Kerry slammed her hand against the Perspex, making Louisa jump. ‘Seriously, Enema?’ she called. ‘Again? Has this facility gone entirely self-help?’
Enema glowered at Kerry through the screen. ‘Don’t do that again,’ she said, ‘or you’ll regret it.’
‘Well, you’re a proper little ray of sunshine today, aren’t you, Nurse Bell?’ Kerry called. ‘What’s wrong? Your ex been busy posting selfies with his Thai ladyboy on Facebook again, has he?’
But Enema just scowled and went back to her sandwich.
‘And can you please give some of these people a bloody shower?’ Kerry called. ‘The fumes coming off of Samir are making me bloody high. And not in a good way!’
Louisa ripped open the envelope. Inside were the things from her handbag, along with her grandmother’s antique gold locket. She welled up with tears. It was like unexpectedly seeing a dearly loved friend at the time you needed them most.
‘It’s so pretty,’ Kerry said, gently taking the locket. ‘Here, let me put it on for you. Was it your gran’s?’
Louisa nodded.
‘Well, at least they don’t think you’re a suicide risk any more. Although there’s not much damage you could do with this, in all fairness. I guess if you were really motivated you could use the chain to tie off the blood supply to different parts of your anatomy and do yourself in bit by bit. You could start with one of your toes perhaps, wait till it turns black, then move on to the next, and gradually work your way up.’
Louisa doubled over with laughter. ‘Kerry,’ she managed to say eventually, ‘I think I properly love you.’
Kerry grinned, adjusting the locket into position. ‘All part of the service. There. Now, let’s go and get a caffeine and chocolate fix. Best therapy going in this whole gin joint. The only therapy, in fact.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Louisa. ‘And look!’ She held out the pound coins she’d discovered at the bottom of the envelope. ‘We can afford chocolate and crisps! Come on ladies!’
Kerry screeched with delight while Marisa grinned from ear to ear, and they headed off to the vending machine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
She had become his muse. He was blind, but he was still an artist. And every artist needed inspiration. With Louisa Robert was no longer insubstantial, a thing composed of shadows. With her he felt move alive than ever before.
His connection with her was deep, instinctual. He felt he knew her both mind and spirit. And yet at the same time there was something inscrutable about her – something unfathomable that went beyond simply not being able to see her. He sensed that there was much she kept hidden from him. But even so, he understood. While he longed for her to trust him, to tell him everything that lay closest to her heart, he knew that everyone hid something. After all, there were things that he could never bring himself to speak of either. And so he decided he would be grateful for all that she did give him of herself, and not feel himself cheated of what she held back.
He was in his room, in the wicker chair opposite the open French doors, feeling the breeze across his face. Waiting. Life for him now was either being with her, or waiting to be with her.
And then she was there.
‘Hello,’ she said softly. And he could hear the smile in her voice, as always.
‘Hello,’ he said, hearing the answering happiness in his own.
They set off for the forest, she leading him as always. He thought how smooth and cool her hand was – not hot and rough like the nurses’ and orderlies’ hands, always pushing, pulling or grabbing. He could make out her silhouette. Which, of course, meant that it must be sunny. How gracefully she moved, the rhythm of her motions so soothing. Then suddenly, for just a moment, Robert had the impression that he could make out the red colour of her hair. He looked again, harder – but no, it was just wishful thinking, his imagination playing tricks. Red had always been his favourite colour; Edgar said that he was obsessed by it. It was the colour he built nearly all his compositions around.
Eventually, they reached the stream and sat down.
‘I’ve a gift for you,’ he said, feeling in his dressing gown pocket. ‘Violet and rose creams. I hope you like chocolates.’
‘Thank you! How very thoughtful.’ He could hear the rustle of tissue paper as she opened the box. ‘Here, we can share them,’ she said.
‘No, thank you. I don’t much like sweet things nowadays. They don’t taste right.’ As they sat there he felt he could sense the shape of her – as she breathed, swallowed, pushed the hair off her face. Everything about her was so vivid.
And her voice was lovely, so expressive. Although sometimes what she said seemed slightly odd, her vocabulary strange – he couldn’t put his finger on quite why. Often, she would hesitate before speaking, as if struggling to find exactly the right words. But it didn’t matter. He felt he would happily listen to her talk forever.
‘They’re delicious,’ she said, and he felt ridiculously happy that he could have given her this small thing.
She took his hand and held it up to her face – she understood how important touch was for him. He felt the curve of her jaw, her cheekbone against his fingers. Then he caught her scent: a clean, flowery smell, mixed in with water and grass – and violet and rose cream chocolates.
Then, all at once, he felt a sharp sense of his own ridiculousness. How he was something entirely out of place, upsetting the balance in this otherwise perfectly lovely composition. His hand against her face seemed an awful presumption. He let it fall away. Oh God, how he hated not being able to see. He hated it more than he’d ever hated anything.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have any more foxgloves come out?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there’ll be any more now. They’re starting to lose their flowers at the bottom, but there are still hundreds of fat bees disappearing in and out of the ones further up.’
He moved a little further back and lay down.
‘It really is lovely,’ she said. ‘You know, I think this is my favourite place in the whole world.’
‘Me too.’
‘I wish I could describe it to you in a way that does it justice.’
‘Oh, but you do. I love the way you describe what you see. You’ve a marvellous eye for detail. Tell me about the other places you love.’
‘I think they’re all in Sussex,’ she said. ‘The road to the cliffs, for one – the Birling Gap Road, I mean, when you’re reaching the end, where you first get a glimpse of the sea between the cliffs on either side. On a bright sunny day, I always think it looks like a sapphire in a giant pair of hands.’