He went in on his own to warn her that she had a visitor. Louisa told him she would be glad to see Grace Shield again. Grace paused in the doorway, surprised by the stark simplicity of the room. The walls were white and there were no curtains, just white-painted wooden shutters. There were two upholstered armchairs in striped bleached-blue linen, a round table and some lamps, a bookcase filled with books and several framed photographs: snapshots, the kind you found on the mantelpieces of most family homes. She recognised Noah in several, and Arthur. There was a sturdy frowning girl who grew up to be a sturdy frowning woman; Noah’s Aunt Lillian? And a young man who might have been Noah but for the clothes and a hair-cut that dated from an earlier time. Noah’s father, Grace thought. Most surprisingly, for the wife of an artist, there was not a single painting on the walls. Louisa sat in a high-backed wooden chair close to the artificial gas fire with all bars burning; like all old people she felt the cold as keenly as a bud.
What do You think about Shooting Butterflies (2003)?
