Gemma picked up the bulbs. “Thanks, John. We’ll plant them, won’t we, Joshie.”
The kitchen became the centre of life for the duration of the holiday. She migrated to the sink after each meal. Others offered to help, and she politely turned them away, but she couldn’t refuse her persistent mother.
“How’s the painting?” Her mother held out a casserole dish. “Sorry, I’ve no idea in this ridiculously huge kitchen where anything goes. Do you use a map or something?”
Gemma stared at the line of cupboards. She’d grown used to the scale of the house. Unlike her mother’s kitchen, where the cupboards nearly exploded with crockery and pans, her own could accommodate a hoard. “I almost colour-coded it when I first moved in, but it wasn’t necessary. If I put something in the wrong place, Mrs Harris re-locates it. I don’t think it is my kitchen, not really.” She crouched to put the dish away in a lower cupboard.
“Lucky girl. Housekeeper, domestics, gardeners.” Her mum paused. “You’ve not answered my question.”
“It’s good. I’m working on some landscapes, winter themes. Snow is so hard. All white….” She peered up. “What about you?”
“I squeeze a little into my schedule.”
Gemma winced. Was that a dig at her privileged life? She went back to the sink. “You’re enjoying the art classes?”
“Oh yes. Really lovely people, too. Like me, mostly. Hobby, nothing else. A little sweep of the brush from time to time.” She picked up a dishcloth and started to wipe down the worktop.
“Mum, you don’t have to do this.” She covered her mum’s hand and cleared her throat. “I’m glad you’re painting. It doesn’t matter if you call it a hobby. If it makes you happy….”
The awkward pause hung in the air. Gemma removed her hand and her mother continued to wipe.
“The art gallery?”
“Ah, well, that isn’t quite so eventful. Jason says I shouldn’t rush and I’m not.”
“Jason probably knows best, doesn’t he?” She turned. If Gemma expected a smile, there wasn’t one on her mother’s face. Instead, her eyebrows were raised in anticipation of an answer.
Gemma’s pulse quickened. Why was she panicking? Had her mother spie
d them? Those rare moments when they thought they’d been alone and Jason had swatted her bottom, tugged a lock of hair, or nipped her neck. They were careful. Always watchful of doorways and windows. Twice, in the past, Andrea had caught them in the act. It didn’t matter now. John and Andrea knew about the nature of the relationship. Her mother knowing made her weak at the knees with fear. She’d never understand. Then, there was the rape…. Gemma’s eyes wavered in their focus.
“Gemma?”
She blinked. Swallowed back the taste of bile and plastered a fake smile on her face. “Yes, Jason knows best. Can’t fault a man who made a fortune from virtually nothing.”
“Indeed. Although, I suspect he had a lot of good luck, too.”
“Yes. Economy was spot-on for him. Unfortunately, my problem is lack of available property.”
“Build something yourself.”
“Land. Slight lack of reasonably priced real estate in London.”
“Jason can buy anything, can’t he?”
Gemma guffawed. “Then it wouldn’t be mine, would it.”
A broad smile broke out on her mother’s face. “Good.”
“Eh?”
“Standing on your own two feet. I thought, when you told me you were giving up your job, there she goes, Mrs Lucas, wife at home, no ambition. I’ve always pushed you to have a career, and, darling, you do have talent. I just hope this artist venture of yours works out.”
“This is my career now, Mum,” Gemma huffed.
Her mother’s hand halted in its incessant, pointless wiping. “I’m not saying it isn’t. Perhaps, what I’m trying to say is, I’ve realised you’re not my responsibility. It’s hard, darling, letting go. Even after you married Jason, you seemed to be uncertain about who you are, what you wanted in life. I don’t see that now. I really think you can make a success of your gallery. Jason’s right. Take your time.”
Gemma brushed away a small tear and nodded. “Thanks, Mum. I am pleased you’re painting, too. My talent comes from you. I’m grateful. All those trips to galleries as a kid—”