Unravelling Read online

  It’s still early when she wakes. There’s something different. She turns on her back and adjusts to the darkness. Indistinct shapes gradually emerge. Her senses, finely tuned in the dark, pick up a whisper of breath from her left, and she remembers where she is.

  She reaches for her mobile on the bedside table and clicks the button to illuminate the screen: 06:30. She’s usually up by this time. She slides out of bed and pulls on the loose cotton trousers and big jumper she wears first thing. She pushes her feet into her flip-flops and creeps from the room. In the bathroom she splashes cold water on her face, pulls an elastic band from her pocket and piles her hair on top of her head.

  In the kitchen while she waits for the kettle to boil, she studies the drawing of a knee-length coat she began on the train. She pencils in folds that fall from above the waist, so that the coat will flare and swirl. She’s just bought a new yarn, a blend of wool and soya bean fibre with a wonderful drape that should knit up beautifully.

  She sets up her laptop on the table, a mug of hot water and lemon beside her. There are sixteen emails waiting. She scrolls through them. They’re mostly from customers, a couple from her knitters and the rest from Josie, her manager at the shop. In the early days, she worked on her own, but now the business has got too big, what with orders from around the world, new designs each season and the workshops she runs.

  She despatches replies, arranging meetings, checking her diary, her finger clicking on ‘send’ again and again. Each time her eyes return to the one email she’s determined to leave until last.

  By seven o’clock she’s dealt with the urgent items. She makes tea and opens a fresh page in her sketchpad. Josie’s bought some recycled sari silk direct from Nepal, and Vanessa is planning designs to show off the vibrant textured yarn. She takes off the rings on her right hand and lines them up on the table in front of her. Her fingers move across the page swiftly: clear, bold strokes, shading here, a detail added there, just as her tutor, Carla Scott, used to show her. She knows designers who use the computer, but she enjoys the contact with the paper, the feel of the pencil between her fingers. What still gives her the biggest kick, though, is to pick up needles and wool and let her imagination produce a garment. Some of her best creations appear like that.

  She studies her drawing. The design is not working. The frills running down the front of the cardigan from shoulder to waist look too fussy. Her laptop’s still open and her eyes steal in that direction. You have 1 unread message. It’s ridiculous; she’s making something out of it by not looking. Why doesn’t she open the message, read and delete it?

  She pushes the sketchpad to one side and leans over to the keyboard. She clicks on the message symbol. The sender’s name leaps out at her. In the subject line she reads What’s new? It was always that: what’s new? What’s happening? She clicks again and the message unravels on the screen.

  She just has time to read the opening words Greetings my darling one. Why haven’t you replied to my emails? when there’s a noise in the hall. She moves the cursor to sign out. Behind her she hears the door open. You have successfully closed your mailbox. She swings round.

  A tall man with striking silver-grey hair is framed in the doorway. He’s wearing jeans and a pink shirt. A black jacket dangles from one finger over his shoulder.

  Vanessa gets up.

  He steps towards her and she feels the impact of his gaze. There’s a gleam in his eyes she would once have found impossible to resist.

  ‘You must be Patrick.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  Vanessa holds out her hand, wondering what sort of handshake he’ll have. Instead he reaches for her hand and rests his lips against it for a moment. ‘I knew Cordelia would have a beautiful mum.’

  He manages to make the gesture and comment seem genuine rather than corny, and Vanessa laughs. ‘Equally that she’d have beautiful friends,’ she says.

  He grins, an expensively-capped-white-teeth sort of smile. ‘Cordelia tells me you’re a fashion designer.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She sits down, relieved to hide her baggy trousers and sweater behind the table.

  He gestures to her sketchpad. ‘I see you’re already hard at it.’

  ‘Mornings are good for work.’

  He hangs his jacket over the back of a chair. ‘Best bit of the day.’ He crosses to the sink, and she hears water splashing into the kettle. He leans back against the worktop, his arms folded across his chest. ‘I’ve tried to persuade Cordelia to get up with me. I like to go for a run first thing, but she’s a night owl.’ His speech is quick and staccato as though he doesn’t have time to waste.

  He spoons coffee into a mug and pours in boiling water. He stirs vigorously, the spoon rattling against the sides of the mug. ‘Sorry I got back too late to see you last night.’

  ‘That’s okay. I had a nice evening with Cordelia and Savannah.’ She stares at his smooth, newly-shaven face. Do you know my daughter didn’t tell me about you? she wants to say. Have you any idea how much that hurts?

  She clears her throat loudly, as if the sound will drown out the noise of her thoughts. Reaching up, she drags the elastic band from the top of her head. She smoothes down the hair, gathers a fistful in her left hand and snaps the band into position once more. She looks up and finds Patrick’s eyes still on her.

  He pulls out a chair at the side of the table and swings it round. He straddles it, resting his arms along the back. He reaches forward and picks up one of Vanessa’s rings, the emerald Andrew gave her the day Jake was born. She watches as he twists the stone from one side to another. ‘Pretty,’ he says, returning it to the line of other rings.

  He takes his phone from an inside pocket and checks for messages. His restlessness unsettles her, but she can’t deny he’s an extraordinarily good-looking man. His silver hair, in that spiky style she sees on so many of the young men at fashion shoots, is intriguing on someone of his age. She studies the roots, wondering if he dyes it. She remembers a model she met at one of the shows. He could only have been about twenty but his hair was completely grey. ‘My unique selling point,’ he said.

  Patrick looks up from his phone. ‘I’ve asked Cordy to marry me.’

  Vanessa blinks. It’s a long time since she heard anyone call her daughter Cordy. It was her father’s name for her and it stopped overnight when he left. ‘Have you?’ she says. ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘Nothing yet.’ Patrick takes several sips of coffee, his eyes remaining on Vanessa. ‘I’ve told her to take as long as she likes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Has she said anything to you?’

  ‘No.’ Vanessa picks up her pencil. She holds it lightly between her forefinger and thumb, twisting it round and round.

  ‘She’s frightened of marriage,’ Patrick says.

  Vanessa pulls her sketchpad towards her. She begins drawing. With a few quick lines, Patrick’s face emerges on the page. She’s always enjoyed drawing faces – the shape of them, the slant of the eyes, the mouth – faces can give you all the answers and at the same time tell you nothing. ‘Is she?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the commitment she can’t handle.’

  Vanessa keeps her eyes on her drawing, but she knows Patrick’s watching her, challenging her to react. ‘It’s a big decision,’ she says.

  ‘Having seen her parents’ relationship fail – twice.’

  ‘Twice?’ Vanessa looks up.

  Patrick’s eyebrows are raised, and his mouth has that quizzical lift to it that says you know what I’m talking about.

  Vanessa’s face grows hot under his stare. Patrick can’t possibly know, but she feels exposed. It’s as if Patrick was there that day. As if he watched them climbing the stairs to the hotel bedroom; as if he watched their illicit kisses; as if he saw her nakedness. The phone rang that day, she remembers, insistent, piercing …

  ‘There was no question of getting together the second time, ’ she says quickly. ‘Her f
ather and I – ’

  Without warning, Patrick gets to his feet. He straightens the chair and pushes it under the table. Her pencil leaps off the page. His whole manner has changed from the easy charm of a few minutes ago. A scar runs across his cheekbone, just below his left eye. Another scar, she thinks. So many scars. Patrick’s is hardly noticeable, but as she draws, it grows more pronounced on the page.

  ‘I was only going to say, her father and I – ’

  ‘I’m sorry to sound rude but that man makes my blood boil. He’s hurt Cordy so much. If I met him – ’

  ‘I think you’d get on.’ Stay calm, Vanessa tells herself. Don’t let him see how much he’s rattled you.

  Patrick’s mouth is drawn downwards in a thin line; his jaw juts into the air. ‘I’m not impressed with men who abandon their kids.’ He thrusts his hands into his pockets, jingling some loose change. He chews at the inside of his cheek.

  He doesn’t like losing his cool, Vanessa guesses. ‘It was me he left,’ she says, ‘not the children.’

  Patrick leans forward, his palms resting flat on the table. His hands are white and smooth, the nails manicured. ‘Why do you defend him?’

  She hesitates. Her answer must come out exactly right. ‘He’s my children’s father and he did love them very much, especially Cordelia.’

  ‘I love her and I want to look after her,’ he states as if it’s a mantra he’s repeated to himself over and over again.

  Vanessa meets his stare for as long as she can. ‘I’m pleased Cordelia’s got someone who cares for her so much.’

  All at once, the angry Patrick has gone. ‘Thank you, Vanessa. I will make her happy, you know. You can trust me.’

  There’s an almost imperceptible emphasis on the word me.

  ‘I hope you will. She deserves to be happy.’

  Patrick takes his jacket from the back of the chair and pulls it on. ‘Best make a move.’ He lifts the cuff of his pink shirt, and Vanessa catches a flash of gold on his wrist. ‘Mountains to climb and rivers to swim.’ He hooks open the kitchen door with his foot. ‘Thanks for our little chat, Vanessa. Have a fun day.’

  A few minutes later the front door slams and the roar of Patrick’s car fades. Vanessa remains at the table. It’s twenty years since she gave up smoking, but she’s longing for a cigarette. Tapping the pencil against her lower lip, she half closes her eyes against an imagined spiral of smoke. She feels as if she’s just raced through a deluge of rain. Battered but energised at the same time.

  A soft greyish light slides into the kitchen and she stirs herself to switch off the lamp on the dresser. She opens her laptop and brings up the emails. Greetings my darling one. Her eyes scan the rest of the message. She clicks on reply. Hello, she writes. It was always that in the old days on the phone: darling one, he would say in his loud exuberant voice and she would say hello, just like that, hello, no endearments, blandishments, affecting a calm she didn’t feel.

  She starts to type:

  I got your emails, and I’m glad the scan went okay.

  I’m staying with Cordelia and Savannah for a few days. Savannah is beautiful, very like Cordelia at her age but with blonde hair. She makes me laugh.

  I won’t be able to ask if you can visit. Cordelia is very ‘anti’. I didn’t dare tell her I’ve seen you.

  Vanessa hears footsteps overhead, the bathroom door shutting. She resumes typing:

  I don’t think we should meet again. It was good to catch up, but we can’t go back. Too much happened.

  Vanessa

  Three

  The studio was quiet, apart from the rise and fall of the tutor’s voice as he went from easel to easel. Vanessa stepped back to examine her canvas. She didn’t enjoy working in oils; the lightness and fluidity of watercolours, or better still, charcoal, suited her more. But today she was pleased with the shape of the apple, the dimpled texture of the orange.

  Their usual tutor was away, and Gerald Blackstone, who hadn’t taught them before, was standing in for him. He reached Judith’s easel, and Vanessa waited. She heard the words ‘vibrant’ and ‘compelling’. What was he talking about? If he liked Judith’s, he was going to love hers.

  ‘Right, what have we here?’ He was standing next to her.

  He didn’t say any more and Vanessa glanced across at him. His eyes were fixed on her face. She stared back. He looked like one of those tutors who got angry if you didn’t stand up to them. He had thick black hair which sprung from his head in unruly curls. His skin was tanned, with a criss-crossing of paler lines round his eyes.

  She heard the creak of his leather jacket as he raised his arm. His hand hovered in the space between them. For one moment she thought he was going to touch her cheek. She rubbed her palms against her painting shirt.

  He turned back to her easel: ‘You’re not using your eyes … ’ He jabbed his finger in the direction of the table where the bowl of fruit sat. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  This wasn’t what Vanessa had expected. ‘An apple … a banana … ’

  ‘No, no, no! A child could name the fruit. You’re an artist. What’s each piece’s identity? What’s the relationship? Where’s the energy?’

  ‘I … ’ Vanessa opened her mouth to speak. From the other side of the room she heard a smothered laugh.

  ‘Look at the apple. It’s all misshapen and the orange is lumpy.’

  ‘I tried stippling – ’

  ‘Seurat’s got a lot to answer for. Every half-baked art student … Layer the paint, build it up, that will give you texture.’ And he moved on.

  Vanessa looked up and found Andrew, another student, watching her. A long fringe that was often streaked with paint flopped over his forehead. A pale straggly beard covered his chin. He was tall and thin and wore tight black trousers and a black polo neck jumper with the sleeves pushed up to the elbow. Their eyes met for a moment. Then the tutor arrived at his easel.

  Vanessa picked up her painting and propped it against the wall to dry. She took her brushes and dipped them in a jar of turps, wiping the paint clear on a rag. She could hear the tutor talking to Andrew. She pulled at the buttons on her painting shirt and stuffed it into her duffel bag. At the top of the stairs, she thought she heard her name called, but she didn’t look back.

  Vanessa could hear music from the kitchen at the end of the long passageway. Her mother was singing along to Pat Boone’s Love Letters in the Sand on the radio. The room was full of the warm smell of freshly ironed sheets. A row of her brother and sister’s little vests and pants hung from the wooden clothes horse.

  Her mother looked up from the ironing board. ‘Thank God, you’re back.’ It was what she said every evening.

  ‘Yes, Mammy.’ Vanessa threw her mac on the chair and poured herself a glass of milk. She reached into the biscuit barrel for two digestives.

  ‘Did you have a good day at the college?’

  ‘Fine,’ Vanessa said. ‘Where’s Daniel and Catherine?’

  ‘They’ve gone for tea across the road. Pick that coat up before your da gets home and sees it.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Horrible thing! Wouldn’t keep the chill from a soul in purgatory.’

  Vanessa loved her coat. When she pushed her arms into the sleeves and shrugged it over her shoulders, her courage grew. She liked its hardness, the rasping sound it made when she walked, the way it refused to mould itself to her body. In her black PVC mac, she became the person she wanted to be.

  She snatched it up. ‘I’m going upstairs.’

  ‘The electric fire’s on in the front room.’

  ‘I’ve got a headache. I’m going to lie down.’

  ‘There’s a basketful of darning to do, Nessa. The devil makes work for idle hands.’

  Her mother had a saying for every eventuality. ‘A wilful waste is a woeful want,’ she’d admonish when Vanessa brought her uneaten sandwiches home from college. What piece of homespun consolation would
she dredge up for Vanessa’s ‘lumpy orange’?

  The bedroom was cold and Vanessa crawled under the pink candlewick bedspread. She pulled it up to her chin and tufts of yarn tickled her face. She screwed her eyes shut, but images of her painting danced inside the lids. When Sister Josephina, her art teacher in the lower sixth, had written to her parents saying she should apply to art school, she knew her father wouldn’t agree. ‘Leave your da to me, Nessa,’ her mother said. ‘If Sister says you’ve got talent, the college is where you’re going, come hell or high water.’ There’d been shouting and slamming doors for several nights when her father came home from the pub, but one morning her mother had said, ‘Your da says you can go if your heart’s set on it.’ Now Vanessa wished she’d taken a job at Haversham’s department store as her father had wanted.

  She cocooned herself in the bedspread and eventually the small space her body occupied grew warm. What right did Gerald Blackstone have to put her down in front of all the other students? He didn’t know what he was talking about. She did have talent. She got up and crossed to the light switch. Her skirt was creased and she took it off and hung it in the wardrobe. She rolled down her stockings and unhooked her suspender belt. She pulled on a pair of thick woolly socks and a blue angora jumper she’d knitted last winter. It had been a Christmas present for her mother, but she’d only worn it once or twice ‘for best’ and then given it to Vanessa saying it was too fine for her. Mammy’s martyrdom made her sick.

  She took an elastic band from the dish on the dressing table and secured her hair on top of her head. It didn’t matter how big the rollers were that she fixed in it every night. When she released her hair in the mornings, it was always wild and frizzy.

  She bent down and pulled a suitcase from under the bed. She climbed back under the covers and tucked them around her waist. The case, with its brass lock, was where she kept secret things. Inside were drawings she’d done of Andrew, the boy at college. Below those were sketches of her father. She used to study him while he sat at the kitchen table eating his dinner, fixing the slope of his forehead, his hooded eyes, in her mind. Sometimes he’d look up and catch her. ‘Away and help your mother,’ he’d mutter. ‘You’re giving me the jitters.’