‘Coming right up. What sort of wine?’
‘What have you got?’ asked Ella as Greta pushed over a menu.
‘And I’ve just added a French Viognier which isn’t on there yet. And do you want fresh lime in the gin?’
That would please Britta no end. Ella nodded. ‘Yes, that would be great and I’ll try the Viognier.’
‘Good choice.’ Greta grinned. ‘Good job on the flowers by the way. Magda will be pleased you kept the side up.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, the flower arranging thing is very competitive. Rather you than me.’ Greta worked with easy competence,gracefully swiping glasses from the overhead shelves, sliding the wine from the fridge and with an easy twist yanked out the cork. ‘Got roped into the salsa dancing yet?’
‘No.’
Greta grinned. ‘You will be.’
Ella smiled politely.
‘Here you go, one gimlet.’
‘Thanks.’ Ella’s eyes widened giving away her surprise.
‘We’re not complete philistines out here, you know,’ admonished Greta with a sharp look. ‘We’ve just opted for a better quality of life. You’ll learn,’ she added with an almost pitying smile.
Wrong-footed, Ella offered her a vague nod as she paid half the price she would have done for the same drinks in London.
‘So, babes.’
Ella didn’t like the sudden sharpening of Britta’s features, as if they were being schooled to go into attack, especially not when she took what looked like a steadying sip of her drink. ‘Whoa! Fan my little tush.’
Britta’s unexpectedly enthusiastic response allowed her to breathe more easily.
‘This is bloody marvellous. The good landlady knows her onions. I’m impressed.’ Britta examined her glass and looked towards the bar, where Greta gave them both a mocking salute. Ella lifted her glass in a slight toast. Despite Greta’s prickliness she rather liked her combative attitude. You knew exactly where you were with her.
The respite was brief.
‘About you and Patrick, come on, you’ve punished him enough with this break business. Stop pratting about with the “I vant to be alone” crap. I’m no young romantic but you two, come on, you guys fit. The smart art team. Patrella.’ With a sudden lightbulb bing moment, she sat up. ‘You should so name a gallerythat. I can see it now. Somewhere in Hackney, lots of brick walls, fractured lighting and the last word in installation art. A vision of your combined talents. The two of you merged. The ultimate creation.’
At this, Ella looked down into her glass. Britta’s words couldn’t have been more ill-chosen. Theyhadcreated something together. Far greater than a stupid art gallery, and Patrick didn’t want it. Her heart twisted at the utter irony of it all. A couple of months ago she’d have been giddy and excited at the idea of a new gallery linking their names.
‘Hello – come in Ella.’
She swallowed and focused back on Britta. ‘Can we just not talk about this, please?’
‘That’s the problem. You won’t talk about it. Not to me. Lord knows not to Patrick. Poor guy, he doesn’t understand. What went wrong? One minute everything was hunky dory, I saw you that night at Gallery 99, the next thing I know you’ve packed up and moved out here.’
Which just showed what a brave face she’d managed to put on while dying inside.
‘I just need time to think about things.’
‘He wants you back, you know.’
With sudden insight Ella looked at her friend across the table. ‘Did he put you up to this?’
Britta stilled, her eyes unable to quite meet Ella’s.
It all made sense. Britta’s uncharacteristic desire to visit.
