Facing the Light Read Free Page B

instantly make Leonora wrinkle her mouth. Why couldn’t she manage neat skirts and crisp blouses? She would probably spill something on them if she did wear them.
    â€˜I choose for you!’ Ivan declared. ‘I know what you need. I am dress designer, no?’
    â€˜Okay,’ said Rilla. ‘Imagine you’re dressing me for a three-act play set in a country house. French windows, drinks on the terrace. You know the sort of thing.’
    She moved to the chair by the window and sighed. ‘You can’t possibly do any worse than I did.’
    With surprising care, Ivan picked up one garment at a time and laid most of them aside with the merest hint of a despairing sigh. Finally he said, ‘I think this will be enough, no?’
    Rilla looked through what he’d chosen and saw that yes, indeed, the green chiffon might do nicely for a summer party, that the claret-coloured gypsy skirt could conceivably pass muster with the white linen blouse, that the black trousers and several silk jersey T-shirts might not be too hideous for morning strolls in the garden. Ivan added a couple of rather fine scarves (‘Georgina von Etzdorf …’ he breathed reverently as he laid them gently on the pillow) and then turned to choose a necklace from the ones looped over a corner of her dressing-table mirror.
    â€˜This, I think,’ he said, picking out a long string of obviously fake pearls. ‘Never before have I seen this –pearls which are not round!’ He made the sound that was the nearest thing to a laugh he allowed himself.
    â€˜Yes, I love those,’ Rilla said. ‘They’re from America. Square pearls! They’ll do.’
    She closed her eyes, and let Ivan rummage around in her earring box. What did it matter, really, when it came down to it? However she was dressed, the whole visit was going to be excruciating. The one thing she tried every minute of her life not to think about, to thrust into the darkest, most secret corners of her heart, was known to everyone who was coming. What if they spoke of it? How would she bear that? Rilla closed her eyes and drew a deep breath to steady her thoughts. Willow Court. So many ghosts, so much pain, and her mother, Leonora Simmonds, monarch of all she surveyed, especially the paintings. Oh, my God, Rilla thought. What did we do to deserve those paintings in our family?
    *
    Rilla let the sound of Billie Holiday’s voice fill the car: blue and velvety and freighted with pain. Sweet, but with an edge of darkness all around it, like a border. From time to time she joined in with the lyrics, filling the spaces in her head with the sound of her own voice. She knew that the landscape was streaming past the window, but she didn’t even glance at it. She’d seen it far too many times before, on her way back to Willow Court. Gwen’ll be walking round from room to room, she thought, checking that everyone has the right towels. She’ll have made sure the paintings are newly dusted. And I’ll be in the Blue Room, where Mother always puts me because it faces the back. No view of the lake. Rilla shivered in spite of the heat. She hadn’t been down there for years but in her worst dreams she still saw the water shimmering with a sort of fluorescence. No, think of Gwen. That’s safe. Tidy and organized Gwen, who wore well-cut trousers in proper material that cost a small fortune but neverthelessjust looked like common-or-garden trousers. Her shirts, too, were the very best, and Rilla knew for a fact that each one cost an arm and a leg, but whatever was the point when the colours were so self-effacing? Apologetic pink, wishy-washy blue, and minimalism’s favourite shade, cream, which did nothing for Gwen, did she but know it.
    It wasn’t that her sister wasn’t attractive. She was. She had the figure of a young girl, and not a chubby young girl either. Her dark hair had greyed to the kind of elegant