Fortunately, before she could go for either of her poor alternatives, Rachel lifted a delicate finger and stroked the edge of the painting. The simple action added to the fire in Becky’s face, but it was an angry red. She was tired of letting this woman get to her. She was done.
Becky clasped her hands behind her back and pulled herself back on track. She opened her mouth to say goodbye, when Rachel cut in, ‘I hope you weren’t too mortified, happening upon John and me at Tamara’s wedding.’
Becky balled her fingers into fists. Rachel leant towards her and dropped her voice to add, ‘You shouldn’t worry. John more than made it up to me when we got back to my place.’
If Rachel had been hoping to blindside Becky, she more than managed it. She had never considered the possibility Charlie and Rachel might have gone further than kissing. Rachel had been drunk and Charlie would never take advantage of someone in that state. He wouldn’t.
Her mind whirred. Though part of her knew her jaw must be hanging open like a stunned fish, she couldn’t drag her mind from unsavoury thoughts about what might have happened at Rachel’s house long enough to attend to her face. Charlie would never. But then, what if Rachel had asked him to stay for a while? Suggested a few drinks? Had Charlie already been drinking at the wedding? Perhaps he wasn’t as sober as he seemed? Rachel was beautiful, persuasive, and Charlie already liked her …
Becky flinched as Rachel touched her arm and recoiled faster than was entirely polite. Her hostess either didn’t notice or care and, sickly smile still in place, pointed to the painting again. ‘And for those not as in-the-know about the inspiration for this piece as you and me,’ Rachel said, ‘the artist has given a clue as to what the painting is about in the title: “Kiss Consume”. It’s from Shakespeare.’
Right, Becky thought, anger returning to replace her confusion. Rachel might be messing about with Charlie, but she wasn’t about to let the woman dig her claws into Bill Shakespeare. Some things were sacred.
‘Indeed it is,’ Becky replied, teeth clenched. ‘Romeo and Juliet, act two, scene six. It’s part of a warning to Romeo from the Friar that passionate encounters often burn themselves out like a mixture of fire and gunpowder, while long-lasting love is based on a more moderate, slow-growing affection.’
In her own disorientated state, it was a relief to see her words throw Rachel off balance. The curator blinked and the beyond irritating smile finally disappeared. ‘You know Shakespeare?’ Rachel asked.
Becky relaxed her shoulders. Finally, firm ground! ‘Let’s just say I also studied art but a different type to you.’ She turned away from the painting. The urge to leave there and then was strong, but Rachel had invited her here for some sort of revenge. To make her feel stupid and small. Ronnie would kill her if she left without making a stand.
The higher ground was attractive, but Becky wasn’t in the mood to take it. After all, she wasn’t the only one with weak spots to be exploited.
‘The New Year’s ball should be exciting,’ she said.
‘Absolutely! I’m so glad John asked me to go with him.’ Rachel giggled. ‘I think he’d been building up the courage for a while.’
Becky responded with an equally fake laugh. ‘Yes. I guess he was waiting for the right time to ask. Like Virgil.’
The giggling ceased. ‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, he hasn’t mentioned it? We’re having our outstanding dinner date at the ball. It should be lots of fun.’ Becky smiled in a way she hoped suggested ‘fun’ involved letting Virgil ravish her on the dance floor. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll leave my scullery maid’s outfit at home.’ She winked. ‘I can always wear it for Virgil another time.’
Becky adjusted her jacket and glanced towards the door. ‘This has been delightful, Rachel. Thank you so much for suggesting it and being incredibly generous with your valuable time.’ Laying a hand on her shoulder and taking in Rachel’s pale cheeks and wide eyes, Becky told herself Ronnie would make her feel OK about this later. Right now out-bitching Rachel didn’t feel as great as she had thought it might.
Rachel gargled an inarticulate sound and her pale neck turned blotchy. Becky moved to leave before the urge to apologise became overwhelming. ‘I’m sure you have work to do, so I won’t keep you any further. And don’t worry, I can show myself out.’
Chapter 37
The weekend after her encounter with Rachel, Becky took Dylan to visit his grandparents. Having forgotten to mention anything about Mike to Charlie when she had seen him on Thursday night, she decided to pop in for a chat on Sunday evening when returning the Mercedes to the Old Station House.
She left Dylan with Phoebe and hurried across the lawn, braving the icy wind. She let herself into the studio and perched on the arm of the sofa while she rubbed her hands together.
All the overhead lights were on and Charlie was also using a couple of standing spots directed towards his work area. The underfloor heating was keeping the building cosy. Becky shrugged off her coat and left a cake box on the small table next to her after finding a clear spot between a growing collection of mugs, most of which were full, their contents cold and untouched.
Charlie didn’t turn around as she came in, so she slid down over the arm of the sofa and got comfortable.
She guessed he was putting the final touches on the painting. This phase involved more staring and fewer flicks of the brush than in the earlier stages of creation, which at times resembled an aerobic workout. She sat back, let her gaze settle on Charlie’s movements and her mind wander.
Looking at him in profile, she noticed the lines to the side of his eye and the shadows under it. It was strange, but she never saw these things when talking to him. In fact, she often forgot the ten-year age gap between them. Anyway, she wasn’t getting any younger. Sometimes she imagined Dylan as a mini Dorian Gray and she his portrait, withering and shrivelling as he grew stronger, chubbier and more beautiful.
As she followed the slow brush movements, she enjoyed what was a moment of peace at the end of a weekend full of niggles. While she understood her parents’ concern for her and the state of her finances, when she had told them everything was fine—for the twenty-fourth time—she had hoped they’d drop it.
She’d had enough of lectures. Although, she conceded as she rubbed her neck, Rachel’s might prove useful. Narrowing her eyes, she squinted at the painting in front of her on the easel and tried to appreciate it. She had no doubt Charlie knew what he was doing and was sure Rachel would gush that this was another masterclass in form, expression and technique. Yet Becky still wouldn’t choose to hang any of Charlie’s new paintings in her home. Given the choice she would stick with Monet, Renoir and Degas.
An enormous sneeze brought Becky’s attention back to Charlie. Too caught up in his work to find a tissue, he was resorting to some disgusting sniffing.
Employing great restraint, she waited until he put his brush down before speaking. ‘Charlie, you’re not well. Sit down.’ She thrust a tissue towards him. ‘And use this for goodness’ sake.’
He clutched at the tissue as he collapsed onto the sofa. ‘Tank oo,’ he said, blowing his nose and letting his head fall onto the backrest. ‘It was worse before. I think this is the end of it.’