by Dan Scottow
She swigs more wine, and stands, approaching her canvas. Leaning her stick against her easel, she picks up a broad brush. Dipping it into some alizarin crimson, she swings it across the surface, leaving a heavy red swoosh. Arcing it back down, she slices through the previous trail. Jabbing the brush at her palette, she collects various colours. Her fringe falls in front of her face as she works, and she flicks it away. Feeling light-headed, she sways, reaching out to steady herself. She drops the brush on the floor, and retrieves her cane, crossing to a chair. Picking up the near empty wine bottle, she downs the remnants. The warm liquid trickles down her throat, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
Eyeing the door, she sighs heavily. It was too far to go for another bottle. She’d have to make do. One was probably enough anyway. Her eyelids droop, chin lolls forward. As it hits her chest, she snaps it back up, blinking. She stares at the canvas, shaking her head. She puts her face in her hands, fanning them out, and massages her temples with her index fingers. Inhaling deeply, she stands, returning to the painting. Picking up a smaller brush, she dips it in black paint, flicking her wrist towards the work. Spots of dark liquid splatter across the picture. She tuts.
‘Pile of crap!’ she yells, pulling it from the easel. It clatters to the ground, and she kicks it with her good foot.
‘For God’s sake!’ she screams, grabbing a blank canvas from a pile, heaving it up to where the other had been, moments earlier. She crosses to her workbench, picking up a tub of pills. She flicks the lid off, pouring two directly into her mouth, swallowing hard. She doesn’t even know what they are, doesn’t care. They must be American from the packaging. Her vision is too blurred to read the label.
She returns to her seat. Beginning again, she dips her brush into some magenta, mixing it with some white, a little cyan, swirling it on the palette. She traces her arm in fluid movements around the surface quickly. A splodge here, a swathe there. She mixes more colour, pushing her hair off her face, leaving a violet smear on her cheek. It begins to take shape, and she smiles as she works. It amazes her how some paintings just seem to create themselves, as if someone else was controlling her, while she struggles so much with others. She still looks at some of her portfolio and wonders how on earth she did it.
She hasn’t exhibited for years. Not since the accident. She has a handful of loyal fans who snap up anything she creates without question. She jokes with Valentina frequently that she would probably be able to shit on a canvas and sell it for thousands. But she is a perfectionist and will not take money for items she’s unhappy with. The studio is stacked high with unfinished pieces that she has given up on halfway through. She would not become a sell-out. Doesn’t need to. She had sold off the majority of Richard’s work, keeping a couple for sentimental value. The rest had made a small fortune.
Humming a familiar tune as she paints, she steps backwards, taking in what she has done. Her eyes dart up and down. Smiling, she knows this will be a good one.
The beginnings of a face stare from the canvas, mouth open in a scream. Eyes fixed outwards, following Diana wherever she moves. She squeezes burnt umber straight from the tube, grabbing a palette knife from her side table. She scrapes the paint around the sides, this way and that. Arm moving freely, uninhibited. She shakes her head, laughing to herself. She jabs her tool into the fleshy colour on the board and draws it across the canvas in broad strokes.
Standing back, she gasps, realising what she has done.
She had not meant to. Had not wanted to. But she has painted Lucy, screaming, eyes wild with fear.
She throws the knife down on the floor, exiting the studio. She locks the door, limping along the path to the house. Lucy is already home.
‘Nice walk?’ Diana asks.
‘Lovely. I just ventured into the woods a little. It’s a bit wet. Probably better to leave it for a dry day.’
‘There are some wonderful walks around here. I can’t manage very far, but I do wander from time to time.’
Lucy is crouching down beside the record player by the wall. Diana smells cigarettes again but doesn’t bother saying anything. The girl is obviously lying.
‘Quite the collection you have here,’ Lucy comments.
Diana crosses to her side.
‘They’re mostly Richard’s. Couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them.’
Lucy stands.
‘Why would you? You should play them for him. I’m sure he would appreciate it.’
Diana shakes her head. She’s tried many things, gleaning no reaction from her husband. But she doesn’t say this.
‘Perhaps,’ is all she replies.
Lucy pulls a record from the unit, sliding it out of its sleeve.
‘May I?’ she asks, glancing at Diana.
‘Go ahead.’
Lucy places it on the deck, and moves the needle above it, lowering the arm. The speakers crackle, and the synthesiser intro of an ’80s song that reminds her of her parents fills the room. Diana smiles, closing her eyes briefly. She opens them and sees that Lucy is doing the same, swaying back and forth, a smile on her lips.
‘I love this,’ she says.
Diana stares at Lucy and her painting flashes into her mind. The likeness is spot on, considering the short amount of time Diana had spent with her. Diana smiles broadly. Lucy’s eyes open, and she sees Diana looking at her.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘Nothing,’ Diana replies, beaming.
‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘No. You remind me a little of my daughter, that’s all.’
Diana looks away, thinking of Claire. The smile fades from her lips.
‘It must have been extremely hard… losing a child,’ Lucy says softly, averting her eyes from Diana’s.
‘The hardest part is the uncertainty. We never had closure,’ she replies.
Lucy frowns.
‘When Claire was in her late twenties, she walked out of the house and didn’t come home. They never found a body, but we laid her to rest many years ago.’
‘Diana, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.’
She nods.
‘A piece of me has never stopped wondering. But then I think, she had a happy life. We were close. She had no reason to run away, let alone break off all contact. So when I rationalise it, I think she must be…’ She trails off, glancing out through the window.
The record ends and the room is filled with the hiss and crackle of the vinyl. Lucy lifts the arm, flicking the player off.
‘I think I’ll get Richard ready for bed if that’s okay?’ she asks.
‘Of course.’
Lucy turns to go.
‘I may be in bed myself when you’re done. I take a couple of Valium to help me sleep, so I’ll be dead to the world. There’s no rousing me. This place could collapse around me and I would most likely sleep right through it.’
‘Okay. I’ll say goodnight then.’
Lucy disappears into Richard’s room, and Diana stares after her. She suspects she will enjoy having the girl around. Placing the record into its paper sleeve, she slides it back onto the shelf. Her eyes dance across the spines of the collection. She hasn’t played them for years. Can’t bring herself to. Her gaze comes to rest somewhere in the middle… she blinks a few times, then looks away.
Some are easier to listen to than others.
She crosses to the kitchen, pulling a Rioja from the cabinet. Grabbing a fresh glass, she retires to her room.
9
Diana
2009, Basingstoke, England
The fireplace crackles, flames dancing ferociously in the hearth. A bead of sweat forms on Richard’s brow, trickling down his cheek. He wipes it away. Rain batters the window as he paces the living room, jaw clenched, fists balled. He slams his hand onto the mantelpiece, swearing under his breath.
‘Will you calm down?’ Diana hisses.
‘How can I? How can you? She’ll not let this drop. She’ll ruin us.’
‘Ri
chard!’
Something in her tone stops him in his tracks, eyes wide. He looks as if he may cry.
‘You are the one who will ruin things if you don’t get a grip. Sit down and stop fussing.’
He lowers himself down onto the seat of a battered old red leather Chesterfield opposite, and begins to fiddle with his hair, smoothing it down from the parting outwards. She eyes the perfect creases in his suit trousers. So smart, so presentable. Thinking of the first instance she saw him at art college, all those years ago, she smiles. Even in his desperate state, her heart still flutters when she looks at him. They all wanted him, she thinks. But I got him.
Her phone rings for the third time in the space of a few minutes. His eyes dart to the handset on the coffee table.
‘Is it her again?’
She glances at it. Picking it up, she nods, rejecting the call. She slides the mobile into an oversized pocket in her mohair cardigan, wrapping the garment tighter around her as she shivers, despite the heat.
‘You’re going to have to speak to her eventually,’ Richard says indignantly. His comment is met with a withering look.
‘I’m not stupid, my dear. I’m deciding what to say. This is… delicate.’
‘This is more than delicate, Diana. This is bloody dangerous.’
She purses her lips.
‘She is our daughter. We’ve made it through far worse than this.’
Their eyes meet across the room. The phone begins to vibrate once more.
‘Answer it. She’ll think something is up if you don’t.’
Diana sighs, pulling it from her pocket.
‘Darling, hello. Sorry I missed your calls. My hands were covered in paint.’
Her voice is so calm, so sweet, that Richard almost smiles.
‘Mum, is he there?’
Her eyes train on Richard, who stares back at her like a frightened child.
‘Your father? Yes.’
‘Right. Do you know if he’s going out at all today?’
She furrows her brow.
‘I’m sure he has an appointment in town with Valentina this afternoon at around three. Why?’
‘I need to speak to you. It’s really important. But alone. Okay?’
‘I wish you two would put your differences aside. This is terribly difficult for me being stuck in the middle.’
‘Mum, I don’t know what he’s told you–’
‘He hasn’t told me anything. Simply that you aren’t getting on.’
There’s a pause.
‘Claire, what is going on? Talk to me.’
‘There’s a photo.’
‘A photo?’
‘Of Dad… and… oh God, Mum, I’m sorry.’
‘Claire, you’re not making any sense.’
‘I think he’s having an affair.’
Diana laughs.
‘Oh, darling… why would you say that? That’s ridiculous.’
‘It’s not. But I can’t do this over the phone. Can I come and see you?’
‘Of course you can, always. You know that.’
‘Right,’ Claire whispers. Diana can hear her laboured breathing down the line.
‘Are you okay?’
Another pause.
‘I’ll see you at around three,’ Claire says as the phone goes dead. Diana frowns, placing it on the table.
‘Well?’ he says.
‘She’s coming here later.’
‘Oh God.’
‘It’s fine, Richard. We will talk about this as a family. She’s only trying to protect me. It’s natural really. I’ll make her understand.’
‘She’ll go berserk when she sees I’m here. It won’t end well.’
She crosses to the sofa, sitting beside her husband.
‘I’m sorry, Diana, I messed up.’
She pats his face gently, cradling it to her breast.
‘Don’t you worry. It will all be okay. We’ll get it sorted. One way or another.’
‘But what if we can’t?’
Diana’s shoulders sag.
‘Claire will understand. We just have to make sure everybody remains calm.’
Stroking his head, she stares through the window into the garden. As the water runs down the pane, branching off in various directions towards the bottom, a blue tit perches on the edge of a bird feeder that hangs from an old birch tree. She watches as a sad smile creeps onto her lips.
‘We have a good relationship with our daughter, Richard. Everything will be fine.’
He closes his eyes, and as she listens to the sound of his heavy breathing, she thinks, it has to be.
The rain abates a little, sun breaking through a patch of cloud.
‘You should leave now if you’re going to be home in time to see her.’
He sits up, nodding. He stands, smoothing down his trousers. Clearing his throat, he smiles. The panic has passed. He is back to his measured, cool self. He marches from the room. A few moments later, the front door slams. She listens as the sound of the car engine rumbles through the window, growing quieter as he drives away from the house.
She closes her eyes, letting out a long, slow breath.
10
Lucy
The sunshine didn’t last long. Rain batters the roof as the wind howls down the chimneys. It’s after ten, but still bright. The thin curtains do little to block out any light. It feels like the middle of the day. She makes her way downstairs, hearing heavy snoring emit from Diana’s room. She pops her head in Richard’s door. He’s on the bed, eyes open. She steps inside the room, approaching slowly, leaning over him.
‘You having trouble sleeping too?’ she asks. He stares straight ahead, and she waves her hand in front of his face. She pulls the blanket up around his neck and leaves. She enters Diana’s bathroom, taking some cleaning spray and a cloth from a vanity unit, wiping soap stains from the porcelain, spraying bleach into the rim of the toilet bowl.
A pot of tablets lays open on the tiled ledge behind the sink, the pills dissolving in a wet patch. She replaces the lid, brushing them into the basin. Rinsing them away, she shakes her head.
Balling up the cloth, she rubs hard at toothpaste smears on the mirrored doors of a cabinet. The filth on the surface of the glass so thick, she can barely see herself. It hasn’t been cleaned in a long time… as she wipes, she wonders if Diana prefers it this way. Looking over her shoulder, she pulls the door open, peering inside. Shaving foam, bath salts, the usual array of bathroom products. Dusty cakes of soap in various shapes and scents. Lotions, potions, and scrunched-up tubes of creams.
But it’s also littered with various medications.
Tramadol, Valium, co-codamol, ibuprofen, antidepressants, more Vicodin. Anti-anxiety medication. You name it, it is probably on the shelf. Bottles, blister packs, orange prescription tubs from the States. There are loose pills in ziplock bags. No labels. How does she even know what they are? Lucy thinks, then realises the woman likely doesn’t even care. Lucy has seen addiction before, and this stinks of it. Her eyes widen. There’s enough in this house to kill an elephant. She’s amazed that Diana is able to function at all. But long-term use usually leads to higher tolerance. Lucy hopes she is never around to witness what would happen should Diana ever run out of pills. That would be some heavy come down. She stands the bottles up, neatening them on the shelf, facing the labels out. She tidies the contents of the cupboard, throwing out empty toothpaste tubes. When the bathroom is clean, she exits, closing the door behind her.
She takes a seat on the settee in the lounge, relaxing into the soft woollen throw draped over the back. It feels luxurious; expensive and smells faintly of perfume. She glances around the cottage, and it occurs to her there are no photos. No family portraits. No shots with Claire as a child. Nothing personal at all. Too painful, Lucy assumes. Better to try to forget. A philosophy she can identify with.
We are all running away from something, she thinks.
She stands, crossing the rug to the other side of the room.
A beautiful mahogany cabinet which she hadn’t noticed earlier sits in one corner, opposite a sofa. Marquetry flowers and leaves adorn the wood. It looks dated, but in good condition. Well cared for. An antique perhaps? Opening the doors, Lucy is surprised to see it is in fact a television set, old-fashioned, built into the casing. A small screen, no larger than thirty centimetres across, housed behind the exterior. Green-looking glass reflects the room behind her, making it appear distorted in its convex surface. A video recorder sits on a shelf beneath the TV. There is little dust inside. Lucy frowns. No internet, but she owns a VCR, she thinks. It’s like Diana is living in a time warp. She flicks the power switch, and the screen is filled with static. She presses the controls, flicking through channels, but there is nothing. Only grainy fuzz, and white noise. She turns it off, clicking the doors closed.
Glancing around the room, she crosses to the Welsh dresser. Blue-and-cream willow-patterned plates and cups cover the shelves. Safe in the knowledge that Diana is sound asleep with Prince Valium, she slides one of the drawers open. Piles of papers, held with elastic bands, neatly stacked inside. She pulls a band from a pile, fanning the contents out. Bank statements. Lucy raises an eyebrow, sucking in a sharp breath. No wonder Diana can afford to pay so well.
There are regular payments into the account, large amounts. Lucy assumes from sales of artwork.
Not many withdrawals. A payment to what seems to be a general store every couple of weeks.
Telephone bill monthly, which appears to cover the line rental charge, and not a lot of calls. The usual standing orders for insurance and the like. But little else. No splurges in designer shops. No online purchases, clearly as Diana has no internet. Lucy can’t help thinking the woman must live a very sad existence. She shakes her head, placing the pile back, rifling through. More pots of pills, nothing of any interest. She closes the drawer, moving to the next one. More of the same.
Diana is meticulously organised, to the point of OCD. Lucy has never seen anything like it in her life. At the bottom she finds a dog-eared photo. She pulls it out.