Free Poppyland by Raffaella Barker Page B

age.’
    â€˜I’m wearing too many clothes, that’s how.’ I am over my suffocation now and am gulping water from the bottle on the table.
    â€˜I wish I was hot here,’ says Lucy, ‘Mac is away and I’ve got three hot-water bottles to replace him, and they don’t do the job when the draught is wafting the curtains. But anyway, we want to have a party and I really want you to come.’
    â€˜Yeah? I will, of course – if I can. When is it? What’s it for?’ My heart bumps at the thought of going backto England, and I know it’s something I have been avoiding thinking about. But I should go. ‘Sorry, Luce, it doesn’t need to be for anything. When is it?’
    â€˜Oh, not for ages. I want to have it when the bluebells are out.’
    This is a long-term thing, the panic recedes a little. I don’t have to go just yet. ‘Wow. That’s months away. You are amazing, Lucy, I haven’t even planned next week. Or tomorrow.’
    â€˜Oh, I know, but you’ve got a career. How did it go in Denmark this time, by the way? Aunt Sophie sent me a cutting from the local paper in Norfolk. You were a headline on the front page, you know. Local girl makes good. She said the staff in her home had kept it for her so that she had two copies, one for her and one for me.’
    I have a lovely cosy feeling thinking of Aunt Sophie. She is the only person I know who ever reads about me on the occasions where my work is mentioned in a newspaper, and she always keep the articles. It’s a truly motherly act from my father’s sister.
    â€˜That’s nice. God, I must write to her, it’s been weeks, I think. She’s learned how to email, though, which makes things much more immediate. But yes! Denmark was good. I loved being back there. I can’t believe it was five years ago that I had that show. What have I done with my life? But seriously, it was great to get away from here in the winter. Over there, they didn’t even have a Valentine’s Day theme, it was such a relief.’
    I’ve got one leg over the sofa arm and I sit there astride for a moment then tip myself over into thecushions just for something to do. Then I slide down to the floor, flexing each foot, leaning forward over my outstretched leg, giving myself the illusion that I am doing some exercise while talking on the phone. Forward bends are beatifying, according to my yoga teacher.
    â€˜You know what, Luce, I’m really proud I’m in their National Gallery, but it’s also a bit embarrassing, I feel a fraud. This visit was very different from last time. It was all so grand. I had to sit next to the Mayor. His name was Ginseng Jensen.’
    She giggles. ‘It wasn’t! I can’t imagine being so grand as to sit next to the Mayor, I have enough trouble getting books back to the library.’
    I close my eyes, trying to feel Lucy’s calm energy in the room with me. Her acceptance of life is one of her most restful qualities. I realise I haven’t talked to anyone properly for ages. Jerome and I seem to pass one another on the stairs at the moment. Actually. I’m not sure that that’s true; he’s away and I’ve been away, so we haven’t set eyes on one another for over a week.
    â€˜How’s your love life, Sis?’ she asks suddenly, and I know I can’t get out of it with a flip remark. But it doesn’t stop me trying. ‘On holiday.’
    â€˜Is that good or bad?’ Lucy is genuinely caring. She is so different from my mother; I can never understand where she got it from. Now she has children, she’s even more loving. She also has a good memory. ‘Does that mean you had a holiday romance? Wasn’t that what happened in Copenhagen last time? Do youremember? It was when Mum died, and you were in a real mess. You hardly showed up to the opening of your own exhibition. Some man waylaid you. What