With a finebrush and a mix of raw umber, terre verte, Indian red and Chinese yellow – he did like Chinese yellow – he concentrated on her face. “I think, perhaps, that the pregnancies are of greater significance.” “You mean the women ran off with the real fathers?”
“Probably. It’s the obvious conclusion. How do you feel about that? At the end of our last session you said that you might be pregnant. I got the feeling that you weren’t too happy about it. It’s very personal. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s OK. I hadn’t realized my misgivings were so transparent. You’re very intuitive.”
He smiled.
She shivered.
“So, you find yourself in the same position as the missing women. It’s ironical, isn’t it? It must have something to do with my shop, perhaps the air in here, or the paint. Maybe I should open a fertility clinic. That’s a thought.”
“It could only have something to do with your shop if all the women had been here.”
“Yes, I see that. But who’s to say they weren’t? A lot of people come and go and my memory isn’t what it was and it was never very good. At school I could never remember all those dates of the battles we had with the French and the names of rivers in Mauritania.” “So your memory needs a little jog?”
“Ah, the reconstruction.”
“Since I’m pregnant it would be even closer to the truth.”
“I suppose it would. But you have to remember that Mrs Harrison knew exactly what she wanted. She could be very direct and she came prepared. There was no dithering. She simply arrived and we got on with it. If there was ever a problem it was all mine.”
“Did you have a problem?”
“Well, there was a sudden retreat, certainly. The easel became my Maginot Line.”
“I believe that was breached.”
“The Germans used the back door or, rather, a side door known as Belgium.”
“What then?”
“We retreated from Dunkirk.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, then, I got on with the painting, what else?”
“So Helen was lying here, where I am, and you finished the painting. Was that the last time you saw her?”
“My goodness no. A week or so later she came back to collect the finished product. It takes that long for the paint to dry. But she’d brought one of her minders with her to carry it so she didn’t stop and we didn’t really talk.”
“And that was the last time you saw her?” tantly and said, “But Mrs Harrison…she did come back again and this time she was alone.” His eyes were drawn once more to the flimsy covering, the yellow peril. He went on, “She’d had an argument with her husband and she was angry but I never found out what it was about. There was a bruise on her chin but I didn’t like to ask. You don’t, do you? Not about things that go on between husbands and wives. Not unless you’re working for Relate. Even though she’d already had a few tipples, I’d say, I fed her some wine and she talked freely but that never came up. So how she got the bruise and exactly what led her back here remains a mystery.”
Her look was wide-eyed and quizzical. She asked, “How long did she stay?”
Without looking up and quite matter-of-factly he said, “A long, long time.”
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“Going, my dear? She wasn’t going anywhere.”
Her pulse raced. He couldn’t fail to notice her sudden glow. The revelation had been so careless she wondered whether he was aware of making it. She snatched a deep steadying breath and said, “So what now, Mr Lawrence? Where do we go from here?”
His eyes flicked from her groin and once again focused on the painting. She should have felt some relief but didn’t. A pause might draw him back and give him time to reflect on his indiscretion. Still studying the canvas he said, “If you would let me see you in all your splendour then you can see Mrs Harrison in all of hers.” She had been waiting for the suggestion, certain that it would come, yet she could barely believe he had made it. It had to be a ploy. He was playing games again.
“You know where she is?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“Not far.”
“How far?”
“A short walk. I’ll take you.”
“But first you want me to take off my clothes.”
Now he looked up and met her gaze. He said, “Yes.”
“I thought your thing was landscapes.”
“I’m thinking of a career change.”
“What then?”
“Then a few finishing touches to the painting and then I’ll take you to see Mrs Harrison.”
“Helen first.”
“I think not. I know what you women are like. An old friend of mine – an old soldier – told me. A few final touches and then I’ll take you to see your friend. I’ll leave you with her and then I can get on. So, what do you think? It’s what you came for, after all.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t, but apart from the loss of a little dignity which I’m sure you’ll manage, what else have you got to lose? Up to you, my dear. How much do you want to see Mrs Harrison again?”
In their intensity her eyes became very dark, almost hooded, and her thoughtful nod, when it came, was barely discernible. Had he not been waiting for it, he would have missed it altogether.
“I imagine you will require a little fortification. I know I do. I’ll fetch us some more drinks then, shall I? I have this strange feeling that you have been right all along. My memory just needed a little jog.” Without looking back he shuffled into the kitchen. It took him longer than usual, as she guessed it might. He paused at the door. He looked odd, different, his eyes cast with that slow, esoteric quality she’d seen before on a smackhead. The wine made tiny waves against the sparkling crystal. It looked rich and potent.
“Chianti, in particular, must be taken at cellar temperature.” His voice was strangely different too, slightly husky, his speech more measured and delayed. “It comes originally from Gaiole, Castellina and Radda. Don’t be fobbed off with the re-drawn area that takes in just about the entire region of Tuscany.”
Those sleeping eyes caught the crystal and flashed awake. He came on with deliberate steps. “As with all wine, my dear, you must go with the most expensive that you can afford. You might remember the fiasco with its straw jacket. They’re often used as candleholders. The wine itself is irresistibly feminine, and mysterious
– I mentioned that before.”
She stood beside the sofa, her long hair cutting black trails over her breasts, her dress clinging to her thighs, her back reflected in a painting that leant against the wall behind her, birds flying from a pond. Ducks, he thought. How wonderful.
He nodded, hugely satisfied, for he had begun to wonder whether events would turn out as he had planned. Where women were concerned, as the late colonel had often stated, nothing could be taken for granted. Logic, that key to the door – the dawn – of man, had been lost in the unfolding of woman and replaced by that curiosity, female intuition, that damned and satanic second sight that had led her to him. He handed her the wine. She returned his gaze with a steadiness he found endearing.
“We might as well finish it today.”
“That sounds very final.”
“All things come to an end and the painting is, save for a few final touches, all but finished.”
“But we’re not, are we?”
He retreated quickly to his Maginot.
She drank her wine in one. Her lips were left with the touch of sangiovese grape – sanguis Jovis – the blood of Jove. She reached down and placed the glass on the small table where her handbag lay, just out of reach from the sofa. Her breasts sagged slightly then firmed up again as she stood upright.
“So this is what it has come to.”
He smiled sweetly.
She reached beneath her dress and bent again and her breasts sagged again and she stepped out, one foot then the other, and left the flimsy yellow underwear on the oak floor. She watched his eyes but they didn’t flicker. But his lips moved and she was drawn to them. “Everything is coming back,” he said. “It is all so clear now.” She reached down to the hem of her dress and drew it over her thighs, over that tricky uncomplicated place, the Devil’s Triangle, over her navel and jutting hips.