by Jessica Ayre
In the bed next to Kathy's that night, she thought briefly of writing Derek a note. But what could she say? The tears sprang to her eyes. 'I love you, you fool'? 'Goodbye and thanks'? It was all pointless. Suddenly a thought began to form in her mind. Yes, that was it! A portrait—a nude. What better comment on their fleeting relationship. Her fingers itched to begin and she fell asleep, her thoughts full of that golden face as it had gazed passionately on her that single starlit night.
Jennie had several hours to spare before catching her plane the following morning. She spent them, charcoal in hand, doing a nude study of Derek. All her yearning tenderness went into the firm lines of his body, the animal suppleness of his flesh as he reclined on one elbow, his eyes casting a brooding intensity out of the portrait. Jennie felt pleased, and as she threw a last glance at the sketch before placing it in the large envelope she had purchased from reception, a bolt of longing shot through her. She stiffened her shoulders, licked the envelope shut with a little grimace, picked up her bags and marched to reception. As the taxi pulled away from the hotel, she stopped herself turning a backward look on the beach, on Cefalu, the site of so much joy, so much pain.
Back in London a grey mist hung over everything. Jennie's eyes, now used to the Sicilian light, sought in vain for clarity. In a way she was glad—less need to hide. She walked up to her flat, which looked singularly bleak, dumped her bags and went to knock at Mrs Owen's door. The old lady greeted her with oohs and aahs.
'You look quite lovely, my dear—so brown. But aren't you back early?'
Jennie smiled at her evident pleasure in having her back, avoided her question and handed her the small present she had bought at the last minute at the airport.
'You shouldn't have,' Mrs Owen protested, smiles wrething her face. 'But I'm so glad you did,' she chuckled as she tore open the paper to find a pitcher bright with Sicilian colours. 'It's lovely, dear.' She went to put the pitcher on her small mantelpiece. 'It quite transforms the room. Oh, but, Jennie, do tell me about Sicily.'
Jennie sat sipping the tea Mrs Owen had prepared, trying to put excitement in her voice while describing her 'holiday', as the old lady persisted in calling it.
'And what about your young man?' Mrs Owen's eyes crinkled coyly as she passed Jennie what remained of her chocolates.
Jennie almost choked on the soft-centred object in her mouth. 'Not my young man,' she said with a touch too much severity in her voice.
'Oh, my dear, I am sorry if I've said the wrong thing,' the old lady looked genuinely dismayed. Then, after a pause, 'Come along, let me help you unpack.'
Jennie accepted gratefully, happy for the company in the flat which gave her no pleasure.
Nothing much did, it seemed, from then on. She reported at the studios the following Monday, was assigned to a new play, a costume drama of the kind she usually loved. But she did her work automatically, finding no satisfaction in it. Even her painting didn't relieve the deadness in her. She couldn't rediscover her passionate commitment, though she continued to dab colour desultorily on canvas, making herself work to pass the time.
The days trailed on, one much like the next. She stopped checking her mail fitfully to see if there might be some word from Derek. Friendly letters from Piero kept her posted on the progress of the film, but told her nothing of what she really wanted to hear. She scanned them for mention of Derek, even of Daniela, but Piero was too high-minded for what would have been tantamount to gossip. She stopped riding her bicycle, began taking the tube to work, somehow pleased to see that its bleak grim-ness reflected her mood. She was almost relieved when her stepfather turned up one night, just because it broke the monotony. The ghost of Max seemed definitely to have been put to rest. If nothing else, she thought wryly to herself, Derek had certainly changed her in that respect. Her stepfather's appearance no longer had all those dreaded connotations.
One Sunday after she had showered, she took a good look at herself in the mirror. She looked thin, drawn, the colour gone from her cheeks, leaving only an ivory pallor. Pull yourself together, Jennie, she said to her image. It's finished, over. And if it happened once, it might happen again, with someone else. She breathed deeply as if forcing herself to believe it and continued to admonish herself. Work, woman, take an interest in life.
She dressed carefully that day, putting a little colour into her cheeks, and as she caught her reflection in her tall painting glass, she realised that she looked no different than before the tanned self of the sun-filled island—a slender, long-haired girl with dark eyes in a fragile, finely etched face, set off by a belted white blouse and jeans clothing shapely legs.
It's off to life, she chided the image in the glass, bar a certain deadness in the region of the heart. She picked up her sketchpad and went to unlock her bicycle, pumping air into the tyres so that it was usable once again.
A fine drizzle had given way and the sun peeped through the clouds with glimmering freshness. The shy light struck a chord in her. Perhaps it was the simple things one had to focus on, the play of sunlight on a leaf, the sense of one's legs moving. She cycled on, looking at the city in its early Sunday peace. Yes, it was just possible to be alive, despite everything. She pushed the nature of that everything, which had crystallised into Derek's golden image, out of her mind.
Jennie made her way to the park and looked round for Colin. There he was, his dark austere face bent over a sketchpad as if no time had passed. She almost ran towards him.
'Hello, stranger,' he greeted her. 'What? No tan?'
Jennie grimaced, 'It washed away in the shower. I've been back for a while.'
He looked at her questioningly. 'Given up the weekend stint?'
'Only temporarily. I'm back today, as you can see.'
A potential customer approached Colin.
'I'll buy you a drink later, all right?'
'That would be nice.'
Jennie noticed that her chairs were leaning by the railing. She threw Colin a grateful glance. At least he hadn't altogether forgotten her.
Jennie set to work. It turned out to be not too bad a day: a few children, a woman, even two rumbustious youths evidently down from Scotland for a football match, who flirted with her outrageously.
When it began to drizzle again, Colin came over to her. 'Shall we call it a day? I want to show you something.'
Jennie nodded.
'A drink first, perhaps—I'm parched!'
They packed up their things and Jennie followed Colin to his van. He lifted her bicycle into the back. 'Let's go and have a drink down by the river close to my place.'
'Yes, all right,' it was Jennie's turn to examine him. His black eyes above the aquiline nose seemed to have a new light in them.
'What's up, Colin? What do you want to show me?'
He chuckled, 'Well, I couldn't hold it back for long. I've got a show coming up, a big one.'
'That's wonderful!' Jennie's voice was warm with congratulation. 'I can't wait to see the work.'
'Very soon now. I think it'll make you laugh.'
Colin's studio was on the Isle of Dogs, a fair trek in the van, which seemed to be held together with Sellotape. They stopped at a little wharfside wine bar and sat looking out on the river, its waters running swiftly grey. Colin bought a bottle of wine and they shared it.
As he poured her a second glass of wine, Colin examined her, stroking his moustache reflectively. 'I don't know, Jennie, but it strikes me there's something wrong. Want to talk about it?'
Jennie demurred, 'Just tired, I guess. Sicily was a bit much.'
He looked at her as if he wanted her to go on.
'I was sent packing by the star.'
'Not that man who once came to see you in the Park?'
Jennie flushed, controlling her voice with difficulty. 'No, he's the writer. She's a rather hot-tempered lady.' An image of Daniela throwing a tantrum suddenly sprang to her mind.
'You haven't lost your job, have you?'
Jennie shook her head. 'N
o, just on to another project.'
'I see,' but he looked as if the explanation was far from satisfactory.
Jennie changed the subject. 'When do we see these pictures?'
'Now, if you like.' He stood up and they drove the short distance to his studio. It occupied the top floor of a disused warehouse and Colin had somehow managed to make the large dank room into home and workplace all at once. He had built a bed on stilts, beneath which he stored his work. Beside it there was a small round table, a sofa, some chairs and a lovely old stove he had picked up at a jumble sale. One tiny corner of the room served as a kitchen. The rest, opening out to the large windows which gave on to the river, was work space, crammed with plants, canvases, easels, supplies. The walls, Jennie noticed, held none of his work, only a few paintings obviously by friends. It was a good place, she decided, filled with the atmosphere of work. She curled up on to the sofa.
'I'm waiting, breathlessly!' she laughed, the sound feeling quite new in her throat.
He handed her a glass of wine, placed an easel at a little distance from her and perched a large canvas on it.
Jennie caught her breath. There in front of her was the Park, crowded with people, all painted with an absolute regard for detail, and yet all somehow magical. In their midst one figure stood out, a face with large dark eyes bent over a sketchpad. It was her.
'It's wonderful, Colin!' She looked at him, her eyes glowing with admiration.
He chuckled. 'You make an excellent model—so still, so concentrated.' He brought out more canvases. Each one, in one pose or another, had Jennie at its centre.
'I'm honoured,' she said truthfully.
'And I'm grateful. You've got me an exhibition. I feel I should give you one of these—and if you wait patiently until after the show, I will.' He came over to sit by her side. 'I'd love to do you now, in this room, if you'd let me.'
Jennie smiled. 'It will make me intensely uncomfortable. But why not? Though I may not be quite so still as when I'm unaware of you, I warn you.'
'You'll do.' He put a fresh canvas up on the easel and set to work. Jennie sat there, feeling odd but strangely at peace, dreaming a little, not too sure whether she was awake or asleep. Colin's voice brought her out of her reverie.
'Right, that's it for today, madam. The light's giving out. If you'd like to arrange for a sitting next week…'
Jennie giggled. 'Do I pay or do you pay me?'
'Let's see how it turns out first, shall we?' he quipped, moving to wash his hands and then coming to sit beside her, his lean legs stretched loosely in front of him. He ran his fingers through her hair.
'I've been wanting to do that for a long time,' he said softly.
Jennie looked at him oddly. He pulled her towards him, searching for her mouth, and kissed her gently. She went through the motions of response, but a tight knot coiled inside her. Little beads of perspiration formed on her skin. At last, feeling nausea mounting in her, she drew away.
'It's no good, Colin, I can't.' There were tears in her eyes.
He trailed a finger along her cheek and she shuddered, suddenly cold.
'You've got that distant look in your eyes again. What is it, Jennie? Is there someone else?'
She shook her head fiercely. 'I'm just hopeless at all this,' she gestured vaguely and got up, needing desperately to move. She looked down at him, sitting huddled in the sofa, his face sad. 'It's not you, Colin,' there was a note of pleading in her voice, 'it's me. I'd… I'd like us to be friends.'
He shrugged. 'We are friends, of a kind.' He looked up at her and took in her distress. 'It's all right, Jennie.' He got up and put his arm around her shoulder, squeezing it. 'Come on, I'll buy you some dinner, now that I'm going to be a rich man—well, a richer man, in any case.'
He took her to a pleasant little Greek restaurant and then drove her home. As he lifted her bicycle out for her, he smiled at her warmly, 'Next week, same time, same place. That's an order!'
Jennie nodded, glad that he wasn't offended. But the yearning ache had returned again, snaking through her like some life-sucking creature. She crawled into the lonely coldness of her sheets, unable now to keep Derek out of her thoughts. Her very blood called out for him. She suddenly remembered Daniela's warning and it rang in her ears with a pounding fatality. 'He will take you over and make you unfit for other men.' Yes, he had taken her over. She could feel his powerful hands now as if they were upon her, bringing her body to life under their firm caress. And then, as Daniela had so sagely predicted, he had dropped her, lost interest, made her unfit for anyone else. She pulled the blanket up, shivering as if its weight were that of a coffin lid buried under snow.
Jennie dragged herself to work the next day, but by lunchtime she felt she must be ill, so leaden were her hands. She begged off and went home, desultorily picking up her post, forcing herself up the stairs. She made herself some tea and toast, took the tray to her bedroom and curled up in bed, trying to bring some warmth into her limbs. Her fingers strayed over the envelopes—bills, adverts, and then an odd one with an Italian stamp. Her heart leaped. She tore the envelope open, her fingers trembling, and read: 'My dear Jennie, I have been meaning to write to you for some time now, but one thing and another, perhaps my guilt, has prevented me. I treated you very badly and I am sorry. Of course you are not incompetent.'
Jennie read on, her eyes skimming the page rapidly for the name she was looking for.
'I should tell you that Derek and I are not lovers any more. Perhaps it was already dead when I was in London, but I refused to believe it… And of course, I was jealous of you. You know, I suppose, that that was the reason for my unprofessional behaviour. I think perhaps he was a little in love with you, even if he did not altogether know it… I hope in time you will not think too badly of a silly woman, fearful for her age and looks. I extend my apologies. Perhaps we shall have occasion to meet again in happier circumstances. Daniela Colombi.'
Dear Daniela, Jennie thought, as she read the letter a second time. A tempestuous battler, ruthless when she had made up her mind to it, but fundamentally honest. She wondered whether things might have been different if Daniela hadn't had her sent away, whether Derek might then really have grown to love her. But she didn't let herself pursue the thought. Best to try and forget. After all, if Derek cared for her at all, he would have written, made some sign. It was kind of Daniela to say he had been a little in love with her. Love, what was it? A momentary passion while she was physically present—and then only when his mind wasn't on other things. But no sooner gone than he forgot her. A gust of anger suddenly swept over her. To think that she had almost been ready to give herself to this man! And even now, the filming obviously over—she checked the postmark on Daniela's letter; yes, it was Rome, not Sicily—he still couldn't find the time at least to acknowledge the drawing she had left him, to ask how she was.
Jennie nursed the flame of anger, fanned it into a searing rage. Springing up from her bed, she began aggressively to tidy her flat which she had let decline into an unspeakable state. All the while, she made a mental list of all the things she found hateful about Derek his cocksureness, his overreaching arrogance, the way he had trifled with her emotions, with Daniela's too; his mistaken assumptions about her which betrayed a fundamental insensitivity.
She scrubbed and polished and swept, and when the flat gleamed, she took out some paper, found a pen and began to write to Daniela. She felt an odd kinship with the woman. After all, they had both been dumped—there was no elegant way of putting it.
'Dear Daniela,' she wrote, 'Please believe I harbour no grudge against you. I understand how you must have felt. But there was really no need. Derek was only playing with me. I hope we'll have a chance to work together in less tense circumstances.'
She went out to post the letter and when she got back, finding nothing else to clean, she pulled out her Sicilian sketchbook. Full of the energy that anger brings, she set to work transforming these visual notes into paintings. She prepared a
palette bright with primary colours, akin to , the famous Sicilian ceramics, and began to dab aggressively at the canvas.
She worked like a demon for the next few weeks, cycling to the studios, coming home to paint frantically, her energy fed by her rage which was now like a cold steel blade within her. She saw Colin on Sundays and occasionally during the week. Warmed by his friendship, she sought somehow to make her body respond to him. In time, she thought, give it time, though deep inside herself she knew there was only Derek.
She bought herself a new dress for the opening night of the exhibition, a dress bright with blues and purples, reds and greens, like the colours she was putting on her canvases. It dramatically set off the fragility of her features, making her eyes even wider in her face, her skin translucent, her hair raven-bright.
The exhibition night came and she found herself at the centre of an interested crowd. She could hear the whispers. She was the model in the canvases. People came up to chat to her, complimented her as if she were somehow responsible for the paintings. She thought at one point that she detected Max and was almost eager to confront him with her total indifference. But no, it was someone else.
One man distinguished himself from the crowd: a tall, gaunt man with steel-grey eyes beneath a mass of salt-and-pepper curls. He approached her with the assurance born of authority and success, his perfectly-tailored suit falling elegantly over his narrow frame. Eyeing her critically up and down so that she felt like some butterfly beneath a collector's glass, he said:
'Colin tells me you're an artist as well as a perfect model.'
Jennie demurred, modest under his gaze. 'I paint, yes, but an artist…' she shrugged her shoulders.
'Let me be the judge of that. Come and see me some time with a sample of your work.' He handed her a card. She glanced at it briefly and a surge of excitement went through her. It bore the name of Dorian Biddell, one of the best gallery-owners in London.