‘I’m sorry. I’m overstepping.’
But Bonnie shook her head. ‘Not at all. It’s nice to have you here.’
‘Shame Faye had to fall off her bike to get you to let us in,’ Margot said with a grin as a knock at the door announced their third companion had arrived and Bonnie went off to answer it.
When Bonnie came back into the room Margot was standing beside the easel. The same photograph of the view from the hill taking in the bookshop and Lulworth Cove beyond was there but the canvas hadn’t changed since Margot had seen it yesterday.
‘This will be beautiful once it’s finished,’ said Margot. ‘Howard’s bookshop,’ she added, hoping she wasn’t overstepping the mark by continuously mentioning the bookshop. They needed to be subtle but having spoken with Faye and Iris again they had all agreed that if Bonnie wanted to sell then it was her right, but what none of them wanted was for her to make a rash decision in the midst of her grief.
‘I’ve barely started it let alone finished it.’ Bonnie had made a good start on the sky and the sketch of the rest of the detail was there ready and waiting.
‘Artist’s block?’ Faye ruffled her damp hair to smooth it out.
Faye looked stunning, whatever her hair was doing, unlike Margot who felt like a drowned rat if she ever let her mousy strands come into contact with drizzle.
‘You could say that,’ Bonnie answered.
‘Have you painted at all since Howard…?’ Margot’s voice trailed off. She didn’t need to finish.
‘I keep trying.’ Bonnie sat down and looked into her lap as if it was something to be ashamed of.
‘No judgement here,’ said Faye.
‘When my mum died, I didn’t read a book for months.’ Margot’s admission had Bonnie looking up. ‘I didn’t. I couldn’t. Either the text reminded me of death, or of Mum, or of families that were still intact. I saw her in between the pages of everything.’
‘How did you move forwards?’ Bonnie wanted to know.
‘One day at a time. I kept busy at home, which was easy; there was always a lot to do, and I ignored books for a bit.’
‘I keep sitting in front of my easel,’ said Bonnie. ‘I’ve even mixed paints, but then I lift the brush and I can’t quite carry on.’
‘You will, eventually,’ Faye encouraged. ‘Creativity isn’t something you can force. It will come.’
‘In the early days when Mum died,’ said Margot, ‘not only did I stop reading, I lost my ability to follow a basic recipe. I messed up quite a few meals. Put the wrong ingredients in, mixed up a gravy instead of a cheese sauce. I suppose cooking is creative, and I couldn’t do it when my head was elsewhere.’ She looked to Bonnie. ‘Keep sitting in front of your easel when the mood takes you, mix the paint if you feel like it, give yourself permission to do a bloody awful piece of art.’
They all laughed at that.
‘The rain has stopped,’ said Faye. ‘Why don’t we put our coats on and go down the hill to look at the view ourselves.’ She addressed Bonnie. ‘You might find being outside and looking at the real-life scene, taking in your Howard’s beautiful bookshop rather than looking at a photograph, is enough to make you want to paint.’
But Bonnie shook her head. ‘Oh no, I think actually I might be getting a cold. Best I stay inside today and keep warm.’
Margot fought the urge to tell her perhaps the outside air and exercise might ward off the cold if there really was one coming. They’d got this far – getting Bonnie to invite them over was a major milestone and she didn’t want to ruin anything.
‘Would you girls like to see some photographs of our travels?’ Bonnie asked them in what was, Margot suspected, a tactic to stop them talking about leaving the cottage.
For the next hour they went through page after page of pictures, Bonnie talking through at length what the picture was of, what she and Howard had done that day. She added animated anecdotes, tales about Howard that fitted the way they knew him already.
Margot closed the last of the photo books Bonnie had had made rather than printing out pictures and using a traditional photo album. Margot longed to have her own versions of these, and maybe some day she would. ‘I really wanted to travel, you know.’
‘So why didn’t you?’ Bonnie asked.
‘Babies and marriage. And not in the right order. I got pregnant and had to give up my university place. I was doing English and American studies and would’ve had a year in America.’
‘That would’ve been quite the experience.’ Bonnie didn’t leave it there. ‘Do you have regrets?’
‘I’ll never regret the boys, but the study and the travel? Yes, I have regrets.’
‘And your husband, would he travel with you?’
