She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the warmth for a moment. Then she pushed the letter back into its envelope and got to her feet, going back inside to phone and make an appointment at the hairdresser’s for Friday morning.
‘You look very nice dear,’ said Ella’s mother, nodding approvingly as her daughter came downstairs wearing a pale blue shift dress which skimmed the curves of her body, still slender even after two children. ‘I like your hair in that style. Now don’t you worry about a thing and there’s no need to hurry back. The children and I will be just fine, won’t we Rhona?’
‘Thank you.’ Ella pulled on the jacket that matched her dress and stooped to kiss Rhona on the cheek. ‘But I won’t be late. Without Angus, I’m not going to linger. I’ll just look at the paintings and come home again. I doubt I’ll know anyone there in any case.’
‘It’s a great pity that Angus couldn’t accompany you tonight,’ said Mrs Lennox. ‘The two of you scarcely ever seem to have the chance to go out together and, if you ask me, it would do you both good to work at it a little harder.’
Ella sighed. The one night that she’d made an effort with her appearance at last, and Angus had some work commitment that was keeping him late at the office. Mind you, perhaps it was just an excuse – he probably felt a little ambivalent about going to look at Christophe’s paintings and was staying on at work to get out of it. Still, at least she’d had the sense to turn down Caroline’s invitation to spend the summer in France: that clearly would have been asking too much of Angus, even if Christophe wasn’t around. It was a shame though, in a way; it probably would have done the whole family good. But perhaps the better Scottish weather would last until their family fortnight in Arisaig and that would have to do instead.
Ella turned to wave to Rhona and Robbie who were watching her from the doorstep and then hurried along the road to catch the tram into town, her stiletto heels clicking briskly on the pavement.
Princes Street was still busy in the early evening light, the castle sailing high above the gardens where many of the city’s inhabitants were making the most of a rare warm Friday evening to walk or sit, or wander to one of the city’s bars for an end-of-week drink before making their way home. Ella tugged at the lapels of her jacket a little nervously before joining the small throng who were entering a side door of the RSA beneath a banner that proclaimed the exhibition’s title, Island Landscapes. She showed her invitation to the gallery guard and was waved inside.
And then she forgot to feel nervous or self-conscious about being there alone because the first picture she saw was a familiar scene. She consulted the programme she’d picked up at the door. ‘The Beach at Sainte Marie (1953). Christophe Martet’s landscapes capture the elusive qualities of the Atlantic light around his home on the Île de Ré. Equally renowned for his portraits, the artist now exhibits extensively in Paris and London.’
She moved eagerly from painting to painting, recognising scenes from her summers on the island so many lifetimes ago: a church spire rising from the surrounding marshlands; salt-pans bleached white in the sunlight; beach grasses blowing in the summer’s breeze and, beyond the dunes, the colours of the ocean, its blues and greens an infinite play of colour and shade. She bent nearer to this last picture to look more closely at the colour he’d chosen for the deep sea out along the far horizon: viridian. She smiled, remembering.
‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ Ella was brought back to the room by a voice beside her. ‘You’re Robbie Dalrymple’s mother, aren’t you?’ She turned to find a smiling couple looking at her expectantly. ‘John and Heather Wilcox. We’re Hamish’s parents. From school?’
‘Why, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I was miles away.’ Ella shook their hands, recognising them.
‘It’s these paintings. Isn’t it a beautiful exhibition? I love them all, but especially this artist. There’s something about the way he captures the feeling of the place. You can almost believe you’re on holiday there, smelling the sea!’
Ella nodded. ‘I’ve not really looked at the other pictures, yet. But yes, I think these are wonderful.’
‘There appear to be some glasses of sherry over there,’ John pointed to a linen-draped table in one corner of the gallery. ‘Can I bring you each one?’
Clutching her drink, Ella found herself relaxing and even enjoying the evening as they discussed the paintings and chatted about their children.
‘Hamish has been asking if we can invite Robbie round to play one day in the holidays,’ said Heather. ‘Where is it, exactly, that you live? . . . Why, that’s just around the corner from us!’
John looked at his watch and then put his half-drunk glass of sherry down. ‘Our car’s parked nearby, so why don’t we give you a lift home? In fact, why don’t we have a quick drink in the Café Royal before we head back?’
Ella glanced at her watch too. It was still early and the thought of a lift home later was very tempting: the pointed toes of her shoes were beginning to pinch. ‘Alright, thank you. That would be lovely.’
The bar was busy, but Heather and Ella managed to find a space on one of the leather banquettes while John pushed his way through the throng to buy drinks. It was ages since Ella had been in the Café Royal – or anywhere else much, come to that – and she gazed about happily, taking in the Victorian splendour. They had to shout to make themselves heard above the hubbub of noise that reverberated all around them, rising towards the elaborate ceiling and the mahogany balustrade of the mezzanine above, where diners were enjoying their meals at damask-draped tables.
A sudden crescendo of laughter and applause from the balcony made Ella glance up. It was somebody’s birthday and a waiter had brought a dessert lit by a candle to one of the tables.
And then Ella froze, her glass halfway to her lips. The light of the candle briefly illuminated the faces of the couple it was intended for. Her husband’s features were thrown into relief. And then, as she watched, Angus leant forward to kiss the hand of the woman sitting across from him.
Ella lowered her glass slowly on to the table before her, stunned. The noise of the bar faded and, for a moment, all she could hear was the sound of the pain that roared in her ears like the crashing of waves.
‘Ella? Are you alright?’ Heather’s touch on her arm brought her back. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet all of a sudden.’
With an enormous effort, she pulled herself together. ‘Er, yes, I’m sorry. It’s just a bit hot in here. And perhaps I’m not used to being out so late,’ she joked feebly, grateful for the numbness that was replacing the sensation of shock, allowing her to function. She tried to sip her drink, choking it down, nausea rising in her throat, longing to get out of there and back to the safety of her own home. Only it wasn’t safe any more, she realised. It wasn’t what she’d thought it was at all. Her home, her marriage, her family: they were all a sham. Her hand shook so violently that she spilled her drink down the front of her dress, the liquid spreading dark as a blood stain over her breast.
John Wilcox downed his pint. ‘I agree. It is a bit crowded in here. I’ll go and get the car. Bring it round to the door, shall I?’
Ella gathered up her jacket and her handbag. She was desperate to get out of the bar before Angus saw her. ‘Why don’t we all go? A breath of fresh air would be nice.’
But, as she stood, she saw him glance down and then stiffen as he recognised her. She turned her back on him, struggling to find the sleeve of her jacket, dropping her bag on the floor in her agitation.
John bent to pick it up. ‘Come on, Ella. I don’t think you’re very well. Let’s get you home.’ And Heather took her arm, solicitous, and led her out into the night, away from the cacophony of laughter and the sight of Angus’s horror-struck face.
He tried to tell her it was nothing, that the woman meant nothing at all to him, that he’d succumbed to a moment of madness as he’d felt so lonely, so rejected by Ella. But all she could do was shake her head, distraught, her arms braced across her body, her hands clutching her elbows as she tried to contain the anguish that was threatening to tear her apart.