Oriana had drawn two views of Windward.
The back elevation and the view from precisely where Malachy now sat; from where she’d sat, for God knows how long earlier that day, waiting to see where life was going to take her. Her architectural drawing had always been extraordinary – he remembered his parents murmuring about it when she’d been young and the Windward children would while away Saturday afternoons or whole days in the holidays right there in the Bedwells’ ballroom. Gently, he traced the lines with his finger as if running them over the walls themselves, Oriana’s hand under his. Though the drawings were purely linear and in black pen, he could feel where stone became wood, where space became glass, where sun came in and brought warmth.
Robin never liked the way she drew; that detail and precision controlled her style while colour and emotion dictated his. Use your heart! he’d shout at her. Don’t draw what you see – paint what you feel! And yet, as Malachy gazed and gazed at the drawing, everything Oriana felt about Windward was delineated and demonstrative. This was the building she’d loved and hated, that she’d left and returned to. It was massive and steady, it was cold and welcoming. She knew it off by heart though she was a stranger to it now. And there
was
heart in the drawing; it beat life into it and it rose out of it.
The love was right there, just under her signature.
Oriana
x
She’d made her mark.
Jed vividly remembered his mother gently scolding him when Binky the dog arrived on Malachy’s birthday. Binky was a very small wire-haired terrier, possibly too small, probably because she’d been taken from her mother a couple of weeks too early. Jette had bought her from the farmers’ market, from a man on the fringes who had a squirming litter in a crate. The puppy was unsteady and shy and the family watched as she took one faltering step forwards before taking two slinking ones backwards. Malachy was pensively sitting on his knees right beside the cardboard box Binky had arrived in. His father sat quietly at his desk – a pencil behind his ear, his spectacles low on his nose. Jette was standing motionless between the windows, smiling benevolently at the scene, her long slender arms folded loosely. But Jed couldn’t stay still; Jed was keen to welcome the newest member of the family even though the puppy was for Malachy. Jed bounced and laughed and rolled on the floor and offered Binky a succession of things to play with. He tickled her and scooped her up and kissed her. His mother had chided him – not because Binky belonged to Malachy, but because Jed was not being helpful.
Let her come to you,
Jette said.
If you fuss over her too much, you’ll push her away. Let her find her feet; leave her alone for a bit.
Watching Oriana now, finally in his flat, he remembered his mother’s words. Today, it was as hard for him as it had been all those years ago. His instinct was to flap around her, offering tea or coffee or juice or water. And biscuits or toast or some fruit. And to sit or stand or give her the guided tour. And to read the papers or watch TV or choose a DVD. And play music or the radio or just chat. To talk and talk about all the history they’d shared and all the things they’d done since. To stay in or go out. But he allowed Jette’s words to guide him.
Don’t fuss. Let her come to you. Don’t push her away. Not this time. Not again.
It was excruciating though, just being a passive observer. He watched as Oriana thoughtfully circumnavigated the room, passing and pausing at things he was screaming inside to talk about. She was perusing his CDs. He wanted to say do you remember? Do you remember the crush you had on Damon Albarn? Has she got to ‘S’? Has she seen that the Stones and Springsteen and Stewart are all waiting for her? Do you remember Rod and Ronnie coming to Windward?
How could any of them forget?
Eventually, she came full circle. Finally, she turned to Jed.
‘It’s lovely here,’ she said, smiling. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Do you still like Bounty bars?’ It tumbled out. His mother would be tutting, saying hold off! a rich tea biscuit will do!
But Oriana laughed. ‘I haven’t had one in years.’
‘I have one – I bought it this morning. Would you like it?’
She was grinning, really grinning. Her eyes were crinkling. ‘You shouldn’t have – but yes, please.’
And when he darted off to the bedroom and belted back with the chocolate bar, she laughed again and asked if he had a whole stash of confectionery in there. Yes, he said, in case we fancy a midnight feast. And she said, oh! a midnight feast – brilliant! And it was then that Jed relaxed. As he watched her reconnect with the sickly sweetness of syrup-clogged coconut and chocolate, he thought to himself – see how happy she is. He thought to himself – she’s going to love it here. He told himself – I’m going to ensure that she never wants to leave.
‘I’m getting shooting pains where the sun don’t shine and it feels like my fanny’s going to fall out. Stop
laughing
.’ Cat glowered at Oriana though the sparkle in her eyes contradicted her protestation. ‘And when I walk, it looks like I’ve cacked my pants.’
Oriana was on Cat’s sofa, doubled up in mirth.
‘Bitch,’ Cat muttered. ‘Oh – and I’m also really, really temperamental.’
‘Bless you,’ Oriana laughed, wiping her eyes. ‘Bless you.’
‘I thought maternity leave would be all about wafting around the house, folding babygros and towels – everything soft and fragrant,’ Cat continued. ‘It isn’t. It’s about me going “oof” every time I sit down; it’s about me burping a lot. It’s about me reading magazines and pregnancy books and changing my mind.’ She looked sorrowfully at Oriana. ‘I’ve changed my mind, Oriana. I’ve decided not to do this – not to give birth. I’ll just look obese for the rest of my life. Fine by me. But there’s no way on earth I’m going through labour. No way.’
Oriana held up the four fingers on one hand to signify the weeks of Cat’s pregnancy remaining. Cat held up four fingers too, but in a double-handed two-fingered
fuck off
.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Oriana told her. ‘You’ll be brilliant at it.’
‘I don’t want Ben seeing me all inside out.’
‘Your husband’s a doctor.’
‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘Your husband loves you very much and this is a much-wanted baby. Anyway, he doesn’t have to go south.’
‘Say I bellow like an ox and poop on my baby?’
Oriana shrugged. ‘My mother mooed – everyone at Windward heard her. And all the little children mooed at me.’
Cat raised an eyebrow as if to say, I rest my case. Then her face softened. ‘Have you been back again? To Windward?’
Oriana looked down at her lap and shook her head.
‘Have you seen Malachy again? No? Spoken? Texted, then?’
‘I did text,’ Oriana said thoughtfully. ‘A couple of weeks ago. On my first night at Jed’s. I sent Malachy a message saying – well, just saying thank you. And stuff.’
‘Define
stuff
, please.’
Oriana took her phone from her back pocket, scrolled through and located the brief exchange between her and Malachy. She read it out loud to Cat.
Hey. Just to say … thank you. For so so much. It all seems like yesterday to me. Oriana xxx
‘And?’
‘Well – he sent a reply a day later.’
‘Saying?’
‘Not much – he doesn’t really do texts. He’s so funny when he talks about his absolute hatred of the humble mobi.’
‘But what was his response to your text?’
Cat watched a paleness course through Oriana’s eyes as she read out his reply.
Thats ok Malachy
‘That’s
it
?’
‘No punctuation, even. I told you – he doesn’t like texting.’
‘Have you phoned, then?’
Oriana shook her head. Cat thought about it quietly. What on earth was Oriana doing?
‘And Jed?’
‘Jed’s Jed,’ said Oriana warmly. ‘He’s really easy to live with. His flat is in a great part of town – quite near the Botanical Gardens. He’s introduced me to some lovely people, taken me to some cool bars and restaurants. He orders supermarket deliveries and the flat is always warm.’
‘Wow, he’ll make someone a lovely wife,’ said Cat and Oriana wondered whether the mistake was intentional. ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’
‘No – he’s hilarious about the ones he has had. He has me in stitches.’
Cat nodded thoughtfully. ‘Has he made a move on you yet?’
Oriana baulked. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘It’s not stupid.’
‘That was years ago, Cat.’
Cat raised her eyebrow.
‘Years ago,’ Oriana stressed. ‘Another life entirely.’
And Cat thought to herself, have it your way for the moment, Oriana. Because she thought back to two weeks ago, when Oriana had dropped her car off and brought Jed in for a cup of tea. And she thought back way beyond that, to the years ago to which Oriana now referred so lightly. It was still plain to see. Jed had never fallen out of love with Oriana and it was both deluded and insensitive of her to ignore the fact. And when he told her so – and it would be
when
, not
if
– it would hit Oriana as forcefully as when that lump of stone parapet fell off the roof at Windward in front of all of them, smashing to the ground, pulverized beyond repair.
‘I’m going to Blenthrop on Saturday,’ Oriana changed the subject.
‘Oh?’ Cat’s first thought was for Malachy. Her second was Windward.
‘Got to keep Janis Joplin at bay,’ Oriana said, lifting a tress of her hair for emphasis. ‘And when you took me there last time, Gay Colin mentioned his clients who are architects.’ She paused and smiled. ‘Here’s you, on maternity leave – here’s me, finally truly ready to work again.’
Gay Colin told her she really needed her colour doing. Oriana told him she could barely afford the cut and blow-dry. Much to her relief, this led him on to asking whether she had a job – and whether she’d like the contact details of his architect clients. She left the salon with great-looking hair and two email addresses.
The route between Sheffield and Blenthrop took her nowhere near Windward. And the car park was in the opposite direction from the White Peak Art Space. In her hand, a piece of paper that might solve present financial burdens and pave the path to continued success in her career. In her bag, the keys to Jed’s car which he’d generously put at her disposal. Tonight, he was taking her to Greystones – Richard Hawley was playing a one-off there. He said he’d bought the tickets ages ago – when he was still with Fiona. Yesterday, she’d been invited along to his after-work Friday-night drinks. He’d bought her a bag of chips at two in the morning and made her a mug of tea when she woke up.
‘I should go back,’ Oriana said quietly, walking off in the direction of the car. ‘I said I’d cook before we head out.’ She stopped and carefully put Colin’s piece of paper in her wallet. ‘I will send emails this afternoon.’ She fidgeted with her hair and looked around her. She knew no one. This wasn’t her town any more. Sheffield was her city now, she lived in a different county altogether. South Yorkshire. Blenthrop, in Derbyshire, was simply where her hairdresser was and, like Cat, she wouldn’t put her head in anyone else’s hands. She looked at her watch and thought of Jed. She retrieved her phone from her bag. He’d sent a text.
Yo Janis! When are you coming back? Jxx
He’d even found emoticons of a pair of scissors, another of a girl with her hands in her hair. Oriana thought, life is good. She thought, I’m having fun. She thought, I desperately, desperately want to see Malachy.
There was no dread lacing the adrenalin which propelled her in the opposite direction from Jed’s car. Just anticipation. She wasn’t going to bother with texts. She was just going to turn up. She was only a few yards from seeing him again. Moments. Just footsteps away. There’s the gallery. She hadn’t thought of any clever phrase to announce herself. She wondered if perhaps she should. Quickly though, she scuttled right past the door, a momentary glance computing that there were people in there and Malachy was bound to be amongst them. She walked back to the newsagent’s on the corner, the one with the coffee machine, and loitered there for a while. Her mind racketed over pithy things to say but the words tumbled around into Double Dutch. Twice, the shop owner asked if he could help her. Twice she mumbled something about being fine, just looking. Eventually, she thought that a hot cup of coffee would be the perfect ice-breaker, so she bought two. Lingering a little way along the street, Oriana waited until she noted a couple leave the gallery. And then in she went.
He wasn’t alone in there; he was deep in conversation with an older man. The man was being expansive in his arm gestures while Malachy humoured him, nodding seriously. He’d told Oriana, at some crazy hour a fortnight ago, that he’d perfected his salesmanship. It’s about respecting people’s bullshit, he’d said. When people contemplate art, they say mostly ridiculous things. But if you want them to buy art, you must let them know that actually, their opinion is as valid as the most eminent art critic’s. If art inspires them to talk, then it’s fulfilled its promise.
What’s the most stupid thing anyone has ever said?
Oriana had asked.
Malachy had put on a posh accent.
I’m looking for something – a sculpture – Picasso meets The Simpsons.
Then he nodded in the direction of Robin’s paintings.
Your father’s work tends to stun the viewer into silence,
he’d told her.
Here he was now, listening attentively to the man with arms like a windmill. Had he seen her? Was he on the verge of making a sale? Should she back away, perhaps? She sipped nervously at one of the coffees – it was the one with sugar that she’d ordered for Malachy but the sweetness, from which normally she’d recoil, was comforting.
And he glanced over to the front of the gallery because he’d noticed someone enter. And suddenly, for all he cared, the man with the rotating arms might have a million pounds in his pocket but Malachy could no more listen to him than he could deliver his spiel about monthly instalments. Oriana was standing just there, with a cup in each hand, like a statue of Justice and her scales. Malachy experienced chaos and balance, exhilaration and caution, delight and apprehension. If anything tipped, she might leave. He held up a finger. One minute, he mouthed. She nodded, her head slightly coy to one side, brandishing the cups as if they were the only reason for her reappearance.