A Little Love (24 page)

She needn’t have worried. The two of them ambled from room to room at a measured pace; if she saw a picture that she liked the look of, he consulted his guidebook and gave her the background. His easy manner and encouragement bolstered her confidence.

‘I think if Westminster doesn’t work out for you, you could always get a job as a museum guide.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He patted her bottom.

Some rooms didn’t hold them for long and there were certain works of modern of art that neither of them particularly warmed to, eliciting a mutual wrinkling of noses. Others they positively disliked: still lifes and animals in oils that were a bit too chocolate-boxy for both their tastes.

But then they turned a corner into a rather unassuming little room and Pru stood transfixed. Her heartbeat quickened and she was rooted to the spot. The painting was relatively small compared with some of the huge pictures that dominated the other walls, but Pru was unable to take her eyes off it. It was quite simply the most beautiful and saddest painting that she had ever seen. Others passed by, seemingly unaffected. But for Pru it was as if it called to her. She wanted to drink in every detail.

It was a painting of a woman sitting on the cobbles in the moonlight. She was wearing a torn gauzy white nightgown and was lit from behind by the glow of a candle. Her dark curly hair was haphazardly piled on top her head and she looked as if she had been recently disturbed from sleep. A man on horseback threw gold coins, a couple of which fell into her lap, the others scattering around her on the ground. One hand clutched the thin material of her gown across her chest and the other was stretched out against the wet cobbles. Her shoulders sagged and she looked exhausted and beaten. Her face had the most haunting expression: there was a remorseful twist to her mouth and her eyes were deep pools that seemed to speak of shame and regret.

Christopher handed Pru his handkerchief. She hadn’t realised she was crying. She blinked as she examined it, a small square of cotton embroidered with his initials.

‘Th… thank you,’ she stammered.

‘Do you like her?’ he asked as he put his arm across her shoulders.

Pru nodded as she blotted the tiny rivers that carried the remnants of her mascara down her face. She tucked the white square into her pocket, not exactly stealing it, but knowing that she might need it later. ‘She is so beautiful and so haunted; she looks like she needs help.’

Christopher gazed at Pru’s profile. ‘Yes. Yes she does.’

‘I do love you, Christopher.’ Her tears fell even harder.

He kept his eyes on her. ‘And I you.’

He leant forward to look at the title of the painting. ‘
Puta
,’ he read aloud. ‘Whore.’ He squeezed her arm and guided her towards the sunlight. ‘Come on, let’s get you some fresh air.’

Hand in hand, they made their way back to the marina, their mood reflective. Pru was nervous, knowing what was about to come and Christopher silently wondered at the change in her demeanour, anxious not to do or say the wrong thing at this early stage of their relationship.

‘You okay there, Miss Plum? You are rather quiet.’

‘I’m fine.’ She wrapped her arm around his.

Sitting on their balcony, she watched the hustle below, storing away each sight and smell. The scent of pine resin and garlicky roasting meat mixed with the tang of the sea was intoxicating. She knew that long after they left Barcelona, those smells would transport her back to this warm Mediterranean evening, where everything had still been perfect.

‘Hello, hello!’ Christopher called as he appeared from the staircase with a basket full of goodies.

Pru could see a fresh loaf sticking from the top and a large slab of cheese in waxed paper. She turned in her chair and called ‘Hi!’ through the window. Christopher collected two glasses from the little square china sink before joining her in the dusky evening light. This was her favourite time of day.

‘Now, before you go all foodie on me, we have locally produced goat’s cheese that smells wonderful and a tub of spicy pickled peppers. The bread, I’m afraid, isn’t quite Plum Patisserie standard, but it’s hot, fresh out of the oven and looks wonderfully rustic. More to the point, I’m bloody starving! All that walking is enough to give a man an appetite.’

He handed her a glass of chilled white wine and stood with his arms resting on the balcony rail. His long legs were straight, his wide, muscular back taut under his pale pink linen shirt. Pru wished they could stay like this forever; it was peaceful and a world away from the life that awaited them back in London. Christopher took his place at the small table and stretched, making the wicker chair creak against his body. The two smiled at each other as they shared the bottle in companionable silence, happy in the knowledge that there was nowhere else they would rather be.

He turned towards her slightly. ‘I bought you a present,’ he said as he reached into his shirt pocket. ‘A picture, a postcard of the painting you liked.’

He handed her the card.

‘Oh! Thank you, Chris; she’s beautiful.’

‘I wanted you to have a memento of our trip and I know she moved you.’

‘Yes, she really did.’ Pru nodded.

‘We should go to exhibitions in London; I’d really like that. I’d forgotten the pleasure of walking around a gallery, I thoroughly enjoyed it.’

‘I’d like that too.’ Pru sipped her wine.

‘This trip has been incredible. I feel like we’ve been away for weeks, not just a couple of days. I want us to spend more time together, Pru. I want to spent all my time with you, if I’m being honest!’ He laughed, cautious with this line of conversation. ‘And now I’m feeling very nervous because your smile has faded and for the second time today I’m wondering if I’ve overstepped the mark or offended you in some way. I have to confess, I want to get this right, but I am so out of step. You can always tell me to shut up, or better still, give me pointers—’

‘You don’t need pointers, Chris, you’re amazing. Perfect in every way.’

‘Well that’s good to hear, but forgive me, if I am as you say, could you look a little happier about it?’ He grinned at her, baring all his teeth as though asking her to follow suit.

Pru sighed and placed her wine glass on the table. ‘I’ll try. You make me so happy, happier than I can ever remember, but I also know that I’m not perfect, and that’s the problem.’

‘Ah, but that’s the beauty of it: you don’t have to be perfect. You only have to be perfect for me, and you are.’

‘Supposing I’m not?’ Pru stared at the postcard on the table in front of her.

‘Well, I think you should let me be the judge of that.’ He paused for a couple of seconds and stroked his chin. ‘Right, I’ve had a think and yes, I now judge you fit for purpose!’ He laughed.

Ordinarily, she would have joined him, but not tonight. ‘I want to tell you about me, Chris, I want to tell you all about me.’

‘I’d like nothing more.’ He angled his chair towards hers and took her hand inside his own.

She nodded and took a deep breath. ‘It’s difficult to know where to start, so I’m going to go back to the day I moved to Earls Court from Bow, me and Mills, trudging across town and on the Tube with one battered suitcase between us.’

‘Oh good, will there be time for questions at the end?’ he joked.

She ignored him, concentrating on getting her words out.

‘Are you going to keep me waiting all night?’ Chris chuckled and swilled the last of his wine around his glass, then reached for the bottle and poured himself a generous refill.

‘No, I’m just figuring out how to start.’

Christopher’s phone buzzed on the table. ‘Damn. Sorry, Pru, I have to take it, might be work. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘Of course.’ She waved her hand, crossed her legs and sipped her wine.

He stood and walked to the front of the balcony, facing out towards the harbour.

‘Christopher Heritage.’ He looked over his shoulder and winked at her, smiling, with one hand on his hip and the other holding the phone to his ear. ‘Yes. Here.’ He sounded firm.

She watched his eyes flicker as his lips parted. The colour drained from his cheeks and his face seemed to slip, drooping down, despondent, shocked. His pupils dilated and he gripped the balcony rail as if to stop himself from falling.

‘Everything okay?’ she mouthed. It was clearly bad news.

He turned away from her gaze and spoke into the corner of the balcony. She stared at his back, his shoulders rising and falling with every deep breath. ‘When?’ His voice faltered. ‘Is it accurate?’ He waited for the response. ‘Are you sure?’ Again the silence. ‘I see.’ Christopher straightened his spine and exhaled. ‘Thank you, that can’t have been easy. I will see you in the morning. Yes, right now, tonight.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

He ended the call and placed the phone in the breast pocket of his shirt. Holding the balcony rail with both hands now, he stared out to the dark sea beyond, looking over the heads of the revellers below.

‘Are you okay, Chris?’

He snorted through his nose and shook his head. ‘Am I okay? I’m not sure really.’

‘What’s happened, can I help?’

‘Oh no, no. You’ve done quite enough, thank you.’ His tone was cool, clipped. Pru shrank back against the wicker chair.

They were both silent for a minute. Then Christopher spoke. ‘I’ve been floored once or twice in my life. The last time was sitting opposite a consultant in a dusty room in Harley Street on a rainy Thursday in November. It was when he told me Ginny had run out of options. It felt like this, just the same as if I’d been kicked in the gut.’

‘Chris, for God’s sake, what’s going on?’ Her breath came in shallow pants.

‘Good question! What the fuck is going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on, shall I? My staff received a call and then a visit from a certain “associate” of yours who is threatening to go to the tabloids with a snippet of information that might be of interest.’

Pru closed her eyes. The moment he used the word ‘associate’ she knew it was Micky. ‘Oh God!’ She wrapped her arms around herself and gripped on tightly.

‘Yes, “oh God” indeed. You know what’s funny? All these snippets of information that you let slip over the last few weeks – a life of hardship, the little match girl angle – all very endearing, but not once did you see fit to mention that you were on the game, a whore! Not once! Don’t you think that one small fact might have been good to share?’

‘I was going to tell you, Chris. I wanted to,’ she replied in a small, cracked voice. ‘I knew I had to. I just didn’t know how to start.’

His shoulders straightened and she watched as he assumed a sober, collected expression.

‘When, for how long?’ he said tersely, as if addressing a suspect.

Her voice was quiet. ‘It was in my late teens and early twenties, for seven years. Seven years of saving and learning patisserie when we had enough money. We worked with Trudy. But at the same time we started catering for functions and we were good, really good. Our reputation grew and when we could afford it, we moved into our first little shop off Oxford Street. The rest is history.’

She looked up and tried to catch his eye, but he determinedly fixed his gaze elsewhere.

‘I never talk about it and I have never told anyone. I still have nightmares about it. I was a little girl in so many ways. I wasn’t worldly when I left Bow; I’d never even been kissed. And then there I was, sitting in that room, waiting for a man old enough to be my granddad. He walked up the stairs and I knew he was coming for me. And I knew that once I’d done it that one time, I would be changed forever. And I was.’ She paused, dug her nails into her hand, willed herself to get it all out. ‘I remember he smelled of cloves. The top stair leading up to our flat was broken and it creaked as he trod on it. It’s almost like a reflex now. If I hear the creak of a stair under my foot, my heart jumps like it might fire out of my body and I feel like I’m going to fall. It petrifies me. Every time I heard that creak, I knew that it would only be a minute until I was on that bed, losing part of myself all over again. I still hear it, I still dream about it. I see all their faces as a group, bearing down on me, and sometimes, in the middle of the night, I have to sit up and put the light on, just to check I’m alone and safe.’

She looked up and saw a flicker around his eyes.

‘I knew that being part of a couple was not for someone like me. Deep down, I knew that. But I wanted so badly to be the kind of person that could be. I think the world of you, Chris.’ Her tears came thick and fast now. ‘I really do. But from the moment you took my hand, I knew that I would have to tell you that I’ve slept with hundreds of blokes for money.’

Pru blew her nose and tried to compose herself. ‘I’ve always been a bit fascinated by people in love, you know. I worked with a girl at Bryant and May, her name was Dot Simpson and she couldn’t talk about the bloke she loved – Solomon, I think his name was – without grinning. She couldn’t say his name without her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing. Even the thought of him made her happier than I had ever known. I envied her that and I’ve never forgotten it.’ Dot would be a grandmother now, probably, she thought with a jolt. Still living in Bow with her Solomon, most likely. ‘And even though I’ve shared a pillow with many men, I have never felt even a twinge of intimacy, of love; those things both felt very separate from sex. But with you, it’s different. I want to breathe the air you breathe; I want to touch your skin. I love the way you smell, your walk, the way you laugh, everything about you. And strangely, the sex is just a small part of that, not as important as the other stuff for me. It’s like it’s come full circle.’

‘I wish it were that simple.’ Christopher finished his wine in one gulp. Holding the stem, he set the glass back down on the table with such force that both of them glanced at it to see if it would break.

‘I can’t help it, Chris, and I can’t change it. That’s me. My life wasn’t university and an early marriage, but a hard life, a difficult life. I made choices that I have lived to regret. Every day of my life I regret them, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.’