Tilting her head back as far as it would go, she looked up at the stars. There were thousands of them, like pinpricks piercing a black veil. Her neck ached as she considered the hugeness of the sky. Even when she circled her head, she could see only a tiny part of the panorama spread out above.
Funny, those same stars could be observed from the London pavements and she’d never seen them properly. Had city life, like light pollution, prevented her from seeing what was in plain view all the time? Was going back to London really what she wanted? Suddenly she wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Seventeen
Watching the brindle pointer bounce up the lane with Tess in tow, Devon felt the guilt loosen. This was the first time he’d been out with Dexter for a decent walk all week. Quick circuits of the park didn’t count. He was a vet, for Christ’s sake, he knew how important it was to exercise a dog this size.
He welcomed the earthy tang of the fresh air with its sharp breeze assaulting his senses and the lighter floral scent of Ella by his side. She seemed subdued today, thoughtful rather than cross or resentful. They’d both lapsed into silence on the short car journey here and she seemed quite happy not to talk.
Until he’d started the steep climb up the Chiltern hills towards the Beacon high above the village of Ivinghoe, he hadn’t realised how much he needed this to scour out the fug of the week. That last trip into London had cost him dear, tempting him back to the edge of depression. The size of the debt hanging over him seemed insurmountable, dogging his waking thoughts for the last few days. Not having a run for a while hadn’t helped either. Running had become essential.
Exercise had clearly paid off for Tess; the black Lab was looking so much slimmer as she trotted up the chalk strewn path ahead. Ella looked brighter and healthier too, a touch of roses in her cheeks compared to her sallow complexion the first few times he’d seen her, although something wasn’t right about her this morning. Too much like how she’d been when she’d first arrived, shuttered and reluctant to let her real self out.
Maybe his own blackness made him aware of hers today? Her face, shuttered like a building with the windows firmly boarded up, gave nothing away.
‘Was it nice seeing your friend?’
She shrugged.
‘Are you OK?’ The words came out a little blunter than he’d meant them to and she turned and stared at him, stopping on the incline. ‘Sorry, you just seem . . . ’
Indecision warred on her face and when he thought she’d ignored the question, her mouth firmed and she started to walk again, stepping over the uneven tussocks of grass dotting the area like a mogul field. Then she stopped, let out another of her heavy sighs, and to his surprise began to talk in a low unemotional voice.
‘Seeing Britta brought everything back. I thought I wanted to go back to London when Magda gets back, but now I’m even more confused. I don’t know where I belong or what I want any more.’ Her eyes moved across the horizon. Despair, bleak and anguished, filled her face as she looked ahead of him towards Ivinghoe Beacon. ‘I do know I’ve been an idiot.’ In a quieter voice, she added, ‘About so many things.’
‘Welcome to the club,’ he said touching her arm, with a self-deprecating smile. He could take the prize on idiocy. ‘Idiots Anonymous. The first step is recognising you’ve been an idiot. Hi, my name is Devon.’
She smiled although it didn’t quite meet her eyes.
‘Hi, my name is Ella.’
‘Want to talk about it, Ella? When did you first realise what an idiot you’d been?’
A range of expressions crossed her face as if she were trying to pick out her reference point, where the best place was to start.
‘I’m not sure about the first time,’ she pulled a face, ‘it’s been creeping up on me but this weekend with Britta . . . ’ She raised her hands, ‘it didn’t go well. Although I’m not sure she realised.’
‘Ah, yes. Interesting character.’ He felt he was being super circumspect.
‘I’ve known her for years. She’s Patrick’s friend, really,’ Ella said the words softly and to his relief, she clearly hadn’t taken offence. ‘But . . . she’s kind of symbolic of everything that went wrong.’ She stopped abruptly and looked appalled. ‘I’ve been a complete . . . idiot. And – this sounds pretentious, but – not true to myself, not true to what I really, deep down believed in and I don’t mean things about art and style and taste, which were all we ever talked about. I mean important things, about values, how we live our lives, family, love.’
‘It doesn’t sound pretentious; it sounds as if you need to let your real self out,’ he said, suddenly realising that was what he’d seen about her from the start. Someone hiding in there.
Ella frowned. ‘I realised I was every bit as bad as Britta. I’ve been too scared of being laughed at . . . by God knows who . . . to be myself. To have a single original thought of my own; I was too reliant on what “they” thought. And half the time I don’t even know who “they” are.’ She let out a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Do you know what the crunch point was? When she told me I could doso muchbetter than my mice. For years I’ve been outwardly agreeing with people like Patrick and Britta when they say those drawings aren’t real art, but do you know what?’ Her face filled with indignation, slightly red as she puffed up like an irate pigeon. ‘There’s a little piece of me in them, in each of them. Those characters, Cuthbert and Englebert, they’re like my ba—’ she faltered, ‘they’re mine.’
‘Those drawings looked pretty skilful to me. So whatisart?’
She turned to him, her expression sceptical.
‘Seriously, how do you defineproperart?’
‘It’s . . . it’s . . . ’ She glared at him. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I don’t need to understand. If you want my opinion, a lot of what I see is a load of bollocks. Messy beds. A load of blue carrier bags.’ He couldn’t even bring himself to mention dead animals which he found wrong on so many levels. ‘But you must understand all that. What does art mean to you?’
The sudden confusion on her face was really rather cute. She considered the question for a minute, her breath even again as if she’d walked herself into her stride. ‘The expression of emotion through artistic medium that has an impact on another person, a shared . . . experience.’
Devon understood that. ‘Don’t you enjoy drawing the mice? They looked like a lot of fun.’
