"What if I put another ten thousand on that number?"
Edith looked at her suited patron, covering her mouth to conceal the shock that must be writ large on her face. This man wanted to pay thirty thousand pounds for the painting of her and Anthony in the Great Hall at the RCJ. She'd named it 'Dancing Strangers' in a fit of pique during their separation. It was the only one of the original pictures she hadn't sold.
The wealthy man continued, "It'll be proudly displayed in the lobby of our new Liverpool office. Thousands of influential people will see it."
"I'm flattered by your interest."
"And my thirty thousand pounds?"
"That too, but, on considering it -" She looked up at her picture. A moment of perfection, it took her right back. No one could get as much pleasure from it as she did, except Anthony and, perhaps one day, when she was old enough to understand Marigold would enjoy it too. "It's not for sale."
Thomas and Jimmy entered as her disappointed customer left. Their hands were linked, Thomas went to pull away but Jimmy grabbed him back.
"Who's the suit?"
"He wanted to buy Dancing Strangers but I've decided to keep it. Where have you lovebirds been?"
Thomas made a gagging sound, "can you not?"
Jimmy kissed him soundly on the cheek and winked at her, "The birds have been looking at prospective love nests."
"Please don't encourage her."
"Oh, I think I will." He walked to the factory doors and arched his neck to look seductively over his shoulder, "lover." Jimmy's laugh echoed long after his figure has disappeared into the bowels of the factory.
"You two are cute."
"I am not cute." He flipped up the collar of his black leather jacket and lounged against the red pillar in the middle of the gallery floor, like some member of a 1960s biker gang.
"You love him."
"I do." He whispered it, as if afraid he'd scare the feeling away if he declared it too loudly.
"I'm so happy that you're happy."
Thomas waved the sentiment away with a small smile, "Where's the geriatric straight?"
Clasping her hand over her mouth Edith laughed, "Thomas you mustn't call him names like that!"
Anthony emerged from the kitchen, pulling his jumper over his head, there was a streak of flour on his forehead, "what's the latest insult you're purveying Barrow?"
"Geriatric straight."
Chuckling, Anthony kissed Edith on the lips, "it's hard to argue with that one in terms of factual accuracy. Any chance you may just try plain old Anthony one of these days?"
"No. You broke my best friend's heart."
Warm fingers encircled his, "yes, but since then I've proposed to her, married her, bought one child into the world with her, and we're working enthusiastically on a second and I've come to work for her, and you, I might add."
They'd married only ten months after Mr and Mrs Carson. The ceremony was in the church at Downton where she, Mary and Sybil had been christened and the party was at Locksley. It was strange for Anthony to rent rooms in the home where he'd grown up but it was the only place he felt close to his parents. Being back in their home made him feel as though they were a part of the day. It also meant he could spin Edith around the ballroom. Their daughter wasn't dancing alongside them, but only because she wasn't quite born. Anthony was still able to rest a hand on the side of Edith's protruding belly and feel a kick. He whispered to his new wife that he was still counting the moment as a dream come true because they were married and dancing with their daughter at Locksley.
Anthony moved his life to Liverpool, although it was no move at all really, because his life was with Edith and she already lived there. They bought an Edwardian villa in the suburbs. It was just as Edith had imagined. Paint pallets and pink ribbons. Overalls and red robes. And Marigold, with her father's eyes, her mother's face and a mop of blonde hair. A bundle of fleshy perfection. Edith sketched Anthony holding her at the hospital. A simple pencil drawing, now framed on the wall of their living room, showing a moment of love so pure it was hard to believe the human heart could contain it. Anthony certainly couldn't articulate what he felt at that moment, the sheer enormity of the emotions, but Edith's brilliant mind and clever fingers, even amidst a post-birth haze, had captured it.
Thomas grunted, squeezed Edith's shoulder and skulked back to the factory floor.
"Will he never come around?"
"He already has. It's when he starts being nice to you that you have to be careful, some sort of horrid trap is almost certainly being laid."
"Are you ready to go home?"
She smiled up at him, brushed the flecks of stray flour off his cheek, "I am."
On opening their heavy front door Anthony let out a great heaving sigh, "do you hear that?"
"What?"
"Listen."
She did, arms folded, brow furrowed, "I don't hear anything Anthony."
He pointed at her, "Precisely. No Peppa Pig or Balamory, no pots and pans orchestra, no demands, no tears. Blissful silence." He picked her up by the waist and spun her into the hallway.
"Put me down!" She brushed at the front of her clothes, "Ridiculous man!" She shook her head, trying to conceal her smile, "You do realise that noise and tears and kids television are kind of inescapable aspects of being a parent? Are you sure you want another baby?"
Anthony stooped to retrieve the post from the front mat, "I've never been so sure about anything. Except you, sweet one, obviously."
She took the letters from him, "you weren't sure at first."
"But I was by the end. That's when it counts."
"True enough." She kissed him on the lips, handing over a wedge of letters, "bills."
"Excellent, how ever will I contain my excitement?" He followed his wife into the kitchen. Anthony headed straight for the kettle. Edith levered herself onto the counter. He took out two cups, leaned over her lap for the tea and sugar, kissed her neck on the way.
"Oh my goodness!"
"What?"
"Postcard from Maud."
"And?" He handed over a steaming cup of tea, pulled up a chair and sat beside Edith's dangling feet.
"She says, 'Dear My So Called Friends (in Anthony's case, My So Called Learned Friend), I cannot believe you allowed me to marry Leonard Griffin. The man is a sexist, know-it-all, ass. If I do not murder him on this honeymoon I shall be divorcing him immediately on my return. Yours, Maud Taverner.'"
"How long have they been out there?"
Edith looked at the calendar pinned beside the fridge, "Five days. Do you think they'll be alright?"
"I know they will. They've probably fought and made up several times since then." He stroked absently at Edith's ankle, tracing his finger up the blue veins travelling across the top of her foot, "When are Carson and Elsie back with the Monster?"
"Around seven o'clock."
He put his mug onto the side, pushed it back on the counter and stood up between Edith's open thighs, "so we have a couple of hours."
She blushed, "Anthony, no! I have to finish my sketches of Charlotte and George. I'm going to London in two days time!"
He kissed the spot behind her ear, the pulse in her throat, "it'll help you relax."
"It'll relax me into an early evening nap. You know how I get."
He laughed, "I certainly do. Fine then. We'll do a couple of hours of work. Put the Monster to bed – that is, if Elsie and Carson don't decide to steal her away – and then -"
"Relaxing."
"Lots and lots of excellent relaxing."
Edith quirked an eyebrow, "ambitious."
"You know me, sweet one."