I don’t know what to say to that. It’s hard to think about the past when I’m so excited to be in the present. Fortunately, the driver doesn’t seem to want a response.
He turns sharply down a small side street. Here, the frantic energy of the city drops away even further. There are more trees lining the street, their leaves a bonfire flame of red and gold as the sun filters through them. The sound of traffic is muted enough that you can hear the birds singing, and the car glides to a stop in front of an elegant mews house with a gleaming black front door. I recognize it from my last visit and feel a surge of triumph that I have arrived at my destination, navigating the city alone and unscathed.
I pay the driver, pleased to note that the fare is exactly what I expected, and slide from the taxi, slinging the duffle bag over my shoulder.
I stand for a moment, looking up at the house. The sun is shining brighter now, but the air is still chilly. It’s going to be one of those golden autumn days, like Keats wrote about.
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” I say, my voice sending his words ringing through the still air. “Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless.” I’m really warming up now, and I lift my voice further. “With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees—”
“Freya?” A head pokes out of one of the windows on the second floor, and I see a mop of tousled, conker-brown hair and a pair of squinting grey eyes. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I say, spreading my hands at my side. “It is I.”
I’m too far away to actually hear her sigh, but I see the movement of it through her body.
“Of course it’s you,” Lou says. “Who else would be standing in the middle of the road reciting Shelley?”
“You know perfectly well it’s Keats,” I hiss, but her head has already disappeared back inside and a moment later the smart black door opens.
“Come in, then,” my sister says, and she doesn’t sound surprised to see me, only resigned and a little amused. That’s sisters for you, though, all over.
I try to retain a sense of dignity as I sweep past her and into the hallway, but this is difficult to do when you have a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, a cap sliding off your head and a rather voluminous pair of pantaloons to deal with.
“I see you’ve come in costume,” Lou says drily, lifting the bag from my shoulder and dropping it on the black-and-white tiled floor, next to an umbrella stand that, alongside a single umbrella, also holds a number of rolled-up magazines and newspapers, a silver-handled cane with a black silk top hat balanced on top of it, and an upside down, empty champagne bottle.
I take a moment to look at my sister. She looks different from how I always picture her, as though she’s grown into herself somehow. Even in the few months since I last saw her she seems to have changed. Her curly brown hair is cut into a short bob and she’s wearing the most wonderful wide black trousers and a slouchy bottle-green jumper that doesn’t look anything like one of Midge’s lumpen home-made disasters. She looks prettier, I realize, and older too, elegant, grown up. Suddenly, I feel like I’m looking at a stranger and a curious panic squeezes at my heart.
Then she smiles her familiar, scrunched-up smile, and I notice the freckles across her nose which certainly belong to my sister and not an elegant London socialite.
She pulls me into a hug and I lean into her with relief.
“What’s that delicious smell?” I ask, my nose buried in her shoulder.
“Bluebells,” she answers. “My perfume. Now come inside and tell me what’s going on.”
I think how nice it must be to live in London and smell of bluebells.
She ushers me through the hallway and into a sitting room. There are stacks of books everywhere, and a little upright piano with a jam jar full of sweet violet pansies on top of it. The walls are papered in something pale gold and expensive-looking and covered in framed charcoal sketches of Cornwall.
Sprawled on a worn green silk sofa is the artist himself: Robert Cardew, Caitlin’s brother and Lou’s … well, I never know quite what to call him actually. He and Lou are not married, but we all know that they live together – even if everyone pretends they don’t. He’s reading the newspaper and drinking coffee and looking very much at home here. He doesn’t immediately look up as we enter the room.
“Look who I found outside pretending to be a Romantic poet,” Lou says.
Robert lowers the paper and his eyes widen.
“Freya?” he says. A smile spreads across his face. My goodness, it’s so easy to see why Lou fell head over heels for him. Even after two years, his handsomeness still hits me like a little electric shock. He’s all cheekbones and jawline and mossy green eyes and careless dark hair. He places the coffee cup down on the table beside him, next to a plate of toast smeared with marmalade, then gets to his feet and plants a brief kiss on my cheek. The gorgeous smell of him makes my knees a bit weak.
I glance at Lou and her laughing eyes tell me she’s well aware of how devastating he can be.
“What are you doing here?” Robert asks me.
“I’ve run away, of course,” I say, twitching a slice of toast from Robert’s plate and flopping down into a nearby armchair.
Lou groans. “Of course you have.”
“Run away?” Robert’s brows draw together in concern. “Why?” He seems to look at me properly for the first time. “And what on earth are you wearing?”
“It’s her running-away costume,” Lou says.
“Good, isn’t it?” I ask, around a mouthful of toast. “Gosh, this is excellent marmalade. Almost as good as Midge’s.”
“Robert made it.” Lou’s mouth curls into a smile. “Midge sent him the recipe.”
“Did she?” I ask, surprised and not a little impressed. Midge doesn’t share her recipes with just anyone.
Robert nods, distracted. “I don’t understand, Freya. Why have you run away? Is something wrong at home?”
“I should imagine,” Lou says, resting her chin on her hand, “that Freya has run away to seek fame and fortune.”
I’d forgotten Lou’s annoying habit of knowing just what one is thinking. It comes of being a writer, I suppose. She’s so watchful and she always says I’m an open book. As a young woman trying to cultivate a certain air of mystery, that’s pretty galling to hear.
“Well, yes, I have actually,” I say, a little sulkily. “How did you know?”
“Because you look exactly like a runaway, come to the big city in search of fame and fortune, of course.”
“Oh,” I say, torn between annoyance at how transparent I am, and satisfaction that my performance was so convincing. I suppose I only have myself to blame.
“I’m sorry,” Robert says, looking from me to Lou and back again. “I’m sure I’m being very slow, but … why run away, Freya? Why not arrange a visit? We could have met you at the train station.”
“Oh, Robert!” Lou chides disapprovingly, at the same time as I exclaim, “Of all the silly questions! What sort of an adventure would that be?”