As time progressed Bianca found as she had hoped that the techniques were easy to master and disguised all her shortcomings. She walked more and more rapidly to the studios each day, kicking up the fallen plane leaves in the streets with something close to vivacity. The terrible lethargy of the past months lifted. I’ve got away with it, she affirmed, smiling to herself, I’ve conned them. Now they’ll never find out that I have no talent.
Although he had been a catalyst in the whole process, Bianca gave no further thought to the dark-haired Lovat Whitburn until he boldly sat down beside her in the canteen on the pretext of sharing the sugar bowl. He immediately lost his nerve and could think of nothing to say. In the hideous silence which ensued, she noticed that his hands, with their long thick fingers and square palms, were in their way as expressive as the Frenchman’s but somehow very British in their solidity and clumsiness. She watched in fascination as he stirred his cup.
‘I am doing moulds after all,’ she told him with satisfaction. ‘I’m really enjoying it, too. I’m glad I took your advice.’
‘What advice?’ he returned, defensive.
‘To do sculpture this year. You remember trying to persuade me.’
‘That was the others. But you – uh – you look happy,’ he ventured, almost swallowing the words because he was nervous. He meant that she looked beautiful, but whereas in her home she had seemed limp and uncaring, and so not difficult to approach, here in public she was fully alert. All around them students sprawled or slouched, but she sat with a straight spine, graceful but intimidating. Her gaze darted past him to the door, to the counter, to the far end of the room, registering everything that happened, making him feel that he must be the least interesting person in view.
‘How are your tubes?’ she inquired, in a tone which might have been facetious.
‘I bust one this morning.’
‘Oh.’
‘Could’ve kicked myself. It had just come from the workshop and I was unpacking it. Dropped a screwdriver.’ His hand was resting on the table’s edge and to his amazement, she reached out without warning and turned it palm-upwards.
‘I do like your hands.’
‘I’m quite fond of them myself. Wouldn’t be without them, actually.’
‘I’ve moulded some hands. It was quite an interesting thing to do. Can I do yours some time?’ The question was asked without any implication that her interest was more than visual, which piqued him. Lovat was accustomed to the admiration of women.
‘I’m pretty busy at the moment.’
‘Oh well, then.’ She released her clasp with a good-humoured pat and reached for her coat, preparing to leave, and he turned towards her in alarm.
‘But I could – well, how long will you take? I mean, what are you casting in?’
‘Just plaster.’ She made it sound very obvious, as if he was a fool for asking.
‘Maybe Saturday?’
The day began awkwardly at 3 p.m., with both of them tongue-tied, curious about each other, disturbed by the quality of attraction they felt. The thrills and lurches of a young desire were familiar to Lovat, but he associated the feeling with women who were simple to bed and even simpler to forget. He had learned early in his adult life that for him it was hardly necessary to make the effort of seduction; at home in the North he had been acknowledged as a heart-breaker at every school dance or junior social. In London he had only to appear in a pub or at a party for several girls to seek him out, manoeuvre introductions or even approach him directly, and then remain by his side until he chose to suggest sex. He sometimes accused himself of sleeping with women only to amuse his friends. It occasionally embarrassed him that he could not remember names or bodies a few days later, but for the most part he did not consider these liaisons of any significance.
People said that Lovat lived for his work. It was a part truth; he was eaten by a need to do something great, but unsure what it might be. For the moment, tungsten tubes served to orient his life. His father had given him a vision of life as a quest for greatness, but the journey required a helpmeet. ‘A man doesn’t get far if he hasn’t got the right woman behind him’was an observation he had heard a thousand times, his father’s formula for complimenting his mother.
Lovat carried an ideal of this ‘right’woman in his heart, a woman who would require pursuit, a nymph-like figure who was forever on the point of vanishing in a dark forest but who, if captured, would somehow guide his path and assure his fortune. He had not expected the nymph to carry a famous name. He had not foreseen that he would desire her.
Bianca did not know that she desired him. She was aware of a leaping anxiety in his presence, but did not distinguish it from the nervousness she normally felt with anyone of proven artistic worth. She allowed the practical business of making the moulds to distract her, unaware that her lowered eyes and over-controlled movements appeared subtly flirtatious.
‘This place is a mess – how can you stand it?’ he inquired, intending the kind of weighty joke which made up most of his conversation with his men friends.
‘I’m sorry, I know I’m terribly untidy.’ She raised her head, alarmed, and slopped liquid plaster on to his jeans. ‘Oh my God, help! I’m so sorry, really, I just wasn’t looking …’ She sprang aside like a panic-stricken animal, looking for a cloth. ‘Here, let me – no, you do it, I’ll make it worse, oh God, I’m so sorry, how could I have done something so stupid, I’ve ruined your jeans …’ They were, now she noticed, newly washed and even ironed.
‘No matter,’ he told her, taking the rag and wetting it to wipe the white splash away. ‘You said you were untidy.’
‘Yes.’ Her smile was curious, curling her upper lip. He felt obscurely reassured by her readiness to be criticized.
‘The plaster will set if you don’t pour it.’
‘Oh God, yes. Oh no, it’s set already. Damn!’
‘Have to make some more, then.’
‘You must think I’m an idiot.’
‘Not necessarily.’ This time she laughed and they both relaxed.
It was early evening by the time Bianca had finished. He invited her to see his celebrated light sculpture, which she knew even his closest friends had not been shown. It undulated across the floor like a great white snake. Lovat was gratified that she stood watching in awe as he fiddled with switches to demonstrate how he intended it to be illuminated in an endless, seemingly random pattern. She knew exactly how to respond, with judicious praise framed to sustain the artist in the lonely business of creation, but as he accepted her compliments she felt for the first time that she understood the excitement of such work.
After that it seemed natural that they would meet frequently to see what progress each was making, and then to share meals afterwards, and then to stay together for hours because they enjoyed each other’s company. She discovered that the group among whom they had met were not his regular associates. Apart from the red-haired Joe, a friend from the Northern college where they had done their foundation year, Lovat was solitary. He worked long hours, constantly refining and changing, and for amusement drew notebooks full of imaginary projects.
Conveniently, the night bus to Hammersmith ran along Fulham Road, and Lovat spent many hectic journeys being thrown across the seats of the speeding double-decker, burning with excitement while he argued with himself that he should make a move, grab hold of her, kiss her, do something to secure her once and for all. Free fucking was the watchword of half the student community and he called himself a fool and a coward for holding back. It was just that she was Bianca Berrisford, and forgetting her would not be an option. He knew that once he touched her his destiny would be fixed.
Bianca gave him none of the conventional signals because she did not know them. Almost alone among the female students, she had never considered Lovat as a prize, either for his gifts or his looks. The business of evaluating men according to their sexual attractiveness was distasteful to her, and she had never imagined that she would attract
the attention of such an eminent talent. Fear immobilized her. Since she admired him, she supposed she must love him. For all that he praised her ideas, she was afraid that if he knew her intimately he would find out how dull she was. If they made love, he would discover that she had no capacity for passion. She stood still in detachment, watching herself wait for the move which now seemed inevitable.
On a rainy night towards the term’s end, her three co-tenants conspired to mate them, announcing with firm, encouraging looks that they were all attending an all-night Warhol screening at the Institute of Contemporary Art and would not be back until the morning. As soon as the door slammed behind them Lovat catapulted himself across the kitchen to kiss her, holding his breath with apprehension so that they were forced to break apart gasping ninety seconds later.
Bianca’s pale skin had reddened with the force of his kiss and her face was expressionless.
‘You do want to do this?’ he asked with anxiety.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice faint with shock. ‘Yes, I do. Really. I’m sorry, it was just I wasn’t expecting …’ Terror of losing him finally moved her into action. If she could pretend talent, well, she could pretend passion too. She reached up to kiss him again and he felt her hands, still chilled from the street, steal under his sweater to touch his back.
After a while he pulled off her shirt and the black satin waistcoat she wore over it. He was eager to see her breasts, to be surprised by the hidden physical woman inside her clothes. They were pale, even paler than her face, but heavier and rounder than her outward persona hinted, suggesting a voluptuous nature reserved. For a long while she sat on the edge of the table while he held them, her lips brushing his forehead, listening to his halting breath, becoming aware of a sweet, hot tension in her body.
In time they moved to the bedroom. Lovat seemed unable to speak. In the dim light his eyes appeared huge and black; she sensed from his ragged movements that he was making an immense effort to control himself. She wanted him to fail, she wanted him inside her, out of control. She strained his body to hers, winding her legs around him, holding him in her arms, wanting to heal him, please him, to release the frenzy which he was fighting. His body was so hot that the sweat dried as it appeared and her lips stuck to his throat.
It was easily done and within a few moments he was screaming in climax as if in pain. The full weight of his body fell on her. It was then that her own flesh asserted itself, convulsing in a series of contractions which would have been pleasurable if she had been expecting them.
Lovat opened his eyes and pulled himself up on his elbows again, scanning her face uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘I didn’t mean to do it like that. I couldn’t help it you’re too beautiful.’ She said nothing but he could see the strange, curled smile on her lips. The hand which caressed his face was warm. He felt helpless with tenderness.
Later in the night he tried again, anxious to give her a sexual experience that would prove his mastery. He was afraid that other lovers had been better. With other women he could last an hour or more and stay in control until the end. Bianca was conscious of her own enjoyment at first, but the more heated her responses became the more power she had to arouse him. The challenge was irresistible. The touches which pleased him were so easy to find, so thrilling to try. Was it so bad to want to give a man pleasure?
At the end it seemed as if he lost consciousness for a few instants. When he came to, his limbs tensed and his eyes focused, he looked at her with a pleading expression she had never imagined that his imperious face could wear.
‘We will always be together like this? Bianca? You won’t ever leave me?’
She kissed his forehead and promised what he asked.
In the months which followed she discovered that she had promised to marry him. At first she was delighted to be with him among the other students as an acknowledged pair, and then astounded to find that they were regarded in that community as a golden couple, blessed with all the good gifts: ability, beauty, style, connections and wealth.
Lovat seemed to be planning the progress of their love according to a preordained scheme. He asked to meet her sister, who endorsed him at once as a suitable prospective relative and elected to cast his horoscope.
‘There’s definitely a karmic link,’ she told them, shuffling her smudged and much-corrected charts. ‘This is how I can tell – see, Pluto here and here, seventh and twelfth houses, and the trine there, Bianca, through your fifth. Ideal aspects between Mars and Venus, absolutely ideal. You’re fated for each other.’
‘Well that’s a relief.’ Lovat was only partly joking. ‘I was worried you might say she could do better.’
‘You’re very good with Hermione,’ Bianca told him afterwards. ‘She drives most people crazy with all that hippy stuff.’
‘She’s only a kid and I suppose with your parents you’ve both got to do something to find your own way.’
His parents were the next item, and they travelled to Northumberland by overnight coach for a weekend visit. Bianca was astonished to be met at the station by a uniformed driver with a Bentley limousine, who took them to a grey stone manor house standing in a newly planted and very vulgar garden.
Inside she found that the Whitburns were an imposing couple with faces reddened by the winter’s hunting. His father in particular had an accent as broad as the one Lovat had affected at their first meeting. He had made his way up in the remnants of the Yorkshire wool business; Lovat’s mother had once been his house model. A younger brother and sister home from their boarding schools helped to break the ice. Their household wasa pleasant mixture of nouveau riche formality and warmhearted common sense. When his mother asked when the wedding was planned to take place Bianca discovered that Lovat was serious.
‘Hasn’t he told you, love?’ There seemed to be acceptance in the family that Lovat would always surprise them. ‘Isn’t that a typical man? He wrote us he was bringing his fiancée.’
In the night when he left his room to join her, she asked, ‘Did you call me your fiancée so that they would give us bedrooms next door to each other?’
‘What else should I have called you?’ He could switch from affection to mild contempt with unsettling speed. ‘We are engaged, aren’t we?’
There was no real question in his voice. Bianca was confused and excited. ‘I suppose we are,’ she agreed, unwilling to admit that she had misinterpreted him.
‘I didn’t think you’d want a ring or anything. That kind of jewellery isn’t your style, is it?’
Again, she agreed to avoid argument. A thundering great conventional engagement ring, something like a star sapphire in diamonds, would have annoyed her father intensely.
Her new confidence in their future faltered at once. She proposed the next step, for Lovat to meet her parents, and he dismissed the idea.
‘God, that’s so bourgeois,’ he yawned.
‘I don’t see why,’ she argued. ‘You wanted me to meet yours. I’m not expecting you to like them or anything but – I mean, I thought you’d want to.’
‘Well, I don’t. So you needn’t suggest it again.’ She was bruised, but after a while realized that there had been fear in his vehemence, and for the first time saw that he was not free of provincial insecurity. Instinctively she used opportunities to build his confidence and familiarize him with the matrix of smart people in which she had been raised. Within a few months it was becoming awkward to explain that Lovat and her parents had never met.
When he at last agreed to visit their house, Hugh was sufficiently annoyed by Lovat to satisfy his eldest daughter completely. Counting on the influence of their lunch guests once more, she chose to present Lovat casually in their midst and was gratified by a dead silence in the crowd. Her nerve failed her on the word ‘fiancé’and she stumbled on to introduce him by name. She was surprised to notice that he was almost rigid with tension.
Her father reached out to shake Lovat’s hand too heartily and too fast, then drew him
to his side with a compelling hand on his shoulder. ‘Charlotte, my mother,’ he announced, introducing Bianca’s grandmother. This was one of his common tests, designed to make the conventional startle at its informality. Lovat took it on the chin and talked to the older woman with an attentive chivalry which obviously charmed her.
The lunch progressed normally, but at the end Lovat insisted they should linger until the family were alone, and then disappeared into the library with her father. Afterwards they gave the same account of the meeting.
‘He’s a difficult bastard, isn’t he?’ Lovat spoke with ferocity. ‘I can see why you and Hermione have got problems.’
‘A very difficult young man you’ve picked there,’ Hugh announced at the first opportunity, but would not be drawn any further.
‘I am surprised at your choice, Bianca,’ her mother added, also looking uncomfortable. ‘Why on earth, when there were so many others …’ She looked away and lapsed into silence, her face drawn.
In the face of such hostility, Bianca felt justified in omitting to mention that they were planning to marry. It was still hardly real to her. As the spring mellowed into summer she felt she wanted to be more certain.
‘If we’re getting married …’ she began as they waited at the bus stop one raw windy morning.
‘Which we are,’ he assured her at once, pulling her aside so that the rest of the queue need not overhear their conversation.
‘Can we just – do it? Run away or something? I just don’t want to get into one of those awful huge weddings with all the relations fighting and everybody being hypocritical and snobby and vicious …’
‘Whatever you want,’ he agreed, his face clear and smiling. ‘Wherever you want. However you want. Waterskiing in Hawaii. In the gorilla cage at the zoo. Down an emerald mine in Brazil. On top of a number nineteen bus …’ The named vehicle, already crammed with travellers, sailed past the stop leaving the queue to huddle deeper into their coats.
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