by Ellis, T. S.
Outside the gallery there were posters advertising an exhibition that was about to open. It featured the work of internationally renowned artist Carl Rask.
“I had no idea, Fay. I’m really sorry,” she said in a little girl’s voice.
I looked her in the eye. “You knew.”
She skewed her face one way then another, as if she were Mr Bean. I couldn’t stay mad at her for long.
“Stop it,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“You should call him.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“If you don’t call him, the love gods will be angry and they might bring down great fires on the earth.”
“No, they won’t.”
“The love gods can be particularly nasty when you offend them. They once delivered me a gorgeous man, a true beast of power, with the most heinous bad breath.”
Emily stopped messing around with her face. “Didn’t you even google him?” she asked.
“No. I made a particular point of not googling him. After our ‘date’, for want of a better word, I thought it best not to know anything about him. I’m just going to get on with my life. I don’t think he was interested in me. He just left me there on the jetty, remember.”
“But only because of Russell.” Emily sighed.
She had a good heart, was always trying to do good. But sometimes her efforts were misguided.
“Well, I can’t just blot out Russell. I’ve tried. No matter how attractive and talented Carl is. Besides, he definitely has his own issues. How many times, Em?”
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine. Look, we’re here now. The café has stunning views and I could do with a coffee. Hopefully, there won’t be too many of these giant posters on the way.”
We went to the café and treated ourselves to a cappuccino. It was a beautiful spring day with very clear skies. We managed to find a couple of stools facing the window so had a panoramic view of the skyline, its buildings looking like pages from a history book.
“I’m really, really, really sorry,” Emily said.
“It’s okay,” I said, rubbing her back for reassurance.
“I think I have this rose-tinted view of life. I just want you to be happy.”
“Well, if I’ve learnt anything over the last few months, it’s how wonderful my best friend is. Whatever you do, I know you’re looking out for me.”
“Shucks, you’re making me blush.” She playfully shoved me, so I shoved her back.
We settled down and Emily checked her phone for emails.
“That’s weird,” she said. But she didn’t add to it. Instead, she busied herself on her phone. I tried to see what she was doing. She was following a link to a website.
“Oh, wow.” she said.
“What?”
“Forgive me. I told Jemima that you had a date with this Carl Rask. She’s really into her art, knows all about him. She sent back this link. I didn’t know this about him.”
Her face went all serious.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s nothing really. Just a curious fact.”
“Tell me,” I begged.
“It’s nothing.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s just that he’s been married once, and had another long-term relationship.”
But I could tell by the tone in her voice that she hadn’t finished, that there was more.
“And both women committed suicide.”
I was shocked. At first, my face just froze.
Emily obviously saw my discomfort. “I feel terrible for the guy. Apparently, both women gassed themselves. And before you ask, he didn’t murder them. He was out of the country on both occasions.”
“I wasn’t going to ask that,” I said.
“It reminds me of a poet I read about when I was at school — Ted Hughes. Same thing happened to him. Both the women in his life killed themselves.”
“Yeah, I remember reading about that. I think his mistress said that Ted Hughes made love like a butcher going about his work.”
Emily raised her eyebrows. “Sounds… I don’t know if that’s erotic or just makes me hungry.”
“I’m trying to imagine it. But images of a horror movie keep flashing up in my head.”
“You’ve got to feel sorry for the guy,” Emily said. “Carl, I mean. That’s a lot to go through. A lot to carry around with you.”
“It must be.”
I tried to imagine myself in the same position. What if I’d returned to the apartment and Russell had been lying on the floor? I don’t think I’d have recovered. The guilt would have been horrible. We all know that we shouldn’t blame ourselves when something like that happens. People who reach that point, where suicide is the only option, are difficult to help. Even skilled professionals sometimes can’t get through to them. But I suppose human nature makes us blame ourselves.
“I don’t know how anybody would deal with that.”
I was drifting with my thoughts when I heard a voice behind me. It was assured and resonant. “Deal with what?”
I nearly fell off my stool. It was Carl Rask. He was dressed head to toe in black again. But his black hair looked more ruffled than I’d seen it.
Emily’s jaw dropped. When she recovered, she pointed at the poster that hung in the café. Then, as if in some catatonic state, she just managed to get out the words: “That’s you.”
Carl looked round at the poster. “Yes, it is.”
The poster only showed half his face, the edge of it running down the middle of his nose. But the marketing department obviously knew that they didn’t need more than one of his eyes to make a bewitching impression.
“I asked them not to use my face,” he said. “I’m against the objectification of the arts.”
There was an uneasy silence. Then Carl said, “Do you mind if I join you? I could do with a break.”
Emily jumped in before I could say anything. “No, no, no. Not at all. Join us. Please, join us.”
“Thank you,” he said and turned to make his way to the serving counter.
“Oh my God,” said Emily. “Oh my God. I’m speechless. The photographs don’t do him justice. How can one man hog so much beauty? I don’t usually use the word ‘beauty’ in relation to a man. But, it’s the only word that comes to mind. I’ve never actually gone weak at the knees before. I didn’t think I could. But I swear, don’t make me get up from this stool, because I will just crumple. Don’t get me wrong, you’re Russell is a handsome man. A very handsome guy.”
“Still is,” I pointed out.
“Yes, absolutely. But… I. I don’t know, maybe the artist thing is working on me. But he’s just gorgeous.”
Carl returned, carrying his coffee. I jumped down from my stool and put some space between myself and Emily, so that Carl could drag a stool into the gap and sit between us.
“It’s a nice day,” he said. “Have you ladies been round the gallery?”
Emily had the silliest smile on her face. “Not yet. No, not yet,” she said.
I sipped my coffee, unsure of where to look. Carl turned to me.
“How are you, Fay?”
“I’m good, thanks. I see you have an exhibition opening here in a week’s time.”
“Yes. I’ve been busy checking the layout. The curator and I have different ideas about the effects of space on the emotions of the viewer. It’s very frustrating.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Emily said. Though I knew she didn’t. She’d gone before we’d sat down.
“Be careful when you stand up,” I said. “Your knees have been playing up, remember?”
Emily’s mouth twitched but she stopped herself laughing.
When she’d gone, Carl spoke to me quietly: “I owe you an explanation for not calling.”
“No. No, of course not. I understand. You made yourself clear when you dropped me off.”
“I don’t think you do understand.” His voice was tender.
; “I had a very nice boat ride, and it was lovely to see your beautiful house.”
He hardly let me finish before he said, “Would you have dinner with me this Friday?”
I wasn’t expecting an invitation, not after the way the previous date ended. “You said I was haunted.”
“Yes, I think you are.”
“And I didn’t think that I had a place in helping you with that. But maybe I do.”
I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that I was showing any emotion, but somehow he worked out that I needed reassurance. He lay a reassuring hand on my upper arm.
“Friday, I’ll pick you up in the boat at the same spot?”
I was confused. But I nodded.
“Could you apologise to your friend for me? I have to get back to work. I’ll see you Friday.”
I nodded again.
Emily was very disappointed to see the empty stool when she returned. I told her about the second date and she got very excited on my behalf.
I don’t know what I felt. It was a combination of feelings. Excitement, yes, a sexual thrill, yes, but trepidation too.
At the height of this emotional confusion, I sensed Russell sit down next to me. Not the real one, the one in my head.
“You’re going on a second date? Seriously?” he scoffed.
14. The flotation room
I FELT A little silly standing on the wooden jetty, waiting for a boat to come and pick me up. People walked by on the river bank and glanced at me. Did they think I might be considering jumping in? I tried to reassure the occasional passer-by with a slight smile, but that seemed to freak them out even more.
It was a warm evening for spring, very warm. The river had a mist rolling across its surface. When I first spotted Carl sailing towards me, I couldn’t see where the boat met the water. The mist obscured the water line.
Carl brought the boat to a halt next to the jetty and held out my hand to help me board. He was dressed in a tuxedo and looked amazing. I hadn’t known what to wear. I’d gone with a three-quarter length black dress with a halter neck. To keep me warm I wore a black and bottle-green mohair shrug.
I can’t lie, I was nervous.
On the way home from the Tate Modern I tried to understand why I’d said yes. Was it just because Carl Rask was so good looking? It was true, my body went into overdrive every time I saw him. It was hard to ignore that kind of physical reaction.
But Russell was good looking, too. I’d never had to slum it in that department. And Russell had a master’s touch in bed. But that was six months ago. Was it just my body saying enough is enough, I have needs?
Was I using Carl Rask? The man who had lost two women who had died by their own hand. And yet, I couldn’t think of him as being a victim. He gave off the appearance of strength.
Most men look good in a tuxedo, even those severely out of shape. But Carl looked incredible, helped in no small measure by his perfect posture. I knew that wasn’t much to go on. But it was also the conversations we’d had. He’d always seemed like the one in control of the situation, unlike me.
“Good evening,” Carl said.
“Good evening. How’s the exhibition looking?” I asked. “Did you sort out your disagreement with the curator.”
“Yes. We sat down for twenty minutes, talked about it, and decided I was right.”
I couldn’t help but smile at his cheeky attitude.
The boat cruised along the river. The sun was setting behind the trees on the far bank. We didn’t catch the last of the sun’s rays because the trees cut them off. Instead, a murkiness descended on our boat.
“I heard what you were talking about before I arrived,” he said.
I was slow to catch on. “When?”
“At the Tate.”
I tried to remember what it was that we were talking about. What was it? Then I remembered exactly what it was. It was his wife and girlfriend — the suicides.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was none of our business.”
“It’s very much your business. It’s everybody’s business. It comes with the job. My life is an open book. The trouble is, once people begin reading it they think they know me.”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t even presume to know you.”
“Does it scare you?”
I paused before answering. I didn’t want to rush into a glib answer. I didn’t want to say that it didn’t just because that would be the socially acceptable thing to say. He deserved a degree of honesty for such a sensitive topic. But I didn’t know how to approach my true feelings.
“It doesn’t scare me, no. I don’t know what to think of it. Life can be tough sometimes. Tragic things happen.”
“Do you think I might have contributed to their suicides?”
I didn’t wait to answer this one. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I did.”
I could hear a tone of bafflement enter my voice. “But how?”
“Because of who I am. I think people end up with the people they deserve to be with.”
I didn’t fully understand what he said. It just left me with a general feeling of unease, sadness. But he didn’t look sad. The eyes were as irrepressible as ever, even in the gloom.
That gloom didn’t last for long. When we emerged from the bend in the river that brought his house into view, I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was beautiful. Somehow he’d put bamboo screens across the river, around the jetty, screening it from the rest of the river.
As we got closer, I began to see what was behind the screens. The jetty was no longer the only solid structure on the river. There was a platform adjacent to it. It was the most surreal site. On top of this platform was a dining table. A dining table with chairs and a candelabra.
“Is that where we’re having dinner?” I tried not to sound too amazed.
“It is.”
The candles on the table weren’t the only ones. There were floating candles in the river, too. It was the most romantic man-made scene I’d ever witnessed.
Carl cut the engine and let the boat glide alongside the jetty, in-between the gaps in the bamboo screens. The boat acted as a further shield to prevent anybody seeing us.
I now had a better view of the table. It wasn’t a plastic picnic table, either. It was made of solid oak. The platform didn’t wobble in the water. It was secure. A lot of work must have gone into securing it. I could make out the steel rods that descended from the wooden platform into the water.
As Carl tied the boat to the jetty, another man approached us, walking along the pathway in the middle of the lawn. He was dressed like a butler and carrying a bottle of champagne on a silver platter.
“Good evening, miss,” he said, as walked onto the platform and poured the bubbly into two glasses. Then he turned to Carl. “Dinner in twenty minutes, sir?”
“That will be fine, Barton. Thank you.”
Unfailingly polite, Carl again held out his hand to help me off the boat.
“Mind the water on the jetty,” he said.
I wasn’t wearing my highest heels, but I could still feel how slippy it was underfoot. He led me onto the platform and pulled back one of the chairs, ready for me to sit on it. It had a beautifully embroidered seat. It appeared to be a Japanese design, featuring Magnolia trees around a pool of water.
I sat down and looked around me. The table had a centrepiece of red and white roses. The silver candelabra held five candles.
I was overwhelmed by the number of floating candles in the water. As darkness descended, the candles shimmered across the black water, reflections seemingly multiplying their numbers, making them appear to be stars that had fallen into the river.
No detail had been overlooked. A couple of heaters had been planted and their orange glow wrapped us in what felt like an electric blanket.
I took a sip of champagne.
“I hope you like fish,” he said.
“I do.”
“Good. We’re having sea bas
s.”
I stared at his eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d invited me on this second date because he thought I no longer cared for Russell. Or was it just out of embarrassment because he had stumbled into me in the Tate Modern’s café? But all this preparation couldn’t be down to his being embarrassed.
“It’s very kind of you to go to all this effort,” I said.
“It’s not kindness. Kindness is an unselfish act. This isn’t an unselfish act. To be honest, I want you.” The candlelight flickered as a breeze swept across the table.
“Last time we met,” I said, “you told me that you didn’t want me. That I was haunted. That your pleasures couldn’t be — what was the word? — diluted.”
He stared down at the table. “Yes, I did. And it got me thinking. Why wasn’t I haunted by what happened to my wife? And to my girlfriend? What’s lacking in me? My paintings don’t lack emotion. Everybody who sees them, critics and viewers alike, say the paintings are full of emotion. But in life, I seem to be emotionally lacking.”
Barton walked from the house with two plates of sea bass. He served them, poured more champagne into our glasses, then left us.
“But you said you wanted me. That’s an emotion.”
He thought about it for a while, his gaze drifting off to the night sky. “Well, maybe I have limited emotions. Maybe passion is where my emotions begin and end. In my work and in my life.”
“Are you saying you’ve never been in love?”
“No. I’m sure I have.” Then he pointedly averted his eyes from me. “But just in a different way to other people. But that’s just a guess. I don’t know how other people feel love.” There was a pause. Then he spoke again. “What do you think of the sea bass?”
“It’s lovely. Very moist.”
We finished our meal talking about our mutual love of the River Thames. Carl said he’d always lived near water. He didn’t know why, had never examined his reasons for doing so, but just had an urge to set up home next to it.
For dessert we had a lime cheesecake, though it wasn’t an ordinary lime cheesecake. There were all sorts of flavours. And it was presented, like the sea bass, as if it were a work of art.
“Will that be all, sir?”