journalist, Hamish Watt.
There was a link to it from the Western Australian, and when I saw your face I knew at once who you were.
‘No,’ I murmured. ‘You have no idea who I am.’
I recognised in your strong, dark features my own, and your story fitted with the life we shared so many years ago.
‘So many,’ I echoed bitterly.
And though I have no right to say that I feel proud of you, I do…
‘Well, it isn’t mutual…’
Ella, I’m going to be in London the last week of May.
Adrenalin scorched through my veins. I went to my desk, picked up my phone and opened the message.
I would so much like to meet you…
‘Oh God…’
I’ve always wanted to try and explain –
‘Explain what? ’ I demanded. ‘That you deserted your wife and child? I don’t need that explaining – I can remember it.’
Now I looked at my painting of Mum and saw her sitting at the kitchen table in our old flat, crying softly, while I sat next to her, helpless with anxiety and fright. I remembered drawing pictures of my father to cheer her up. And I remembered thinking that if I drew him well – so that it really looked like him – then perhaps, by some magic, he’d come back.
Ella, I’ve always felt very guilty about what happened.
‘About what you did , you mean.’
I’d like to try and make amends…
I went to ‘Options’ then to ‘Delete message?’. …if it’s not too late to do so.
I hesitated for a few moments, then pressed ‘Yes’. My father’s words vanished.
With a shaking hand I put my phone away.
Drrrrrrrrnnnnnnnng.
Nate had arrived – exactly on time. I breathed deeply to steady my nerves then walked slowly downstairs and opened the door.
Chloë stood beside him.
‘I know I said I wouldn’t come… But I’m meeting Mum at Peter Jones – we’re going to look at wedding invitations – so I thought I’d just pop in on my way.’ She stepped inside, then peered at me. ‘Are you all right, Ella? You look a bit… tense.’
‘No,’ I said, my insides churning. ‘I’m fine.’
Chloë turned to Nate. ‘Come in , darling!’ With palpable reluctance, he did. He was wearing jeans and a green cashmere jumper that had a collar, with dark-brown brogues. As I looked at him a current of antagonism flashed between us.
I wrested my features into a pleasant expression. ‘Hello, Nate.’
He gave me a wary smile. ‘Hi.’
‘The studio’s on the top floor,’ Chloë explained as she climbed the stairs. ‘Ella lives under the shop – don’t you, Ella?’
‘That’s right,’ I said, as Nate followed her up. We passed the bathroom, then the spare room, then my room, through the open door of which the wrought-ironbedstead was visible – I quickly pulled the door to. Then we went up the last flight and into the studio.
Nate looked around him in surprise.
‘You wouldn’t think there’d be this much space up here, would you?’ Chloë said to him.
‘No,’ he answered.
‘I mean, the house doesn’t look much from outside – sorry, Ella.’ Chloë gave me an embarrassed smile.
I shrugged. ‘It’s true. But it’s got a steeply pitched roof, which makes for this big, high attic.’
Now Chloë went over to the chair, put her hand on the back of it then smiled at Nate. ‘All you have to do is sit here looking handsome – not hard in your case,’ she added with a laugh.
Nate rolled his eyes. ‘For how long?’
I unhooked my apron. ‘Two hours.’
He grimaced.
‘It’ll fly by,’ Chloë assured him. ‘You can just chat.’
‘Or not,’ I said as I put on the apron. ‘It’s up to you. You can be quiet, if you want – or I can put the radio on; if you want to bring an iPod, that’s fine.’ That would be my preferred option, I decided – then I wouldn’t have to talk to him.
‘You should chat,’ Chloë said. She looked from me to Nate. ‘I mean, you hardly know each other – you’ve only met, what – three times?’
‘Twice,’ Nate and I said
There was a link to it from the Western Australian, and when I saw your face I knew at once who you were.
‘No,’ I murmured. ‘You have no idea who I am.’
I recognised in your strong, dark features my own, and your story fitted with the life we shared so many years ago.
‘So many,’ I echoed bitterly.
And though I have no right to say that I feel proud of you, I do…
‘Well, it isn’t mutual…’
Ella, I’m going to be in London the last week of May.
Adrenalin scorched through my veins. I went to my desk, picked up my phone and opened the message.
I would so much like to meet you…
‘Oh God…’
I’ve always wanted to try and explain –
‘Explain what? ’ I demanded. ‘That you deserted your wife and child? I don’t need that explaining – I can remember it.’
Now I looked at my painting of Mum and saw her sitting at the kitchen table in our old flat, crying softly, while I sat next to her, helpless with anxiety and fright. I remembered drawing pictures of my father to cheer her up. And I remembered thinking that if I drew him well – so that it really looked like him – then perhaps, by some magic, he’d come back.
Ella, I’ve always felt very guilty about what happened.
‘About what you did , you mean.’
I’d like to try and make amends…
I went to ‘Options’ then to ‘Delete message?’. …if it’s not too late to do so.
I hesitated for a few moments, then pressed ‘Yes’. My father’s words vanished.
With a shaking hand I put my phone away.
Drrrrrrrrnnnnnnnng.
Nate had arrived – exactly on time. I breathed deeply to steady my nerves then walked slowly downstairs and opened the door.
Chloë stood beside him.
‘I know I said I wouldn’t come… But I’m meeting Mum at Peter Jones – we’re going to look at wedding invitations – so I thought I’d just pop in on my way.’ She stepped inside, then peered at me. ‘Are you all right, Ella? You look a bit… tense.’
‘No,’ I said, my insides churning. ‘I’m fine.’
Chloë turned to Nate. ‘Come in , darling!’ With palpable reluctance, he did. He was wearing jeans and a green cashmere jumper that had a collar, with dark-brown brogues. As I looked at him a current of antagonism flashed between us.
I wrested my features into a pleasant expression. ‘Hello, Nate.’
He gave me a wary smile. ‘Hi.’
‘The studio’s on the top floor,’ Chloë explained as she climbed the stairs. ‘Ella lives under the shop – don’t you, Ella?’
‘That’s right,’ I said, as Nate followed her up. We passed the bathroom, then the spare room, then my room, through the open door of which the wrought-ironbedstead was visible – I quickly pulled the door to. Then we went up the last flight and into the studio.
Nate looked around him in surprise.
‘You wouldn’t think there’d be this much space up here, would you?’ Chloë said to him.
‘No,’ he answered.
‘I mean, the house doesn’t look much from outside – sorry, Ella.’ Chloë gave me an embarrassed smile.
I shrugged. ‘It’s true. But it’s got a steeply pitched roof, which makes for this big, high attic.’
Now Chloë went over to the chair, put her hand on the back of it then smiled at Nate. ‘All you have to do is sit here looking handsome – not hard in your case,’ she added with a laugh.
Nate rolled his eyes. ‘For how long?’
I unhooked my apron. ‘Two hours.’
He grimaced.
‘It’ll fly by,’ Chloë assured him. ‘You can just chat.’
‘Or not,’ I said as I put on the apron. ‘It’s up to you. You can be quiet, if you want – or I can put the radio on; if you want to bring an iPod, that’s fine.’ That would be my preferred option, I decided – then I wouldn’t have to talk to him.
‘You should chat,’ Chloë said. She looked from me to Nate. ‘I mean, you hardly know each other – you’ve only met, what – three times?’
‘Twice,’ Nate and I said
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