You look like you’ve put on weight, said her mother.
Gillian stayed longer than she had meant to. She went out to the garden with her father, and he showed her a couple of bushes he had planted. Later on, all three of them were in the living room again, reading. Gillian went to lie on the bed in her old room. Her mother was in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. Her father wandered around, perhaps he was looking for something. The times Gillian had visited him in his workshop, he had been a different man altogether, full of energy, choleric, but often in a good mood and generous. Whereas at home, he resembled a wounded animal, looking for a place to hide.
And you’re sure it’s all right if we go skiing next week? her mother asked.
Oh, yes, said Gillian, it’s not a dangerous operation. And you’ll see my new face soon enough.
Then why don’t you go somewhere, to the mountains or the sea? asked her mother. You’ve got time.
By myself? said Gillian, and carried the glasses into the living room.
She set the table. When she came back to the kitchen, her mother looked at her apprehensively, but Gillian didn’t say anything else. After dinner, they watched the news.
I’d better go now, said Gillian.
Her parents made no effort to keep her. They saw her to the door, her mother hugged her, her father shook hands. Break a leg, eh, said Gillian, and climbed into her car. When she had turned, she looked at the house again. The door was shut.
That evening Gillian checked her e-mails, but there was nothing for Miss Julie.
The text Hubert sent her after showing her his pictures had offended Gillian. He had asked if she was disappointed. After that she didn’t write for two weeks, and he hung back as well. Matthias asked her what the matter was, but she just shook her head and said she had a lot to do, half the editorial team was away on autumn breaks.
Finally she wrote him an e-mail that accused him of exploiting her. Not every woman you lure into your studio will strip for you.
Hubert answered at once, it was as though he had been waiting for her to write. He was friendly but provocatively calm, wrote that he hadn’t asked her to model for him, though he admitted he had entertained the possibility. He had decided basically not to continue with the series of nudes and to start on something new, but it might be interesting to have one last go. It would be different anyway, he wrote, seeing as you’re not a complete stranger to me, and I wouldn’t want to photograph you but paint you from life. Might you be interested?
What happens with the picture? asked Gillian without a salutation or greeting.
I’ll give it to you, replied Hubert.
I can hardly come home with a nude painting of myself, wrote Gillian. He wrote: I wasn’t thinking in terms of a nude.
Unusually, the program was wrapped on a Monday, and Gillian got Tuesday off. When she woke up, Matthias was standing by the window, a cup of coffee in his hand.
Look at the fog, he said, you’re lucky.
No sooner was he gone than she showered and dressed. She tried to imagine the picture Hubert would paint of her. In his last e-mail he had asked her to wear a dress. She spent a long time in front of her wardrobe. Finally she decided on a classical high-necked chiffon dress that Matthias liked. She put on a pearl necklace and pearl earrings he had given her for their engagement. She didn’t care for them, they made her seem old, but they seemed the right thing for an oil painting.
Now, by daylight and in fog, the area around Hubert’s studio seemed even bleaker. Opposite the old textile mill was an ugly ’80s office block with red metal cladding. It was a busy road. Outside the studio building stood a young man and an even younger woman, smoking. They took in Gillian. The man was standing directly in front of the door and only moved aside at the very last moment.
Are you looking for someone? asked the young woman.
I’ve got an appointment, said Gillian, though the expression sounded a little absurd here.
The long passageway was dimly lit. Gillian walked down to the end, knocked on Hubert’s door, and walked in without waiting to be admitted. Hubert had tidied up since the last time she’d been here. He had set up the easel in front of the sofa and put a big piece of chipboard on it.
Did you find the way all right? he asked casually and helped Gillian out of her coat. He looked at her. A dress without pleats would have been easier, technically speaking. How much time have you got?
Till midday, said Gillian.
He asked her to sit on the sofa, any way that was comfortable. No sooner had she sat down than he told her not to slump. He went up to her, laid his hand very gently on her shoulders, and pulled her upper body forward a little.
Is this all right?
When she nodded, he marked the position of her feet with red tape. Then he paced about the room in silence and looked at her from different angles. He put a film in his camera and took a few pictures.
Just to have something to fall back on, he said.
Finally, he moved the easel back from the sofa a little, marked its position with tape as well, and clipped a piece of packing paper to the board. Her position quickly became uncomfortable.
Is it all right if I take my shoes off?
Hubert nodded, and Gillian slipped off her pumps. After a while, her feet felt cold, and she put them on again.
Do you mind sitting still? asked Hubert. And don’t smile. But no sooner had she changed her expression than he complained again. This isn’t a photo shoot. Can’t you just look normal? As if you were alone?
Gillian asked him if he was already working on her face.
It’s your whole posture, he said. I can’t see you if you’re acting.
Gillian had been photographed many times, but it had always been a matter of playing a part, first in the theater, then in publicity shots. She struck a pose in front of the camera, got into positions she had seen in magazines. The best pictures were ones in which she could hardly recognize herself. Now that she wasn’t allowed to move, she had no real sense of how Hubert was seeing her.
You have an enormous head, he said matter-of-factly. He unclipped the sketch, let it fall to the floor, and put up a new piece of packing paper on the backboard. After three-quarters of an hour they took a break.
Can I have a look? asked Gillian.
Sure, said Hubert, as he took an old espresso can apart. Do you want coffee?
Marked on the paper in charcoal she could see the shape of the room and the furniture. Her body was roughly sketched but it looked astonishingly lifelike. Even so, she wasn’t satisfied. She had hoped the picture would tell her something new.
I wonder what you’re going to discover in me, she said to Hubert, who had filled the espresso can and put it on the hot plate.
I don’t see anything in you. I’ll be pleased if I manage the exterior half decently.
Gillian knelt on the floor and leafed through the sketches. Hubert brought two full cups of espresso. He stopped just in front of her and said, stay like that. He set the cups on the floor, got a big sketchbook off a shelf, and started drawing her in quick strokes. By the time Gillian was allowed her coffee, it had gone cold.
Maybe it’s better if you’re standing up. He drank his coffee all in one go, left the dirty cups in the sink, and clipped a fresh piece of paper on the board.
They tried out all sorts of poses that morning: Gillian sitting on a chair, standing behind the chair leaning against the back, looking at Hubert, looking out the window, with her back to him or sideways. Sometimes he just looked at her without drawing her. Sometimes he took one or two photos. The poses tired Gillian, but she enjoyed the atmosphere of concentration, the attention Hubert gave her, and the gentle touches with which he coaxed her into different positions. By the time it was twelve and she had to go, there was a whole heap of sketches on the floor next to the easel.