‘I’ve been wanting to have a go at this ever since I moved here,’ Carrie said, weaving amongst wooden tables and chairsand still miraculously managing to keep hold of Jules as if she was a small, recalcitrant child. The tearoom was already half full and despite the roof being open to the rafters the noise seemed concentrated at ground level. It felt like an assault, the chatter, the chairs scraping, the hiss of the coffee machine, cups clattering. She wanted to put her hands over her ears.
A week at home with the windows closed had hermetically sealed her from real life and she wasn’t ready to go back to it just yet. A sweetness hung in the air from the cakes and pastries. She felt sick.
She’d not had a panic attack since her teens, but she recognised the early warning signs as if it was yesterday.
‘Carrie…’
But Carrie wasn’t listening and now Lance was introducing them to three people whose attention was fully directed towards her. Her eyes darted around the room for the safety of the toilets, but she couldn’t see them. They must be behind her like Lance, who had moved around and was now blocking her escape. Her breath felt as if it was coming in short gasps, but no one seemed to notice her distress. She didn’t hear anyone’s names, barely registered their faces. Little black dots danced in front of her eyes. She swayed and then someone was saying something and leading her, half supporting her towards a door in the corner. Sunlight shone through the open margin, and she focused on that gleam as if her life depended upon it. She was pressed down on to a wooden chair near an open window.
‘Breathe,’ someone said, ‘into your back and the sides of your ribs. Breathe into your shoulders.’
She heard the rush of water as a tap was turned on.
‘Drink this,’ Lance said, pulling up a chair beside her and holding a glass to her lips.
Jules took a sip.
The water was cold and delicious, as if it had come straight from a mountain stream. She took the glass between her clammy palms and let the coolness calm her skin.
‘Better?’ he asked.
She nodded and he got up to open the window a little more.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Not usually like this.’
‘No need to apologise.’
He was making a pretence of arranging things on a workbench, but she knew he was studying her from a safe distance.
‘I’d better rejoin the others,’ he said.
She put the glass on the windowsill and summoned up the strength to stand.
‘Why don’t you stay here for a bit longer?’ he said. ‘We’ll be through in ten minutes or so. If you need more fresh air, that door goes into our house. There’s a little hall which leads into the private garden you can see from this window. You’re welcome to sit in it although you’ll probably be accosted by the cat.’
‘I like cats,’ she whispered.
‘Or,’ he said, ‘that other door over there leads back out to the front, the tearoom garden where you were yesterday.’
And the exit, she thought. He’s offering me a way out.
‘You’re sure you’re okay if I go back through? I can send Carrie if you like.’
She shook her head.
‘No. I’m fine. Really.’
Now, Jules. Make your escape now, she said to herself when Lance had headed back to the tearoom.
She placed her palms on her thighs as if to calm her jittery legs. A cat wound its way through the window behind her, brushed some red petals from a trailing geranium in a terracotta pot and jumped down to come and rub at her legs.
‘Hello, you,’ she said, stooping momentarily to run her fingers along its back.
For the first time she looked around her surroundings. The studio was light and bright with four large windows along one wall overlooking a cottage garden containing a small pond with a delicate fountain in the middle. Around the room the shelves jostled with expertly thrown and decorated pots, together with a fascinating selection of books on art, photography, sculpture and philosophy. There was an old washstand holding vintage jars full of brushes and pencils plus a neat pile of paper. Plants crowded on the windowsills, ferns, tradescantia and a plethora of geraniums, some upright and others trailing, their red, pink and orange flowers glowing like medieval illuminations against the brilliant white walls. And in the air the scent of clay and paint and creativity. She sat down again to soak it all in and immediately the cat jumped on to her lap.
‘Well,’ she said, scratching the cat behind its ears, ‘this isn’t a bad place to live, is it? Lucky you.’
And as if she had understood every world her feline companion began to purr with pleasure.
