‘That’s not fair.’ Dresler’s tone was measured. ‘I was extremely busy. I had to get the film crew off, sort out all manner of details. I simply didn’t have time.’
‘Well, OK. If you say so.’
They relapsed into silence. It was a warm night, and the window of the room was open. There was a gale of laughter from the bar below, which only served to emphasize the tension in the room.
‘Right. Now, if you don’t mind, I think we should get some sleep.’
‘Well, before we do, there’s something else I want to ask you.’
Dresler gave a deep sigh.
‘I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth about what’s going on with Morris. You said he’d decided to leave Isobel and the Powell Gallery and come to you, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, how come she just phoned you, then?’
‘You mean to say you’ve been monitoring my calls?’ Dresler was outraged.
‘No, of course I haven’t. Your phone rang when you were in the bathroom so I just checked it, that’s all.’
‘Well, please don’t do that again.’ Dresler’s tone was cold.
‘As it happens, there are some negotiations between us—’
‘That take place in the middle of the night?’
Dresler sat up in bed. ‘Look, Jessica, this is my business. What the fuck’s it got to do with you?’
Jess sat up too, keeping a firm distance between them. ‘Quite a lot, actually. Elinor is – was – my client, and I’ve also had dealings with Isobel. I told you my theory that Isobel is painting as Morris. You dismissed that idea out of hand, and I went along with that. But now I’m beginning to wonder what’s really going on. And whether you’re telling me the truth.’
‘Are you saying I’m lying?’ Dresler raised his voice in anger.
‘I’m asking you to be straight with me. I think you know there’s something funny going on here, but you’re turning a blind eye.’
‘Of course I’m not.’ Dresler was furious now. ‘You’re imagining all this. The idea that Isobel Powell could be painting the Morris works is utterly preposterous.’
‘But you’ve never met him, have you?’
‘No, but—’
‘And nor has anyone else, have they?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘I think you know very well there’s something wrong here, Jacob.’ Jess tried to temper her own anger. She knew how important Morris was to Dresler, understood that he was in a dilemma. ‘All I’m asking is that you discuss this with me, and tell me the truth.’
‘I am telling you the truth.’
‘Well, I don’t believe you.’
‘Listen, Jess.’ Dresler looked her in the eye. ‘I’m not having you meddling in my business affairs. You know nothing about what I do. So keep out of it. Please stop this. Now.’
‘No.’ She returned his gaze. ‘I won’t stop. Because it involves a client of mine. I think you’re afraid if the truth comes out about Morris, that’ll be the end of your career. I think Blake and Isobel were involved in a scam together, and when he died, she asked you to take over.’ She paused. ‘As it happened, his death turned out to be quite convenient for you, didn’t it?’
‘That’s enough!’ Dresler shouted. Then he steadied himself. ‘I’m not going to argue with you any more. And I’m afraid if you keep this up, that’s the end of it between us.’
There was a silence.
‘I’m going to sleep. If you decide to drop this, we can talk in the morning, when you’re sober.’
She was stung by his remark. The wine had loosened her inhibitions, but she certainly wasn’t drunk. He was trying to patronize her, but it was clear that he was rattled by what she’d been saying.
He turned his back to her and lay down. After a few minutes, she heard the sound of his breathing slow. Then he started to snore.
She lay awake beside him, her heart pounding, wondering how he could sleep so soon, and so easily, after their argument.
She tried to calm herself, but her whole body was trembling with anger. Christ, she thought. How do I pick them? Another self-centred, lying, cheating bastard, just like Bob. How could I have thought he was any different?
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and repeated the action. After a while, the trembling stopped and she felt herself begin to calm down.
Dresler was lying to her, she was sure of it. And possibly lying to himself, which, as she knew all too well, most people find it very easy to do – especially when their livelihoods are threatened. There was no future in the relationship, she realized, unless she was prepared to collude in his self-deception, which was out of the question.
She glanced at the bedside clock. Eleven fifteen. Not late at all. She could easily get up and drive home, she thought. She tried to remember how many glasses of wine she’d had over dinner. Two or three perhaps – but they were large ones.
There was a blast of noise from the bar, as a door opened and closed, and then she heard voices outside. People were gathering on the courtyard to smoke and talk and laugh. Smirting, they called it: smoking and flirting. Apparently, it had become a popular way for people to meet partners: standing outside in the cold, they felt a bond with each other as members of an ‘exiled community’. She felt a sudden urge to go downstairs and join them.
Tears pricked her eyes, but they were tears of anger, not sadness. She was damned if she was going to cry for Dresler. It wasn’t a tragedy, after all. In fact, it was probably a blessing that it had worked out this way. Better that she’d found out what he was really like before she’d introduced him to the girls, before he’d become part of her life . . .
Dresler shifted in his sleep, still snoring. She felt like smacking him over the head. There was something so repulsively smug, so self-satisfied, about the way he’d ended their argument. He’d given her an ultimatum, with no room for discussion or compromise. She’d thought they were equals, but she’d entirely misread the level of his self-regard. All that nonsense about being interested in her work, wanting her to be interested in his; it was all a complete sham. What he really wanted was a plucky little woman by his side, cheering him on, never for a moment doubting his moral and intellectual superiority, whatever nefarious activity he might be engaged in.
A drift of laughter wafted in from the terrace below. She lay staring up at the ceiling listening to it. There was no possibility of her getting to sleep, she knew. Her anger with him was mounting, and unless she woke him up and continued their argument, which she wasn’t going to do, she’d lie there awake all night.
She made a decision. She’d get up, get dressed, and slip out of the room, without waking him. She’d go downstairs and have a strong black coffee in the bar, possibly two. Maybe go outside for a smoke on the terrace if she felt like it. Then she’d get in the car and drive home.
27
Driving out of the car park of the hotel, Jess felt a burden lift from her. All this while she’d been a spectator in Dresler’s life, she realized, a person whose role and function was indeterminate. Now she was herself again, back in her own sphere, one that she understood and controlled – at least to some degree, anyway. As she passed the executive suites lining the driveway, she was glad not to be a part of this leisured, international world, but a person with a job to do, two girls to mother, a home to make – with or without a man at the centre of it – and a life to get on with.
It was a clear night as she bowled down the motorway, the moon hanging like a great yellow lantern in the sky. Jess put her foot down. The house would be empty, she knew, as Rose had gone over to Bob’s for the night, and Nella was at Gareth’s.
There was little traffic at that time of night, so it took her under an hour to get home. Even so, by the time she went up to bed, it was half past one. As she turned out the light, she realized she was utterly exhausted. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she fell fast asleep, and didn’t wake up until morning.
The row with Dresler was playing on her mind. She knew from experience that she could lay her personal problems to one side and continue to work effectively with her patients, whatever her mood – and that being able to do that was, in itself, a boost to her confidence and a source of comfort. In that sense, at times she needed her patients just as much as they needed her. However, she also knew that the kind of turbulent emotions she was experiencing that day could, despite her best efforts, affect her judgement – not consciously, but unconsciously. That was one of the pitfalls of her chosen profession: one always had to be one step ahead of one’s own unconscious, which to some degree was a contradiction in terms.
Jess walked quickly over to the park, found her favourite bench in a solitary spot by the river, and sat down. She watched a family of ducks swimming in the shallows at the edge. The ducklings swam behind their mother, all of them poking their beaks in and out of the rocks, looking for food. From time to time, one of the ducklings would lag behind, and she would turn back and chivvy it along. The drake was nowhere to be seen.
She unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. Hummus and a salad of tomato, cucumber and lettuce. Nutritious, but not all that delicious.
One of the chicks drifted off in the swirling eddies, dangerously close to the mainstream of the river. Mother duck was pecking at some algae on a stone. On the river bank, a large black crow, silent and motionless, watched its passage.
What happened to us? she wondered. It started out so well. When we first met at the museum, and discussed the Morris painting, he seemed so cultured, civilized. He was so knowledgeable, without being snobbish about it. And distinguished-looking. Those blue-grey eyes. That chambray shirt. She sighed involuntarily. That first night we spent together, in the hotel, making love in the lamplight. It all seemed to happen so easily. He seemed so delighted by me, by everything, when we were at Cwm Du, before . . .
The crow opened its wings and took off, heading for the river. Crows don’t eat ducks, Jess told herself, and took another bite of her sandwich.
That was it, most probably, she thought. Blake’s suicide. It had been too soon in their courtship for them to weather such a storm. The cracks in the relationship had taken a while to show. At first, they’d clung together for support, both of them shocked by finding the body at the tower; then there’d been the trip to London. She’d loved his flat, the galleries, the restaurants, Soho – his whole world. The lovemaking had deepened and intensified. But then there’d been the attempt to track down Morris. She’d found Dresler irritating on that occasion: on the one hand, bossy; on the other, easily flustered. And ever since then, a certain distrust had crept into their dealings with each other. When she’d phoned him with her idea about Isobel and Morris, he’d dismissed it out of hand, rattled by the notion that anyone might question his judgement. And now, as far as she could see, he’d started lying to her. Morris, whoever he was, hadn’t broken with Isobel and the Powell Gallery after Blake’s death, and asked him to be his agent instead. It wasn’t as simple as that. There was some kind of scam going on, whether it involved Isobel painting as Morris or not. Dresler was covering it up, or at least turning a blind eye to it. Obviously, he was enjoying his new-found status as Morris’s agent, showing off to his pretentious, boring friends.
She finished the sandwich, opened the lid of her paper coffee cup, and took a sip.
He’d seemed so different from Bob at the start, she mused. And yet, when it came down to it, he hadn’t been; clearly, despite his relaxed, urbane manner, he was extremely self-involved, ruthlessly ambitious. His career was far more important to him than his relationship with her. He’d lied to her, expected her to go along with whatever he told her, whatever he did, no questions asked. That was the deal he’d offered her, and he’d given her no choice but to accept it, if she wanted them to stay together. But she couldn’t accept it. She wanted to know the truth, and she wanted to be with a man whose dealings were honest, not just with her, but with other people, too. Clearly, he wasn’t that man.
So why, she asked herself, had she been attracted to him in the first place? Perhaps there was some docile, quiescent, feminine aspect to her nature that always impelled her towards the alpha male. Perhaps, in future, she’d need to be aware of that, so she wouldn’t keep making the same mistakes . . .
There was a sudden squawking, as the mother duck turned and saw the crow descending from on high towards her offspring.
Her mobile phone went off, but she let it ring.
Where’s the bloody drake? thought Jess. Then she remembered she’d read somewhere, probably in one of Rose’s nature books, that drakes play no part whatsoever in raising their families.
All thoughts of Dresler left her mind as she watched the drama of the riverbank unfold. The mother duck paddled frantically towards the duckling, which was by now drifting away. The crow swooped down and pecked at the duckling. The duckling, finally realizing the danger, tried to scurry towards its mother, but it was caught in the undercurrent of the river. Suddenly, the mother duck stood erect in the water, flapping her wings, her squawking reaching a crescendo. The crow swooped again, but this time the mother duck took flight, landing smoothly on the water and edging the duckling back into the shallows, along with the rest of her brood, where they continued to poke about in the rocks. Defeated, the crow gave up, and flew away.
Jess gave a sigh of relief, and scrabbled in her bag for her mobile phone. She checked the log, found that the caller was registered as ‘unknown’ and called back, just in case it was something to do with one of the girls.
A female voice answered.
‘Hello? Did you call me just now?’
‘Is that Dr Mayhew?’
It sounded like Elinor, yet the number was registered as unknown. And the caller had addressed her rather formally, as Isobel might do. Jess hazarded a guess.
‘Isobel. Is that you?’
‘No, it’s Elinor.’
‘Elinor. Sorry. You sounded like Isobel.’
‘That’s OK. People always get us mixed up on the phone.’ Elinor paused. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘OK. Carry on.’ Jess glanced at her watch. She didn’t have much time to talk. Her next patient was due in fifteen minutes’ time and she needed to check her notes before she came in.
‘I really just wanted to ask you a favour.’
Jess sighed inwardly. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, I’ve started painting again.’ Elinor sounded excited. ‘And I’d like to show you some of my new work.’
‘Oh.’ Jess was surprised, and somewhat relieved. ‘OK. That would be very nice, Elinor.’
‘I thought maybe this Sunday, if you’re not too busy.’ There was a certain timidity in Elinor’s tone.
Jess thought about it. She had nothing particular planned for Sunday. She’d envisaged staying home, cooking lunch, and pottering about the garden as the girls came and went. She could spare an hour or two of her time for Elinor – indeed, it would be a pleasure to see her getting back to work again. And she was curious to see these paintings she’d heard so much about.
‘How about Sunday afternoon at four? But I’d need to be home by six. Is that OK?’
‘Fine.’ Elinor sounded pleased. ‘I can come to your house and pick you up, if you like.’
‘No, don’t worry. I’ll drive in. Where are the paintings – at your house?’
‘Actually, no.’ Elinor paused. ‘They’re in rather a special place.’
‘Meaning?’<
br />
‘They’re not hung in a studio. They’re exhibited somewhere rather exciting, outside the city. It’s a bit difficult to find.’
Jess thought for a moment. ‘Tell you what, pick me up outside the consulting rooms. I’ll be there at four.’
‘Great.’
‘See you then.’ Jess brought the conversation to a close.
‘See you. Bye.’ Elinor rang off, sounding pleased.
Jess got up, gathered her belongings, and walked back through the park the way she’d come. On the way, she threw the sandwich packaging and her coffee cup, still half full, into the bin. She’d had enough coffee for one day, she thought. She needed to be calm, cool and collected for the afternoon sessions.
She came out onto Cathedral Road. The trees lining the street were now in full leaf, and they rustled above her in the wind, casting dappled shadows on the pavement. She’d always liked this street, ever since she’d set up the practice here, all those years ago. The grand Victorian gothic houses had a sombre, respectable air, softened by the murmuring trees that stood sentinel before them. Most of the houses in the street were professional rather than residential, and had always been so – doctors, dentists, insurance consultants, and the like. It made her feel proud that, with her own practice, she had become part of that sedate history that stretched back to the nineteenth century.
She walked up the steps to the consulting rooms. If Jacob texted her, she’d text him back, she thought. Just to be friendly. But the relationship was over. There was no doubt in her mind about that.
28
When Sunday came, Jess began to regret her offer to view Elinor’s new work. She was enjoying being at home, in the peace and quiet. Nella and Gareth were staying over at his place, and Rose was at Bob’s. The rain was drumming on the window outside, and it was cosy in the sitting room, where she was lying on the sofa, her head propped up on a cushion, reading.
Separation from the twin may be experienced as extremely threatening, even catastrophic, as it exposes the patient to a loss of known boundaries with the consequent fear of dropping into a void or ‘nameless dread’. This may result in a narcissistic collusion between analyst and patient, echoing the narcissistic twinship, and designed to maintain the ‘special relationship’ between them and to cover up the painful and difficult developmental matters that are being avoided by the patient . . .
Black Valley Page 24