you’ll be working as a waitress when you’re ninety-three.’
Lily turned each painting back to face the wall. She didn’t want anyone to see them. Dreaded the thought they might be spirited away. Once, her landlord, who lived downstairs, had arranged an exhibition. He’d knocked on her door, beaming, to tell her a friend of his who had a café in Highbury would be happy to let her hang them on his walls. ‘You might even sell some, you never know.’
Lily had stared at him. Shocked to hear herself shout, ‘No, I don’t want that!’ People flicking spaghetti, discussing their love lives. Her face, she was sure of it, must be bright red. ‘Tell him he can’t.’
Her landlord had backed away. ‘I just thought you’d be glad of the exposure, not to mention the extra cash.’ He looked rueful. ‘If they sold.’ She guessed he’d been thinking how much he’d like to raise the rent.
‘Come with me.’ Nick had seized his car keys. ‘Come on, let’s go for a drive.’
It was late, and London was slick and black and empty. They drove towards Victoria, lit up by the lights along the palace garden wall, over the bridge at Vauxhall, and along beside the river. ‘My favourite view of London,’ Nick told her as they crossed the river again, at Waterloo, and hungrily they twisted their heads from side to side to try and take it in. The strings of lights across the water, the arches and tunnels of the bridges, the boats, the buildings, their every shape of window, the green and gold of their roofs. ‘Drive more slowly,’ she begged, but there was a car behind them, and they were forced into the tunnel of the Holborn Viaduct and up towards Bloomsbury. Nick parked outside the British Museum and they got out and clung to its railings. It was lit up to glow like Egypt, the orange light trickling warm over its steps. ‘How would you feel?’ he asked her, ‘if you had any part in something as beautiful as that?’ They gazed at the great heads of the lions, the beauty of the pillars and the new glazed dome. ‘You’re mad,’ she told him, and he said that it helped when submitting plans for someone’s toilet if you were thinking on the most dazzling scale. He picked her up and spun her round and they fell against each other, laughing, staggering as if they were drunk.
More slowly, they drove into the City, along the narrow gorges that ran between old buildings and new. ‘When,’ he asked her as they came out into the clearing of St Paul’s Cathedral, ‘did you last climb up?’
‘With school?’ She could only dimly remember the flurry of bodies, the coats and bags as her whole class wheeled to the top. ‘And, anyway, I didn’t think you were allowed to admire St Paul’s. I read somewhere that Wren wasn’t a true architect, although I can’t see how…’
‘You’re right.’ Nick leant across and kissed her ear. ‘But it’s the buildings you can see from there that should force you up. And, anyway,’ he grinned at her, ‘if we want to admire St Paul’s Cathedral at two in the morning, then who’s to know?’
‘I’ll go up tomorrow.’ She kissed him back. ‘Or today.’ And inspired by his passion, and his faith in her, she applied to his old college to study architecture on a three-year course.
There was a cupboard at Fern Cottage filled with maps. Maps , it said helpfully on a sticker pasted indelibly to the outside. There were maps of East Anglia, local footpath maps, Ordnance Survey maps dating back over seventy years. With all this information it seemed ridiculous that she still hadn’t found the Lehmanns’ house. Each day she imagined she would come across it, see it somewhere on the corner of a lane, but there was nothing in the village that wasn’t thatched or gabled, pebbled, terraced, beamed. Lily pulled out a map of Steerborough and spread it over the floor. The houses were drawn in little blocks, sitting for the most part along the village’s main street. There were some she
Lily turned each painting back to face the wall. She didn’t want anyone to see them. Dreaded the thought they might be spirited away. Once, her landlord, who lived downstairs, had arranged an exhibition. He’d knocked on her door, beaming, to tell her a friend of his who had a café in Highbury would be happy to let her hang them on his walls. ‘You might even sell some, you never know.’
Lily had stared at him. Shocked to hear herself shout, ‘No, I don’t want that!’ People flicking spaghetti, discussing their love lives. Her face, she was sure of it, must be bright red. ‘Tell him he can’t.’
Her landlord had backed away. ‘I just thought you’d be glad of the exposure, not to mention the extra cash.’ He looked rueful. ‘If they sold.’ She guessed he’d been thinking how much he’d like to raise the rent.
‘Come with me.’ Nick had seized his car keys. ‘Come on, let’s go for a drive.’
It was late, and London was slick and black and empty. They drove towards Victoria, lit up by the lights along the palace garden wall, over the bridge at Vauxhall, and along beside the river. ‘My favourite view of London,’ Nick told her as they crossed the river again, at Waterloo, and hungrily they twisted their heads from side to side to try and take it in. The strings of lights across the water, the arches and tunnels of the bridges, the boats, the buildings, their every shape of window, the green and gold of their roofs. ‘Drive more slowly,’ she begged, but there was a car behind them, and they were forced into the tunnel of the Holborn Viaduct and up towards Bloomsbury. Nick parked outside the British Museum and they got out and clung to its railings. It was lit up to glow like Egypt, the orange light trickling warm over its steps. ‘How would you feel?’ he asked her, ‘if you had any part in something as beautiful as that?’ They gazed at the great heads of the lions, the beauty of the pillars and the new glazed dome. ‘You’re mad,’ she told him, and he said that it helped when submitting plans for someone’s toilet if you were thinking on the most dazzling scale. He picked her up and spun her round and they fell against each other, laughing, staggering as if they were drunk.
More slowly, they drove into the City, along the narrow gorges that ran between old buildings and new. ‘When,’ he asked her as they came out into the clearing of St Paul’s Cathedral, ‘did you last climb up?’
‘With school?’ She could only dimly remember the flurry of bodies, the coats and bags as her whole class wheeled to the top. ‘And, anyway, I didn’t think you were allowed to admire St Paul’s. I read somewhere that Wren wasn’t a true architect, although I can’t see how…’
‘You’re right.’ Nick leant across and kissed her ear. ‘But it’s the buildings you can see from there that should force you up. And, anyway,’ he grinned at her, ‘if we want to admire St Paul’s Cathedral at two in the morning, then who’s to know?’
‘I’ll go up tomorrow.’ She kissed him back. ‘Or today.’ And inspired by his passion, and his faith in her, she applied to his old college to study architecture on a three-year course.
There was a cupboard at Fern Cottage filled with maps. Maps , it said helpfully on a sticker pasted indelibly to the outside. There were maps of East Anglia, local footpath maps, Ordnance Survey maps dating back over seventy years. With all this information it seemed ridiculous that she still hadn’t found the Lehmanns’ house. Each day she imagined she would come across it, see it somewhere on the corner of a lane, but there was nothing in the village that wasn’t thatched or gabled, pebbled, terraced, beamed. Lily pulled out a map of Steerborough and spread it over the floor. The houses were drawn in little blocks, sitting for the most part along the village’s main street. There were some she
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