A/N Sorry, sorry for the delay in posting. As ever, bowled over by the reviews.
Edith looked at the pile of envelopes with unvarnished disgust. A younger incarnation would've been delighted to be so popular, delighted, in fact, at the very idea of post arriving in her name. She remembered the childish glee fostered by the sensation that one was wanted enough to receive a stamp addressed letter and the near daily disappointment of rifling through the post in her father's study and finding that there was nothing for her. But she was no longer a child. She'd become the kind of woman who valued privacy, one who would chose the quiet of solitude over the trauma of the crowd. She did not want letters. If there was good news to impart it came by text, or email, or Thomas just walked down the hall and told her.
There could be no good reason for the – she picked them up and counted – twenty-three missives addressed directly to her on the front mat of the gallery. Nearly all were stamped with a return address, each seemingly grander and more peculiar than the last – King's College London, The Royal Society of Ophthalmologists, the Chatsworth Estate. She added them to the wedge from yesterday, tucked under the counter of the café besides invoices and bills and a shopping list of cleaning products. A hiding place for the unwanted.
She'd hoped she could pack Anthony's portrait off to St John's and never think of it again. It hadn't even crossed her mind that the press might take an interest, that her work might be received with something approaching acclaim. Even when she read the articles in the Sunday papers she didn't suspect it might lead to event invitations and commission requests. Quite suddenly Edith achieved a status she'd never craved, least of all now: she was famous. To make it all a thousand times worse every time her name was mentioned Anthony's followed in short order. She was famous because of him. He was E=mc2 to her Einstein. Madame X to Singer Sargent. Darcy to Austen. Associated for all time.
As had become her habit, she ignored the issue. Burrowed her way into a mountain of work, ran the café, negotiated with gallery customers, shooed Thomas and Jimmy this way, and that. Jimmy took it with charm and grace, Thomas grumbled. She even started sketching, the outline of one of the flowers on the tables, a newborn's pudgy face, the excited ears and playful eyes of a guide dog.
More letters arrived, and were added to the pile. A daily reminder of the past she was trying to ignore.
"I'm done Edith, I've swept the factory, hung those photos in the gallery and fixed the bins. You need anything else?" Jimmy appeared ready to work another eight hours if she'd let him.
"No, take yourself home. Enjoy the weekend, We'll see you on Monday."
He flashed a brilliant smile in her direction, intended, she was sure for Thomas sitting in sullen faux-contemplation across the other side of the room, "You too. Night Tommy!"
Thomas grunted and waited until the café had been entirely vacated before slinking over to the bar, "I don't like that kid."
"Yes you do. You've treated him with nothing but contempt. You only do that when you really like someone."
"I often do it when I don't like someone."
"There have been other indications."
Thomas arched an eyebrow and leaned forward on the bar, "like what?"
"Like the fact that you were kissing him in the studio three days ago. Passionately kissing, I might add." Thomas flushed. Presumably pigs had taken flight outside and Hell was open for ski season.
"That's not what it looked like."
The oven chimed and Edith donned a pair of gloves to retrieve her carrot cake, "oh, really?"
"It was an accident."
"I see, an accident." Tipping the cake onto the cooling rack she shook her head, "You tripped and landed on his lips?"
"He's not gay."
"Well, it certainly looked like it. If I remember rightly he had you pushed up against the wall. Not the actions of an unenthusiastic participant."
"There's a word for people who watch you know."
"Voyeurs."
"Pervs." Forlornly, Thomas stirred her cream cheese icing, "he only dated girls before."
"Lots of gay guys dated girls before they realised they were gay." She smacked the spoon away from his mouth, "this is for customers! You'll have environmental health down here. Just stir would you?"
He did, but with little enthusiasm for the task, "I don't want to be some straight guy's gay experiment. It never ends well. He'll go back to girls, curiosity sated and I'll be left here, broken hearted, with you." He pushed the bowl of icing back across the counter.
"Surely a fate worse than death." She bought the back of her hand to her forehead and faux swooned.
He pulled the metal cooling rack towards where he sat, "that is one pathetic looking cake Ede." He measured the side with his fingers and held up the invisible measurement with a salacious chuckle, "micro."
She whacked him on the shoulder, "shut up! I'm still learning."
"You're supposed to use self-raising flour. Raising."
"I did." She slathered on some icing, which immediately slid down the pathetic sides of the still-warm cake. She tossed the spoon back into the bowl and shoved the whole lot to the furthest end of the counter, "Why assume he'll go back to girls?"
"He won't stay with me, no one ever does."
"You know that's a terrible colour on you?"
He looked aghast and a little perplexed, "I always wear black!"
"No, I mean self-pity."
"You doing tough love with me, Crawley?"
"Yes." She tore open a packet of biscuits, "tempered by chocolate digestives." She dipped one in her tea, caught the falling crumb in her mouth before its structure gave way into her cup, "do you like Jimmy?"
"No. He's an annoying kid."
"Thomas." Her tone brooked no evasion.
"A handsome, annoying kid." He chewed a biscuit thoughtfully, "A handsome, funny, annoying kid. A handsome, funny, clever, annoying kid." He swallowed heavily, "fuck."
"You told me once that you don't get anything worth having in life without a little risk."
"Yes, and that worked out so well for you."
She shrugged, "Sybil always said the measure of an experience wasn't in the way it ended."
Thomas put a hand on her shoulder, "You do know that Sybil was a massive hippie."
She barked a laugh, "I do know that."
"And so there's a good chance she was spouting useless crap?"
"Yes. I am stronger for it though. I was tested, yes. But I am stronger."
They both jumped at the sound of the gallery door. Thomas spun on his stool as a figure entered the café.
The shock of finding someone so completely unexpected stunned her into silence. She gawped stupidly.
Thomas, of course, didn't know any better, "sorry, we've closed for the night."
Finally Edith arranged the words, "Mrs Hughes, how nice to see you."
Mrs Hughes bobbed her head in greeting. She looked a little embarrassed, perhaps that was just Edith's impression due to seeing her so completely out of context. Clashing worlds.
"Ms Crawley, I am sorry to bother you out of the blue like this."
"Not at all, please, do come in." She waved her into the room.
Thomas's eyes crept from Mrs Hughes to her and with characteristic bluntness he framed a question, spoken in a half-whisper, "who the hell is that?"
"Oh, sorry, right, yes. Er, Thomas, this is Elsie Hughes, she –" Edith wiggled her head around trying to find the right moniker, "she worked at Snaresbrook. Mrs Hughes, this is Thomas Barrow, my partner." She scrambled as she heard the words, "in the business. My partner in the business." Then she wondered at her need to clarify, as if it mattered that Mrs Hughes might think she had a boyfriend.
Thomas jumped off the stool and took her hand, "I'm her partner in life too. Her gay life partner. All the convenience of a relationship without any of the messy straight person sex."
"Thomas!" She hissed at him, mortified, blushing a bright red. There was an oven perhaps she could shut her head in it, "thank you. Thank you so much for that helpful contribution. Now if you wouldn't mind?" She pointed in the direction of the door.
"I should piss off?"
"Yes. Quickly, thank you."
He slinked out, throwing one last puzzled look over his shoulder.
Mrs Hughes took the stool he'd vacated, putting her handbag onto the counter with a warm smile, "he seems like an interesting young gentleman."
"That's a diplomatic way of characterizing Thomas."
Mrs Hughes's eyes scanned the café, brows furrowed as she examined the pathetic cake and relaxing when they spied the kettle.
"Tea?"
"Yes, thank you."
Preparing the perfect pot of tea took up all of six minutes. Mrs Hughes asked her questions about the business and chatted about the improvements made to Liverpool. The very definition of small talk. As she was always wont to do, she encouraged good tea making with the odd smile, apparently particularly pleased the use of fresh leaves and the ratio of hot water to tea in the pot. Edith could no more have dunked two bags of Tetley into mismatched mugs and served them to Mrs Hughes than fly in the sky.
The effort proved worth it, she sipped her tea with a gratifying smile, "I am sorry to drop in on you unannounced."
"Not at all, it's nice to see you." She bit her tongue to stop a series of questions tumbling out, all about Anthony.
"You're probably wondering why I'm here –" Edith wiggled her head, framing a polite answer. Mrs Hughes patted the back of her hand, "it's alright dear, I came to deliver this –" She held out a blue piece of card, "in person, a wedding invitation."
The card was heavy in her hand, her heart too, "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything at the moment. Mr Carson and I would like you to come. We're fond of you and you were there for our courtship."
Edith laughed, "I had a front row seat."
"You did. There are selfish reasons too. I hoped you'd do a sketch or two." Edith flushed. "And dear Mr Carson needs to bulk out his side of the church. The man has been so focused on his career for forty years that he forgot about the necessity to make friends!" She finished the remnants of her tea, "honestly, judges!"
"Mrs Hughes, I'm flattered but –" She was breathless, her hand shook around the invitation.
"Don't answer now. You're a busy young woman, you might be busy six weeks from Saturday." Stepping down from the stool she hoisted her handbag onto her shoulder, "I hope you'll think about it. There are few things nicer than a later summer wedding. Mr Carson tells me it'll be magical for everyone involved. Secretly, he's terribly romantic."
She gave another reassuring pat to the hand, "Take care dear." Then she was gone, like some sort of fairy Godmother, or wicked witch, leaving Edith with yet another piece of paper determined to bring her and Anthony together.
"You're not going to go?!" Thomas emerged from the kitchen behind her.
"You know what they call people who listen?"
"Eavesdroppers?"
"Rude."
"You're going to go, aren't you?"
The invitation pulsed in her hand. She was stronger. She could do this.
"Yes."
"Why? I mean, Ede, seriously, why?"
"Why? Why?! This is why." She fished under the counter and held up the pile of envelopes. "By painting that picture I've linked myself to him for all eternity." She threw up her arms in exasperation, "Where his name appears, mine does too! All of those wretched newspaper articles, full of praise for my painting, or so you tell me. I wouldn't know, Thomas, because I can't read them, I don't want to see his name or his face. Then there's the letters – the job offers."
She grabbed the pile of torn envelopes from underneath the counter, their contents poking out at odd angles, she started to quote, "Dear Ms Crawley, Having had the opportunity to examine your recent portrait of HHJ Strallan QC –" She tossed the first one to the floor and looked at the second, "Dear Ms Crawley, We would like to invite you - etc etc, oh here's the bit - on reviewing your newly completed work of Mr Justice Strallan QC." She raised the third letter, "HHJ Strallan" and then the fourth, "Mr Strallan – apparently they're not very formal at –" She scanned the page for the sender's information, "the RSPCA." The fifth, "Anthony Strallan."
He shook his head, wide-eyed, "I still don't understand why this means you have to go to the wedding."
"I can't run from him forever. I thought perhaps I could, that I could lock him away in boxes and pretend he never existed and maybe all the hurt he caused me would be stored away too. But, one way or another, he is a part of my life, a part of me. If I can survive seeing him, even worse than that, seeing him and Maud. Then maybe I'll be able to read his name without it feeling like a jab in my chest. I can I talk about the portrait with journalists and artists and I can take up some of these offers. Something really good can come out of it."
"I don't want you to be unhappy."
She scuffed his cheek, "Oh Thomas, I am unhappy. But I believe I will be happy again and I think this might help. Closure or something."
He arched an eyebrow and parroted a sarcastic response, "Closure?"
"Sybil."
"Hippie."
They laughed and shared the meagre carrot cake.