‘You know they’ve improved things, so don’t try and pretend they haven’t.’ Bets defended herself, waving her hand airily at him. ‘Admit it, you even said how good the new stock management system is. You’re not a complete luddite.’
‘No, technology is great but I’d rather spend my time helping animate objects that respond. Stock control leaves me cold but new equipment – that would be brilliant.’
‘You’re so right,’ chipped in Britta, her eyes widening in appreciation. ‘Personally I refuse to have any sort of relationship with anything that contains a chip. I can’t bear it that all these corporate conglomerates are introducing all these devices, which are all immediately obsolete the minute they come out, and are sapping our nation’s long history of cultural brilliance and innate creativity.’ She turned to Devon. ‘You don’t rely on a silly computer to diagnose what’s wrong with a suffering animal. I’m sure it’s intuition and gut feel. You’re in tune with your world. In your own way, you are an artist.’
She grabbed one of his hands and held it up. ‘Yes, these hands that tend to the animals are the hands of an artist. I can see it.’
‘He’s not flipping Mother Teresa.’ Bets rolled her eyes and smirked at Ella.
Ella smiled back. Devon looked slightly uncomfortable as Britta traced her pale long fingers across his palm and up to the broad tips of his fingers. Ella shifted in her chair, wishing Britta would let go. It was all wrong. She didn’t know him. He wasa kind man, too kind to snatch his hand away, but Britta was barking up the wrong tree with the artist tack.
His hands she knew were slightly rough, with a callous on the third finger of his right hand, possibly because of the way he held his pen. She’d seen him writing, his biro clamped oddly between those two middle fingers. From seeing him running, she knew the length of his strides came from long well-muscled legs and from walking next to him, she knew he was tall and broad.
Despite their rocky start, he was a nice man. A very nice man. Warmth bloomed in her cheeks as she watched him. When he smiled, tiny lines crinkled around his eyes. Too nice for Britta. Far too nice, in fact. Ella watched as Devon responded to something Britta said with a bark of laughter. She wanted to wade in and protect him, which was ridiculous. He was a grown man, but she knew his heart had been left bruised by Marina and Britta didn’t.
They left the pub crossing the road to the cottage. Britta gleaming like a ghost in the dark.
Tess, of course, was delighted to see them, and leapt about with enthusiastic affection bordering on the hysterical.
‘Good God, what’s wrong with it?’ asked Britta doing her best to fend off Tess’s flypasts and keep the black fur from her trousers. ‘Is it having a fit or something?’
‘No,’ Ella hid her face, smiling at Britta’s stick insect antics, ‘it’s just her way of making sure we know how pleased she is to see us and that we really shouldn’t ever leave her again.’ She stroked Tess’s head, trying to contain her and keep her away. ‘Should we? You are daft.’ She gave the dog’s head another ruffle before turning back to Britta. ‘She’ll calm down in a minute. Do you want a coffee?’
‘Lord, yes. With the exception of the rather divine Devon and surprisingly well made gimlets, it was a touch tedious in thatplace. I don’t how you do it. That is what passes for civilised entertainment round here?’ She sniffed. ‘Last Friday we, the gang,’ she shot Ella a look, which made it clear that Patrick had been there too, ‘went to a brilliant opening at Hoxton Arches, that fabulous gallery under the railway arches, to see a show entitled Retrospective of Perspex, which was quite good and they had sublime canapes and red wine served in little pewter buckets. Then we decided to try out that hot Mexican place down by the old Hackney Empire, except it was rammed, honestly no tables before eleven, so we ended up in Bar Esmerelda, which is still a dive.’
Ella frowned, suddenly remembering all those nights, darting from here to there in a constant hunt looking for the social equivalent of a pot of gold, most of which was spent travelling either on the Tube or some godforsaken bus route.
‘That’s what you’re missing out on, here.’ Britta sighed. ‘Although Devon can entertain me any time. I bet under that outdoorsy big man jumper there’s quite a body.’
Ella’s mouth tightened. The thought of Devon naked brought a sudden flush to her cheeks.
‘Coffee,’ she said decisively and marched into the kitchen.
Britta trailed after her. ‘Aren’t you going to open this baby?’ She tapped her glossy nails on the parcel which Ella had forgotten all about.
Ella hesitated, unwilling to share the magical whimsy of one of Magda’s gifts.
‘Secret admirer?’ asked Britta, prodding the box, openly curious now, tugging at the ribbon. ‘Shall I open it for you?’
Ella wanted to snatch it away but instead, she eased it out of Britta’s hands and undid the ribbon.
To lose yourself in the dance
is to live the dance of life
Dance on and free your heart.
‘What does that mean?’ Britta tilted her head, considering the words.
‘It doesn’t mean anything. My godmother is quite the spiritual type.’ Ella didn’t even want to begin explaining that Magda had decided she was the descendant of a witch.
Britta cast the blue note aside and pushed into the tissue paper. ‘Holy Moly, call the fashion police!’ She waved a strappy red satin-covered shoe with a stacked heel at Ella. ‘Heinous shoe crime. And look,’ with horror she pointed to the diamante trim across the ankle strap. ‘She bought you these?’ Incredulity stretched her voice out to a Minnie Mouse pitch. ‘What the hell are they?’
They were dancing shoes, Latin dancing shoes – and the exact pair she’d hankered after when she was fifteen. Magda had remembered all this time later. Yes, they were naff, loud, vulgar and . . . perfect for dancing.
Ella shrugged and rescued the shoe and box, putting the lid firmly back on and stuffing the box on the seat of one of the chairs under the table.
Ella made two coffees and Britta took a suspicious sip before saying,
