However, as they pulled into South Compton, Charlie opened his eyes and shuffled to the middle of his seat. He cleared his throat and scratched his beard. Below the cover of a deep frown, his gaze darted between Becky, the view, and various points inside the carriage.
The fidgeting persisted once they were on the platform. As they strolled towards the lift, he eased his hands into his pockets and then snatched them out, swinging his hand forward to punch the call button.
Becky stared at the illuminated arrow and balled her fists. To her left, she heard Charlie sigh and take another deep breath. ‘Becky,’ he said, ‘thank you for today. I’m sorry if my reaction wasn’t very …’
‘Effusive? Enthusiastic? Excited?’ She spat her words towards the lift doors. ‘Any other word of your choice beginning with E?’
The lift arrived and Becky whirled Dylan inside while the doors were still moving. Charlie followed them and, reaching across Becky to press the button to take them down to the entrance hall, said, ‘Putting things into words isn’t my thing.’
She rolled her eyes as the doors closed and was opening her mouth to reply when Charlie stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug.
Crushed against his chest, Becky steadied herself by clutching his shoulders, leaving her forearms pressed against his solid biceps.
He released her slightly from the initial embrace, but held her close enough so he could lower his lips to her ear. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
The lift arrived at the ground floor and Becky jumped as the doors opened. Charlie stepped back and extended a hand in the direction of the exit. ‘Women and children first.’
Becky raced ahead. She parked the buggy next to the ticket machines and stooped to rummage in the nappy bag. While digging for Dylan’s sun hat with one hand, she used the other to rub her right ear, which tingled and burned from its brief contact with Charlie’s lips. That damn moustache and bloody beard. The sooner they went, the better.
The crackly announcement of the next departure from platform one must have covered Charlie’s approaching footsteps, but it didn’t matter: she knew he was behind her. There was something so still about his presence that to Becky, someone who existed in constant scrambling motion, standing next to Charlie was like wandering into the eye of a storm, the one calm spot in the centre of chaos.
Keeping her back to him, she fussed unnecessarily with Dylan’s hat and rubbed her right ear again, all while trying to ignore the left side of her face, which was inexplicably as hot and sensitive as the right.
As they said their goodbyes, Becky remembered to pass on an invitation to Ronnie’s birthday party a week on Saturday. Charlie accepted at her third time of asking, after she made it plain that upsetting Ronnie would be bad for his health. It wasn’t until a couple of days later, in a rare quiet moment, that she wondered whether his initial hesitancy had come from the mistaken impression she had been asking him to be her plus one.
Chapter 17
A week after his trip to London, Charlie went to bed late after spending hours drafting his latest email to Rachel. Following some of her suggestions, he had taken delivery of several new materials that afternoon and he wanted to thank her for her ideas.
Sleep did not come easily, and when it did he dreamt he was back in his studio. It was entirely empty, expect for the vacant easel and a workbench carrying his pot of brushes. An uncanny silence permeated the space; the normal background hum of birdsong and trees shifting in the breeze was eerily absent.
The south door opened and the lady entered. She was surrounded by golden light and the scent of a summer rainstorm. Her clothing consisted of nothing more than a large white shirt. The cuffs hung past her fingertips and the tail to the backs of her knees. She glided towards Charlie but said nothing, nor did she acknowledge him in any other way. Her expression was unreadable, neither friendly nor hostile. In each hand she carried a can of paint and when she was within arm’s reach she put them down and stepped back towards the easel.
Charlie looked down at the tins. They were open. He glanced up at her, waiting for instructions, but none were forthcoming.
With no specific goal in mind, Charlie picked up a two-inch brush and crouched to dip it into the first colour, a deep Prussian blue. He stood and edged forward, extending the brush in front of him. She shut her eyes and showed no reaction as he ran a line of paint down her shirt from the right edge of the collar to the cuff. He applied a firm, even pressure, using a long smooth stroke from her collarbone to her wrist.
Feeling more confident, Charlie seized another brush and repeated the movement on her left side, using the second colour, a vibrant emerald green. This time, when he reached the cuff, he stepped back to review his work.
She opened her eyes. Their colour was dazzling, a searing infinity of sublime shades and tones which forced Charlie to turn away and use his arms to shield his face.
When he turned back, she was gone and the easel held a painting.
The next day Charlie went out to the studio early and got to work. By late evening he was satisfied he had reproduced the painting in his dream and perhaps bettered it.
The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as if reacting to the stare of an unseen guest. He laughed and clapped his hands together. The muse had returned.
Chapter 18
Becky reserved the fourth Saturday in August for Ronnie’s thirty-sixth birthday party. Delighted her dad was also going, Phoebe volunteered to babysit Dylan from late in the afternoon, allowing Becky to get to Ronnie’s early to help set up.
As the women prepared the kitchen for the hungry hordes, Ronnie expressed her dissatisfaction with Charlie’s physical display of gratitude from the previous week. ‘I don’t care if he’s not good at putting his feelings into words,’ she snapped. ‘He should try harder.’
Becky shook her head as she tipped crisps into a bowl. That was Ronnie, Sweet in nothing else but name. ‘To be fair, from what I’ve seen so far, I’m guessing a hug is his equivalent of a handwritten thank you on expensive paper. You know he managed to propose to his wife without saying anything.’
Ronnie had been about to fill an ice-cube tray. She dropped it in the sink. ‘What?’
‘He gave her a painting for her birthday called The Proposal and when she turned round he was waiting on one knee with the ring. She said yes. Job done.’
‘Ugh! I suppose that is romantic, if that’s your thing. But I say it’s just another example of him being useless.’ She carried on with the ice cubes. ‘Anyway, how do you know this stuff? Because I’m guessing you’re not having long heart-to-hearts with Mr Hairy.’
‘Phoebe told me. She’s an information goldmine as well as a brilliant babysitter. Dylan loves her and he loves Charlie too. Actually, I think Dylan’s delighted to be able to get away with saying “ee” to refer to the three of you. Now all that’s left is to convince Mike to let us call him Mikey.’
Ronnie’s lips curled and her eyes glittered. ‘If he doesn’t soon get the hang of putting the toilet seat down I may start calling him that. I sometimes wonder if the useless artists wouldn’t have been easier to suffer. You’d think you’d be on safe ground with an accountant. But then I suppose I should have seen it coming: he does have an artistic side, with his photography and all.’