"Sir?" The waiter poured a glass of water from the carafe on the table.
The woman turned and walked out.
Mark rose unsteadily. He crossed to the door, leaving his papers, ignoring the worried head waiter. Kate! He tried to call her name but the sound emerged as a dry croak. He reached the door in a daze and was just about to go through when she returned. A man followed her, apologising for keeping her waiting, a dark-haired bulky sort of man. Then they all bumped into each other.
"Why, Lord Averdale," exclaimed the man.
It was O'Brien, Eoin O'Brien.
Mark tried to pull himself together but he was still trembling when they shook hands.
"May I present my wife," O'Brien was saying, "Sheila, this is Lord Averdale."
Sheila? The name was wrong - Sheila was a horrible, meaningless, blasphemy of a name. But close up Mark was even more bewitched. The resemblance was uncanny. The same shy half smile, the familiar lowered lashes, the identical white pillar of her throat. Her name was Kate, not Sheila!
They lunched together. Not that Mark ate much, his appetite deserted him. But he drank, consuming an entire bottle of claret while O'Brien and his wife shared a bottle of hock, with O'Brien drinking three quarters of that. It was O'Brien who did most of the talking, prattling on about his business.
Mark tried not to stare. He was shocked, both by the resemblance and tiny differences. She was older. Rouen's nymph was no more than nineteen, this woman was in her late twenties. And Mark was stupidly surprised when she spoke not in French but in a musically soft brogue. But her eyes, her throat, her hair, her nose ... all were identical. She was his. What right had O'Brien to have found her, to have married her ...
Mark couldn't decide if he wanted the meal to end, or go on forever. O'Brien ought not to have been there. Had it just been the two of them ... Mark's head swam. But he knew one thing - he had to possess her. Suddenly Rouen's painting was not enough, not now, not when he had seen her in the flesh.
They parted and went their separate ways, the O'Briens to London, Mark back to Ulster and Brackenburn. That night Dorothy was made to submit to variants of the sex act she had never dreamt possible - but even with his eyes closed Mark could not sustain the pretence that it was Kate. He returned to his rooms, bitterly vengeful. It was monstrous for O'Brien to possess such a vision ... the man lacked breeding, he was a crude, fumbling artisan with no artistic feelings ... it was wrong, wrong, wrong ...
By morning Mark's plans were made ... and ten weeks later they bore fruit.
Mark himself received Eoin O'Brien when he made his worried appearance at the Averdale offices. It was their first meeting since their chance encounter in Liverpool. O'Brien was already very different - he had been buoyant and confident then, but now - no matter how hard he tried to disguise his feelings - he was anxious and nervous. Mark sat him in a comfortable chair, suggested a glass of Madeira and offered him a choice of cigars.
O'Brien came straight to the point, "It's a favour I'm asking, Lord Averdale. Nine weeks ago your company cancelled its business with me. I'd like you to reconsider your decision."
Mark seemed surprised. He had no idea, he said, the matter had escaped his notice ... he would look into it. O'Brien was left nursing his glass and his hopes while Mark went to investigate. He returned clutching a sheaf of papers. "I'm sorry O'Brien, but apparently we get similar components from Germany at a much keener price," Mark shrugged. "Of course, I had no idea, but under the circumstances my people could hardly have done anything else. The difference is quite considerable. I'm most awfully sorry."
O'Brien blinked. He had heard the story elsewhere. German manufacturers were causing havoc all over Europe. Even so, O'Brien had examined his costings, studied his methods of manufacture - his own outfit was highly efficient, even if he said it himself. Too efficient to be beaten by some bloody Krauts who had to climb over a tariff wall to get it.
"May I ask how different?" he said bluntly.
Mark seemed shocked, almost embarrassed, but he consulted his papers. "Well, it's a bit unethical," he said doubtfully, "on the other hand I'd rather deal with a fellow Ulsterman than a Jerry any day. But the truth will hurt, they're cheaper by a mile. Thirty-five percent actually."
There was no doubting O'Brien's dismay. He had steeled himself to drop seven, even ten percent - but thirty-five percent was impossible. That was below cost. It defied logic - nobody could make a profit at that price - nobody! His normally agile mind was lost for an explanation, which was not surprising for he would never have guessed the truth that Mark Averdale's London bank paid the Germans a forty percent subsidy on everything shipped into Belfast.
"Look here," Mark was the picture of concern, "I'd tell my people to switch back to you if it were five percent ... but well, I'm sure you see my position."
O'Brien crept back to his office like a whipped dog. He felt grateful to Lord Averdale, it had been good of the man to see him in the first place and he had been damned decent to reveal that German price. In fact the meeting had ended with the hint of an invitation to Brackenburn. O'Brien had hankered for ages after that - but it was ironic for it to come now, when he was facing ruin and disgrace. The collapse had been so sudden. Ten weeks ago he had been on top of the world. Then Averdales had cancelled their contract, bad enough when their business was twenty percent of O'Brien's turnover - but even worse had followed. Three other customers had transferred to the Germans. Suddenly O'Brien was operating at a loss. Half his plant lay idle. He had surplus capacity, surplus labour. Men had been laid off, good men, skilled machinists most of them ... but even a reduced payroll had not returned him to profit. His overheads were too heavy for his smaller volume of business. And now his bankers were fidgeting ... he would need to find smaller premises, much smaller ... either that or beat those Germans. But thirty-five percent!
He summoned his auditors and within a week sat contemplating an updated financial statement. The company was barely solvent. If it collapsed, some assets would fall short of book value. O'Brien stared ruin in the face. He thought of his wife and children ... the Chamber of Commerce, the Lodge, the Club ... and shuddered. It seemed so bloody unfair when he had worked so hard.
Then, the very next day, something remarkable happened. God is never far away in times of trouble and it seemed to O'Brien that God Himself had intervened on his behalf. He had taken his wife to lunch at the Queen's Hotel, as he did once a week, and that day was her twenty-eighth birthday so it was special. Not that O'Brien felt like celebrating but he hated to disappoint her. Something will turn up he told himself ... and then it did, in the shape of Lord Averdale.
Averdale was in the hotel lobby, not the dining-room, indeed Lord Averdale rarely dined there. So when the doors opened and O'Brien glimpsed Lord Averdale outside he was surprised enough to mention it to his wife. "There's Lord Averdale," he said, rising hastily, "I'll ask him to join us for a brandy. To toast your health on your birthday."
He would not have presumed three months previously, but the chance meeting in Liverpool, the courtesy extended in Averdale's office, and the hint of an invitation to Brackenburn all combined to give O'Brien confidence - and his fleeting fear of a public snub faded as he saw Averdale's smile of recognition. But Averdale was not alone. He introduced his companion as a Mr Ashendon, then listened politely to the invitation to join the O'Briens for a brandy. "You too, Mr Ashendon," O'Brien said hurriedly. "Just for a birthday drink."
So the invitation was accepted. At the table Mark graciously toasted Mrs O'Brien, then finished his brandy and rose to leave. Ashendon protested, "It's my turn. Surely you'll allow me to order another round to toast such an elegant lady?" But Averdale declined. "I'm sorry but I'm late already," he said to Ashendon, "but you stay. We've finished our business." Then he was gone, leaving the O'Briens with an unexpected guest at their table.
Not until he was seated in the back of his Rolls-Royce did Mark's heart stop pounding. He breathed a sigh of relief as the driver
nudged the car into Queen Street's traffic. He congratulated himself, really it had been remarkably easy, even if his hands did shake as he reached for a cigarette. Seeing her again did that - to be that close, to touch her hand, to look into her eyes when proposing that toast, to smell her scent! His head swam.
Of course he had seen her since Liverpool, quite often, more than she ever knew. Muffled in a greatcoat with the collar turned up, he had shuffled past her house on many a morning. He had watched her wave the boy off to school. He had watched her return from visiting friends. He had watched her leave once a week to have lunch with O'Brien at the Queen's. He had watched her so many times - and always with the same aroused excitement.
Mark's nights were tortured by thoughts of her in O'Brien's arms. Even Rouen's masterpiece seemed to mock ... that knowing look in Kate's eyes acquired a new meaning ... look at me, she seemed to say, look and lust, desire and dream, want and crave as much as you like ... but only Eoin O'Brien will plunder my body. 'No,' Mark had cried, 'no, you are mine, mine, mine!' But Kate had just smiled her artful smile.
Then one day Mark saw her daughter. Even at six she was beautiful. She walked at her nanny's side, head erect, chin tilted, confident, as graceful as a gazelle. Her resemblance to her mother was striking, almost uncanny. The same vibrant red hair, pearl-white skin and huge green eyes too large for her face. And the name ... Mark had been within yards when the nanny had called, "Kathleen, it's time we were home." Kathleen! How many Kathleens were not called Kate? The name escaped his lips before he could stop himself - "Kate" he had said aloud. The child looked at him, startled, eyes widening to golden-flecked pools of deep green. Then the nanny had taken the girl's hand and hurried away. He had stared after them. Kate! Three generations. This child, the mother, and the girl in the painting. His heart pounded. The mother was flawed, O'Brien's thick-fingered engineer's hands had fumbled all over her body, O'Brien had planted his seed in her belly ... Mark still desired her, but his pleasure was diminished by that knowledge. But the child! Only a true collector has the patience to wait.
He sighed and stared at the back of his chauffeur's head. Now it was up to Ashendon who was being paid too well to fail. The Rolls purred through the outskirts of Belfast and set off for Brackenburn, where Mark would pace the floor until Ashendon phoned ...
At the Queen's Hotel Ashendon's charm was having a devastating effect on Sheila O'Brien, but then Ashendon's practised smile had weakened the resolve of ladies all over Europe. He and Mark Averdale had been friends ever since they were thrown out of Eton, after that party on the river - since when Ashendon had squandered his inheritance and now lived on his wits. And he lived well ... though never on the grand scale he described. The rich palace he talked of in Rome was in fact a modest apartment, his flat in Paris was a borrowed room, and the villa in Capri was total invention, as were his art galleries in Rome and Venice, Paris and Milan. But it made a fine story and Sheila O'Brien, who knew London and Edinburgh but nowhere "on the continent", could almost see the blue skies and feel the sun when Ashendon lapsed into excited Italian.
Eoin O'Brien was also impressed, besides it was doing his reputation a power of good to be seen in animated conversation with Lord Averdale's friend. But Ashendon's way of looking at his wife was beginning to get on O'Brien's nerves. From the moment he sat down the man had stared at her ... Sheila had noticed it too, she could hardly not notice! God in Heaven, the man might be stinking rich but he had no bloody manners.
But then Ashendon apologised. "I'm most terribly sorry for staring," he said, "but the resemblance is truly remarkable. Please let me explain."
He told them about an artist who had lived in Paris and painted his favourite model time and again, so much so that she had become famous. Even now her portrait hung in the Louvre. And Mrs O'Brien, Ashendon assured them, was so like her that even Rouen, the painter, would have been hard put to tell them apart.
The O'Briens were mollified ... but Ashendon was merely baiting the trap. "I'm not exaggerating," he laughed, "in fact I can prove it. Come and have tea in my rooms, I'll show you a photograph."
Sheila was too intrigued to resist, and although O'Brien was conscience-struck about returning to his office he sensed that the luncheon had turned into something of an occasion. Besides Ashendon clinched it with an intriguing remark. "It's too public here," he said, lowering his voice, "but, well, Mrs O'Brien's likeness could be worth a great deal of money."
Upstairs in his suite, Ashendon ordered tea. Then he opened a red suitcase. Sheila watched with mounting curiosity. Meeting Ashendon was quite an adventure for a doctor's daughter from Antrim, who despite her looks had led a very sheltered life ... O'Brien had married her when she was just seventeen, so life had been a matter of exchanging her father's house for his. Since when she had been a dutiful wife, and had given birth to two adorable children. O'Brien dressed her well, her house was as smart as her neighbours', they holidayed in London and Scotland, and by her own provincial standards she lacked for nothing. She was quietly happy and it showed in her face.
Which was why Ashendon thought Mark Averdale was wrong to compare her with Rouen's famous model. Even in Looking Glass, a reproduction of which Ashendon took from his suitcase, there was a difference. Rouen's girl exuded sexuality, whereas Sheila O'Brien glowed with femininity - the two were not always the same. Rouen's nymph seduced by arching an eyebrow, the very idea of seduction might shock Mrs O'Brien to the core. And yet ... Ashendon glanced from the coloured photograph in his hands to the woman ... and yet? Who could tell what she might look like if properly aroused? Perhaps if she were taken out of her stuffy bourgeois environment ... perhaps she could be taught... perhaps even as Rouen had taught his model... was that what Mark Averdale had in mind?
Ashendon waited until the maid had delivered the tea tray. He left Rouen's painting face down on the table while handing other reproductions to the O'Briens, talking non-stop about style and technique to impress them with his expertise. When the maid left Ashendon could delay no longer. He prepared the ground with care. "The resemblance will strike you immediately," he said to O'Brien, "ignore the obvious similarities such as the red hair and green eyes ... look at the bone structure ... the high sculptured cheek bones, the width of the forehead ... why even the hands are those of your wife."
Hands were the last thing O'Brien looked at when he saw the picture. The girl was completely naked. Nude! Totally! She lay on a couch, one arm raised to hold a looking glass, the other smoothing her hair as she admired herself. Quite, quite nude!
O'Brien went brick red. The paper shook in his hands.
"See what I mean about the cheekbones," Ashendon said smoothly.
O'Brien swallowed hard, "Dammit, I had no idea -"
"Oh, do let me see," Sheila O'Brien could restrain herself no longer. She rose quickly, bewildered by her husband's reaction. O'Brien tried to turn the paper away, but her hands had already grasped an edge.
"Oh," she said, and then again, "Oh."
Spots of colour marked her cheeks. She caught her breath, but her gaze remained fixed on the painting. She took in every inch of the figure on the couch, from the perfectly formed breasts to the slender waist, the rounded buttocks and the long, long thighs ... and the look in the girl's eye. "Oh," she said again in a whisper.
But Ashendon heard the pride in her voice.
"We must go," O'Brien announced, rising to his feet. "Sheila ..."
But Sheila was still gazing at the reproduction in her hands. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "wouldn't you think she's even more like Kathleen?"
"Our Kathleen?" O'Brien was shocked even further. "Our daughter -"
"Wouldn't you think so? When she grows up I mean?"
"You have a daughter?" Ashendon's note of pretended surprise was just right.
"And a son," she smiled, but her eyes stayed on the painting.
"Amazing," Ashendon said. He looked at the tea-tray as if seeing it for the first time. "Ah, tea. You promised to
stay for some tea."
O'Brien took some persuading but his wife had returned to the sofa, the reproduction still in her hands. The next moment the most amazing thing happened. She copied the pose of the girl in the painting - holding the paper to match the angle of the looking glass, while patting her hair with her other hand. She tilted her chin to the right angle, then she looked at Ashendon. He went cold. Hairs rose on the back of his neck. It was the same look - the same smouldering look.
Ashendon took a deep breath and began talking to O'Brien. By his own standards he was fumbling, thoroughly unnerved by that look - but he told the prepared story as best he could, of the rich art collector in Rome who worshipped at Rouen's shrine and who would pay a fortune for new works based upon Rouen's famous model.
"You mean fakes?" O'Brien asked, intrigued despite himself.
"Certainly not. He would commission Italy's greatest painters and sculptors ... perhaps Vitelli, even Orsinni, I don't know ... but I suspect he would pay hundreds of pounds to the model -"
"To pose like that?" O'Brien was horrified. "Are you suggesting -"
"Simply saying -"
"But the implication -"
"I'm sorry, but sometimes those of us who devote our lives to art forget how some people react. An artist's eye -"
"The implication," O'Brien persisted.
Ashendon begged forgiveness. "I mean no offence, quite the contrary. To rank alongside the Mona Lisa even ..." he shook his head, his expression eloquent. "Imagine your wife and daughter, immortalised in -"
"My daughter! She's six years old!"
"But has inherited her mother's extraordinary beauty," Ashendon broke off and hurried to the case. "Look,," he sorted through his photographs, "let me show you something. Take this as an example." The picture was Prud'hon's Venus and Adonis, two nude figures seated on a grassy mound, embracing - while in the foreground a naked boy-child romped with a pet dog. Prud'hon's idealised romantic love was lost on O'Brien. All he saw was the woman's snow-white flesh, the fair curls of pubic hair ...
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 102