Josephine had danced for Jorge, and for her memories of a love that she would never forget.
Pepper had danced for Bethan.
Chapter 40
Finn’s invitation arrived three days after the fire.
He had spared no expense, and Pepper had to smile when she saw the embossed gold lettering that spelled out the name of his website.
He had called it ‘The Pelican’.
Beside a quirky sketch of the bird in question – also in gold – were the details of a launch party-cum-exhibition, which was being held at Freunde, in Hamburg, in just over three weeks’ time. There was also a handwritten note from Finn, which simply said:
‘I found the perfect artist, so I thought, why wait? See you at the party.’
That was so like him, she thought, pressing the note to her chest. Assuming that she would be there and not even entertaining the idea that she would not. The two of them had messaged back and forth a handful of times over the past few days, and upon hearing about the fire, Finn had immediately rung her to express his sympathy – and to check that she was all right.
He missed her, he had said. And Pepper agreed that she missed him, too. But at no time during their conversation did she mention moving to Hamburg, and good as his word, neither did Finn. They stuck to safe topics, and Pepper did not mention the baby except to ask how Clara was doing. When she had filled Josephine in on the pregnancy news on the flight back from Barcelona, her friend’s initial reaction was: ‘I thought safe sex was all the rage these days?’
Then, when Pepper had merely sighed, she’d added, ‘So foolish, taking a risk like that. I thought Finn was a sensible sort of fellow?’
‘So did I,’ Pepper had agreed in a desultory tone, although she could not find it in herself to berate him too harshly. Nobody was immune from the occasional slip-up, and there was no point playing the blame game. Clara and Finn had been friends for a long time; they had drunk too much and had a fumble that went too far. It was as simple as that. No great crime – just very unfortunate timing.
To be speaking to him again had settled her conflicted heart somewhat, and now that Pepper knew she would see him in just a few weeks, she felt as if some of the pressure had been lifted. She would definitely know by then what she was going to do, she was sure of it.
Propping the invitation upon the living-room mantelpiece, Pepper collected her things and for once remembered to lock the front door behind her. It was a non-negotiable must, as far as her temporary landlady was concerned, along with removing all hair from the shower plughole and not leaving teabags in the sink.
Her mother had not changed all that much.
Pepper missed her studio horribly, but the sting of losing it had been tempered by the people of Aldeburgh, many of whom had rallied around to help. As soon as word of the fire got out – which had not taken very long at all, given Mrs Hill’s fondness for a good old gossip – offers started coming in from all over the town. Sally from the gift shop – who blamed herself for the fire even though, as she told Pepper, ‘I never even tried out my candle, so it can’t have been me’ – had lent her the empty flat above her high-street store to host her sessions, while the landlord of the Turbot had donated a table large enough to accommodate groups and unearthed a set of six chairs from the pub store room. Mrs Hill herself had stepped in to help call and reschedule appointments while the new room was still being set up, and the ladies from the RSPCA charity shop organised a coffee morning that raised enough donations to buy Arts For All a second-hand camera and laptop.
For so many years, Pepper had imagined herself to be isolated and lacking in friends, but over the past week, she had been proven wrong countless times over.
She was loved here in her hometown – she could feel it.
Everything had been sorted out so efficiently that Pepper had only needed to cancel a handful of sessions in the end, and she had enjoyed ordering boxes of new craft materials on the company credit card she had taken out years ago, yet never used.
It was as if the fire had wiped the slate clean; given her the chance to start afresh with the things that mattered most. Stuff could always be replaced, and walls put back up – the only thing she still felt sad about was her collection of painted tiles. If the fire had happened even a few weeks earlier than it had, Pepper would not have lost anything she had created herself – a fact that baffled her now when she thought about it.
Those tiles had represented the time she had spent with Finn, and with Josephine, too – time that she cherished almost more than any other in her life. She knew the fact that they were gone did not mean those memories would vanish along with them – those moments that had taught her so much, about herself and what she wanted – but she couldn’t help but feel sad that nobody else would ever get to see them. Not since she was a teenager had Pepper been proud enough of a piece to show to anyone, but that was exactly how she’d been starting to feel about her tiles. She had planned to show Josephine first, then perhaps even Finn. Now, neither would ever get the chance. Of course, logic told her that she could start again – paint the same scenes and generate the same emotion – but that did not feel right somehow.
Something else would happen to reawaken that artistic spirit that Pepper now knew had never really gone away – and this time when it did, she would not hesitate to listen.
She was in the flat above the shop unpacking a box of brand-new tile clippers when there was a knock on the door.
‘It’s open!’ Pepper called.
‘Hello, darling – I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’
It was Josephine, looking resplendent in flowing blue silk.
‘I just wanted to bring you this,’ she said, swinging a carrier bag at Pepper with the hand that wasn’t clutching her stick.
‘It’s gin, of course – but there’s another little something in there that I thought you might like.’
‘You really shouldn’t have,’ Pepper said, drawing out a hard-edged rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. Inside, she found a framed black-and-white photograph of a young couple sitting atop a low wall patterned with tiles. From the spread of rooftops behind them and the glint in the smiling eyes of the woman, there could be no mistaking who it was or where it had been taken.
‘Is this . . . ?’ Pepper gasped.
‘Not the best quality, I’m afraid, but then it is almost as old as I am,’ Josephine said, bustling over to the kitchen area and opening the freezer.
‘Please say there’s some ice in here.’
‘Third drawer down.’
Pepper was still gazing at the photo. The man was dark and handsome, with a broad, intelligent-looking face and thick forearms – one of which was resting casually on the young woman’s bare thigh.
‘Josephine, is this you and Jorge?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Josephine was now struggling to open the lid of the gin. ‘Damn these hands,’ she muttered.
‘Here.’ Pepper hurried over and helped her out. ‘But we really shouldn’t be drinking pink gin in the middle of the afternoon.’
‘Poppycock!’
Josephine dashed a healthy measure into each glass, sighing with pleasure at the sound of the ice cracking.
‘Once I get to Australia, I’ll be under the stern watch of Georgina, and I’m telling you now, my darling, gin o’clock will very quickly become a fond but distant memory.’