fortunate or not. Evie’s face tightened slightly, and it occurred to him that she was considering the same question.
“Your mum sounds like quite a lady. Did she have a romantic name as well?”
“Romantic?” Evie’s eyes flicked up as she said the word.
“Well, Clementine and Evangeline, they are romantic, unusual names, aren’t they? I just wondered if it was a family tradition.”
Evie sat up straighter and seemed suddenly troubled. He tried to recall whether she had ever actually said that Clemmie was short for Clementine. He feared that she had not, so he should not have said it. Her brow furrowed slightly, and he decided not to worry about it. Clemmie herself put an end to this train of thought by answering the question.
“I’m afraid not. Her name was Nora.”
It was Evie who ended it all by standing up, stretching, and saying that she had to get back to the studio. Charlie was immediately brought back to reality. He should not linger anymore. It was three o’clock, and he had work to do. He realised as he got into the car and started the engine that he hadn’t thought about the Darcy Trust at all. It was obvious now, of course, why Simon had not been able to find anything about Clemmie. She didn’t work or really do anything because she was disabled. Her life was within those four walls. It was listening to the radio and watching the breeze in the garden. It was eating sandwiches with her sister in the house that she had been born in. She had been looking tired towards the end of lunch, and as he left, he noticed Milena advancing towards her with a blanket.
What did it cost to have a live-in nurse he wondered? He thought of the bottles of meds and the tubes and of Milena’s fingers popping bits of broken up sandwich into Clemmie’s mouth. The idea that Evie needed the money from the Darcy Trust to pay for her sister’s care crashed over him like a cold shower. He had thought that she wanted for nothing, but maybe not. She didn’t dress like a rich woman, but she was not the sort of girl who would. She had said that she didn’t sell much at the exhibition, and that household was obviously being supported from somewhere. His mind flickered to Cressida Carter and her grasping expression when she sat in his office. He took off the handbrake, steered angrily out of his parking space, and sped towards the office.
***
Back in the studio, Evie felt discombobulated. She opened the French doors to let the air in and put the canvasses back into their stacks. She could not recall the last time she had felt relaxed. She let the sensation wash over her. It brought back memories of childhood and a world before her parents died when her sister didn’t need twenty-four-hour care and the house didn’t have ramps and bars all over it—memories of when a guy being interested in her was just a guy being interested in her and not a series of “what-ifs” so complex and convoluted that it made her head ache. She would not let herself fall into the trap of self-pity; it wasn’t her.
As she washed up his cup, she realised how much he had surprised her. It was hard to believe that he was the same man who had come strutting into the Cork Street gallery. Without a crowd, he was much kinder, and he hadn’t turned a hair when he saw Clemmie clamped inside her wheelchair. There was none of the toe-curling embarrassment and the bizarre, whispered, patronising pleasantries they had all become accustomed to. He had talked to Clemmie as if she was a normal girl, and the smile on her lips had lit up the room. Evie felt warm from it, but she could not allow herself to think of him as a man or even a friend. She focused her mind hard on him as a potential collector. He had said he wanted to buy two of her ballerina studies, and she took them aside, thinking she would give them a clean. One wasn’t framed, and she contemplated making him a frame that could be treated as part of the work as a whole. She could tell what he
“Your mum sounds like quite a lady. Did she have a romantic name as well?”
“Romantic?” Evie’s eyes flicked up as she said the word.
“Well, Clementine and Evangeline, they are romantic, unusual names, aren’t they? I just wondered if it was a family tradition.”
Evie sat up straighter and seemed suddenly troubled. He tried to recall whether she had ever actually said that Clemmie was short for Clementine. He feared that she had not, so he should not have said it. Her brow furrowed slightly, and he decided not to worry about it. Clemmie herself put an end to this train of thought by answering the question.
“I’m afraid not. Her name was Nora.”
It was Evie who ended it all by standing up, stretching, and saying that she had to get back to the studio. Charlie was immediately brought back to reality. He should not linger anymore. It was three o’clock, and he had work to do. He realised as he got into the car and started the engine that he hadn’t thought about the Darcy Trust at all. It was obvious now, of course, why Simon had not been able to find anything about Clemmie. She didn’t work or really do anything because she was disabled. Her life was within those four walls. It was listening to the radio and watching the breeze in the garden. It was eating sandwiches with her sister in the house that she had been born in. She had been looking tired towards the end of lunch, and as he left, he noticed Milena advancing towards her with a blanket.
What did it cost to have a live-in nurse he wondered? He thought of the bottles of meds and the tubes and of Milena’s fingers popping bits of broken up sandwich into Clemmie’s mouth. The idea that Evie needed the money from the Darcy Trust to pay for her sister’s care crashed over him like a cold shower. He had thought that she wanted for nothing, but maybe not. She didn’t dress like a rich woman, but she was not the sort of girl who would. She had said that she didn’t sell much at the exhibition, and that household was obviously being supported from somewhere. His mind flickered to Cressida Carter and her grasping expression when she sat in his office. He took off the handbrake, steered angrily out of his parking space, and sped towards the office.
***
Back in the studio, Evie felt discombobulated. She opened the French doors to let the air in and put the canvasses back into their stacks. She could not recall the last time she had felt relaxed. She let the sensation wash over her. It brought back memories of childhood and a world before her parents died when her sister didn’t need twenty-four-hour care and the house didn’t have ramps and bars all over it—memories of when a guy being interested in her was just a guy being interested in her and not a series of “what-ifs” so complex and convoluted that it made her head ache. She would not let herself fall into the trap of self-pity; it wasn’t her.
As she washed up his cup, she realised how much he had surprised her. It was hard to believe that he was the same man who had come strutting into the Cork Street gallery. Without a crowd, he was much kinder, and he hadn’t turned a hair when he saw Clemmie clamped inside her wheelchair. There was none of the toe-curling embarrassment and the bizarre, whispered, patronising pleasantries they had all become accustomed to. He had talked to Clemmie as if she was a normal girl, and the smile on her lips had lit up the room. Evie felt warm from it, but she could not allow herself to think of him as a man or even a friend. She focused her mind hard on him as a potential collector. He had said he wanted to buy two of her ballerina studies, and she took them aside, thinking she would give them a clean. One wasn’t framed, and she contemplated making him a frame that could be treated as part of the work as a whole. She could tell what he
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