‘Dunno.’ Jess looked up from her texts. ‘Oh, no, wait – I do know. It was one of their places, before we were born. There’s a photo of the two of them here, sitting on this bench, holding hands. Very seventies – Mum looks about nine, like she might take off if the wind got under her flares.’ She paused and rolled her eyes. ‘Dad’s wearing his cords, obviously. The original ones.’
‘I have never seen that photo.’
Jess put her phone down and sighed. There was a lot in the sigh. ‘Well, I only saw it once. I was helping Dad with the paperwork after Mum died and he was looking through some of her albums. I’d never seen them before either. He couldn’t remember half the people – they were mostly photos of Mum. She hadn’t written anything on the back.’
‘They knew and they really never considered we might want to know, one day, did they?,’ said Lorna. After their mother’s sudden heart attack, Dad spent most of his days leafing through old photographs, gazing at Mum’s paintings and keeping everything exactly as she’d left it, in case it had all been a bad dream and she might walk through the door with his Guardian . Jess had been there with him more than Lorna had because soon after the funeral, in a fit of carpe diem, Lorna had enrolled on a Fine Art course in Italy. She’d always wanted to study art, secretly hoping the right course would unlock a hidden gift, but it hadn’t taken long to realise this wasn’t going to happen. The course was demanding, and Lorna had had to force herself to go back at the start of each term. Usually by reminding herself how much it was costing her to discover she hadn’t inherited her mother’s talent for life drawing.
‘He said something about this being the bench where Mum had decided to give up teaching and paint full time. I think he might have proposed to her here too, I’m not sure.’ A lot about their parents’ life, pre-children, was a mystery to Jess and Lorna. It was a close marriage, bordering on telepathic; a web of smiles and in-jokes that didn’t leave much room for other people. ‘He got very emotional. His mouth went all flat, you know?’
‘Oh no. He cried?’ Lorna had never seen her dad cry until her mum died; after that the slightest thing set him off. A thumbed paperback, an old plate. On one sad occasion, a pair of shoes. It made Lorna feel even more useless that she couldn’t even guess when to comfort him, let alone know what to say.
Jess nodded, then paused, cup at her lips. ‘It’s funny, I thought he’d talk more about Mum after she died. I mean, we were the only people who knew her as well as he did, but he didn’t. I gave him lots of chances, but he wouldn’t. It was like he’d gone into his own head. I don’t think it even occurred to him that I might want to talk about her. My mother. Maybe I should have tried harder? Maybe if I had …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Stop.’ Lorna leaned her shoulder against Jess’s. Losing both Mum and Dad within a year of each other had changed everything, too quickly. They’d dealt with it in different ways but the hardest part for both of them had been watching Dad crumble before their bewildered eyes; with one half of himself gone, he was so obviously a lover with a broken heart it was impossible to see him as their gentle, bumbling dad any more. He was a man, a man they couldn’t heal. A stranger neither she nor Jess could burden with their own grief. ‘You’d have been talking about two different people. His wife. Our mum.’
‘When you think about it, Mum and Dad … we knew they met at university, they always had that wedding photo on the mantelpiece, but what stories do we know? We don’t even know exactly why we’re sitting here right now. There are so many questions I wish I’d asked …’ Jess bit her lip. ‘I tell Hattie and Milo and Tyra about how their dad and I met, how they came to be. They love hearing it. We’re all part of the same story. Our story.’
Lorna side-eyed her sister. ‘Really? And how do you tell the story of how Hattie came to be? As a morality tale about young love overcoming all? Or as a warning about getting your contraception advice from someone’s big sister at school?’
That broke Jess’s stride. She frowned. ‘I tell it as a story of how you can make things work out if you want it badly enough.’ Then she conceded, ‘And also about reading medication instructions, obviously. Anyway, Hattie’s a different kind of sixteen. She’s far more open with me about her life because I actually listen to what …’ The words stuck in her throat, and Jess’s blue eyes clouded over. Lorna knew what she was feeling: even now, years after, sadness could rush out of nowhere. Each passing year delivered new angles on grief as life moved you on, and you saw your old self differently: the pity was sharper because you hadn’t realised it was pity-worthy before.
She leaned into her sister, feeling the softness of Jess’s body under the parka, the warmth radiating outwards from her big, brave heart.
‘You and Hattie are so different from us and Mum,’ said Lorna. ‘You don’t have secrets, because you’re part of her life. You two enjoy spending time together. Mainly in your role as her driver, but still. You and Ryan, you’re just as close as Mum and Dad but you’ve always put Hattie in the middle. And now Milo and Tyra.’
‘I’m not saying the way Mum and Dad brought us up was wrong, but if I got run over by a bus tomorrow, Hattie wouldn’t be sitting here wondering anything . No secrets, no regrets, no I love you s we didn’t say.’ Jess turned her phone over; its cover was a black-and-white photo of her, Ryan, Hattie, Tyra and Milo, piled up in a mass of bare feet, white T-shirts and Ryan’s family’s toothy grin. ‘That’s what life’s about, Lorna. Love, and honesty. And family.’
‘Don’t get run over by a bus.’ Jess was veering dangerously close to one of her favourite topics – how Lorna should get on with surrounding herself with a nuclear family like the Protheros. Lorna didn’t want that, for various reasons, but Jess still tried to persuade Lorna otherwise whenever they met up. Jess had gone into teaching, like their dad; she had a mission to improve everything she saw. Maximise its potential.
‘Like I’ve got time to find a bus to be run over by. But seriously, Lorna …’ Her expression changed. ‘You’re part of our family, you know. This Christmas, we missed you. Ryan’s family can be hard work, but you didn’t have to spend it with waifs and strays.’
‘I wanted to. It was fun. The dogs wore tinsel collars and there was no Cranium.’ She changed the subject, quickly. ‘So what are you doing later? Isn’t tonight Ryan’s five-a-side night?’
‘It certainly is. First match after the Christmas break, always painful.’ Jess tipped out the tea from her mug, and brushed the cake crumbs off her denim skirt. ‘Do you want a lift to the station? Tyra’s off to a party at four, then I need to drop Hattie at Wagamama for her evening shift. At least you can read all the way back to London.’ She sounded briefly envious. ‘I remember reading … for fun.’
‘I’m not going back to London tonight,’ said Lorna, gathering her bag and scarf and following her sister down the gravel path to the car park. ‘I’ve got an appointment in Longhampton this afternoon.’
‘Longhampton?’ Jess looked over her shoulder, surprised. She’d trained herself never to look surprised if she could help it.
‘Yup. I’ve got an appointment at a gallery there.’
‘Oh? For work?’
Lorna was a Collection Administrator for a charity that loaned artworks to hospitals and other places with too many white walls and not enough joy. Her job was to match the art with the location, and then supervise the installation and collection of the paintings, sculptures, collages or whatever seemed to bring some positive energy to the space. Recently her boss had finally given her an acquisitions role, and Jess had been impressed with the budget Lorna had to manage, less impressed with the art she’d acquired. Jess preferred art to look like their mother’s detailed illustrations: meticulously rendered nuggets of reality.
‘No, not for work, for me. I’m thinking of buying it.’
Jess’s expression said it all. ‘Which gallery are we talking about? I can’t even remember one.’
‘That little one on the high street, next to
that gift shop where we used to get birthday presents. It had navy walls and gold stars on the walls.’ As a young teenager Lorna had drifted through its stained-glass door every time they went shopping in town, saving up her pocket money for treasures. Jess saved up for Clinique foundation and her driving test. ‘It was where I bought that mixed-media portrait of a mermaid, the one I had in my room? The bakery that did the lemon tarts was on the other side?’
‘Oh, yeah …’ Jess seemed nostalgic for a moment. She liked lemon tarts. ‘I do remember it. Did they sell anything of Mum’s?’
‘She let them have one or two, I think.’ Cathy Larkham hadn’t needed a gallery; once the series of modern fairy stories she’d illustrated for an old university friend turned into international bestsellers, she could have sold every one of her paintings before she started. And then, ironically, like Rapunzel, she rarely left the painting shed in their garden, drawing and colouring and creating worlds bigger than the one she lived in.
‘And is this all definite?’ Jess asked. ‘Have you signed anything?’
‘Not yet. But I’ve made up my mind. I need to move my life on, Jess. This is where I need to start.’
They were at Jess’s car now, a 4×4 crammed with car seats and plastic cups, crisp packets and general child-related junk. The chaos, contradicted by the cocoon-like car seats, made Lorna twitchy: something about the relentless care required to keep these vulnerable creatures from harm, plus the mess. Ryan’s company car was nothing like this: he drove a pristine silver Lexus, which he cleaned every Sunday morning, rain or shine, with a special ‘semi-pro’ cleaning kit. He’d done that ever since he and Jess bought their first house together, aged twenty-two. That also made Lorna twitchy, but for different reasons.
Jess put her bag on the bonnet while she searched for her keys in its tissue-flecked depths, then stopped. She sighed and said, ‘I don’t want to pour cold water on your plans, and it’s great you’re being more positive about life, but a gallery … do you think it’s a good idea?’
‘Why? You know I’ve always wanted to have my own gallery. And I’ve been waiting for the right one to come up, not rushing into anything. This is a decent little business, with room to expand, and there’s accommodation upstairs. The whole thing costs half what I’m paying in rent now.’ Lorna lifted her hands. ‘I could live upstairs and fill the downstairs with my unmade bed, call it performance art, and still save money! There’s literally nowhere smaller I can rent in Zone Three. I’m storing my laundry in the bath.’
‘But your job – weren’t they talking about promoting you?’
‘No. They were talking about re-organisation . Our funding got cut at the end of the year, and we’re all on freelance contracts now.’ Lorna hadn’t wanted to talk about that with Jess, not today, but Jess’s expression had gone very school-teachery, whether she realised it or not. ‘I mean,’ she added, reluctantly, ‘I’ve still got a role – just with fewer hours and less pay. And at the end of the day, I’d rather use my savings starting my own business than use them up subsidising my actual job. Anthony will give me work if I need it.’
‘Oh, Lorna.’ Jess was clearly struggling not to start making a bullet-point list of the reasons this was a terrible idea. ‘I just … Longhampton? I know you’re experienced in taking art into miserable places but … seriously?’
Lorna met her sister’s gaze. Her eyes were concerned, but also haunted. Jess rarely looked haunted; she’d always reminded Lorna of a pre-Raphaelite model, untroubled and calm, with wide-set eyes and a serene resting expression. She made plans in the face of storms, and she saw them through. ‘Why not?’
‘Do you really want to go back there? After everything that happened?’
It hung in the air between them: the memories, the emotions, the younger versions of themselves that seemed like different people looking back, doing things they never talked about anymore.
‘I’m thirty,’ said Lorna, quietly. ‘By the time Mum was my age, she’d found Dad, she’d had you and me, people were queuing up for her work. She was blossoming. Whereas I’m just … I’m just treading water. And fine, I’m not an artist, I don’t have what Mum had, I’ve come to terms with that.’ She stared over the car park, where a couple were trying to load an arthritic Labrador into the back of a Fiesta. Jess was one of the few people she could be honest with; one of the few people who knew how hard she’d wanted to discover some inherited talent, how hard she’d dug into herself, only to come up with nothing. ‘So the next best thing is having a gallery where I can find people who do have talent, and encourage them and be responsible for bringing beauty into other people’s lives.’
‘But after what you went through with that shop in …’
‘That was a learning curve,’ she said stubbornly. ‘And I learned from it. I’m not going to make those mistakes again. I can’t afford to!’
She couldn’t, either. Jess had put her inheritance into a bigger house, a trust fund for the kids, laying foundations for her family; Lorna had invested in a dream that hadn’t worked out. First the Fine Art course, then a pop-up gallery. But there was a little left, enough for this final gamble.
‘I need a challenge and this feels like Fate.’ It seemed too glib, compressing nights of internet-scanning, brainstorming and budgeting into one small sentence. ‘The price, and the location, and the connection with Mum … I’m giving myself one year, and I’m going into it with my eyes open this time. One year. So you’ll have to buy at least fifteen birthday and anniversary presents from me, OK?’
Jess sighed and grabbed Lorna’s hands. Gambles weren’t her thing. She’d made one in her whole life, and it had come off, but she’d played everything very safe after that. ‘I want this to work for you, Lorn, I really do.’ She paused. ‘But I will expect a family discount on the birthday cards.’
Two hours later, Lorna was sitting in a café that had been a tailor’s the last time she’d been in Longhampton. She gazed across the main road at the gallery that had once inspired her to paint the bedroom she shared with her sister navy, with gold stars.
Like nearly everything from her childhood that Lorna remembered with love, it had changed. It was still an art gallery and the door was still stained glass, but the dark mystery had been stripped back to whiteness. White walls, white wood, white shelves, lots of white light. But there were bright colours just inside, vivid and intriguing against the blank background.
Lorna curled her hand around her coffee, served fashionably in a glass, not a cup (flat whites had reached Longhampton) and remembered the smell of the gallery then: oil paint and a Diptyque fig candle. Moments from her adolescence flashed through her mind like slippery fish: the familiar red and white pole of the barber’s on the corner, the Saturday afternoon circuit of Dorothy Perkins to the big WHSmiths, to Topshop, to the café where Jess met Ryan and he bought Lorna hot chocolate deluxe with marshmallows if she pretended they’d been together all day, instead of letting the pair of them sneak off for an hour or two. There were four years between the Larkham sisters; at fifteen, when Jess started going out with Ryan, that was a huge difference. Jess would have been in as much trouble for abandoning eleven-year-old Lorna in town with hot chocolate and a dog-eared Cosmopolitan as she would for getting up to God knows what with Ryan behind the cricket pavilion.
There was a red To Let sign on the window above the main gallery frontage. Lorna had never noticed but there were at least two floors above it, as there were above all the shops along the high street. She knew now, from the business agents’ details on the table in front of her, that the gallery’s flat comprised a large kitchen-diner, a spacious reception room with feature fireplace and no fewer than four bedrooms and two bathrooms. And an attic.
A business, and a place to live. Not just to live either, to spread out. To enjoy her possessions instead of storing them. Lorna took deep breaths to stop the jitteriness spreading through her. She knew she should be studying the number of customers the gallery had, what the footfal
l was, what the hard facts were, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t stop looking at the original glass details in the door – curling ivy and mistletoe which hadn’t been removed in the general Tippexing of the place – and feeling a weird certainty that this gallery had come available to her for a reason.
She saw her own reflection in the window of the café, and thought, I can do this. Betty had always insisted that good things happened to brave women. She’d put on red lipstick to summon up Betty’s pizzazz, and angled her grey beanie the way her mum had, letting her straight blonde hair fall around her face like Faye Dunaway.
Her appointment to view with the current gallery owner was at five on the dot. Lorna finished the last centimetre of her coffee, blotted her lips on the white napkin so it left a perfect heart-shaped kiss, and walked over the road to her destiny to a big band playing in her head.
Chapter Two
There were only two other people in the Maiden Gallery when Lorna pushed open the door, and as she stepped in, both customers looked relieved and immediately began making for the exit.
The middle-aged woman sitting at the counter put down her crossword, and smiled. She had fine white hair in a candy-floss wisp around her head, and jaunty rainbow-striped glasses on a long chain. ‘Hello there!’ she said. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can tell you about today’s exhibition.’
Lorna assumed she was talking about the collection of massive close-ups of sheep’s heads that lined one white wall. Whoever had painted those had clearly developed a keen interest in nostrils. Even though there was something unsettling about them once you’d seen three giant sheep in a row, apparently ramming (ho ho) their heads against invisible windows, they were still a lot more interesting than anything else in the gallery: detailed close-ups of flowers, detailed close-ups of apple cores and, in a daring break from the norm, half a wall of pastel canvases featuring silhouetted birds perched on telephone wires.