Page 51 of A Sky Painted Gold

Caitlin nods. “Oh, yes. He doesn’t do it so much any more, but there was a time when he was always sketching and painting.” Her smile falters a little here. “Before our father died,” she adds.

I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

“It’s a shame that Robert stopped,” I say tentatively. “He’s obviously very talented.”

“Mmm.” Caitlin’s eyes are fixed on the drawing. “I suppose he felt that he had to be a more serious kind of person after…” She trails off here, and I think perhaps she is going to cry, but instead her face is tight and pale, curiously empty. “Anyway, Robert was suddenly in charge of everything. He was different then.” She pauses, and her voice is hollow as she adds, “I suppose we both were.” The way she says it makes my heart ache for the two of them.

“So.” Caitlin rallies. “Now I have something over you, and that means you have to do exactly as I say.”

“Everyone does that anyway,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And what exactly do you have over me?”

“Fail to heed my commands and I shall tell Robert exactly how talented you think he is.”

I groan. “His ego doesn’t need that kind of inflation,” I protest, relieved to see her smile again.

“True.” Caitlin bats her eyelashes. “But you’re a wild card. And I have a particularly decadent trip planned for us, so I need the insurance, just in case you chicken out of anything.”

“When have I ever chickened out of anything?” I protest.

“Very true,” Caitlin agrees. “This is one of the reasons I love you. Now,” she says, “my first commandment is that you go and freshen up. We’ll go and have some lunch, but first we have a lot of shopping to do.”

“Aye aye, captain,” I say, giving her a little salute.

“I’ll show you to your room,” she says, tripping ahead of me and up the stairs. There are three bedrooms on the second floor. Mine is pretty and painted primrose yellow with a large window that looks out on to the street. It also has its own bathroom, though nothing as extravagant as the one at the house in Cornwall. It’s almost ordinary enough for me to pretend that it’s mine, that this is my own real life, living here in London in my little primrose room. The thought is like pulling my most precious, deeply cherished daydream out into the light. I sigh. That daydream may be beyond my reach, but the city isn’t, and I can’t wait to get out there and explore. All of London waiting for me, just outside the front door. Excitement wriggles up and down my spine, and I feel like dancing.

When I arrive back downstairs, Caitlin is sitting on the sofa, waiting, her fingers drumming impatiently on a cushion. “Thank goodness,” she exclaims. “I’m absolutely itching to get going. Shall we?”

“Let’s,” I say, feeling a wave of excitement crash over me. “Where to?” I ask.

Caitlin slips into her jacket and waves a reproving finger at me. “All will be revealed,” she says. “Please follow me.”

With this she makes her way to the front door while I trail dutifully behind. The ever-patient Franks is waiting in the car, and he leaps out to open the door for us. “Carradice’s, please, Franks,” Caitlin calls as she slides gracefully into the back seat. I clamber in behind her.

It is a very short drive to our next destination, and I just about refrain from sticking my head out of the window. Once we turn off the quiet road where Caitlin’s house is, we seem suddenly to be in the middle of so much noise and movement that it leaves my head spinning.

There are cars everywhere, honking at each other, and great red buses that have no roof on top of them and are simply bursting with people. The roads are wide, and the buildings that line the sides are so tall that they seem to reach into the few clouds that float in the otherwise blue sky. It is hot, and loud, and crowded, and for a moment I am overwhelmed by it all, and then I am desperately greedy for more.

The car pulls up only a few minutes later outside a tall, elegant white shopfront in the middle of a long row of shops. Above the window on the ground floor a grey marble sign declares in large art deco lettering that the store is, in fact, the Carradice’s that we are destined for. When we step out of the car I fly to the glass window in front of me as though pulled there by an unseen force that I am helpless to resist. Displayed behind the glass is a mannequin wearing a truly beautiful gown of red silk trimmed with gold and silver beads in a trailing ivy design.

“Oh,” I sigh. “Caitlin, look at this,” and I press my fingers against the glass, longing to reach out and stroke the material, imagining the inky feeling of the silk slipping between my fingers. I lift my hand from the glass and realize that I have left smudgy fingerprints there. Horrified, I try to rub them away. Caitlin turns towards me. “What are you doing, Lou?” she asks, as though I am a naughty child that she has been charged with. She doesn’t wait for a response. “Come on!”

Once we are through the door things seem even more wonderful. The floors are white marble and so are the walls, inlaid with a beautiful gold pattern and draped with whisper-thin white silk. There are glass cabinets edged with gold, holding gloves and jewels and all sorts of other beautiful things. Two sides of the walls are clad in mirrors, reflecting back all this shimmering luxury and a thousand Lous stand wide-eyed in the middle of it all. I take a proper look at myself then, my face a small pale moon, my clothes scruffy and out of place.

“Ahhh, Lady Cardew.” A young woman drifts forward from behind one of the counters, her heels clipping across the floor. “How nice to see you again. I believe Madame Carradice is expecting you?”

“That’s right, Celia,” Caitlin says, shrugging off her jacket and handing it to the woman. “And this is my dear friend Lou.”

Both women turn to me, and Celia, the consummate professional, does not betray by the merest flicker of an eyelid that I am not the usual type to frequent such an establishment.

“May I take your coat?” she asks, and I slip my arms out of my thin cotton jacket, rubbing my hands down my sides to try and smooth the crumpled dress underneath.

Celia smiles, and her smile is smooth and flat, a glossy red act of politeness. “Madame is waiting for you upstairs.”

“Perfect.” Caitlin grabs me by the arm. “I’ll lead the way.” And she pulls me through a door at the back of the room which opens on to a white, spiralled staircase, lined with more mirrors.

“I’m really enjoying looking at myself this much,” I mutter. The difference between me and Caitlin has never been more apparent, and I don’t need to see my reflection beamed back to me from every surface to know that I don’t measure up, that I don’t belong. Surrounded by all these mirrors, I have never felt more plain, more of an imposter.

Caitlin stops and fluffs her hair, blowing her own reflection a kiss. “I know just what you mean,” she says.