GIs and Ginger Beer, page 2
Despite the threatening tears, Ashley snorted out a laugh. ‘You’re very wicked,’ she reproved.
‘How did you leave it with Eddie? Did this all happen at the ball? I assume that’s why you did the disappearing act?’
Ashley nodded. Then winced. ‘I told him I might be able to be his friend but there was no way I could consider having any other kind of relationship with him. Then I walked out.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Ouch indeed.’ Ashley forked off a tiny sliver of cake. She didn’t really want any but it was delicious, so she ate some more. ‘But, with him teaching in Exeter, there’s not much chance of him having to come to Berecombe, is there? We can just avoid each other. Until I’ve sorted how I really feel.’
‘Might be the best thing for a while. Let the dust settle.’
‘Or maybe the best thing is not to have Eddie McQueen in my life at all.’ But, even as she said it, unhappiness tore through her heart. She had the strongest suspicion she’d never again meet another man who was quite like him.
Chapter Three
Working at the Arts Workshop had wiped her out at first, but Ashley was gradually settling into a routine. Ken was understanding and, if she felt too tired, or was in pain, or feeling overwhelmed, he sent her home without question. Occasionally, she flashbacked to the horrifying night of the accident, to the sound of the lorry slamming into her car and to the crushing pain and the splintered life after it, but every time she ventured out without her walking stick felt like a triumph and a huge leap in her recovery. The solicitor kept her up to date about the promised compensation and she knew that, once she received the money, it would free up her choices. For now, though, she was glad she’d found herself, at the suggestion of her cousin, Noah, in this little town of Berecombe. She was even more grateful for the welcome she’d received and the friendships she’d made, including Ken and his funny, full-on wife, Tessa, along with Biddy and Beryl, and Petra at the café. She hadn’t realised how much she’d needed this new start, away from all that was pre-accident and belonged to her old life. She was no longer Ashley Lydden, art teacher at a Shropshire academy, coasting along with a boyfriend with whom she had little in common. She wasn’t sure who the new Ashley was yet and what she would become, but she knew she was well on the way to becoming her.
The tiny reception office was to one side of the main entrance, just off the central corridor. From the get-go, Ashley felt at home. The smell of oil and linseed and the proximity of creative minds were as familiar and comforting as a warm hug. The huge airy space that Ken used as his studio made her fingers prickle with longing to work on a big canvas, but she contented herself with quick water-colour sketches on location. Ken was happy for her to feel her way into the job, since, as he admitted, on the salary he was paying, he could hardly be a demanding boss. There was the unspoken promise of teaching work when she felt ready but, at the moment, she was content to ease herself into things by answering the phone and dealing with enquiries.
The main problem was getting to and from work. The Workshop was some way from her flat and too far for her to walk. Noah often gave her a lift and Ken was happy to drop her home afterwards but being dependent on others rankled. Spotting a second-hand sit-up-and-beg ladies’ bike for sale had her wondering if she could ride one again. Her balance still wasn’t wonderful, but she thought the exercise might be good – and it would solve the commuting issue. She thought she’d check with her consultant first and was searching for his number on her phone, when a polite cough had her looking up and through the hatch in the reception office.
A man stood in front of it. Good-looking. Longish dark hair, scruffy jeans and sweatshirt, and a collection of large canvases bundled together with thick string at his feet. It must be the painter Ken was expecting.
‘Hi,’ he said, with a sexy smile.
‘Hello, you must be Jake. You’re here to see Ken, aren’t you? This way.’ She led him to Ken’s studio and introduced him.
‘Ace. Thanks, Ashley,’ Ken said. ‘Why don’t you grab us all a coffee and then come and have a look at Jake’s work? I think you’ll find it interesting.’
She returned ten minutes later, carrying a tray laden with mugs and chocolate digestives, to find the men poring over Jake’s paintings, which were propped up on various easels dotted around the room. Putting the tray on Ken’s work bench, she joined them. The weather had become much more spring-like lately and, on this Friday morning in May, light was streaming in through the ceiling windows in the studio.
‘Wow!’ she exclaimed. It was an inadequate word to describe the paintings. ‘So, you’re a portrait artist?’
‘He is,’ Ken added. ‘And what a portrait artist. They’re stunning, aren’t they? This one especially.’ He gestured to a portrait of an old woman. ‘I like to have a go at the odd portrait myself, but this is way out of my league.’
‘She’s my grandmother,’ Jake explained with a soft Cornish burr. ‘Getting on for eighty now. She doesn’t mind sitting, likes the company, likes to chat while I’m painting.’
Ashley went nearer. She wanted to touch it. The paint was so liberally applied, it was 3-D. The background was a blur hinting at a blue that could only be the Cornish sea and sky, but the old woman’s features had been caressed onto the canvas with inches deep of paint, every stroke moulded with love. ‘I love how you use colour. These great slabs of blue and white. Do you use a knife?’
‘I use anything I can get hold of. Fingers, palette knife, whatevs.’ He shrugged.
‘You have an astonishing talent, my friend,’ Ken said.
Ashley crossed the room to look at another. ‘They leap out at you,’ she said in awe.
‘That’s my great-aunt,’ Jake explained. ‘She’s been ill. I like a face that’s had a life, that’s been through something.’
‘I like these self-portraits too.’
Jake shrugged again. ‘If I can’t get a sitter, I use myself. Not as interesting, though.’
Ashley disagreed. One self-portrait was in semi-shadow which lent it an enigmatic feel. Not highly naturalistic, it wasn’t abstract either. Again, the use of colour gave the painting a fresh, bold feel. Jake had emphasised, at the expense of other details, his high-bridged, well-defined nose, his thin face and sensual mouth with its wide bottom lip. If she hadn’t already known he was a painter, she would have guessed. Here was a man who searched beneath the surface and found every painful secret. She shivered slightly.
Ken found a couple of paint-smeared chairs and perched on a similarly decrepit wooden stool. He set them up next to the work bench and passed the mugs over to Ashley and Jake. ‘I want Jake to display his paintings here. I’ve got a couple of gallery owners coming who I think might be interested.’
‘Sounds great. What have you been doing up to now, Jake?’
‘I studied at the Slade a while back, but my career didn’t take off.’ He pulled a face. ‘Think I’m too old-school for the contemporary scene. Not controversial enough. Couldn’t afford to stay in London and I missed the sea, so I went home.’
‘There are worse places to paint than Cornwall.’
He gave a lazy grin. ‘True. I pick up a bit of seasonal work down at the beach at the surf shop and Mum doesn’t make me pay rent, so it gives me time to paint but—’
‘But you’d like to be better known.’
‘He deserves to be better known,’ Ken said hotly. ‘Don’t you think? It’s all very well being a big fish in a little pond down in Cornwall, but Jake here needs a bigger audience.’
Ashley sipped her coffee thoughtfully. ‘I would have thought, with your obvious talent for portraits, you’d have queues of people wanting to sit and offering good money, too.’ It was true. In some ways, Jake’s work was conventional, almost old-fashioned; it would appeal to anyone wanting a realistic and flattering portrait.
Jake took a biscuit and crunched it, his white teeth shining against his brown face. ‘Loads,’ he admitted cheerfully. ‘All beautiful, groomed-to-an-inch, bored housewives. Trouble is, they’re all so Botoxed-up, any expression is gone. Little of anything for me to get my teeth into. Bland face. Bored face. End up with bland, boring paintings.’
‘Ah.’ Ashley watched as he took another biscuit. He was younger than she’d first thought. Possibly no older than mid-twenties. ‘Couldn’t you compromise and paint a few of these women, which would give you the money to live and paint someone more interesting?’
‘That’s what I’ve been doing. Trouble is, a few of the bored plastics—’
‘Plastics?’
‘The women,’ he explained. ‘They started wanting more than a portrait, if you get my drift.’
‘No!’ Ashley was horrified but Ken and Jake laughed.
‘Loads of them, they come down from London for the summer. Live in their Farrow and Ball dolled-up second homes, pricing out the locals – they’re bored out of their skulls and looking for distractions. They think they own Cornwall, own us. Think they keep us going with their money. Some of them started to think they bloody owned me.’
‘So, you’ve come to Devon to escape all that, make your name?’ Ashley wrinkled her nose. ‘Forgive me, but Berecombe doesn’t seem much of a platform.’
‘Charming,’ Ken said indignantly.
‘Ken here knows my mum,’ Jake explained. ‘Said he’d got a couple of names my stuff needs to go in front of, so here I am.’ He looked at the older man with something bordering on hero worship. ‘And if Ken says that, it’s good enough for me.’
Ashley began to get up. ‘Well, I wish you all the luck in the world. With talent like yours, you deserve to go far.’
‘Cheers.’
She felt his eyes boring into her.
‘Ashley, I’d love to paint you.’
Swinging back round to face him, she said in astonishment, ‘Me? Whatever for?’
‘Because you’re beautiful. Because you have an interesting face. And I’d like to paint the face that’s lived through what gave you that scar.’
Ashley gasped and, in an automatic gesture, flicked her hair over it.
Ken, as if sensing her discomfort, stood up too. ‘Lots of good faces for you to paint while you’re in Berecombe, my boy. And not many of them too shy to sit.’
Gathering the mugs back onto the tray, Ashley added brightly, ‘You could try Beryl and Biddy, for starters. It’s just a shame Ruby’s left town. She’d make an excellent subject and I can tell you, she’s had a life and a half.’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Ken added. ‘Ruby’s coming back. Biddy and Arthur staged an intervention and they’re driving up to London to rescue her from her dreadful daughter. She’ll be staying with them as of tomorrow. She’ll want to start up the memories project again, no doubt.’
Ashley felt almost tearful. ‘Oh Ken, that’s the best news I’ve had all week!’
Chapter Four
Ashley parked her new bike in the cycle slots outside the bookshop and made sure she was secured with a padlock. Patting the saddle and admiring the sky-blue paint job, she murmured, ‘Don’t want to lose you now, Enid.’ The consultant had given his blessing with the proviso to stick to short rides and level ground at first, so Ashley had gone ahead and bought the step-through bicycle. It came complete with an enormous basket on the front, and she was besotted.
Noah had bought her the chain and padlock as a present and added a bright blue cycle helmet. ‘Safety at all times,’ he reproved when, at first, she’d refused to wear it.
Excited, she took off the helmet and shook out her hair as she made her way into the café. She was meeting Biddy and Ruby for the first time since Ruby’s return to Berecombe. She had the handheld recorder in her rucksack, ready in case Ruby wanted to talk; she had so many questions for her. She couldn’t believe how much an old woman’s wartime memories had obsessed her and was dying to find out more.
Waving as she spotted them sitting in the window, she negotiated the crowded café and slid into a seat. ‘Hello, Biddy. Hello, Ruby. It’s good to see you both.’ On impulse, she leaned over and kissed Ruby’s cheek. ‘You look really well.’
‘Hello, dearie. Could say the same about you. Got roses in your cheeks, you have.’
Ashley shoved her helmet into her rucksack. ‘It’s lovely out there. Really fresh. Beryl would say it’s a real seaside-y day.’
‘Beryl says a lot of things, usually nonsense,’ Biddy put in.
‘That’s not true,’ Ashley defended, too buoyed up to be scared of Biddy. ‘I happen to think she’s a dear.’
Biddy snorted but there was a gleam of humour in her eyes. ‘I’ll admit she has her moments. I’ve got your usual on order. Will a hot chocolate do you?’
‘Lovely.’
Petra brought it over and, instead of returning to the kitchen, edged Ashley over and shared her chair. ‘I hear there’s a new man in town. And he’s smitten as a kitten with our Ashley here.’
Ruby cackled. ‘Oh, I’ve missed this place. Nowhere like it for gossip.’
Ashley groaned. ‘You can’t breathe in Berecombe without someone knowing about it,’ she said feelingly.
‘And then telling everyone else,’ Ruby added, with a giggle that belied her ninety-one years. ‘So, who is he?’
‘A painter,’ Petra added, before Ashley could say anything. ‘Staying with the Tizzards, putting on an exhibition at The Workshop, and he’s the Next Big Thing, Ken says. Tall, dreamy blue eyes, long dark hair and not unlike a certain Poldark actor.’
‘Give over, Petra,’ Biddy said. ‘He looks nothing like Aidan Turner.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I bumped into him and Ken on the seafront.’ Biddy patted her hair. ‘Said he’d like me to sit for him. Said I had a life in my face.’
‘Well, that’s certainly true.’
‘Less of your cheek, thank you, young Petra.’
‘Ooh, I loved Poldark. Was ever so sad when it finished.’ Ruby rubbed her hands together in glee. ‘Perhaps he’d like to paint me an’ all?’
Ashley looked around at them with affection. A woman in her nineties, an ex-madam and a singer-cum-café-manager wearing a fifties dress patterned with oranges and lemons. A motley crew of friends but friends all the same. She felt her mood truly lift for the first time since the debacle with Eddie. ‘I definitely think you should put yourself forward as a subject, Ruby. I think Jake would love to paint you. If anyone’s got a life in their face, it’s you.’
Ruby frowned. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment, Ashley?’ She harrumphed. ‘I’ll take it as such. When you get to my age, you don’t get many.’
‘Think he really wants to paint Ashley,’ Petra said mischievously. ‘Maybe like in Titanic. You know, the film?’ She added, in an affected voice, ‘“Paint me like one of your French girls, Jack,” or should I say Jake?’ She giggled and then sighed as she looked over her shoulder. ‘Better go. Customers waiting. Boy, I’ll be glad when Zoe’s back from university and can help out. The good weather has brought in the tourists.’ She stood up, saying, ‘Give me a shout if you want anything else,’ and hurried off.
‘That’s Arthur’s granddaughter, isn’t it?’ Ashley asked, stirring her hot chocolate.
‘Zoe?’ Biddy said. ‘Yes, she works here in the holidays. She’s at Durham, studying English. Much good it’ll do her,’ she added sourly. ‘Will come out with a debt and not trained to do anything.’
‘Stop changing the subject,’ Ruby complained. ‘I want to know, when I’ve only been gone a few weeks, why a painter called Jake is lusting after our Ashley here. When I left, that nice Yank was all over her. What’s happened to him? What was his name, Eddie something?’
Ashley chased a rivulet of sugar across the bright pink tablecloth with her finger. ‘Eddie McQueen. How long have you got, Ruby?’
Ruby pulled a face. ‘Not long enough at my age.’ She poured herself more tea and broke off a bit of teacake. ‘I do love these things, but the raisins get stuck in my teeth something rotten. Has he high-tailed it back to the States?’
‘Something like that.’ Ashley left a silence, aware that Biddy was watching her keenly. Changing the subject, Ashley asked, ‘So Ruby, how did Biddy and Arthur spring you? I thought your daughter had you locked up like Rapunzel?’
Ruby giggled again. ‘Serena’s gone off on holiday. Tuscany.’ She put a dramatic hand to her forehead. ‘Said she needed a holiday. Was entitled to one.’ She tutted. ‘Folks my age got a factory fortnight at Southend, and that’s if we were lucky.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Put me in a home, she did, while she skedaddled off to Italy!’
‘It wasn’t quite a home,’ Biddy said with a snort. ‘It was an extremely well-appointed nursing home. Specialising in respite care.’
Ruby shuddered. ‘Still, they had us all sitting round the lounge in high-rise chairs gawping at each other to see who was going to cop it first.’
‘So how did you get out?’ Ashley asked.
A cunning expression came over Ruby’s face. She reached into her handbag and slid a mobile onto the table. ‘I got myself one of these fancy smartphones. Got the young assistant – lovely boy, he was – to order it for me and set it up, then I rang Biddy. “Get me out,” I says. “I can’t stand no more cabbage and slop!”’
‘Which is very unfair,’ Biddy said. ‘I saw the menu the day we collected you. You were due salmon and new potatoes for lunch, if you’d stayed.’
‘Isn’t some kind of permission needed?’ Ashley said, trying not to laugh.
‘Yes, mine!’ Ruby said indignantly.
‘Arthur rang Serena,’ Biddy explained. ‘He must have caught her at a good time.’
‘Or after too many barrels of Chianti,’ Ruby muttered as she slurped tea.
‘And,’ Biddy continued smoothly, ‘when he explained he was a town councillor of the highest possible moral rectitude and would accept full responsibility, she agreed. He also stressed my past life was, well, in the past. He managed to gloss over the erotic novel writing.’
