‘Maths brings me out in hives,’ Pepper confessed. ‘Sums may as well be written in Egyptian hieroglyphics for all the sense they make to me.’
Pepper was relieved that the conversation had moved natur ally away from discussions about childhood. She didn’t feel like telling them that there had never been any of her drawings displayed at home – not after Bethan’s accident.
‘Is this beginning to look anything like a bowl yet?’ Josephine asked, raising hands that were covered in clay in a gesture of mild exasperation.
‘Erm . . .’ Pepper clenched her teeth together. ‘Is that what it’s supposed to be?’
‘I thought that you were making a boat,’ Finn observed, his knee finding Pepper’s under the table. In every other relationship Pepper had ever been in, she had assumed the role of the giver, while the men had been the takers – but intuition was telling her that Finn was different. How could she fly home to Suffolk tomorrow and leave him? It did not seem fathomable.
With her mosaic finished and set aside to dry, Pepper fetched some paper and charcoal and started to draw him, barely looking down as her hand moved easily back and forth. She sketched in the neat curve of his ears, the wispier hairs on his temples and the dent of concentration that had appeared between his eyebrows. His mouth was slightly open, his lips smooth, the blond stubble around them a scattering of sand, and his eyes were like brushed velvet in their softness, so rich with integrity.
For the first time since meeting him, she wished that instead of being here in Portugal, they were back in Suffolk, sitting together in her studio. There she would have the right paints to mix, her own easel and a teapot keeping warm under a cosy. They could lock the door, shut out the world, and bask in the pleasure of having found one another.
Pepper added smudges under Finn’s eyes – a private tell of the late night they had shared – and the shaded hollow of his throat, pinching the stick of charcoal so she had an edge to add in the buttons of his shirt, and the lashes that were casting faint shadows on his cheeks. She was so absorbed in her task, that at first she didn’t notice that Finn had finished his mosaic and was now watching her intently.
‘All done?’ she asked brightly, blowing the dust off the portrait and propping it gently against her chest.
Finn flashed her his megawatt smile. ‘Ja!’
‘Going to give us a gander?’ enquired Josephine, who hadn’t looked up. She was still immersed in her bowl-cum-boat and was using a wooden stick to scratch on a pattern.
‘I think it must be ladies first,’ he said. ‘I had a plan for mine, but it is––’ He clenched his teeth together. ‘Not exactly what I imagined.’
‘I’m sure it’s brilliant,’ Pepper enthused. ‘Mine is just silly.’
‘What is this?’ he said then, reaching across the table and trying to pluck the sheet of paper out of her hands.
‘Nothing,’ she said, gripping it tighter. ‘Just a few scribbles.’
‘If it is nothing,’ he said, the corners of his mouth lifting amicably, ‘then surely you can show me.’
‘It’s not finished,’ she told him. ‘It’s rubbish. Please don’t. I’ll be so embarrassed.’
‘It is most certainly not rubbish,’ approved Josephine, putting down her stick.
Pepper loosened her grip slightly, looking from Finn to Josephine and back again.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said, giving in, then put her head in her hands as Finn swiped the paper out of them triumphantly.
‘It’s awful, I know,’ she muttered. ‘Chuck it in the bin – use it for scrap. Burn it!’
‘Hush.’ Finn’s eyes were wide. ‘This is sehr, sehr gut.’
He turned it around so Josephine could see, and the older woman whistled.
‘What did I say? Barrels of talent.’
Finn stared first at Pepper, then again at the portrait. ‘You drew this? Just now as we were talking?’
‘Well, in the last ten minutes or so,’ she admitted sheepishly. ‘But it’s not finished – it needs work.’
‘Can I keep it?’ Finn asked.
‘It’s not done,’ she said again. The attention was causing her to squirm. ‘It’s not fit to be seen.’
‘I really want it,’ he pressed, clutching it just as close to his chest as Pepper had done.
‘Honestly,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s crap – it’s better off in the bin.’
‘I would take it, if I were you,’ Josephine said to Finn. ‘It will likely be worth a lot of money one day.’
Finn was still staring at Pepper, his expression hard to read. She was aware that she was coming across like a moron, but it was true what she was telling them – the portrait wasn’t good enough. Not as far as she was concerned.
‘Show me what else you have made,’ Finn said, rolling up the portrait as if that settled the matter. Lifting away the cardboard barrier he had put up between them, he peered down at Pepper’s pelican mosaic and immediately began to laugh.
‘And yours?’ she prompted, standing up.
Finn surprised her then by looking almost bashful, and when she saw what he had made, she almost wept.
It was a large, red pepper.
Chapter 18
The muted Aldeburgh palette had always served to soothe Pepper in the past, the greys, blues and whites an antidote to her often fractured mind, but now that she was home, she found them too subdued. She missed Lisbon’s terracotta rooftops and bright explosions of flowers; she wanted to be stirred, not stilled, to laugh, to feel the sunshine warming her limbs and too many custard pastries filling her belly. She craved the flames that the Portuguese city had ignited within her, and the fiery spirit that had driven her towards Finn. Home had always been where she belonged, but now it felt as if she had left a piece of herself somewhere else.
But Pepper did not have any time to dwell – she had promised that as soon as she was back from her trip, she would head over to The Maltings for a few hours to do a painting class with some of the more able residents. After arriving late due to the battery of her ancient Volvo being flat, she encountered pupils who were restless from the off, and by the time her allotted two hours were up and the session had come to a fractious and noisy end, Pepper felt too shredded by exhaustion to face the drive home straight away.
After piling all her paints, brushes and canvases into the boot, she decided to take a stroll around the grounds of the house. It was a pleasant enough day, all cotton-wool clouds and tepid sunshine, and once she had crossed the lawn and was following the narrow pathways between the rose bushes, Pepper began to feel better. She could see The Maltings’ grand but lichen-covered water fountain in the distance, and was struck by a sudden urge to run over and toss a penny in for luck. Drawing nearer, however, she saw that someone else had beaten her to it.
‘Nice day for a stroll,’ she said, as Samuel stood up from the circular wall to greet her.
‘Mrs Howarth told me the roses were out,’ he said, gesturing back the way Pepper had just come. ‘I thought I’d take a look, but there are so many chuffing bees.’
He was dressed for work today, in a soft grey tracksuit and battered pair of Nikes, while Pepper was wearing a black jumpsuit covered in sunflowers that she’d found in a charity shop. Thanks to her few days in Lisbon, she was sporting a tan for the first time in years.