LITMIR.BIZ

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I can’t help but say as my eyes sweep the hallway. A vase of fresh daisies sits on an antique console table next to a small glass ashtray which is overflowing with bunches of keys. The leopard-print pumps she wore yesterday sit neatly next to the radiator. ‘This place is amazing. Whose is it?’

      She looks at me in astonishment for a second, before emitting her already familiar tinkly laugh. ‘It’s mine, of course. Well, mine and Ben’s. Come on, everyone’s downstairs.’ She leaves the door on the latch, so that she doesn’t have to keep answering it, she explains. Not that she wants to take it for granted that people will come. ‘It’s my first open studio,’ she says. ‘There are quite a lot of us in this street who are opening their houses up this weekend and a few in other streets, so all in all it should generate some interest.’ She seems jittery, excited, pink-cheeked and almost skips down the hallway. I follow, wanting to know who this Ben person is that she mentioned. If she’s married it might change things.

      We pass two big reception rooms, one with a paint-splattered canvas propped on to a large easel and the other with a strange smooth white sculpture that resembles Cerberus, the Greek mythical three-headed dog. It gives me the creeps.

      The flagstone staircase curves down into a big square basement kitchen with hand-painted chunky units in a dove grey. The worktops are pale marble with a darker vein snaking through it that reminds me of a Stilton. A wooden table dominates the room where two young girls and one man sit drinking and chatting. A broad-shouldered plump woman with nose piercings and frizzy dyed-black hair pulled back so tightly that her eyebrows arch up in surprise, stands at an old Aga nursing a cup of something hot, judging by the steam coming off it. When she notices me hovering behind Beatrice she smiles warmly, flashing a gold tooth. ‘Hi, I’m Pam,’ she says in a thick West Country accent. ‘Are you Beatrice’s sister? You’re like two peas in a pod.’

      Beatrice laughs a little too loudly. ‘I haven’t got a sister,’ she says, before turning to me. ‘I’ve always wanted one though,’ and a lump forms in my throat when I think of Lucy, and I know that my instincts are right about Beatrice.

      She places an arm over my shoulder protectively. ‘Everyone, this is Abi. She’s our first … what would you call it? Potential client?’ Beatrice raises an eyebrow questioningly. I’m aware of all these pairs of eyes on me and it makes me want to run straight back to the security of my little flat. I’m not used to meeting new people, not any more. I spend my life – my new life – keeping my head down and my emotions in check, and here I am in this massive, funkily decorated house with strangers.

      ‘You’ve come to see our art?’ says Pam. ‘That’s splendid. It’s probably obvious we haven’t done this before?’ She laughs, it’s loud and booming and I warm to her straight away.

      I stand mutely. When did I become inept at making small talk? Although I know the answer. Lucy was always the gregarious one out of the two of us. Beatrice squeezes my shoulder as if she can read my thoughts and I’m grateful to her. I know she understands me already.

      ‘Pam paints amazing pictures and she lives in one of the attic rooms,’ says Beatrice. Taking her arm away from my shoulder she turns to indicate the pretty girl with a bleached blonde pixie cut perched at the table. ‘And this is Cass, she’s a fantastic photographer. She lives here too and sitting next to her is Jodie. She’s a sculptor.’ I nod at Cass, and then at Jodie, who looks not much older than Cass, with mousy brown hair, striking blue eyes and a sulky mouth. I imagine she’s responsible for the three-headed monstrosity upstairs.

      Beatrice leaves my side to skip over to the only man in the kitchen, the man I’ve been trying to avoid looking at even though I’ve sensed his eyes on me since I walked into the room. He stands up as she approaches, lanky but substantially built. ‘And this is my Ben,’ she says, wrapping her arms around his waist. She only comes up to his shoulder. He looks a similar age to Beatrice, with a freckled face, hazel eyes and tousled sandy-coloured hair. With a jolt of realization I note that he’s handsome. Not my usual type but good looking nonetheless. He’s dressed in smart indigo jeans and a white Ralph Lauren polo shirt. I glance at his left hand to see if they’re married and for some inexplicable reason I’m relieved when I see the absence of a ring. I can’t quite fathom why this pleases me so much or if it’s her or him that I want to be single.

      To my annoyance I blush. ‘Hi,’ I say shyly, thinking they make an attractive couple. ‘Are you an artist too?’

      His eyes scan my face and I get the sense that he’s trying to place me, that I remind him of someone. ‘Definitely not. Some people might say I’m a piss artist, but I don’t think that counts,’ he grins. He has a soft Scottish accent, more pronounced than Beatrice’s. He sounds like David Tennant.

      Beatrice prods him in the side. ‘Ben,’ she admonishes, ‘don’t put yourself down. My brother’s the clever one, he’s into computers,’ she explains, glancing at him fondly. Brother. Of course. Now that she’s said it I can see the resemblance: the identical smattering of freckles over a ski-slope nose and full mouth. Only their eyes are different. She disentangles herself from him almost reluctantly and claps her hands. ‘Right, come on, everyone, let’s get to our stations. Abi, why don’t you come with me – I could do with an honest opinion on how I’ve set everything up. Is that okay?’

      I nod, flattered to be asked, and we all troop after her as though we are her obsequious maids. As I’m following the others up the stairs, I turn to glance behind me. Ben is still standing in the middle of the kitchen. My eyes meet his and I quickly turn away and run up the remainder of the steps, my cheeks hot.

      ‘I haven’t got a studio at the moment,’ says Beatrice as she ushers me into her bedroom, propping open the door with a floral cloth door-stop. Pam, Jodie and Cass have disappeared into their own rooms to begin setting up, although I can’t imagine that Jodie will be selling the three-headed sculpture that I saw downstairs any time soon.

      Beatrice’s room is huge with its high ceilings and intricate coving. It could belong to a movie star from the 1940s; a velvet buttoned headboard in sable, pale silk sheets and walls the colour of plaster. My feet sink into a champagne-coloured carpet. By the sash windows Beatrice has set up a French-style dressing table with sparkly stud earrings carefully laid out on midnight blue velvet and it has the effect of stars twinkling in the night sky. Behind the earrings is a stand in the shape of a tree. Silver necklaces dangle enticingly from its branches.

      ‘Wow,’ I say, going over to the jewellery. ‘Did you make all of these? They’re brilliant.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she says shyly. She’s standing behind me so I can’t see her face, but by the tone of her voice I imagine she’s blushing at my compliment, and I find it endearing that she doesn’t know how talented she is.

      And then I see it, hanging from one of the branches. A short silver chain with raised daisies intricately arranged in the shape of a letter A. My heart flutters. That necklace is meant for me, I’m sure of it. It’s as if Beatrice somehow knew a girl would come into her life with this very initial. I reach over and touch it, running my fingers over the daisies.

      ‘Do you like it?’ Beatrice is so close her breath brushes the back of my neck.

      ‘I love it. How much is it?’

      She steps in front of me and lifts the necklace from the stand, draping it over the palm of her hand. She holds it out towards me. ‘Here, I want you to have it.’

      ‘I couldn’t …’ I begin, but she hushes me, tells me to turn around so that I can try the necklace on. I lift my hair away from my neck to allow her to place the chain around my throat. Her fingers are cool against my skin.

      ‘There,’ she says, her hands on my shoulders, gently steering me so that I’m facing her. ‘Perfect.’

      ‘Please let me pay you for it,’ I say, uncomfortable with her generosity.

      She waves her hand dismissively. ‘Call it a thank you for helping me out this afternoon.’ She wrinkles her nose in concern.

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