I dithered over what to wear. Would Isaac like my dark blue dress? Would he notice? Would Hunter? I put the dress on anyway.
Hunter didn’t notice, or at least, he didn’t comment. He looked smart. I didn’t think it was for me.
We arrived at Raven How to meet Freddie and Matt just getting out of their car. When Ruby threw open the door, Griff and Muriel were already inside and hailed us cordially, though in Griff’s case only through politeness as we had to be introduced all over again.
It seemed that Griff remembered Freddie, though, from regular visits to the bookshop in the past. The group was completed by a hippy-ish, well-spoken couple, Hal and Susan. While everyone exchanged pleasantries, I looked around, wondering where Russell was. The place hadn’t altered much, I could see.
Raven How was a sprawling stone building, not as imposing as the Staithwaites’ farm nearby. It had been haphazardly added to through the years, and at some point turned into a bunkhouse with a maze of cramped dormitories. We were shown into the lounge, which was really a huge, dilapidated conservatory, but which at least was light and spacious, unlike the rest of the place. Nine years ago my group had set our easels up in there when it was raining outside.
The décor was still much as it had been back then. Tall screens stood before the windows, decorated with Ruby’s twisting ivy-stencils and Russell’s paintings. They did not go together particularly well. One screen was covered with a home-made tapestry in bloody shades of purple. Ruby’s bumpy pottery stood on the stencilled pine dresser, or held strong-scented candles in the niches of the exposed stone wall. Books with names like Crystal Healing and The Seven Truths of Chakra fell over each other on a shelf.
All unchanged, except for something which I hadn’t noticed back then: it was bloody freezing. The screens did nothing to keep away the cold that emanated from the misting windows. When Delilah offered to take my jacket, I hung on to it.
Delilah, who’d been three when I last saw her, was now a twelve-year-old miniGoth, pale and polite, with black braces on her teeth. Russell hadn’t yet appeared; but his paintings grabbed me just as they had nine years ago.
Shining mosaics of translucent, polished colour: thunderous plum and indigo, and shifting shades of deep, tangled green, while red and orange would come leaping like boxers out of the corners. Russell could push colour like no artist that I’d seen. But he could do subtle too. Watching him paint clouds had been a revelation, like watching God at work.
When Russell finally came in, carrying drinks, I had to look twice. Was that really him? The piratical face was gaunt and blotchy; the leonine mane needed a good wash.
Back then, Russell had been almost as showy as Ruby – I remembered embroidered waistcoats, dandyish cravats, and red trousers. I’d gone out and bought myself an embroidered waistcoat too, in tribute, at seventeen. Then only worn it once.
Now he was dressed in shabby cords, and his creased grey shirt was mottled not just with exciting sploshes of paint, but with grime, especially round the cuffs. I’d had enough acquaintance with grime to no longer find it attractive.
He didn’t recognise me. Oh, when Ruby said my name, he did the How are you Eden? business, but in a tone so flat and distant it was obvious that he didn’t remember me and didn’t care.
Nevertheless I rattled out my little, unconvincing story: art degree, struggle to make ends meet, waitressing and odd jobs while I painted, with glandular fever standing in for jail. Only Susan showed any interest. Freddie looked tactfully at his drink; Hunter raised an eyebrow at me.
“Too much information,” he murmured.
I knew that. Having composed my story, however, I didn’t want to waste it. At this point Selena and Isaac were announced by Delilah.
“Bryony didn’t come,” said Isaac. “She’s not been feeling well. Gone to bed early.” He looked uncomfortable in a heavy tweed jacket. Selena was wearing a crimson off-the-shoulder dress. It was a cheap one, but on her that didn’t matter. Dark and velvety as a rose, she drew all eyes. Beside her, Susan looked drab; and even Ruby’s flame-lily elegance seemed overblown and wind-seared.
“My goodness,” said Griff to Muriel, “isn’t that the Lady of the Lake?” which made Muriel glow with hope and caused much conscious laughter all round. Ruby told the tale to Hal and Susan as if Selena’s throwing herself in Windermere was just a whimsical prank.
Selena smiled assent. She was a gracious picture of politeness as she lavished praise on the drinks, the candles, and my nondescript dress. On her best behaviour. You’d never have suspected the camera-throwing incident had happened from the civil greeting she bestowed on Muriel. She was respectful to Hunter, affectionate with Ruby, and clumsily effusive towards me.
“Isn’t it a lovely home?” she said admiringly. “So much prettier than the farm. So many nice things! I love that dresser.” She stroked the lumpy vases and the stencilled ivy with a lingering touch, and ran a curious hand along the volumes on the shelves, pausing to pick up Empowerment Through Celestial Energy and trace its gilded cover with her finger.
“Are you interested in that sort of thing?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh, no. But it’s pretty.” Quickly she replaced it and stepped back to survey Russell’s paintings. “So are those, aren’t they? But not as good as yours.”
“They’re much better,” I said. “Haven’t you been here before?”
“Only a couple of times. Ruby used to invite us after we got married, but Luke wouldn’t come.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t get on with Ruby,” she said. “Ruby was his mum’s best friend, but after his mum died he went right off her.”
“Well, I suppose he was grieving. Maybe he just wanted peace and quiet.”
“No. It was something Ruby did.” Selena hesitated, and seemed about to say more when Griff came bearing down on us with a gladly outstretched hand.
“The Lady of the Lake!” he announced ecstatically. Selena gave him a small, tight smile, murmured an excuse and moved away. Griff was beginning to trail after her, when Matt prevented him by stepping smartly in and engaging us in conversation about Ruby’s furnishings, with sly jokes at the expense of the hand-painted dresser and its adornments. He was not as admiring as Selena.
“It’s the Bloomsbury look,” he said. “Or is that William Morris? I don’t think she could make her mind up. The kitchen’s quite something too. Ruby’s Irish phase. She tried to antique the table, but I’m afraid she went overboard on the distressing.”
“Your sarcasm is showing, Matt,” said Freddie, finishing his drink.
“Oh, Ruby knows. I’ve told her that she’s overdone it. Isaac has the real thing, of course, but he doesn’t care.”
I wanted to know what Isaac did care about; but Hal and Matt began to talk antique furniture, in which I had no interest, and Isaac was buttonholed by Ruby. I watched them surreptitiously until Muriel came up to me. She was glowing.
“Griff seems happy enough, doesn’t he?” I commented. “And he remembered Selena again.”
“I can hardly believe it!” Her voice brimmed with gladness. “When I showed him your drawing, he knew her immediately. The Lady of the Lake! He said it at once. He remembered the long coat dripping, and the wet hair. No other details, true… but even so!”
How strange, and sad, I thought, to base your happiness on your husband’s recognition of another woman. But I murmured a sympathetic agreement.
Ruby shooed us all along to the kitchen, which smelt of onions but was much warmer than the lounge. It was a long, dark, lopsided room, one end of its beamed ceiling higher than the other, with cupboards painted in eye-watering green and orange Celtic knot designs. I couldn’t look at them for more than a few seconds. Bunches of dried herbs dangled from the beams, shedding bits of leaf from time to time.
Ruby waved us towards the table which appeared to have been attacked with a pickaxe. I sensed some manouvering for position. Hunter got himself next to Ruby, who got herself next to Isaac, in a se
at he had been saving for Selena only to be ignored as Selena plumped herself down next to Matt and began to talk to him flirtatiously, all giggles and intimate murmurs. I thought her coquettishness was out of place for one so recently widowed. It seemed Matt thought so too, for he replied with polite formality.
By careful indecisive hanging around I managed to get the seat on Isaac’s other side. He took a cautious sip of the yellow wine and peered doubtfully at his plate in the candlelight.
The wine was home-brewed. The tablemats were hand-woven, possibly out of nettle stems. I suspected there were nettles in the spiced lamb casserole Ruby served up too: there were certainly lots of strange green shreds floating in it, although some of those might have fallen from the ceiling. It tasted good, though.
“What are these?” Isaac muttered at me, holding up his fork.
“Chickpeas.”
“Very nice,” he said gloomily. “I’m not used to these occasions. More at home in the Red Lion.” He pushed a few chickpeas to the edge of his plate. “Even when Carol was alive,” he went on heavily, in answer to a question I hadn’t asked, “we didn’t go in for these dinner parties. Not our style. Mind you, she was a good cook, was Carol. Made a superb Rogan Josh. Did one the week before she died.”
“Well, at least she wasn’t too ill to–” I stopped. It sounded terrible.
“No. It was all very quick. She was weak, she got tired, she was in terrible pain. Yet she was still. Not admitting. Trying to.” He rested his head on his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, helpless. I finally understood what I’d been too self-absorbed to notice, that Isaac’s heaviness was not down to chickpeas, his weathered stoicism was not because he was made of rock and mountain but because he was doing his best to weather grief. To keep on living when those he loved had died.
I had no concept of what such grief might mean. I had no measure. I’d lost Nick, but Nick was still alive. If I could just make myself into some semblance of a normal, decent person, we might yet find each other again.
In my affliction, I’d grabbed at Isaac’s kindness with the avidity of a drowning woman reaching for an offered hand. It had not occurred to me that he might be drowning too. Now I had a foolish urge to hold him, to put my arms around him; as if I could magically make it better when, of course, I meant nothing to him at all.
I resisted all foolish urges. Instead, I covered for him.
“Try some butter on those turnips,” I said. “It makes them edible.” He moved his hand, took the butter, and the table stopped pretending not to watch. Matt began some lively talk about vintages and English wine, offering the bottle around until Freddie raised his eyebrows disapprovingly.
“You know nothing about fine wine, Matt,” he said with unwonted sharpness.
“True, but I’m an expert on bluffing,” said Matt easily. “After all, I do it all the time with books.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Matt. You’re more widely read than I am,” Freddie snapped.
“No, I’m just better at the selling of them, and of course the cooking,” said Matt lightly. I’d never seen Matt rise to Freddie’s surliness; or if he did, it was with a touch as delicate as a cat’s claw.
Still, cats’ claws could hurt; although I wasn’t sure why Freddie took such offence at this mild scratch. He glared at Matt, and for the next few minutes did not speak.
Meanwhile Matt turned to exchange affable chit-chat with Muriel, who was sitting somewhat nervously apart from Griff. Matt made her laugh even as she cast another anxious glance Griff’s way.
But Griff was fine. He talked geology to Hal and Russell in the manner of an enthusiastic lecturer, oblivious to Russell’s grouchiness. Occasionally he appealed over the table for Selena’s opinion, at which she gave an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile. Russell’s eyes, too, often rested on Selena, but without Griff’s eager friendliness.
Hunter, somewhat to my surprise, was enjoying himself, discussing cookery with Ruby more genially than I had ever seen him talk to anyone, including me. And yet Ruby had broken all his rules: she’d exclaimed loudly over his hand, and offered to cut up his meat. Astonishingly, Hunter didn’t seem to mind. He even laughed.
Well, it was none of my business who Hunter saw fit to admire. Even if she was fortyish with hennaed hair. So I studiously ignored them and told Isaac all about my unknown grandfather and his horses. He listened politely but without response. I tried to chat to him about sheep; but he didn’t want to talk, so I gave him a break by helping Matt clear plates away to the kitchen end of the room.
“It’s going better than I thought,” said Matt as he carefully loaded the dishwasher. “I thought it might be awkward.”
“Why?”
He pulled a wry face. “Just the mix of people. Russell can be… a little bit unsociable. And so can Isaac, though I must say he’s got more excuse.”
“At least Selena seems to be quite happy. She seems to like you, Matt. She was flirting with you!”
“I’m safe,” said Matt with a half-smile. That was why I liked him, too. No complications. Doubly safe, in fact, because he so carefully kept things light, concealing his kindness behind ironic bars. He paused to rearrange plates before adding, “I expect I’m a reminder of happier days, when Selena first met Luke.”
“Did you see much of them together?”
I was wondering what sort of a couple Luke and Selena made, but when I saw the way Matt’s whole body tightened I wished I hadn’t asked.
“Not much,” he answered quietly. “Like I told Freddie, I saw Luke very seldom once he married.” I had the sense of stumbling around hidden mine-workings: carefully camouflaged pits of meaning into which I could tumble and be lost.
Had Matt been jealous? I couldn’t ask. So I changed the subject. “I thought this evening might be difficult for Griff. I suppose Muriel’s told you about him.”
“Yes. She’s a pleasant lady, isn’t she? A great shame. She seems to think there’s hope, though. Apparently he’s become quite attached to Selena.” The hidden pits were covered over. There was a faint mockery in his voice.
“Well, he met her in memorable circumstances,” I said, handing him the vegetable dishes. “And of course, Selena is very beautiful.”
“Is she? I have different tastes. She’s rather obvious, isn’t she? You have more style, Eden.” This was pure kindness on his part. Next to Selena I was a stick with no style at all. “Anyway, if she’s flirting with me,” he went on, “it just proves that she doesn’t get out enough. Closeted on that farm all day with Isaac… She just wants somebody to be kind to her, poor soul.”
“Isaac’s kind to her!” I said instinctively.
“No doubt,” said Matt, while I reflected that Selena was treating Isaac with a cool reserve. But it wasn’t Isaac’s fault. He was kind, I was sure.
“It must be an odd household, that one,” I said.
“It’s a house of relics. What’s left after death.” Matt poured himself a glass of water and drank before he said thoughtfully. “I’m glad Isaac came tonight, though I must admit I am surprised. He doesn’t like artists, you see, thinks they’re a waste of space.”
“Oh.”
He glanced at me. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he doesn’t like Russell. He sees Russell’s presence here as a necessary evil: but Isaac wouldn’t make enough from this place just letting it out to school field-trips. He needs the year-round income.”
“What, Raven How belongs to Isaac, then?” I remembered him saying something about the rent.
“Yes. So it’s rather unfortunate that he’s taken against Russell. Mind you, Russell isn’t exactly a bundle of laughs.”
“He does seem rather…”
“Unwelcoming? You could say that. He’s your archetypal artist: too busy being a genius to care what effect he has on other people. If he even notices.” Matt’s tone was acerbic. He drained his glass and added, “Carol kept the social wheels oiled.”
“Like Ruby does,” I sa
id.
“Women are better at it, aren’t they?”
He wasn’t so bad at oiling social wheels himself, I thought, watching him offer help to Ruby when she came to fetch pudding from the fridge. As he carried away the bowls, I told her,
“It’s nice to see this place hasn’t changed.”
“I’ve always loved it here. Where are you living now, Eden?”
“In a guesthouse for a few more days, and then I’m on the streets, unless the Pattinsons let me stay on.” I’d pinned my hopes on their charity, having buffed and polished their house like a trophy cabinet. Come Easter, though, they would be full and I would be out. As I explained this to Ruby, she looked thoughtful.
“We’ve got spare rooms here,” she said. “The Easter watercolour course is coming up, but it’s not fully booked. There’d be a bed for you if you wanted to stay for a few days.”
“Really? Oh, Ruby, that’s so very kind!”
“If you’re prepared to muck in with the cleaning and cooking for the course, I’d only charge you a nominal rent.”
“How good of you,” I said, slightly less enthusiastically; and then dithered, wondering whether to tell her about my conviction.
I decided that later on would do. I’d give her offer time to bed in and root itself. Anyway, there was no point blighting Ruby’s evening by suddenly unmasking myself as the skulking villain at the feast.
Pudding was a caramel and whisky goo, very alcoholic. My surly Scots artist Anthony MacLeish would have approved of that pudding, still more of the bottle of Scotch that was then carried into the chilly lounge, where night streamed through the windows and made the candles shudder. A guitar was produced which Hal played while Susan sang several dreary folk songs, slightly out of tune, which everybody talked through.
Freddie had charge of the whisky bottle. “Need some more of this to warm us up,” he told me. I thought he was already fairly drunk. “Good news, by the way, Eden. We’ve had a little run on your cards. Matt sold five the other day.”
“That’s great!” I said, pleased and then immediately deflated, because five cards was nothing and anyway Isaac didn’t like artists. I looked over at him, sitting hunched on the other sofa, his tweed jacket clashing horribly with the cinnamon throw, listening to the music with glum resignation. Griff and Russell were discussing local history while Selena sat patiently on a stencilled chair between them. After a minute she rolled her eyes and called out to me,
“Got any of those mints, Eden?”
Hal stopped playing and announced abruptly that he and Susan had to go as they had a long drive home. No-one attempted to dissuade them.
“Mints?” queried Selena again once they had left.
“Eden always has mints,” said Freddie caustically. He knew that in prison they’d been my substitute for cigarettes; and I’d become addicted.
When I offered them round, Selena stood up and with languid grace wandered over to me. Russell’s gaze slid after her like a shadow.
“Can I sit here?” Slipping her shoes off, she collapsed onto the sofa and stretched her legs out with a sigh. “Actually, I just wanted an excuse to get away from those two.”
“Griff and Russell? Why?”
“Field systems. Do you know anything about field systems? I don’t even know what they are. They’re making me feel really thick.” She laughed, but I thought she was upset.
“I don’t suppose they mean to,” I said. Griff and Russell’s heads both craned towards us, watching Selena or rather her bare legs. Abruptly she curled her feet up beneath her on the sofa.
“That old guy’s staring at me,” she muttered. “And the way he keeps going on about the lady of the lake! I wish he’d stop.”
“It’s his memory,” I reminded her. “He’s not doing it on purpose.”
“Well, it gives me the heebie-jeebies. He’s creepy. I don’t like old men. You’re all right, Freddie, I don’t mean you.”
“Thank you,” said Freddie, who was all of forty. “Although I have to say, right now I feel decrepit, ensconced between you radiant young ladies.” He spoke the words very carefully. His eyes strayed gloomily to Matt and Hunter.
They made a handsome pair: Matt with his studied stylishness and trim, toned body, while Hunter – well, trim was not the word for Hunter, although I suspected he was equally fit.
But they gave out a similar air of power controlled, contained. The difference, I decided, was Matt’s feline self-awareness: he was fully alive to the impression that he made. Hunter, on the other hand, didn’t know and didn’t care.
When Hunter noticed me watching him, his eyes narrowed. I turned back to Freddie.
“Did Matt ever introduce you to Luke?” I asked, and then felt cruel, for Freddie looked away and didn’t answer. It was Selena who said,
“He didn’t introduce anyone after me. I mean, they weren’t really friends any more once we got married.”
“Matt and Luke were at one time, I believe, extremely close,” said Freddie quietly.
“No, not like that! You mustn’t think that, Freddie!” said Selena with some anxiety. “Luke wasn’t that way at all. Matt only has eyes for you. And no wonder, you’re looking very handsome at the moment.”
“Oh, very,” said Freddie glumly. He had shadows under his pouchy eyes, and the hand holding his glass shook with a faint tremor.
“Matt didn’t care about Luke, you know, Freddie,” she persisted. “He wanted me and Luke to marry. He helped us get together. That proves it, doesn’t it? Honestly, he only cares about you.”
Personally, I thought that Matt had cared about Luke deeply: but had recognised there was no future in it, because Luke wasn’t gay.
Perhaps Freddie was thinking the same as he gazed mournfully into his drink. “He was extremely grieved by Luke’s death, that’s all I know.”
“Well, so was I!” she said. “It was dreadful, seeing him lying there, with all the blood–” She put her hand up to her mouth, flinching. “Matt didn’t have to see him there. I did. I was a lot more upset than Matt. It wasn’t like you think, Freddie.”
Freddie sighed and looked away. But Selena said, “It’s true,” and patted his shoulder with a touching attempt at reassurance until he gave her a reluctant smile.
Snuggling up to him, she took his arm. “So how is business, Freddie? Are you making loads of money?”
“If only,” said Freddie. “There’s not much money in books, you know.”
“There’s not much in pictures, either,” I said. “Though at least Russell makes a living out of them.” And I called out to him, daring to be his equal, “Russell? What sort of work are you doing now?”
Russell stared down at me with, I thought, amazed haughtiness.
“God, don’t ask,” muttered Freddie.
But Ruby said, “Why don’t you show Eden? Take her up to your studio.”
“I’d love to see it too,” said Muriel. “Wouldn’t you, Griff? Would you like to see some paintings?”
I was sure Russell wanted to refuse. But Ruby didn’t give him the option. Instead she invited everyone along, so that the whole lot of us trooped upstairs and clumped along the corridor behind her in a chattering conga.
The studio was an angular room beneath the eaves. With bare, splattered floor-boards underfoot and uncurtained windows showing blank squares of night, its space was made achingly white by naked light bulbs. A paint-streaked trestle table held a muddle of brushes and squirming tubes. Stacks of paper curled up inside a cupboard with no doors. A half-finished painting stood on an easel: others lay on a multi-layered drying rack or were propped against the wall.
It was awful. I didn’t know what to say. The paintings I’d seen in Freddie’s shop hadn’t been the exceptions, the rare unsold disasters. These were just as bad, or worse.
No more broad sweeps and sinuous, decisive lines. No more stunning stained-glass colours. This work was dry, slow to the point of hesitancy, with harsh, grainy brushstrokes and colour
s as dull and flat as chipboard.
“That’s an interesting change of direction,” was what I came up with at last. Maybe this work had merits I couldn’t detect. Russell’s surliness suggested he couldn’t detect them either. And this was the man who had inspired me, when he spoke of drawing a scene, literally: of pulling out the essence, of tempting it, charming it onto the paper…
Next to me, Isaac squinted at the easel in dismay. “What’s it meant to be?” he muttered.
Russell glared at him, thrusting his jaw out aggressively. “A load of bollocks, obviously!”
“Well,” said Isaac, at a loss. I felt for him. He had neither the artifice nor the vocabulary for this.
“The dry-brush technique gives it a restrained immediacy,” I said.
Russell switched his blowlamp glare to me. “That’s bollocks too.”
Luckily Griff provided a distraction. “Look, Muriel! D’you see that? There’s our Lady of the Lake!” he cried. Lying on the rack was a charcoal head of Selena, drawn with thick black strokes. She wore a seductive, questioning smile.
Eagerly Griff went over and held it up, then began to leaf through the pictures underneath. “Here she is again! My word!”
Selena drew a sharp breath. Then, lips compressed, she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, turned on her heel and marched out. I felt some sympathy for her.
“What a lovely picture,” Muriel said.
“It’s not meant to be lovely,” Russell drawled. “I call that one the portrait of a prostitute.”
“A what?” said Matt.
Russell smirked. “You heard.”
“A prostitute?” repeated Griff, wide-eyed.
“He’s joking, Griff,” said Muriel.
“I don’t joke about my art,” said Russell with a sneer.
In two swift strides, Matt had closed the gap on him and thrust a clenched fist underneath his chin.
Russell flinched back, and Matt’s face hardened with a certain relish. I didn’t doubt that he could flatten Russell if he wished, and I wouldn’t have been altogether sorry to see him do it. Russell hadn’t even pretended to show any interest in my career.
“Would you like to reconsider that?” Matt said coldly. Russell’s face was a picture. Contempt jostled with consternation and badly-concealed fear.
“I think you should both reconsider,” Hunter said, in his most unimpressed policeman voice.
“Don’t you ever call her that again,” Matt said, his voice low.
“For heaven’s sake, Matt! It’s metaphorical,” said Ruby. “Not to be taken literally, is it, Russell? It’s artist’s licence.”
“Like my fist,” said Matt, withdrawing it with a cool shark-smile. Russell puffed his chest out indignantly.
“Well, of course it is,” said Muriel.
“A model can be anything the artist wants,” said Ruby. “It’s a special relationship. You used to call me your muse, didn’t you, Russell?”
He just snorted. Ruby didn’t appear to notice. “He’s done a whole series of Selena,” she added proudly, holding another portrait up for us to admire.
I wondered why Selena hadn’t mentioned these to me. But then who would want their portrait labelled as a prostitute’s? Metaphorically or not. No wonder Matt was still eyeing Russell askance. I heard Freddie hiss at him,
“What d’you think you’re doing? He’s our host! And he’s a client!”
“Fucking artists and their fucking licence,” said Matt: and he stalked out of the studio.
Muriel at once began admiring the drawings of Selena, trying to bandage up the incident with soothing plaudits. I concurred, for in my opinion these were better than his landscapes; they had something of the old confident flow. There was a whole sheaf of Selenas – yet not a single picture of Ruby. So what had happened to that special relationship?
“Are there any portraits of you here?” I asked her.
“Oh, certainly!” said Ruby. “There’s a good one on the landing. Let me show you.”
So we all trooped out again in our obedient crocodile and trailed down the corridor past the frugal bedrooms that I remembered from nine years ago. I stuck my head in one or two: they were just the same, with narrow bunk beds crowded against white-washed stone, up to six crammed into each room. No expense spared. The folded duvets on the bunks were thin and yellowed; cobwebs laced the corners.
Ruby flicked a switch to light up the far end of the landing. “Here I am,” she said. “Russell did this some years back. It’s always been one of my favourites.”
The portrait was very large, and very naked. It was obviously an early work: quite apart from the style, Ruby’s face was younger, her skin as firm and luscious as a peach – no, a whole basket of fruit, succulent and inviting. More concubine than prostitute. We stopped, and gazed.
“Very nice,” said Hunter appreciatively. Isaac looked away.
“How lovely,” said Muriel. “It must have taken a long time.”
“About two months, as I remember,” said Russell shortly.
“It’s very good, isn’t it, Griff? Griff?” Muriel turned her head, suddenly alarmed. “Where’s he gone?”
“He can’t be far away,” I said.
There was a shriek: Selena came stumbling backwards out of one of the bedrooms further down the corridor.
“What are you doing? Get out! Leave me alone!” she yelled.
“I wasn’t – I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean–” Griff stammered as he followed her out, with Matt escorting him firmly by the elbow.
“You old perv!” Selena’s face was flushed with anger.
“I didn’t mean it!” protested Griff. “I was only looking. I didn’t expect– ”
“Just looking?” spat Selena. Her affability was all gone, replaced by wildcat fury. Matt grasped her hand and patted it protectively.
“It’s quite all right,” he said. “Hush, now Selena. There’s no harm done.” His eyes beckoned Muriel, who hurried over. Griff turned to her in miserable bewilderment.
“But what did I do? It’s the Lady of the Lake, isn’t it?”
“I am NOT the Lady of the fucking Lake!”
“Come along, Griff,” said Muriel briskly, “I think it’s time we went home.” He looked at her, dismayed and fearful.
“But why? I only wanted–”
“Now,” said Muriel, her patience thin for once. “We’ll get our coats.” She seized Griff’s arm and pulled him down the stairs.
“Time you went home too, young lady,” Isaac told Selena.
“Don’t order me about! You don’t own me!” she retorted.
His brows drew together. “No need for all the fuss. I think you’d better come with me.”
“Get off me!” Selena’s face contorted: her voice shook. He was nowhere near her.
“Don’t make such a fool of yourself,” said Isaac tiredly. “Sorry, Ruby. She’s being daft. It was a very nice meal. But I’ve got to be up early. We’ll go now.”
Selena was stealing Isaac away from me. I’d said none of the deep, important things to him that I’d longed to. Instead I’d blathered about sheep. It couldn’t end like this.
“Isaac? When shall I come round to the farm to finish painting you? You said I could, remember,” I added urgently, for his face was closing, doubtful. He wanted to leave.
“You’re supposed to be painting me, not him!” Selena cried.
“Selena,” said Matt quietly. She subsided, her face working.
“Say Monday,” Isaac said reluctantly. “Say twelve, midday. Come on, now, lass.” Selena pushed past him and ran fleetly down the stairs.
“See you at noon on Monday,” I called down after Isaac as he followed her. I noticed Hunter looking at me as if I was the one who’d just caused all the commotion. I raised my chin and glared back.
“Selena’s somewhat volatile,” said Russell flatly, as if she was a paint-thinner.
“Exactly what happened in that bedroom?” Freddie asked.
/> Matt grimaced. “I’m afraid Griff tried to kiss her. Don’t tell Muriel. I expect her life’s dismal enough as it is. Possibly Griff took somebody’s idea too literally.” This was said with a curl of the lip at Russell, who pretended not to hear. “Freddie, we’d better be going too.”
Soon all the others had left; but Hunter lingered in conversation with Ruby. Although I tried to chat to Russell, I might as well have been talking to the wall. I felt my words dissolve, uncared-for, and was relieved when Hunter finally dragged himself away.
“A shame it broke up so early,” he said in the car. “What was that little fracas all about?”
“Which one?”
“Both. Well, Griff is brain-damaged, obviously; it’s just as well he’s got Muriel keeping a beady eye on him if he’s liable to kiss people. Selena wasn’t very understanding. Maybe she’s not capable of it.”
“She’s all off-balance,” I said, thinking of her hurling away the camera and viciously kicking at Griff’s shins. I hadn’t told Hunter about the kicking. It hadn’t been important enough: just a moment of misbehaviour – like Griff’s unwanted kiss, and Matt’s menacing fist... All small transgressions, easily excused. They all had their reasons, just like my slightly more serious yet surely still excusable transgression.
“Some people are thrown by any sort of abnormality,” said Hunter. I managed not to glance at his hand. “But I was surprised at Matt squaring up to Russell like that. A bit of an over-reaction, wasn’t it? He didn’t strike me as the gallant type.”
“She’s the widow of his best friend. He intervened on Luke’s behalf. Russell was lucky not to get decked.”
But Hunter shook his head dismissively. “Matt was just making a point. I think he enjoyed seeing Russell cringe, but he had more sense than to knock him over just for being a prat, especially in front of a policeman. Not that I want to wear my policeman’s hat on all occasions.”
“I thought you never took it off?”
“Oh, in the right company I will. I enjoyed myself this evening.”
“Ruby’s married,” I said severely. “And ten years older than you. At least.”
“So?”
“And that picture was ancient. Russell doesn’t paint in that style any more.”
“I wonder what else he doesn’t do any more.”
“Stop it, Hunter!”
“Why?” He glanced at me, then looked back through the windscreen. He was smiling. “Waspishness doesn’t suit you,” he said.
“I’m not being waspish,” I snapped.
“Of course not. Nor jealous either. Why would you be? We have no claim on each other.”
“Dead right!”
“After all, I’m not jealous of Isaac.”
That shut me up. “Is it so obvious?” I said after a while.
“As a vapour trail,” said Hunter. “You hardly took your eyes off him all evening. And you said Ruby was a little old for me?”
“It’s nothing like that, Hunter! I just like him. Why shouldn’t I? He pays attention to me. He listens. He doesn’t treat me like an idiot.”
“Father-figure, is he?”
“I’ve got a perfectly good father,” I said stiffly.
“And what about Nick? Forgotten him, have you?”
I had never told Hunter anything about Nick except his name. To have him brought up now infuriated me. “I just told you. It’s not like that. Of course I haven’t forgotten Nick!”
“He wasn’t there when you needed him, though, was he? That’s why you’re looking for crumbs of affection from an old farmer.”
“I’m not–”
“Yes, you are. Hurt and lost and searching for your bearings. Ah well, I expect you’re safe enough idolizing Isaac,” said Hunter. The car swooped round a corner: the trees were phantoms in the headlights. “You won’t get close to him, but by the same token he’ll never let you down.”
Idolizing? Hurt and lost? He made me sound like a moody teenager. And was he implying that Nick had let me down?
As if Nick had ever let me down. It was me who’d let him down, and I could not forget it. I’d lost him through my huge, inexcusable transgression.
“Just what would you know about it, Hunter?” I demanded furiously. “Nick has nothing to do with this. Don’t pretend you know anything about me and Nick! And don’t tell me how I feel about Isaac! I just want to paint him. That’s all. There’s nothing else to it.”
“Whatever you say,” said Hunter coolly.
“You can drop me at the bridge.”
“Certainly.” His tone was dismissive. We drove the last mile back in silence.
Chapter Eleven