Hanging Hill - Mo Hayder [2]
She wiped her floury hands on her apron and stood for a moment, studying her friend. Sally knew what she was thinking – that Sally’s face was pale and lined, that her hair wasn’t clean. She was probably seeing the pink HomeMaids cleaning-agency tabard she wore over her faded jeans and floral top and feeling pity. Sally didn’t mind. She was slowly, after all this time, beginning to get used to pity. It was the divorce, of course. The divorce and Julian’s new wife and baby.
‘I wish I could do something more to help.’
‘You do help, Isabelle.’ She smiled. ‘You still talk to me. Which is more than some of the other mums at Kingsmead do.’
‘Is it that bad? Still?’
Worse, she thought. But she smiled. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I mean – I’ve spoken to the bank manager and I’ve moved all my loans around so I’m not paying so much interest. And I’m getting more hours with the agency now.’
‘I don’t know how you do it, working like you do.’
Sally shrugged. ‘Other people do it.’
‘Yes, but other people are used to it.’
She watched Isabelle go to the hob and stir the treacle. There were bags of flour and oats opened on the side. Every article bore names like ‘Waitrose’, or ‘Finest’ or ‘Goodies Delicatessen’. At Sally and Millie’s cottage all the packets had ‘Value’ or ‘Lidl’ written on them and the freezer was full of the feeble, stringy vegetables she’d struggled to grow in the back garden – that was a money lesson Sally had learned in a hurry: vegetable-growing was for the idle rich. It was far cheaper to buy them in the supermarket. Now she nibbled her thumbnail and watched Isabelle moving around the kitchen – her familiar, sturdy back in the sensible mud-coloured shorts and blouse. Her apron with the flower sprigs on it. They’d been friends for years, and she was the person Sally most trusted, the first person she’d go to for advice. Even so, she felt a little shy of talking about what was on her mind.
Eventually, though, she went to her bag and pulled out a blue folder. It was shabby and only held together with an elastic band. She carried it to the table, set it down next to the wine glasses, pulled off the band and emptied out the contents. Hand-painted cards, embellished with beads, ribbons and feathers, all sealed down with varnish. She placed them on the table and sat there uncertainly, half ready to snatch them up and shovel them back into the bag.
‘Sally?’ Isabelle lifted the pan off the heat and, still stirring, came over to look. ‘You didn’t do these, did you?’ She peered at the top one. It showed a woman wearing a violet shawl, sprinkled with stars, that she had pulled across her face so only her eyes were showing. ‘God – they’re beautiful. What are they?’
‘Tarot cards.’
‘Tarot? You’re not going all Glastonbury on us, are you? Going to tell us all our futures?’
‘Of course not.’
Isabelle put down the pot and picked up the second card. It showed a tall woman holding a large, transparent star at arm’s length. She seemed to be gazing through it at the clouds and the sun. Her tangly dark hair, flecked with grey, hung long down her back. Isabelle gave a small, embarrassed smile. ‘That’s not me, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, honestly, Sally – you’re a bit too flattering with the cleavage, if you don’t mind.’
‘If you look through them all you’ll see lots of faces you know.’
Isabelle shuffled through the paintings, stopping from time to time when she recognized someone. ‘Sophie! And Millie too. You’ve painted us all – the kids too. They are beautiful.’
‘I was wondering,’ Sally said tentatively, ‘if I might be able to sell them. Maybe to that hippie shop in Northumberland Place. What do you think?’
Isabelle turned and gave her an odd look. Half puzzled, half amused, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether Sally was joking or not.
Instantly Sally knew she’d made