manage a spaghetti bolognese, and she sensed that Lisa needed comfort food.

When she’d told her mam that she was going to spend three days with ‘Aunt’ Lisa, Róisín had evinced no surprise. ‘I think that’s a lovely idea,’ she said. ‘After all she has done for you.’

Lisa’s luggage, when she arrived, consisted of a portmanteau, a rather elderly Vuitton make-up case, and a glossy tote bag full of beautifully gift-wrapped packages.

‘These are for you,’ she told Cat, holding out the bag tentatively. ‘I hope you like them. I asked the salesgirl’s advice.’

Cat took from the tote bag pretty package after pretty package containing items of adornment. There were delicate filigree earrings, a set of three slender bangles in different shades of gold, a pair of Grecian-style sandals and a tasselled belt in soft blue suede. There was a pair of aviator glasses, a candy-striped waistcoat, hosiery in dozens of colours, and yards and yards of floaty silk scarves, all wrapped in tissue paper. The
pièce de résistance
was a pretty floral-patterned dress in pale chiffon. A row of tiny buttons ran from the demurely high neck to around four inches above the hem, which was modishly short. The sleeves were fluted, with scalloped edges.

‘Well, wow!’ exclaimed Cat. ‘It’ll mean my flatmate’ll want to borrow from me, for a change! I’m always borrowing from her.’ The dress she had worn to lunch with Stuart, the one that had garnered a tacit thumbs-up from Nick Ryder, had belonged to her flatmate.

‘I’m glad you like them,’ said Lisa. ‘I know you don’t take much interest in fashion, but I’ve always been a complete sucker for clothes.’

‘This stuff is perfect to wear to posh joints. It’s what I’d choose for myself if I ever bothered to set foot in a boutique. Maybe we should go to Ballynahinch after all? Now that I’ve something appropriate to wear.’

‘No, no! This place is much more special,’ Lisa protested. ‘How clever of you to suggest it.’

Actually, Cat thought, nowhere was more special than Ballynahinch Castle, but then she guessed that Lisa had never stayed in a quaint Irish cottage before. She smoothed the skirt of the chiffon dress, and a cuticle snagged on the fabric. Maybe she should think about having a manicure? She’d never had one: her nails were always ruined from scrambling up rock faces and through sand dunes and jungly thickets.

Lisa moved to the rear window of the cottage. It afforded a glorious view of the coast: rugged rocks tumbling down to a small, deserted pink coral beach, washed by aquamarine waves. Coarse tufty grass grew between the rocks, kept short and springy by the sheep that roamed wherever they liked, and by the wild Connemara ponies that grazed there.

‘Uh-oh. Bad weather’s coming,’ Cat told Lisa. ‘Look over there, to the west.’

The sky on the horizon was pewter, with fierce diagonal stripes indicating rain on the wind.

‘The forecast isn’t great for the next few days,’ continued Cat. ‘They say about Ireland that you can experience all four seasons in one day, but it looks like we’re in for a really nasty spell.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Lisa with a smile. ‘I love the sound of rain on the roof.’

And that’s exactly what they got. For three days and nights the rain drummed down on the corrugated iron roof of the cottage. There wasn’t a hope of an excursion or a walk or a swim, and there were certainly no photo opportunities for Cat. But Lisa didn’t seem to mind. Every morning she made breakfast – coffee and toast and porridge – while Cat cleaned and reset the fire; and then they’d read or play Scrabble or talk: and while Cat was fascinated to hear all about Lisa’s former career in Hollywood, Lisa seemed much more interested in hearing all about Cat’s childhood in Connemara and her new career in London.

‘Have you a boyfriend?’ Lisa asked her.

‘No-one special, right now. I did have a rather tempestuous fling with someone whose name I’d rather not mention.’

‘Why?’

‘He has a bad boy reputation.’

‘I’m intrigued. Go on! Who?’

Cat took some Scrabble tiles from the board and spelled out a name.

‘Oh, my!’ said Lisa, all aflutter. ‘He
is
a bad boy!’

‘But so must be a lot of the people you met in those golden days of Hollywood. Did you ever meet Clark Gable?’

‘I saw him at a party once. But at those kinds of parties you never really talked to anyone. It was all about show, and making contacts. My only real friend there was the actor, Sabu.’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘He died, suddenly, of a heart attack, about five years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Lots of people I knew then are dead now.’

A silence fell.

‘I know!’ exclaimed Cat, anxious that no melancholy mood take hold. ‘Let’s make hot chocolate and watch those home movies you told me about.’

‘But we’ve no screen.’

‘We can improvise with a sheet. I’ll organize it. You make the chocolate.’

Cat set up the home cinema with a starched linen sheet, a clothes line and some pegs. Lisa lobbed more turf on the fire, heated the milk and served hot chocolate. And then ‘Ta-dah!’ carolled Cat, setting the projector rolling. ‘It’s movie time!’

They sat through nearly an hour of grainy footage, most of which had been filmed in the garden of the Boat House, and on the adjacent beach. Cat watched Lisa swimming with Raoul, picnicking on the beach, and lounging in a hammock. She watched a birthday party with friends around a long trestle table on the terrace: it featured a cake with candles, and Raoul, with an arm around Lisa’s shoulders, curling a strand of her hair around a finger and urging her to blow them out and make a wish. The expression on Lisa’s face when she raised it to Raoul’s for a kiss told Cat exactly what she was wishing for: complete happiness.

And yet, she already seemed to have it. Every inch of footage of the film showed a couple no longer young, but still quite rapturously in love. The final shot showed Raoul at his drawing board, looking saturnine and handsome and sunburnt, sublimely unaware that he was being filmed. Then, realizing that the camera was on him, he turned, laughing, and mouthed into the lens, over and over: ‘I love you! I love you!’

Cat felt her eyes blur with tears. She looked over at Lisa, who was curled up on the couch; but she was fast asleep. The sound of the reel rotating came to an abrupt end. Cat fetched a blanket from the bedroom and laid it around Lisa’s sleeping form. Then she pushed the older woman’s hair back from her face, and tucked her in. ‘Night, night; sleep tight,’ she whispered, kissing her on the forehead. She removed the reel from the projector, set the fireguard on the hearth, and turned the lamps off.