White Nights - Ann Cleeves [53]
‘Who was the artist?’
‘A teacher from Middleton. Dawn Williamson.’ Fran saw Perez give a small flicker of interest. He paused for a moment. She thought he was wondering how much to say to her.
‘You know Dawn’s husband is Martin Williamson?’ he said at last.
‘The chef at the Herring House?’
‘Aye, they live in Biddista. Maybe a bit of a coincidence. Bella is Martin’s boss. Do you think there was something personal in her attack on the painting?’
‘There couldn’t have been. The paintings were unnamed. How would she know?’ But again Fran thought this was a place where people did know things. Word got out in a way that was almost like magic.
‘How did Dawn react to the criticism?’
‘She was obviously upset. Who wouldn’t have been in such humiliating circumstances? But she was very dignified. I mean she didn’t shout or threaten revenge. She went very red and thanked Bella for taking the time to look at the piece.’
‘So at that point Bella knew who’d painted it?’
‘Yes. Dawn made a point of standing up and saying it was her work.’
‘Did Bella seem surprised? Embarrassed because she’d been slagging off a neighbour, the wife of an employee?’
‘No. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. You know what Bella’s like. Suddenly she came over all grand-artist. She had another appointment. Her agent was coming up from London. She had to rush off. Perhaps that was to cover her awkwardness.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘About ten days ago.’
‘Have you had a class since?’
‘No, I put off this week’s because of the exhibition.’ Fran drank the wine slowly. Now they were sitting in shadow. She saw everything in soft focus. Like some cheesy photo for a women’s magazine, she thought. No hard edges here. Perhaps it was the drink. ‘I think Dawn’s quite fond of me,’ she said. ‘I mean, she knew how much the exhibition meant to me. More than it did to Bella. All my class did. I don’t think she would have ruined it for me, even if she’d wanted to get back at Bella.’
He didn’t respond and she wondered if he’d fallen asleep, sitting upright just where he was. Then he said abruptly, ‘Shall we go inside?’
‘I’m sorry. Are you cold?’
‘No. But we’re a bit public here. A night like this everyone will be out.’
‘They all know we’re friends.’
‘I thought,’ he said, ‘we were rather more than that.’
He took her glass from her hand and led her into the house.
He was very quiet and almost painfully restrained. It was quite different from the last time. Then they’d had the house to themselves and they’d both acted like irresponsible teenagers. Every now and then he would ask, ‘Is this all right? Are you sure you’re OK with this?’ They stayed in the kitchen, and she drew the curtains, although this time of year nobody drew curtains in a living room. Anyone driving past would see Perez’s car and know just what they were up to. She knew he was thinking about Cassie, but wished he wasn’t quite so thoughtful. He should have been thinking about her, be so caught up in the delight of her that rational thought was impossible. Besides, the sheepskins she threw on to the floor from the sofa and the back of the rocking chair weren’t as soft as they looked. The bed would have been so much more comfortable.
Yet afterwards she thought this was as good as she’d known. How strange that is, she thought. How we play tricks with our minds.
She poured herself more wine and watched him dress. She wanted to tell him what she was feeling but sensed he wouldn’t be one for post-match analysis. Perhaps he was suddenly aware of her looking at him because he stopped, one leg in his trousers, stooped and gave her a grin.
She wished she had a camera, but knew that the image would stay with her for ever.
It was eleven o’clock. She pulled back the curtains. There was still enough light to see colour