Sara tipped her head. ‘Aw, hon. They’re very you. All of them. I knew as soon as I saw the “Keep Calm and Eat Cake” one.’
Naomi had given her that for her birthday. Gina wondered if she should be offended, then decided it was better to be known for eating cake than for tax reminders.
‘While I’m here, your for-sale notice in the kitchen. Have you sold that steamer yet?’ Sara asked. ‘I need to start my diet before the season gets going. It’s the same every year, pure agony.’ She sighed and patted her stomach, straining her pencil skirt to the limits of its ponte power. ‘Very hard to keep brides on the straight and narrow with their low-carbing when you’ve got a bit of a tum yourself.’
Gina was about to tell her she could have it for a tenner, then changed her mind. ‘You know what, Sara?’ she said. ‘Have it. I’ve got a juicer as well, if you fancy that.’
‘Really?’ Sara looked thrilled. ‘How much do you want for them both?’
‘Nothing. You’re very welcome to them. Make a donation to charity, if you like. I’ll bring them in tomorrow.’
‘Thanks!’ Sara’s face was flushed with pleasure as she left, and Gina felt pleased too. It was nice. Nice to get rid of some junk, nice to feel it wasn’t junk to someone else. If only everything leaving her house could be as useful.
When Sara had clip-clopped upstairs, Gina got up and retrieved the cake. She ate it with her feet on the window ledge, looking out at the canal. It was vanilla, with raspberry jam, and it tasted like a summer wedding.
By eleven, she’d made a timetable of the renovation stages for the Magistrate’s House, and had started the first rough draft of the Design and Access statement for the consent application form when she realised she hadn’t got a final answer from Nick and Amanda about what they were planning to do with the cellars.
She dialled the mobile number Amanda had left; Nick picked up.
‘Hello, Nick, it’s Gina Bellamy. This a good time to have a word?’
‘It’s fine. I was just . . . Hang on.’ She heard some clunks and the phone was put down and picked up. ‘Sorry, just juggling cameras. How are you?’
‘Great, thanks.’ Gina opened the file of photos she’d taken of the house’s interior while they’d been walking around; she could already see how stunning the main hall would look once the panelling had been restored, ready for paintings and subtle wall lighting.
There was a lot to do yet, though. Lorcan had pointed it out while they’d gone round: the walls beneath the panelling were full of damp, which would have to be painstakingly cut out, the rotten battens removed and new seasoned wood patched in where it had decayed over the years. No one would know it was there once the panelling was back on, but it’d be sound, and they’d know: Gina liked that. Making the house solid, not just papering over the cracks.
She dragged her attention back to her spreadsheet. ‘I’m just putting together a set of consent applications to get the ball rolling with the council, and I realised that we didn’t talk about the cellars. You were going to let me know what your architect said about Keith’s feedback.’
‘Ah. We’re still waiting on our architect. Busy man, by all accounts.’
‘Busier than Keith?’ Gina pretended to be amazed.
‘They are two very busy men. Lucky for them that we’ve got all the time in the world, eh?’
‘Well, quite.’ She looked at her list. ‘While you’re there, did you decide whether you wanted to go ahead with the reclaimed oak flooring in the study and downstairs areas, or have me price up alternatives? And we need to talk about windows. I might have to get some measurements, if that’s not going to disturb you today.’
‘Sure. I’ve got Lorcan here, actually. He’s doing some measurements himself. Something about lime replastering?’ Nick dropped his voice. ‘He keeps knocking on the walls, like he’s looking for a secret door. Is that normal?’
‘Yes. He’s seeing if your plaster’s blown. Or if it’s solid brick or just plasterboard – some of it looks a bit modern, like it might have been a later addition.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘I thought there might be some hidden tunnel down to the church or something.’
‘You’ve been reading too many historical romances. Although the house was built by a wine merchant, so you never know, there might be a secret tunnel down to the cellars . . .’
‘Aha! A wine chute, straight from the dining room to the inner cellar? I like the sound of that. Do you think we could get one?’
‘I’ll talk to Lorcan,’ said Gina. ‘He’s built a couple of slides for me. I don’t think a drink chute should be a problem. You might have trouble getting it past the conservation officer, though.’
Nick laughed. ‘It’s a practical modern addition. What time were you thinking of coming over? I’m here all day.’
She glanced up at the clock on the wall opposite; a dark gold 1930s starburst, bought with her leaving collection from the office. It was quarter past eleven. There were a couple of calls to make about Naomi’s super-shed, and a few emails to return, but the rest of the day was empty. ‘About twelve?’
‘Great,’ said Nick. ‘I might have to nip out but Lorcan’s here. You might get more sense out of him anyway. Fewer questions, at least.’
There was something about windows that Gina found fascinating, the connection, maybe, with previous owners who’d stood at them, looking out at the same view, but in different clothes, with different eyes.
The Magistrate’s House window frames had rotted badly in the wet winters Longhampton had suffered for the past few years, and the sills were soft and spongy beneath the crumbling paint. When she got near enough to inspect them, Gina could almost shove her finger into the wood until it splintered like a chocolate Flake.
That’s going to be expensive, she thought, as she took a few photographs of the detail, mentally tallying the cost of repairing twelve full-size sashes on the front and sides, with more decorative windows round the back, and that nice stained glass. Amanda could forget all about her eco-double glazing too: Keith Hurst was going to come down hard on any attempts to change the glass. He was passionate about preserving any original features, particularly historically authentic draughts.
Gina got a notebook out of her bag and wrote down, ‘Draught proofing? Insulation? Ring Simon/Longhampton Energy Save’. It was her job to come up with Plan B, and Plan C, and if necessary Plan D, then make the client feel like it had been their Plan A all along.
Her boots crunched on the gravel that ran around the side of the house, as she went into the garden. The large north-facing drawing room at the rear of the house led onto a croquet lawn at the same level, which then dropped down via a flight of ornamental stone steps to a bigger flat lawn that could easily have passed for a small cricket pitch. Gina had found some photographs in the archive of four well-covered Edwardian girls playing tennis on it, in big hats and striped leg-of-mutton-sleeved blouses; she planned to email them to Nick and Amanda along with the proposed timetable.
Around the lawn smaller flowerbeds were now overgrown and knotted, and beyond that wilder land had run to meadow over the years. A few trees stretched their bare branches towards the pale sky. Gina was gazing at the stone steps where the tennis-playing girls had sat in awkward clusters with their mothers and beaux, wondering which of the big houses they’d come from, which well-to-do local families they’d married into, when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.
She pulled it out. It was a text from Stuart. She stepped back, unlocked the screen and braced herself for another petulant demand about loans.
I love you. Xxooxx
An unexpected acrid taste rose up in Gina’s mouth, followed by a wash of relief that she was shocked to feel, given everything that had happened.
He was apologising. He was sorry. He loved her.
Naomi had been right. Her heart banged in her chest, up into her temples, as a rush of joy swept across her.
Gina often played this moment
in her head, when Stuart realised what a huge mistake he’d made. She thought she’d be triumphant, and cool, or that she’d realise she didn’t want him back after all, but now that it was here, those words in black fact, she was filled with a scrabbling desire to make it all right again. For things to go back to where they had been.
Her hands shook as she tried to compose a text in reply. But what should she say? ‘Me too. I’m sorry’?
She drew a breath. What were the right words? Her mind was blank. Gina didn’t want to get this vital message wrong, but she also didn’t want to leave too long a gap, which could be interpreted as a snub, or worse.
The phone vibrated again, another text folding over the top of the screen like a note passed in class. It was another from Stuart.
Sorry sorry sorry. Ignore previous text. Meant for Bryony.
The rushing in Gina’s ears stopped, and everything went silent. Shock squeezed her so hard she couldn’t breathe, as a scarlet pain in her chest bloomed and spread like a slow-motion bomb, rising up around her in a cloud, spreading through her body.
She sank onto a stone wall, her legs weak beneath her, feeling nauseous. She knew this was disproportionate, but her reaction was out of her control. It was bigger than she was, an emotion she couldn’t contain in her head. A distant voice told her to get out of sight of the main house, in case Nick or Lorcan spotted her.
She stumbled on the mossy stone flags, and scrambled around to the other side of the house where walled fruit beds ran alongside the bridleway that led to the village. Tears were already seeping out of her, running down her face as her chest heaved. Gina tucked herself behind an ash tree and leaned her head against the bark, hating herself for the waves of misery that washed through her, knowing there was nothing she could do but let them come.
Gina wasn’t sad for now: she was grief-stricken for the times Stuart had told her he loved her and meant it. She was grieving for the younger Gina who had been wasting her time, and she couldn’t warn her; for the part of her that was lonely enough to want to go back, like an unwanted dog, even though she knew in her heart Stuart no longer loved her.
She heard Nick Rowntree before she saw him. It wasn’t hard: his voice was sharp with annoyance and he clearly wasn’t expecting to be overheard on the deserted footpath.
‘No.’ Long pause. ‘No. Listen, I mean, no, will you just listen to what I’m saying? You said it was going to be two weeks at the start of the month. You know I’ve got this work to do for Charlie, and I need to . . . Amanda, I’m not saying that.’
Gina leaned against the tree, trying to mould herself into it. Please jog past, she thought, her chest shaking with sobs.
‘So when are you coming back? . . . What? . . . Seriously? . . . Amanda, you know that’s not the deal . . . Well, what am I— . . . Amanda. What am I— . . . Oh, don’t start that . . .’
The voice was coming nearer. Gina heard the gate squeak and his feet on the gravel. Nick had detoured into the back garden: he didn’t want to bump into Lorcan either.
Shit.
I should move, she thought. There was no way she could pretend she hadn’t just heard what she’d heard.
‘So what exactly is the point of this, then?’ Nick’s voice was stripped of the humour she’d heard before. He sounded defensive. ‘Am I just some kind of project manager now? I thought that’s what you’d hired Gina for. Or am I just there to manage the manager? You don’t have to assume everyone’s out to rip you off, Amanda. The whole world doesn’t operate like lawyers . . .’
Gina panicked, not sure whether she could pass off lurking in the garden as some sort of buildings research. The sobs wouldn’t stop: they were still gripping her lungs, even though her brain was now racing. There was only one way out – via the path Nick was crunching down.
‘She’s not provincial! And even if she is provincial, so what? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve bought a house in the middle of nowhere . . . Hang on, there’s someone in the garden. Hey! What are . . .? Oh. Hello.’
Gina stepped out from behind the tree. Nick was standing about three feet away from her, in his running shorts and an old T-shirt, his eyes fixed on her in surprise while Amanda carried on yelling into his ear. Gina could make out her voice. Furious. Barely stopping to breathe. Sweat had dampened Nick’s hair, sticking a few dark curls to his forehead, and his face was flushed, from the run or the argument, Gina couldn’t tell.
She held up her camera, hoping it would look like an explanation, but she could feel mascara clumping on her lower eyelashes, and she knew it was smeared. Her pulse was still hammering and every few moments a sob threatened to burst from her throat, the sort of annoying, hiccuping sob that she couldn’t control, even if she tried.
‘No. It’s Gina. She’s . . .’ He smiled, looked as if he was about to make a joke, then realised she was crying and stopped. ‘I’ll call you back,’ he said, and turned off his phone.
They stood staring at each other for a few seconds, unsure who should be most embarrassed, until Nick eventually spoke.
‘Awkward,’ he said.
Chapter Eight
ITEM: four glass Murano bowls, various colours, made in Venice in the official Murano factory
Venice, 2006
Gina pauses by a quartet of glass bowls, each studded with hundreds of tiny beads like multi-coloured floral gems. Every shop in Venice seems to be selling Murano glass but these are particularly intricate: the colours glow with peculiar intensity – crimson, emerald, gold, midnight blue.
She loves the contradiction of them. Liquid, but solid; delicate, but weighty. The skill of moulding the molten strands of glass passed down from father to son to grandson, on and on. Holding the bowl is like touching their fingers across the centuries.
‘Aren’t these gorgeous?’ she murmurs.
Stuart’s not even looking. ‘They’re OK.’
Gina presses her lips together, biting down the irritation that’s been rising since the walking tour of the hidden churches this morning. You really find out what people are like on holiday, she thinks. They’ve been together a year, and she’d had absolutely no idea that Stuart moves his lips while he reads. Gina noticed that on the plane on the way out. Now she can’t stop noticing.
Don’t be a hormonal cow, she tells herself. That’s just PMT talking.
Because the rest of this minibreak is living up to expectations: Venice is everything Gina dreamed it would be from her History of Art A level. The hotel is tucked away and romantic, the sheets are about a million thread count, and Stuart’s anniversary present to her came in a tissue-filled Agent Provocateur box. Dusk is falling over the squares she’s longed to explore since she was a teenager, although she’s unable to enjoy the glittering lights on the water because Stuart keeps reminding her that the place is full of pickpockets who’ll steal her bag, given half a chance.
Gina realises that he’s probably hoping they will, both to prove him right and to give him something to do.
She focuses on the pretty bowls, even prettier under the spotlight in the cabinet. They’re the most beautiful things she’s seen in ages and, better than that, they represent something. A tradition, a skill.
‘Wouldn’t they be a lovely memento of our first proper holiday?’ Gina offers one to Stuart so he can feel its weight.
He holds it as if it were a cricket ball. ‘What would you do with them?’
‘Display them. Just have them in the house. They’re beautiful. Beautiful things don’t need to do anything.’
‘Apart from collect dust.’
His stubborn refusal to see the beauty or the skill involved makes Gina snappish. He was just the same about the Basilica San Marco. That wasn’t PMT. He’s got no excuse for that.
‘Can you stop being so dismissive?’ she hisses, aware of the owner hovering proudly behind the counter.
‘I’m not being dismissive!’ Stuart’s face is creased with affront.
‘You are. You’ve been really critical of every
thing.’
‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’
Gina watches him fiddling with a dish, as if determined to find a flaw in it. Normally, Stuart’s very easy-going. But when he’s grumpy, it’s never about the thing he’s outwardly grumpy about. His moods just escape through the path of least resistance, like volcanic lava, but without the heat and force. Stuart is more of a sulker. The Mount Etna of sulkers.
‘What. Is. The. Matter?’ she demands under her breath.
She doesn’t even need to prod him. ‘It’s thirty-two degrees in Sharm, and Jason’s just seen half the England cricket team on the golf course,’ he informs her.
Oh, so that’s what it is. The text from Jason earlier. He’d rather be in Sharm el-Sheikh with Jason and Naomi, out on an artificial golf course with the England cricket team.
Gina bites her lip. Sometimes it’s easy being with Stuart: he makes her feel sexy and secure, and he says what he’s thinking, eventually. But at other times, especially recently, Gina’s found herself baffled by how little he understands her. Trying to explain why certain churches make her heart sing takes all the wonder out of it. Discussing them with Kit – or even Naomi who didn’t do History of Art but is a part-time Catholic – only unpacked more magic.
Gina pushes that thought out of her head. It’s not fair. ‘Shall we go back to the hotel?’ she says, keeping her voice even. She knows she should try harder to defuse this.
‘Are you sure there aren’t any more museums open? There might be one we haven’t trailed round yet.’
She turns away. For that, she is having the bowls. She fishes her guidebook out of her bag and approaches the desk.
‘Scusi,’ she says to the shopkeeper carefully. ‘Quanto sono queste ciotole?’
‘For you, five hundred euros,’ he says, with a flourish.
Whoa. Gina had guessed they’d be a hundred and fifty at most. That’s all her spending money for the holiday, and she’s still got to get her mum and Naomi something.