.
he’d said he’d go on ahead to make sure there was a room ready for her she’d been relieved. She needed some time alone to adjust to this new set of circumstances.
As the sound of the quad receded she climbed the stairs to the mezzanine. Cormac had put her holdall at the foot of the bed, and she toyed with the zip. There didn’t seem much point in unpacking it now. She sat down on the mattress, then fell backwards and stared at the ceiling.
If only she didn’t have to go. This room was a cosy nest and she wanted to hide herself here and never leave. She closed her eyes, then turned over and curled herself into a ball. ‘This is all your fault, Dan. Every single bit of it.’
Dan had been in his final year when she’d arrived at St Martin’s to start her foundation course. He was a big personality—wild, mercurial—and she’d been surprised that he’d even noticed her. She’d felt unequal to him in every way, but when he’d kissed her that first time, whispered that she was his rock, his port in a storm, she’d felt needed in a way that answered some longing deep within herself.
Her father and her brothers had said he was fake. They’d teased her about his ‘Mockney’ accent, laughed at the way he knotted his hair into a bun, and they didn’t get the ink on his arms or the ring through his nose.
Milla had forced herself to ignore them. She had a small tattoo of a stag inked onto her own ankle, and a row of piercings made in her left ear, but deep down she’d hated it that her family wouldn’t buy in to her dream of a life with Daniel Calder-Jones.
She felt sure that her mother would have appreciated Dan’s talent, because Colleen O’Brien had been a teacher and an accomplished artist in her own right. It was through her mother that Milla had learned the language and love of art, discovering a passion which ran through her own veins too.
After her mother’s cancer diagnosis they had still visited galleries together, Colleen’s bald scalp defiantly wrapped in a brightly coloured scarf. How she missed her... Milla felt the familiar tears sliding down her face and let them come.
Dan had relished her family’s disapproval—it had been another layer of drama to fuel his creativity. He was adept at harnessing the ebb and flow of his own life and using it to inspire his art—so good at it, in fact, that he had been offered a residency in Berlin.
Absorbed with her own postgraduate project, Milla had encouraged him to go. She’d thought Berlin, with its vibrant and exciting art scene, would inspire him, and the international experience and contacts would be good for his career.
The night before he’d left, he’d taken her for dinner at their favourite restaurant and proposed. She’d gazed at him, open-mouthed, while everyone in the restaurant had stilled in anticipation. The thing was, Dan didn’t believe in marriage. He’d always said that, and yet there he’d been, gazing at her, waiting for an answer. She’d spluttered a tearful ‘yes’ and to rapturous applause he’d popped a dazzling diamond ring onto her finger.
She’d been so happy. Finally she’d known where the relationship was going—now her family would have to believe that Daniel Calder-Jones really loved her.
He’d been eager to set a date, so they’d agreed on September—he’d be back by then, and she’d have finished her project. It hadn’t left much time to plan a wedding, but she’d thrown herself into it.
She’d found the ideal venue for the country wedding she’d dreamed of—a marquee with pretty bunting. She’d organised a whisky bar for Dan, and trestle tables, wild flowers and traditional music. She had even found the perfect dress—vintage silk and lace with tiny pearls. She’d cried in the bridal boutique because Colleen hadn’t been there to tell her how beautiful she looked.
Everything had been falling into place. And then, three months ago, Dan had flown home unexpectedly to tell her that he’d fallen in love with a German artist called Maria.
Milla had been devastated. To have won his commitment only to lose it again had been too much to bear. She’d stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped working.
When her tutor had called her in for a talk she’d ended up crying on his shoulder. He’d advised her to take up photography. He’d suggested taking pictures of anything that caught her eye, for whatever reason. It had been good advice. Instead of trying to create images, she’d spent her days looking for ready-made scenes.
When she’d collated her photographs she had seen a pattern. Pictures of back streets, a single figure in a doorway, a soulful face staring from the window of a café, a couple perched on a broad step, their heads turned in opposite directions...
‘You’re attracted to loneliness,’ her tutor had remarked. ‘Your images remind me of Edward Hopper’s stuff. You should use them to take your work in a new direction.’
And then he’d handed her a brochure.
‘A change of scene might help you get back on track. I’ve stayed at Strathburn Bothy myself. Peace. Isolation. No phone signal, no internet, no distractions. It might be just what you need.’
She sat up and wiped her cheeks with her hands. She looked around the mezzanine bedroom which she was yet to claim as her own. Peace. Isolation... No distractions.
There would be no isolation at Calcarron House, and probably no peace either. As for distractions...
Cormac’s eyes stirred in her memory and she pushed the image out of her head. She would try to make the best of it; it was only one night. Tomorrow she’d be back in this room, and her healing process could really begin.
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