The Undertow (48 page)

And then there’s Dad.

She watches as he limps up to the drinks table and stands, sloped, leaning on his cane, saying something probably slightly flirty to Chloë, who smiles compliantly and pours him a glass of white. Then he turns and looks around the room with that kind of assuredness that seems almost natural after all these years, but causes him, she can see now, a vast effort to summon up and project every time. She watches as he moves away from the table, and limps across the room, alone. It was a difficult invitation to send. She’d wanted him to be here. She hadn’t wanted him to see this. All this time, she’d hoped something last minute would keep him away. The way it often did.

“Excuse me. I just have to—”

She ducks past the man in the grey suit, and heads over to her dad.

The closer she gets to him, the more she wants to turn and run away. She can see the pictures in her mind’s eye, all the separate blobs and smears of paint and not what they add up to. This is going to hurt. But she keeps walking to him. He’s studying one of Clare’s vases, and so doesn’t notice her till she’s up close and touches him on his arm. He looks round at her, and smiles, and says, “Petal.”

His worn, tired face, and that one word. She slips her arm in through his.

“Show your old man, then.”

They move together between the patches of people. Over the frisson of anxiety she wonders if Terry will make it, if Dad will manage to be polite to him. Norah’s here now: Billie spots her blue-black twist of hair as she turns, but doesn’t catch her eye. And there’s Tim, and Gil
and Kate and James from work, and that’s all good and fine, and then there’s a man in a creased jacket and jeans, and she just gets the back of him, and she thinks, who’s that, and he leans in to give Norah a drink, and she sees, Ciaran, and her skin prickles with delight. Then Norah’s gaze shifts and she spots Billie and comes bundling through to her, kisses Billie’s cheek—a whiff of Jo Malone and smoke.

“This is fabulous, hon, fabulous.”

“Thanks.”

She dips in to kiss Billie’s dad.

“Well, Professor,” Norah says, “you must be very proud.”

“Always have been,” he says.

Her dad stands, holding himself almost military erect, and then takes a sip of wine. He glances at her, his lips twisted.

“You haven’t seen them yet,” Billie says.

But then Norah squeezes her arm. “I brought people!”

“I see that.”

“Aren’t I good to you?”

“Norah, please.”

Norah holds up a hand, smiles. “Okay, okay.”

“Show me the pictures, petal?” her dad says.

She nods. She has to face up to this at some point. It may as well be now. “Come on.”

There are four pictures. She has painted dozens, but it is just four full-length portraits that have made it to this final selection. Her dad moves along the row, considering each of them carefully, pausing, leaning on his stick. Stepping close to examine the brushwork, stepping back to get the overall effect. Captain Peter Reynolds and his wife, Private Louis Hargreaves and his guitar, Corporal Simon Gregg and his whisky glass.

Billie’s aware of the scuff and shuffle of other viewers, the hum of their voices, their murmurs of assessment. But somehow it feels as though the two of them are alone, that there is no-one else in the gallery at all.

They come to the last picture. Lieutenant Matthew Hastings. Her dad just looks at it a long time. He says nothing.

In the picture Matty stands, arms folded behind him, upright in his uniform, looking straight out of the frame. He’s the only standing figure; the others are all seated. Matty’s expression is sheepish. Billie knows what no-one else here knows—that just off to the left of him,
out of frame, Gemma had fallen asleep in an armchair, exhausted with the early months of pregnancy: the baby will be born in September. She has captured her little brother perfectly; she knows she has: she has laid down in paint the thoughtless, undamaged beauty of the young man. Just as she has captured the wrinkling of a scar, the rawness of a wound, empty spaces.

She feels a kind of bullish, nauseous pride. But she knows that this will hurt her dad. It hurts her.

Her dad just stands. She watches as he sucks in his left cheek, bites down on it with his back teeth. She touches his sleeve, and he looks at her. His eyes are old and tired and the lower lids fall slack and show the pink inner rims.

She touches his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, love.” He gestures to the painting, his wine glass sloshes.

“I know.”

“Seeing him up there like that. He just looks so … vulnerable.”

“I know.” It’s their everyday, grinding, relentless fear, that some harm will come to Matty. She’s looked at it every day for months now, stared right at it. It’s harder for her dad, though, confronting it suddenly like this, having it dragged out into public view.

“It’s like you’re …” he shakes his head. “I don’t know, it’s nonsense, but it makes me scared.”

“Like I’m tempting fate?”

He nods. His face looks pinched, his lips tight.

She looks away, back to the picture. “For me, it’s the opposite of that.”

“How?”

“I think, whatever it is, by not looking at it, not saying it, not admitting it to yourself, that’s the temptation, that’s the danger. You’ve got to look fate right in the eye. You’ve got to stare it down.”

“It’s just …” he shakes his head, words failing.

“It’s Matty.”

“Yes.”

She turns to look at the pictures again. “Good.”

“I need some air.”

“Yes.”

She gestures him through the blur, the room, the press of people, till they’re standing in the outdoor evening with the smokers, and she leans back against a low window ledge and he takes his handkerchief
from his pocket and hands it to her, and she wipes her cheeks with it, presses at her eyes. She’s crying.

“Fuck,” she says. “Sorry. Sorry.”

He leans himself carefully beside her. He takes the handkerchief back, blows his nose.

“I don’t know what difference it makes,” she says, “but I didn’t do it to upset you.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I know.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean, it’s not okay. But not because of you.”

People trickle in and out of the gallery. They gather in small groups to chat and smoke. Billie leans there and her dad fetches them both a drink, and while he’s gone she checks her mascara in her compact, and when he comes back there’s the fumbled management of his stick and the wine glasses.

“Well,” he says. His voice is cracked. He raises his glass. “Here’s to Matty.”

“Matty.”

“Here’s to the work.”

“Thank you.”

“Here’s to you.”

She blinks, tries to smile. They drink.

Her eyes sting. They talk. They pull themselves back together, back to normal. He asks about the way she works and about the men who sat for her. An enquiring, careful, interested approach. A tenderness. She can’t quite process it. He’s impressed.

And then Ciaran comes down the gallery steps into the street, and looks round. For her? He gets cigarettes from his inner jacket pocket, and tucks one between his lips, and then he spots her. He smiles. She smiles back to him. And her heart lifts. And he’s heading over to her.

But then someone touches his arm, stops him. He turns away. A young woman. Billie watches him, the line of his shoulders, the way he has to bend a little to listen. She remembers the photographs of Gaza; the last ones of his she’d seen. A teenage boy on crutches; a girl sitting in the back of a burnt-out car with a chicken in her lap; the Lego layers of flat roofs in the rain.

Her dad’s saying something. He finishes his drink, sets down his glass on the windowsill. Then he sets about gathering himself together, buttoning his jacket, mustering his stick and glasses.

“Are you off?”

“I’m going to have to get a move on if I’m going to catch this train.”

She glances at her watch. It’s later than she thought. But she doesn’t want this to be over.

“Do you have to? You could stay with us; Norah won’t mind. I’ll take the sofa.”

“I’ve got that appointment.”

She remembers. He’s seeing the specialist tomorrow, up in Oxford. The second hip replacement now; the new pain. She smiles for him. “No. Right. That’s good. Phone me afterwards, will you? Let me know how you got on.”

“Will do.” Her dad pushes himself away from the wall, finds his balance, better leg, worse leg, stick. He hesitates. He speaks without looking at her, rifling in a pocket, checking his wallet, putting it away again.

“I was wondering, could I have a picture?”

She wants to laugh, it’s such an unexpected delight. “Oh yes, of course.” She very nearly says, “Thank you.”

“If it hasn’t sold already, I’d like the one of Matty.”

“It’s yours.” She kisses his cheek.

“Well. Thank you. Cheerio then, petal.”

She watches him, his half-slumped, swinging walk through the patch of smokers and up the street, heading for the Tube. He will always be like this, she realises: he’ll always be at arm’s length, always moving away.

And now she’s alone and she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She should go back in, be sociable. She should see if Louis or Simon have made it down; she should see if Terry’s turned up. And Ciaran. She glances over and Ciaran’s looking right back at her. He detaches himself from the crowd with a few words. And he’s coming towards her.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

He leans against the window ledge beside her. For a moment they just stay there, side by side, then he takes her empty glass off her, and holds out his full one. She looks down at it. He touches the cool glass against the back of her hand.

“Go on. It’s yours. I got it for you.”

She takes it. “Thanks.” The glass is cold in her hands, but she feels hot.

“I like your work,” she says. “I’ve been keeping up with it.”

He shakes his head, laughs.

“What?”

“Isn’t this, tonight, isn’t it about yours?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

She wants to ask him what he thinks, but doesn’t dare. She wants to tell him that her mum said his photographs were stunning, but can’t bring herself to. She’s aware of the shape of his jaw near her temple, and the lines of his dark blue jacket, and his boots on the pavement. He scuffs a toe against the pavement, flicks a fragment of ash.

She wants to tell him about Luke and Sophie. About the Caravaggio painting and the aeroplane her granddad built for her and the postcard album and the Lake District hills. She wants to ask about who he’s come with and who he’s met in Gaza and Afghanistan and Iraq, and whether or not he’s fallen in love.

“It’s good,” he says.

“What is?”

“This. The exhibition. Your work. It’s good.”

Just this one word, from him, and she is entirely happy. She finds herself grinning.

“It’s clearly just what you should be doing. You’ve really found yourself.”

He speaks like he’s reading her palm. Over near the door, the young woman he’d been speaking to catches Billie’s eye, and smiles. Billie nods and smiles back at her. And then thinks, is that his girlfriend?

“They keep looking over,” she says.

“Oh, yeah. I told them I was coming to talk to you.”

She doesn’t make sense of this for a moment. “I’m sorry?”

“I told them it was you. The artist. The exhibition, remember?”

“Oh.”

She feels like there’s a bubble in her chest. It’s difficult to breathe round. It’s making her giddy. Her dad’s red eyes, his request. Ciaran’s one word,
good
, and how happy she is.

He touches her arm. “What is it, Billie?”

“It’s too much.” She shakes her head. “It’s silly, I know, but I’m just not up to this.”

“I understand.”

“I’m going to go home.”

She straightens up, then hesitates, not knowing what to do with her wine glass. He stands up too, takes it off her.

“You’ll tell Norah, will you?” she says. “And, oh God, have her
tell Alexis that I’m sorry. I’m ill! Say I’m ill. Oh, and she can’t sell the Matty picture.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” Then, “Why?”

“I’ll see you home.”

They walk. Heading south through the evening streets, they pass loud boys in suits and girls in floaty dresses who move through the city on an entirely different plane, giddy with drink and summer. Exhaustion and peace and the cool air and Ciaran’s presence there beside her make her feel cut adrift from everything, as if her feet land a millimetre above the pavement. They walk along, talking. His travels and hers. Photographs and paintings. Caravaggio and ridiculous relationships and his venomous loathing of Luke, and the failure of any sleep to be quite as refreshing as that slept on Norah’s sofa, and Billie there with coffee in the morning.

“It’s been far too long,” he says.

“What can I say? I’ve been busy.”

He laughs. There are new creases at the corners of his eyes. His fingertips brush the back of hers. She glances up at him, smiles.

“It’s good to see you,” she says.

He smiles back. “It’s good to see you too.”

He catches up her hand.

“This okay?”

“Yes.”

Connected and distinct, his hand wrapped warm around hers, their footsteps fall into easy synchronicity.

After a while, he slows to a halt, and she sees that they’re at an Underground station, the steps open down into the dark.

“Shall we take the Tube?” he asks.

Two girls pass, arm in arm, maybe seventeen years old, and they’re singing to themselves, to the open street, the city, happy and oblivious.

He swings her hand just slightly, gently.

She smiles. “I’m liking the walk really quite a lot.”

“I’ll walk with you then, if you’d like that,” he says. “As far as you want to walk.”

This makes her lean in, up on tiptoes, and kiss him on the lips.

SHE STIRS AT THE SOUND
of the blackbird singing in the rowan tree outside her window. She doesn’t really wake; she is aware of herself, the tangle of the duvet round her right foot, the press of her shoulder into the mattress, the twist of her nightshirt round her thighs. Ciaran lies beside her. She feels him breathe. After a while, she looks at him, the softness of his sleeping face. Then he opens his eyes, dark, unfocused. He puts his arm out, and she shifts herself closer. They lie, almost sleeping, her leg resting over his legs, his arm around her shoulders. Soft.