THE FRANCES SEYMOUR FOUNDATION

A CHARITY FOUNDED IN MEMORY OF FRANCES SEYMOUR

TO SUPPORT YOUNG ARTISTS

THURSDAY 9TH APRIL

2.30PM CHAMPAGNE RECEPTION & BUFFET LUNCH

3.30PM SPEECH BY MIRANDA KAPOOR, FRANCES’S

DAUGHTER

3.45PM PRIVATE VIEW OF EXHIBITION OPENS

At Summercove,

Near Treen,

Cornwal

RSVP

rsvp@seymourfoundation.org

Overleaf: ‘Summercove at Sunset, 1963’

On the back is a painting, one I have never seen before. ‘Summercove at Sunset, 1963’ must have been painted from behind the white house, which is nestling against the black trees in the lane behind, the lawn and the terrace sloping gently towards the cliffs, the countryside lush and green, the grey terrace echoed by the grey-green of the lavender against it. There is a lone figure on the lawn, a tal man with a towel around his neck, walking towards the sea. It is very stil , almost dreamlike; no feeling of movement in the branches or the lavender or the grass. The light is pale gold, casting long shadows. The man is striding but you feel he’s been frozen mid-step by the artist, that they wanted to capture this moment in time.

I stare at it, in the fading afternoon light; I’ve seen Granny’s paintings at Summercove, in gal eries, in catalogues and books, but I’ve never seen anything like this before. It feels like a new approach, only it was one of the last things she ever painted. I turn the invitation over in my hand, letting the corners of the hard cardboard press into my palms. Who sent this out? Louisa, of course. It wasn’t Mum, that’s for sure.

It’s been over a week now since Mum and I had our showdown, and I stil haven’t heard back from her. I don’t know what comes next. This gives me another reason to be in touch, I suppose. Tapping the invitation thoughtful y against my hand, I walk towards the studio.

The sun is – sort of – out, a silvery sheen of cloud covering the sky but there are shadows on the ground and it’s kind of warm, for the first time this year, over halfway through March. I am lost in thought as I walk round to Fournier Street and out at the back of the Hawksmoor Christ Church, its looming, sinister bulk casting the streets into shade. I need more time to think.

Cathy often says in her wise way that your life is made up of three sides of a triangle: home (where you live and how settled it is), relationships (friends, family and of course romantic), and work (having a job, having a fulfil ing job, one that doesn’t make you cry every night or mean you’re a sex worker). Cathy’s triangle dictates that you don’t have to have al three sides working to be happy, but you need two sides to be able to function properly. We used to discuss this in the long evenings around the time of Horrific Ex Boyfriend Martin, three years ago – a psycho doctor who kicked her out of her flat and changed the locks, the week after she lost her job in her previous company. No home, no boyfriend, no job. No sides of triangle: bad. But strangely, it was OK, because it was relatively easy to get two sides of the triangle up and running again. She got a job quite quickly, bucking the trend of my other friends at publishing houses or law firms or smal start-ups who suddenly lost their jobs: it was obviously some kind of slow period in the actuary recruiting world. She stayed with Jay, who has a spare room in his flat, and whom she has known almost as long as me, and the weird thing is that we remember that period with a lot of happiness. We were out a lot, loads of us, drinking in Spitalfields and Shoreditch, there were great new bars opening up each week and it wasn’t a stop on a tourist trail the way it is now. Oli and I were getting ready for our wedding, and finding the whole thing surreal and weird: Cathy and Oli and I al went to a wedding fair at ExCel, and had to leave after five minutes when the first stand we came across was a production company that wil make a DVD of your wedding day set to a song that is special y composed for and about you; it was next to a stand that sold you fluffy toys with the pet names you and your partner cal each other embroidered on for you to give away to guests as wedding favours . . . We went to Summercove for a fortnight, the four of us, and I remember we ate fresh crab nearly every day, with pools of garlic butter and fresh bread. We helped Granny clear out Arvind’s study while he was away giving a lecture at Bologna, one of his last trips abroad, and threw out a huge amount of papers. I have since wondered what we threw out . . . probably the secret to happiness in the Western Hemisphere, or a cure for cancer, but it’s hard to tel when you’re confronted with a box containing a copy of Woman’s Own from 1979, two packets of crisps that went out of date in 1992, and assorted scraps of torn-up paper, which is what it mostly seemed to be. I remember Granny so wel that summer, laughing over boxes, a scarf tied over her hair like Grace Kel y. She would have been in her mid-eighties then and she stil looked like a star.

* * *

It seems a long time ago, that period in our lives. Rose-tinted spectacles, perhaps, but I look back on it now and smile. I clutch the invitation in my hand, bending the hard card over into the shape of a tear.

At the studio, I put it on the little shelf by the safe. I stare at the painting on the back, thinking. It is very stil ; starting to get dark outside and the traffic seems distant. I shake my head. Where is the damn diary? Where is it? I feel as if I’m no nearer to finding out. I should have gone back to look for it and now I’ve made things worse, not better. I feel like a failure. I’ve let Cecily down.

There’s a knock on the door and a deep voice says, ‘Nat, hi.’

‘Ben! Hey,’ I say, and though it’s hardly a shock to see him, I’m particularly grateful for the diversion this morning. ‘I was just coming to ask you

—’ I turn round and stop, open-mouthed. ‘Wow. Your hair! What happened to you?’

‘I had it al cut off.’

‘When?’

‘Last Thursday. You just haven’t been in since then.’

‘I was out visiting shops and stuff. My goodness. Why?’ He rubs the top of his head rueful y. ‘Um – I decided it was time for a change.’

‘Al your lovely curls!’ I say. ‘And the stubble! Al gone!’ He looks sad. ‘I know. My head feels cold.’ He is running his fingertips lightly over his scalp. I watch, transfixed, as his long fingers push through the thick short stubble of his hair and move down towards his smooth chin.

‘You look completely different,’ I say. ‘Strange.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ he says. ‘No, I don’t mean you look strange.’ I rush to correct myself. ‘It’s strange, I mean. You look – it’s like Samson.’

‘He lost al his strength and got murdered,’ Ben says. ‘You’re making me think I should put a bag on my head. Is it that bad?’

‘It’s real y not. In fact it’s the opposite.’ I hear Cathy’s voice, it seems ages ago, that lunch – If he had his hair cut . . . Wow, he’d be absolutely gorgeous – and I can feel myself starting to blush. ‘You look great. Real y – it real y suits you. You look much better – not that you looked bad before.

You always look good . . .’ I trail off. This is just pathetic.

His eyebrows pucker together and he frowns. ‘I don’t know if you’re trying to get yourself out of a hole or dig yourself into one,’ he says. ‘But I’l console myself with the thought that it’l grow out and I’l have my shaggy-dog hair again soon.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but give this a chance. Honestly, it suits you.’ He nods and smiles.

‘OK. I wil .’

‘What happened to the jumpers?’ I say. ‘It’s official y the first day of spring tomorrow,’ he replies. ‘Back of the wardrobe with the jumpers.’

‘Wel , the new you is so handsome I daren’t be seen out in public with you. You’l have young girls throwing themselves at you. You’re like Jake Gyl -what’s-his-name.’

‘Who?’ He scratches his head again. ‘Oh . . . no one.’

There’s an awkward pause, as silence fal s over the bantering conversation.

‘I was going to come and see you,’ I say eventual y. We’d normal y pop in and see each other mid-morning, for a coffee or a chat. We are easily distracted, it’s terrible. ‘What are you up to?’

‘I’m doing paperwork.’ He sounds tired. ‘It’s real y boring.’ He advances into the room and then he stops, looks down. ‘Nat, this is beautiful.’

He holds up a piece of paper. It’s the design I was sketching last week before Mum arrived, the daisy-chain necklace. I’ve left it there, not quite sure what it needs, because I can’t think about it without thinking about Mum afterwards. ‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, blushing. ‘It’s nothing, it’s just a rough idea for something.’

‘I think it’s real y lovely.’ He smiles, and I watch him, his bones under his skin. He has a vein curling into the side of his temple, it throbs as he speaks. ‘Real y simple, beautiful, complex at the same time.’

‘Oh, no, it’s not.’ It’s been so long since anyone’s praised my work that I don’t know what to say. I sound like a pantomime vil ain. ‘But – that’s real y kind of you.’ I’m flustered, and look around the studio. ‘Right. Best get on.’ I run a hand over my forehead. ‘Sorry. I’m operating real y slowly today.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Just – stuff.’

‘Oli?’

‘Wel , yeah. Everything real y.’

Ben puts the sketch down and leans on the workbench. ‘It must be real y hard.’

‘I know. It’s just I don’t know what comes next. You know – when do they ring the bel , say it’s official y over?’

‘I guess when you sign the final divorce papers,’ he says, and then holds up a hand. ‘I mean, if that’s what you want to do.’

‘Yes—’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. Probably. It’s so – freaky though.’ I pause. ‘There’s a lot going on at the moment. Other stuff.’

‘Like what?’ Ben says. ‘Are you – OK?’

‘I’m fine. It’s family stuff.’

‘Heavy?’

‘Pretty heavy. I found a – I found a diary,’ I say irrelevantly.

‘Aha.’ Ben rubs his hands over his hair again. ‘Some childhood diary you don’t want anyone to see? Or your diary of the studio and how you’ve got a crush on Les?’

Les is the leader of the writers’ col ective downstairs. He is a large, fleshy man who loves talking about his days in the Socialist Workers’ Party and using words without pronouns, as in ‘Government needs to do this’ and ‘Council aren’t pul ing their weight,’ just as wannabe trendy people say of the Notting Hil Carnival, ‘I’m going to Carnival this weekend.’ I know for a fact that he is from Lytham St Annes.

I nod at Ben. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ I say. ‘I am in love with Les and this is my journal of that love.’

‘Les is definitely More,’ Ben says, and we laugh, slightly too hilariously, as if to break up the atmosphere.

‘No,’ I say, looking round again. I don’t know why I feel as if someone might be watching us. ‘It’s weirder than that. It’s the diary my mother’s sister was writing the summer she died. In 1963. She was only fifteen.’

‘Wow,’ says Ben. ‘That is heavy.’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘My grandfather gave the first part to me at the funeral. It’s just pages stapled together. But there’s more, I just don’t know where. I think my mum knows something, but when I asked her –’ I trail off.

‘I heard you guys shouting last week,’ Ben says simply. He pushes himself off the table and stands up. ‘Didn’t Sherlock Holmes say when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?’

I smile at him. ‘That is correct. I just don’t know what the truth is . . . I feel like if I can only read the rest of it I’l know. It’s like I’ve hit a brick wal .’

‘Sherlock Holmes is usual y right,’ Ben says, brushing his hands together. ‘So what remains is, someone’s got the rest of it, and they don’t want anyone to see it, for whatever reason.’

It’s true, but strange to hear it out loud. ‘That’s probably right.’

‘It’s a mystery. It needs solving, and you shouldn’t be sitting here stewing about it.’ Ben sticks his hands in his pockets and pul s out a tenner. I watch him, smiling. ‘Let me take you for a drink,’ he says. ‘A nice lime cordial.’

I look at my watch. ‘But Ben, it’s not even five yet.’

‘Exactly,’ he says cheerily. ‘We’l get a table at the pub.’ He sees my face. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Give yourself a break for once and stop worrying about everything. Let’s get a drink.’

Chapter Thirty-Two

We go to the Ten Bel s, which is one of my favourite pubs. It’s on Commercial Street, in the shadow of Hawksmoor’s magnificent Christ Church, and features on the Jack the Ripper trail, tediously, because two of his victims are known to have drunk there. It’s been around since the 1700s and it’s always real y busy, but unlike other pubs round here it’s not too touristy or ful of City types, and there’s a good laid-back vibe. Perhaps it’s because the loos are absolutely disgusting. I think they do it deliberately. There is no way Fodors or Dorling Kindersley could recommend a pub with bathroom facilities like that. We manage to squeeze onto a sofa squashed in by the bar and I check my phone while Ben gets the drinks.