‘He’s never going to tell us what really happened that night.’
‘Please …’ She grabs my wrist. ‘For me.’ And then, to my surprise and horror, her eyes fill up with tears. Alison isn’t the crying kind. It was always me that teared up when we watched a sad film, with Alison taking the piss.
‘Why is it so important to you?’
‘Because …’ She swallows. ‘I think you might regret it. He’s going to die and then it will be too late. He’s the only family we have left and I …’ She sniffs. ‘He sounded so heartfelt, so honest when I saw him. I think you need to hear his version of events from his own mouth.’
I stare at her, chewing my lip. I don’t know if I can bear to set eyes on that man ever again. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
This seems good enough for Alison. She gives me a half-smile and nods, looking relieved. And then her expression switches to concern when she adds, ‘Wait. Earlier, you said I didn’t know what has been going on around here. What did you mean? What’s been going on?’
I glance back towards the house. Lila is sitting on Gareth’s lap and Josh is back at the Aga. My gaze flickers back to Alison. ‘I need to show you something,’ I say.
40
Dorothy
Forty-Four Years Before
The gallery smelled of sweat and salmon vol-au-vents and Dorothy was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the small space. More people had arrived to see her first exhibition than she was expecting.
Annette had driven them all up to Chelsea yesterday. Dorothy had hoped it would just be the two of them – she was nervous enough about her work being on display for the first time – but Maisie and Rosemary had insisted they come along too for support. It was kind of them but also unnerving considering the subject matter. Would they think she had taken their trauma, their experiences, and used them for her own gain? Then she had to remind herself that their experiences were also her own.
Felicity, the gallery owner, had put on a great event. There were waiters in bow ties weaving through the crowds with trays of champagne and canapés. She noticed Maisie reaching for a vol-au-vent every time awaiter passed by. Dorothy still couldn’t get over the fact that her artwork adorned the walls, and it was her papier-mâché sculpture that stood on a plinth in the centre of the room.
If only Bobby could witness all this. He’d see that he hadn’t broken her.
‘These are truly remarkable, Dotty,’ said Annette, standing in front of one of her abstract paintings, and she reached for her friend’s hand, squeezing her fingers gently in acknowledgement of what this piece represented. Then she moved so close to her that Dorothy could smell her expensive perfume and the mint on her breath. She spoke out of the side of her mouth in a hushed tone. ‘But you don’t think people will guess what this signifies?’ She pointed to the red paint, the horizontal figure.
Dorothy eyed her in astonishment. ‘How ever could they? Only the three of us know about that night.’
‘YourWoman in Turmoilsculpture is getting some attention!’ Rosemary appeared by their side, her face flushed with pride. Her coppery hair was held back by two combs and, for the first time since Dorothy had known her, she was wearing make-up. The turquoise shadow brought out the colour of her eyes.
Dorothy tucked a strand of blonde hair underneath her paisley headscarf, wondering if she should have worn something dressier.
‘What isWoman in Turmoilabout?’ asked Maisie, gazing up at the sculpture, sipping a tonic water. ‘Why does she have so many heads?’
‘It’s to convey her many different states of mind,’ explained Dorothy. ‘Her confusion. Her guilt. Her fear. Her love.’
Maisie’s frown deepened and she didn’t look any the wiser. Maisie was brilliant at crocheting and making things, but modern art tended to go over her head. She sipped her drink silently, not taking her eyes from the sculpture.
Annette sniffed loudly and rummaged around in her bag, pulling out a small bottle of eyedrops. ‘Just going to the bathroom to put these in. My hay fever is playing havoc tonight.’
‘So, it’s about a woman with a lot on her mind?’ Maisie turned and blinked at Dorothy.
‘Yes. Basically.’It’s about me, she silently added.Me and my feelings.
‘There’s a man … over there …’ Maisie nudged Dorothy in the side like an excited schoolgirl. ‘He keeps staring at you. Ooh, he’s coming over …’
Dorothy turned to see a man around her age in a dapper burgundy jacket making his way over to them. He was short and stout with a little moustache and dark hair, parted at the side like Tony Hadley from Spandau Ballet.
‘Dorothy,’ he gushed, striding over to her and thrusting out a large hand. ‘So lovely to meet you. I’m Gabe Mitchell and I’m an art agent. I love your work. It’s so eye-catching, so rich and deep. Tell me, do you have representation?’
‘Um … no …’ Dorothy felt very provincial suddenly and out of her depth. She self-consciously tugged at the waistband of her corduroy trousers.
‘I would love to schedule a meeting with you, here in London. What about tomorrow?’
‘Fine. I’m staying here for a few days with the girls.’ She cast her eye around for Annette but she must have still been in the loo and Rosemary was nowhere to be seen.
