most miraculous thing that’s happened to me in years.’
Martha nodded, her eyes filling up. She whispered, ‘Me too. When do you go back to the States?’
‘The day after tomorrow. You could come with me.’ But she was already shaking her head.
‘I can’t. But thank you. Oh my word, is that the time? I didn’t realize it was so late.’ Pulling on a white cotton robe, she said, ‘I have to be somewhere by six. And you haven’t had a proper look yet at the other paintings…’
***
‘Oh, wow, look at those. They’re so… happy!’ Home from work, Ellie encountered the four paintings lined up on the sofa. She pointed to the Primrose Hill picture. ‘That’s the one you told me about last night. Did she give you all of these?’
Tony shook his head. ‘I paid for them. We went back to her house and she showed me her work. I bought the other three.’ He kept the rest to himself. Much as he longed to talk about Martha, he was Ellie’s father-in-law; there was no way he could tell her what else he’d done this afternoon.
‘You should buy paintings more often.’ Ellie was smiling at him. ‘It suits you.’
His soul was singing. If only she knew. ‘I might do that.’
***
The next morning was taken up with meetings, followed by lunch in Soho with an old actor friend he couldn’t let down. By two thirty, as the taxi took him to Tufnell Park, Tony’s heart was flick-flacking away in his chest. Fifty-five years old, and he felt like a teenager on a first date.
This was unbelievable. It had never occurred to him that something like this could happen. At his age too. Love—or something perilously close to it—at first sight. Martha, Martha, just saying her name in his head gave him a thrill.
They reached Lanacre Road and he paid off the cab. Turned to look at the topaz-yellow front door. Martha. He’d barely been able to sleep last night for thinking about her and reliving every second of yesterday. He raised his hand and rang the bell. What would she be wearing today? It would be their last time together for weeks; would she let him spend the night here? If she did, he’d have to phone Ellie and come up with some plausible fib as to why he wasn’t coming home.
The door opened and there was Martha, wearing a violet shift dress and looking… completely different. As if seeing him on her doorstep was the very last thing she wanted. Even her head was shaking fractionally from side to side as she said, ‘Oh hello, is this about the paintings? I’m afraid it’s a bit of an awkward time.’
‘Who is it, Martha?’ Behind her, another woman came into view. Older, Afro-Caribbean, taller, and thinner, with gray hair and sensible shoes. Over Martha’s shoulder she surveyed him with an unwavering, miss-nothing gaze.
‘Nobody, just someone interested in my work…’
What’s going on?
‘My name’s Tony.’ He held out his hand to Martha and shook it, then reached past her and said pleasantly, ‘Hello there. Tony Weston.’
Forced to shake his hand, the gray-haired woman nodded briefly in return. She had a tight bony grip and a habit of blinking slowly like an owl.
‘Could I come in? I’ve sent my taxi away now.’
Martha swallowed and said fearfully, ‘OK, just for five minutes.’ The prospect clearly didn’t thrill her but she stepped aside. Tony followed the older woman into the living room.
‘I’ll bring the pictures down.’ Hurrying upstairs, Martha said, ‘Eunice, why don’t you make Mr Weston a cup of tea?’
Eunice raised an eyebrow. ‘Are we a café now?’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry.’ So much for charming her into submission. Yet again Tony smiled and failed to get a response. ‘I’m a great fan of Mrs Daines’s work. Are you a friend of hers?’ Because if she was, he was going to have to reassess Martha’s taste in friends.
‘Sister-in-law.’
‘Oh.’ Did that mean Eunice was the ex-husband’s sister? Or was she married to Martha’s brother? And could he ask her that? No, of course he couldn’t.
In less than thirty seconds Martha was back with an armful of mounted prints. One thing was for sure, she was like a cat on a hotplate. Every minute he was here under this roof was a minute too long. As soon as the paintings were spread out on the table, she said, ‘There you are, that’s all of them. Which one would you like?’
The tension in the room was palpable, like an overdose of