Chapter 26

26

When Grace opens her eyes, she sees the chair at her bedside, its upholstery a dull, faded orange, and behind it a bare wall. She feels disoriented for a moment, and then she remembers that she is in Vanessa's bed. She stares at the wall, trying to remember what used to hang there, which of the paintings it was that Vanessa would look at over her head when Grace sat at her side.

What was it? Dawn in Winter . A painting of the channel, an ice-green sea drawing away from the land, the causeway leading the eye to the mainland, to the snow on the hills. One of Vanessa's earliest Eris landscapes, one of her enduring favourites. So many of those early ones were morning pictures; she loved to be out on the sands or on the hill with the day dawning, hope springing, revelling in her freedom. Fairburn has Dawn in Winter now. Grace wonders where it hangs; she can't quite picture it under spotlights in some grand, vaulted gallery. It was a humble, everyday sort of picture.

She can ask Becker! It occurs to her then that she is not alone, that she has someone to talk to.

Glancing at the clock next to the bed, she realizes that she has slept through low tide. She rolls over; through the gap between the curtains, she spies a blue sky. She feels a little surge of joy: she's heady from last night's wine, though Becker drank quite a bit more of it than she did. And she is rested, she has slept long and soundly, and it's thanks to him. Thanks to the comfort of having him here with her.

It was wonderful , last night. Cooking for someone again, breaking bread, drinking wine, talking into the small hours. She wonders whether she might be able to persuade him to stay another night? There is pasta, and sausages from the butcher, and—

She feels a pang, a sharp jab to the stomach. She told him about the morphine. That was reckless. But he confided in her, too, didn't he? He told her about his marriage, about the trouble he was having at Fairburn. They've bonded, they are friends now. She can trust him. They can trust each other.

She checks the time – it is almost nine. She should wake him. In the shower, she plans their day: coffee, a quick breakfast, a walk through the wood, up to the rock. They can visit some of Vanessa's other favourite painting spots along the southern side of the island on the way back. Then perhaps more time in the studio? A walk on the beach? And an invitation to stay a bit longer. Like someone who doesn't realize how hungry they are until they have the first bite of food, Grace has not acknowledged how lonely she's been feeling, not until Becker turned up.

She allows herself to drift into reverie, to a time in the future where Becker comes to stay at the island for days, weeks even, sometimes bringing his wife and the baby, sometimes coming alone. They go for walks on the beach and Grace cooks and they sit up late, drinking wine, talking about Vanessa. She is invited back to Fairburn, Sebastian Lennox sees her differently now, as a person of value, an asset, someone with a contribution to make. She helps with the archiving of Vanessa's notes and correspondence, she has a role, a new purpose.

It's a daydream. She's not a fool. And yet there's no denying the bond between her and Becker. They are linked by Vanessa, and now by Eris Island, but their connection goes deeper than that. She's looked him up, she's read about him: he's not like the Fairburn people, he doesn't come from money. He's like her, he's a striver, he's had nothing handed to him. She suspects that she understands some things about James Becker in a way neither his moneyed wife nor his boss can.

Back in the bedroom, she pulls the curtains open. Glorious. A lively sea, tropical aquamarine in the sunshine and deep Atlantic blue where clouds throw shadows. The air is clear, the view so crisp Grace can make out the gannets roosting on the cliffs of Sheepshead. From the top of the rock, they'll be able to see forever.

She dresses in walking trousers and warm clothes – sunshine or no, it'll be chilly – and slips quietly out into the hall. As she walks through the living room she notices that her bedroom door – the spare-room door – is already open. He's up! He's not in the kitchen, though; he must have gone for a walk. She is making coffee when she notices the scrap of paper weighted to the table by the pepper mill.

So sorry – had to go – emergency. Will email later to explain. Tks for everything. B

Her heart is gripped by a fist and it is squeezing, squeezing until there is no blood left in it at all. She starts to cry, like a disappointed child, and then anger strikes, vicious and backhanded, a slap to the face. She hates him. The coffee pot hits the wall with a crack like a gunshot.