Placing the catalogues on the welcome desk, she pulled two dark petals from the outer edges of the full-bloom peonies that sat in an oversized glass vase and had started to discolour a little, reminding herself to give the stems a trim and change the water before she left for the evening.
With the exhibition opening tomorrow, Lilly wanted everything to be perfect, just as Bertie had taught her. He had always taken care of every little detail, reminding her that all a night required to be successful was ‘good lighting, great music, cold drinks, delicious canapés, the right guest list and plenty of pzazz!’ She pictured him then, sprinkling invisible magic dust in an arc around his head.
How she missed him, especially at times like this when he would be enjoying the preparation, shouting joy into the space, oozing energy and enthusiasm with every breath. Her wonderful, wonderful friend. No matter how much time passed, she missed him like it was yesterday and suspected she always would.
The telephone on her small desk rang. Lilly removed her diamanté-and-drop pearl earring, holding it in her palm as she lifted the telephone, which had been ringing off the hook today; theStandardwanting to check the press release. The journalist from theGuardiangoing over the article about the young up-and-coming artist she was championing, whose charcoal studies of fish were making quite thesplash. Then there had been the last-minute calls from the drinks supplier, and the harpist she had invited to pluck away in the middle of the floor, a talking point, if nothing else.
‘B’Art Gallery, Pimlico, Lilly speaking.’
She would with hindsight claim that in the microsecond before he spoke, the small intake of breath, the way he paused, told her it was him before he uttered the single word, as if she could sense it. That might of course be pure poppycock, nothing more than a fanciful embellishment.
‘Lilly.’
The sound fired a bolt right through her body. Two syllables that opened a portal that took her back in time to 1973.
It was him.
It was Wilkie, the sound of him on the end of the phone. She’d have known him anywhere.
‘It’s me, it’s Wilkie.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was a hushed, awkward whisper as her body shivered in response and she felt the horrific surge of longing that was a visceral response to hearing his voice. How she hated this reaction towards this man who was never hers, could never be hers. Her throat felt narrow, her legs too weak to support her frame as she fell into the leather chair. ‘What do you want?’ She kept her voice clipped, her tone level with just the right amount of dismissal. It bothered her that words likemy love ... Wilkie ... darling one ... stillformed in her mind and floated around just enough to confuse her and threaten to throw off her cool demeanour. She pictured the two of them, rocking together on that big bed in Royal Avenue, her nails on his back, his breath against her face.
‘It’s been a while.’ He dared to offer a small laugh, as if anything about the way he had treated her, his disappearance, his casual infidelity, was funny, not to mention the trauma he had left in the wake of his leaving.
‘What is it you want?’ It felt safest to repeat the question and not try to expand on any conversation he may or may not be intent on having.
‘What I want is to hear your voice, to talk to you. I’ve thought about calling before, many times, but it never felt’ – he paused – ‘I saw an article in the Sundays about the gallery, and there you were, and I just thought ...’
‘What did you think, exactly?’
‘That it might be the right time to call to ... apologise, I guess.’
It was her turn to offer a small laugh.
‘Bit late for that.’ She gripped the receiver with both hands, yet still they shook.
‘A lot of water has passed under a lot of bridges, Elizabeth-Roberta.’
She hated the bloom of tears now, his voice a reminder of what it had felt like to live in that addictive bubble of love and sex and how he had, in so many ways, spoiled her for good. It was also like stepping back through that portal to a time when she had indeed trusted him implicitly. Her faith restored, because despite her mother’s best efforts, he had made her believe that love was possible, he had let her dream of a future ... Guileless, riven with the exuberance of youth that was a magic elixir! And of course, at a time when her beloved dad was at home or playing in the orchestra, or working, but around, alive. There for her with his music playing and the scent of his tobacco surrounding him and his cups of tea and moments of quiet, the man who, according to her mum, had had a bad war. The man for whom she had a thousand questions that she had left too late to ask.
‘You should have told me.’
‘Told you what?’
Whether his words were grounded in ignorance or flippancy, it was hard to tell. Either way, his question made her teeth clamp together and her jaw flex.
‘Oh, I don’t know, that you preferred your tea weaker, that you can’t swim, maybe given me a good book recommendation? What do youthink? That you had a wife and children at home.A wife and children!’ She raised her voice and all the toxic hurt she had tamped down over the years came bubbling to the top, leaving her throat feeling like it burned.
‘I didn’t know how.’ His voice was now no more than a hoarse whisper.
‘Yes, because that’s the issue here, that you didn’t knowhowto tell me, not the fact that you kept them secret at all! The absolute galling deceit that I unwittingly played a part in. You turned me into the kind of woman I have always despised. You’ve heard the names –homewrecker,slut,bit on the side– none of them complimentary! You said I was naïve, and it irked me at the time, and it’s done so ever since, unaware I was naïve to be trusting you, to be giving myself to you! You had the full set of rules, Wilkie, I didn’t. I was playing a game without the first clue as to the consequences of losing.’
‘It was wonderful. Don’t forget that, how wonderful it was.’
‘How dare you!’ She wiped the tears that spilled on to her cheeks, in pain to be reminded of just how wonderful it had been and also how easily he could pull her in with that velvet voice of intent and his charm. It was as upsetting as it was infuriating.
‘It might have been wonderful for those few weeks—’
