‘Why? Because I am not from a family of servants you have suddenly decided that you love me.’ My voice is bitter. I have never heard it so. So much about me she has brought forth.
She frowns then turns white. ‘You heard us.’
‘Yeah. I came to say goodbye, but after hearing how scornfully you dismissed me just because you thought I was the son of a servant, I walked away.’
She licks her lips. Her eyes turn desperate. I look at them emotionlessly, curiously. How far will she go?
‘It’s not what you think,’ she pleads. ‘I knew I loved you before I figured out that you are Blake’s brother.’
I raise a disbelieving eyebrow.
‘I came here to tell you.’ Her voice is rising, desperate.
I say nothing. I wanted her to love me for myself. Not for my family name. But I have been living in a fool’s paradise for the last few weeks. I so much wanted to believe that she is more, that she could be more. But what I feared most has happened.
‘You have to believe me.’
‘And what about Jack?’
‘I realized that I didn’t love him this afternoon and that is why I came here.’
‘What an amazing coincidence.’
‘I’m telling the truth, Vann… I mean…Quinn.’
Wow, she is a really good actress. ‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Why don’t you want to be known as a Barrington?’
‘I wanted to be recognized as an artist, purely for my talent, not because of my surname and heritage.’ I’ll never tell her the real reason why I don’t want to be associated with the name.
‘I love you.’
I laugh. ‘Well, I don’t. We had a good time and now it is over. I’m leaving at the end of the week.’
She takes a step back as if I have slapped her. Her eyes become huge. She is right though, they are not green. Flecks of gold and brown in them. They are only green when passion comes into her body.
‘You’re leaving?’ she gasps. Her mouth remains open. This is not acting. This she did not expect.
‘Yup. I’m done here.’
For a few more seconds she simply stares at me. I long to cross the space and hold her, but I don’t. I stare at her, my beautiful Sugar. Then she turns around and runs from me. She doesn’t slam the door, but closes it quietly with a click.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I stand there, my thoughts a mess. Some part of me tells me to go after her. Let things carry on as before. But another part of me knows that it can never be like it was before, and whatever we have will be a pale imitation of what I really want. It is for the best. I don’t want her to pretend to love me. I need to be free of the long shadow cast by Jack. A song is playing in my head. Mama, take this badge off me. I can’t use it anymore. I feel like I’m knocking on heaven’s door. Knock, knockin…
The phone rings.
I answer it and listen as Blake explains that he has ordered Croix, my dealer, to put a minimum price on the paintings: £150,000 on the smaller ones, £250,000 on the two larger pieces. These giddy prices… The arrogance is breathtaking.
Abyssus abssum invocat: one hell summons another.
Here it goes again—the meme that money is absolutely everything. I am reminded of Munch’s Scream. His terrible visions, profound insight and his shudder of despair at the human condition reduced to a price tag: 120 million dollars. The hollowness had chilled me then. And it chills me now.
In ordinary circumstances I would have gone mad, told my brother to fuck off, stay out of my business. But today it doesn’t matter. I don’t actually care one way or another.
‘Nobody will buy them at those prices,’ I say quietly.
‘I am the back-up buyer at those prices.’
There is a brief pause when we are both silent.
‘You are the artist. I am the businessman. Leave me to decide what the market can afford. The perception of value is everything. If a Barrington wants to acquire the entire collection…
‘You haven’t seen it yet.’
‘Is it any good?’
‘The best thing I have done in my life.’ I slept with my muse, you see.
‘That’s good enough for me.’
‘See you tomorrow at seven thirty?’
‘See you then.’
‘Oh, do you need us to pick Julie up?’
And suddenly the pain hits. Right in the solar plexus. Oh fuck. Later has come.
‘Yeah.’
‘Right. I’ll get Lana to arrange it with her. See you then.’
The phone hits the wall so hard it smashes into pieces. I stand with my back to the glass wall and look around me. Here, I have been truly happy. I go to the kitchen and open the fridge. That habit of hers, leaving a half-drunk glass of orange juice in the fridge. I take it, find the imprint of her mouth and drink a mouthful of juice. The juice is cold and for some reason tasteless. I leave it on the counter. I need a real drink. I reach for the bottle of beer and stop. I don’t want beer. I’d like to get smashed on a whole bottle of cognac, the kind my granddad used to drink. I close the fridge and I go up to my studio.
At the threshold I stand and look at the empty place. By now, all the paintings are probably being unpacked and the perfect wall to hang them on being decided upon. I go towards my easel, my paints and my brushes. They have comforted me in other times of pain. But not pain like this. I walk to the unfinished canvas on the easel and look at it. There she is smiling mysteriously at me. I put my palm on her mouth and drag it down the canvas. The wet paint smears downwards. I take a rag and wipe my hand and walk to the tap. I watch the water running and realize that the large ceramic sink is totally out of place in this state-of-the-art apartment. It occurs to me that Blake had it installed.
He wanted it to be like my studio in Paris. He went to a lot of trouble, quietly. But I have never appreciated him. I wash my hands and go downstairs, cross the silent, empty space and enter the bedroom. The bed is unmade. I go to Julie’s side and smell the pillow. There’s her scent. Is it mango or coconut shampoo that she uses? I lay my head on the pillow.
My eyes fall on the lap dancer’s pole. As if the scales have fallen off my eyes, I understand now that the previous tenant didn’t decide to leave, he was told to leave, or rather given an inducement to leave. In his hurry to accept, he left the pole behind.
She was practicing her dance for me. I will never see it now. I stand and, like a man in a daze, go to it. At the level of her crotch I sniff it, but it smells of metal and lemon polish. I let myself lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. For a while there is the sensation that I am the last man on earth.
That I am totally alone.
Thirty
Julie Sugar
I walk to the Tube station numb with shock. It had all gone so disastrously wrong. In the train I stand with all the other passengers. A man in a pin-striped suit stands up to offer his seat to a pregnant lady. I watch the exchange blankly. She sits and meets my eyes. Smiles. I smile back automatically. At my stop I scramble off. I stand on the platform for a moment before heading towards the exit. I put my ticket through the barrier gates and come out into the silver light of the evening. There is dog poo in my path and I manage not to step into it. I open my door and my mother calls out, ‘Is that you, Julie?’
‘Yeah, it’s me,’ I reply and I am surprised by how normal my voice sounds. I go up the stairs and enter my room. I sit on my bed and look at the wall of photos. I see Jack smiling up at me, squinting, looking moodily, laughing, expressionless, a cigarette dangling from his lips, sitting in front of a beer, and the photo I never liked, but kept anyway—a girl on his lap and two kissing him on either cheek.