Deciding to go into Sea Haven House via the garden, Callie turned the salt air stiffened handle of the garden gate, picked up her painting gear and made her way to the French windows. Disappointment flooded through her as she saw they were open. The hope that she’d have the house to herself died as she saw her housemate was in.
Seven
Canaletto 1697–1768
Italian painter known for his sublime Venetian landscapes. Try to get students to look beyond cliché, chocolate box images, and see how exciting they would have been in eighteenth century.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
‘Hi.’ Johnny stood in the kitchen. He saluted her with a wine glass. ‘Drink?’
Callie dumped her stuff by the sofa.Why not, Mum?Frida’s voice in her head said. Muttering something rude to her daughter under her breath, she smiled. ‘Think I need to rehydrate first.’ She observed him with her painter’s eye for detail. Tense. White about the mouth, shoulders hunched. Then she eyed the bottle of white, the glass running condensation and her mouth watered. ‘On the other hand, that looks tempting, and I’ve had a frustrating day.’
He gave a terse nod, collected the bottle and another glass and said, ‘I’ll be in the garden.’
Callie poured herself a glass of water and sipped it thoughtfully. She wondered what had happened to change Johnny from the genial, easy-going man she’d bumped into earlier to the rigid person she’d just encountered.
He’d slumped into one of the blue and white striped deck chairs and was lying back, face up, greedily drinking in the sun. She wondered if he was a man with problems. And here she was, sharing a house with him.
Might be an idea to find out more about this Johnny Starling, Frida.But her daughter remained stubbornly silent, so Callie slipped out her phone and googled his name. Something familiar was nagging at her. Didn’t he say he was a travel writer? Maybe she’d read one of his articles. She didn’t have to hunt too hard.
‘Johnny Starling, journalist,’ came up at the top of the search.
Leaning on her elbows over the kitchen’s breakfast bar, she read on. ‘Highly regarded. Worked for several respected newspapers, BBC foreign correspondent. One of the youngest reporters in Iraq. Went on to report on many global crises. Originally from Devon, now lives in London and is a freelance journalist.’
Callie glanced outside. They’d got that wrong. Hadn’t Johnny said he lived in Stratford? Gulping back the water she refilled her glass, wondering how being a journalist had affected him. It must have, surely? It had got to the stage where she could only watch the news headlines, the rest was too distressing. She could only imagine what being in the middle of a tragedy and having to report on it would do to you. Would it harden you, make you remote and unfeeling, or crush you?
Johnny hadn’t seemed tough; in fact he’d come across as kind. He’d sorted the problem of them sharing, had displayed sensitivity when explaining the en suite bedrooms and locks and he’d left that note about her not worrying about staying up tolet him in. A thoughtful man, then, but one who had witnessed great suffering and had had to make sense of it to share with the rest of the world. What impact had that had? Was this what was behind his change in mood?
Spying the family pack of Kettle chips still in the welcome basket she poured some into a bowl. It was habit. She and Frida never shared a bottle of wine unless it was accompanied by salty snacks. Besides, she might need something to soak up the alcohol. She still wasn’t sure she’d drunk enough water and drinking wine to assuage a thirst wasn’t wise.
Who needs wise, Mum?Frida’s voice in her head chided.Live a little.
‘Oh, you’re back, are you?’ Callie muttered as she carried her glass of water and the bowl of crisps outside. ‘Shame you can’t text your mother a little more instead of choosing to invade her head.’
Johnny lifted his head and slipped his sunglasses over his eyes. ‘Did you say something?’
‘No. Talking to myself. Bad habit.’ Slipping down into the deck chair next to his, it felt a little close. Too late now. To get up and move it away would appear rude. She took a second to enjoy the slide of the sun over her skin and the birdsong. It was going to be a lovely evening. Aware of the silence between her and Johnny, she said, ‘Crisp?’
He shook his head, gave a tight smile and slid more upright. Holding the two glasses he poured a generous amount for her and topped up his own. Passing hers over, he said, ‘Sorry.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Being in a grump, as my youngest and wisest sister would say.’
Callie sipped her wine observing him over the rim. His sunglasses made his expression difficult to read. ‘You weren’t a grump at all. And your sister sounds charming.’
He gave a flash of a grin. ‘Best of the bunch. Jess is. She’s an illustrator. Just had a baby.’
‘And that’s the christening you’re here for?’
He nodded.
Callie put her wine glass on the grass next to her water and slid upwards too, with difficulty. The wooden ridge across the bottom of the deck chair was digging into the back of her thighs. ‘I know a Jessica Starling. She helped organise the art exhibition. I’ve only spoken to her on the phone but she’s a powerhouse. So she’s your sister?’
‘That’s the one. Jess kept her maiden name much to our mother’s disapproval.’
Callie’s lips thinned. She knew all about disapproving mothers. She watched as a blackbird swooped down, eyeing the crisps. Crunching one up, she threw it for the bird. ‘When is the christening?’
