An Image of You

by Liz Fielding

  ‘It was the least I could do.’ She cleared her throat. ‘How is Lukas?’

  ‘Fine, as far as I know. He’s away somewhere, I believe. More tea?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No. Tell me what you’ve been doing to get my idea off the ground.’

  He gave her a considering look and then shrugged.

  ‘I’ve been talking to one or two people I think might be interested in backing your scheme.’ George allowed him to talk, forcing herself to listen, blanking out the memories that kept trying to intrude. Gradually, her enthusiasm was recaptured and by the time they left the Ritz she had managed to push Lukas into the deep recesses of her memory, something special to be taken out and examined only in the privacy of her heart.

  * * *

  Her father arranged for her to have her own office. Sometimes she didn’t see him for days, but occasionally he popped his head round the door with a bit of good news, or a fresh idea. Bishop found her a bright young girl from the typing pool who rapidly proved her worth.

  A month after her return from Kenya, George Bainbridge could have been mistaken for any earnest young businesswoman in Docklands. Some of her old crowd had reappeared, keen to involve her in new causes. George had welcomed them, but she had thrown herself full time into the project and had little to offer except moral support and a bottomless teapot. Only those who were interested in her refuge project stayed.

  ‘How’s it going?’ George looked up with pleasure at her father’s voice.

  ‘Slowly. But, I hope, surely. That old warehouse is in a terrible mess, but I’m sorting out a scheme to get it put together. We’re using out-of-work tradesmen to train some youngsters. If they build their own space it will be something for them to feel proud of.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m glad it’s going well for you.’ He looked at her with concern. ‘Come down to Odney Place this weekend. The girls are bringing the children over. The woods are full of bluebells and red campion,’ he added, as if further incentive was required.

  ‘I’d love to. Can you give me a lift down on Friday night?’ She looked at the package in his hands. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He glanced down. ‘Oh. It’s what I came in for. The proofs to make the final choice for the calendar. I came to show them to you. Perhaps you’ll help me decide.’ If he saw her hand tremble he made no comment. ‘He said there are some photographs you took as well.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Lukas. He called in this morning with them.’ Before she could stop him he had opened the box and started to lay out the proofs across her desk. ‘They are very good, don’t you think? Which is the one you took by yourself?’ She sat unmoving, numb in the knowledge that he had been in the same building and she hadn’t known. It was probably as well. If she had known, nothing would have stopped her from flying up the stairs to catch a glimpse of him. Make certain he was well, recovered. ‘George?’ Her father’s voice brought her back to the present with a jerk. ‘Which one did you take?’ She glanced at the photographs, reluctantly at first, and then with heightened interest as she remembered the ones they had taken together.

  ‘That one.’

  Her father looked at her with respect. ‘Extraordinary. You’ve really caught something deep in that girl. When Lukas insisted you must be credited with it on the calendar I thought he might just be covering himself. But this is as good as any of them.’

  ‘No!’ Sir Charles looked up, eyes suddenly narrowed, and she realised she had over-reacted. ‘I made it quite clear to Walter that I would take it on the strict understanding that no one would ever know.’ She retreated in the face of her father’s penetrating gaze.

  ‘George, although I’m your father I have left you to sort out whatever has happened between you and Lukas in the way you feel best.’

  ‘Pa …’

  ‘Don’t tell me that nothing happened. Lukas was as jumpy as a kitten this morning. Almost leapt out of his seat every time the door opened.’ He looked grave. ‘You’re a grown woman and I respect your right to privacy. But I will not have a lovers’ quarrel disrupting one of my major public relations campaigns. Sort out the matter of attribution between you without involving MotorPart in anything unseemly. I hope I’ve made myself clear?’

  There didn’t seem to be any point in protesting. ‘Yes, Pa.’

  He nodded and picked up a box of transparencies. ‘Can I look?’

  ‘Of course.’ She opened one and held it up to the light. Safe pictures of a sunrise. She passed them to her father and he held them up to the light.

  ‘Lovely skies.’ He picked up the second box and began to flick through them. ‘This must be the school party you were telling me about. Dear God, is this you?’ He laughed and handed her the picture to look at. She was surrounded by eager youths, trying to lay a concrete block, just a happy snapshot. She picked up the third and felt weak as she looked at Lukas laughing broadly at something one of the boys had said to him. She pressed her cheek against the heavy glass of the window to cool it. The feeling didn’t go away, she discovered. Hard work kept the mind occupied during the day, but it didn’t stop the desire burning her up in the night. Her father took the photograph from her limp fingers and examined it against the light.

  ‘I do admire the man. He’s done remarkably well for a refugee.’ Sir Charles Bainbridge continued to look at the picture, giving his daughter time to regain her composure. ‘His parents were killed in a car crash trying to get to the Czech border in ‘68, when the Prague Spring folded. His grandfather brought him to Britain and raised him. A sad business.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘I have to pay him the earth to get him to do my calendar.’ He continued to look through the transparencies. ‘He justifies it because it gives him the time to do other work that doesn’t pay well.’ He handed her another picture to look at. ‘You’d better get him labouring down at the warehouse. If this picture is anything to go by he certainly knows how to work.’ Her father turned to go. ‘Oh. I almost forgot. He said to tell you that he’ll ring you soon about some deal you made. He said you’d understand.’ The transparency slipped from her fingers and flickered to the floor. ‘George?’

  ‘Yes, Pa. I heard. I understand perfectly.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll see you on Friday.’

  The odd thing was that she felt safe at Odney Place. She was sitting with her family around the fire after lunch, knee deep in Sunday newspapers, when the phone rang. There was a general moan of uninterest. She was the nearest so in the end she answered.

  ‘George Bainbridge.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Georgette.’ At the husky velvet of his voice she almost dropped the telephone.

  ‘Lukas.’

  ‘You sound surprised. Didn’t your father give you my message?’

  ‘Yes. He told me. I expected you to phone me in London.’

  ‘No, not there. I thought you’d probably be busy with Bob. Or Jeff. Or Tatty. Or one of the many others whose names, for the moment, escape me. I assumed that you would be relatively undistracted in your father’s house.’

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ He ignored her question.

  ‘I thought tomorrow would be a convenient day, since you’re so close.’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘You’re very monosyllabic today, Georgette. It’s unlike you to have so little to say for yourself.’ She ignored this little gibe.

  ‘How close?’

  ‘My studio is at Cookham.’

  ‘That close?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’ She heard the laughter in his voice. ‘That close. Ask your father to drop you off on his way up to town in the morning. He knows where.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Georgette, make sure you have an early night. I don’t want any dark circles under your eyes.’

  ‘What shall … I wear …?’ Her voice trailed off as she realised that he had already hung up. She stood looking absently at the receiver. It would hardly matter.

 
‘Who was that?’ Her father looked up as she rejoined them in the drawing-room.

  ‘It was Lukas. Can you drop me off at his studio in the morning? He says you know where.’

  ‘No problem.’ He paused, but if he noticed the slight flush to her cheeks he said nothing. ‘He bought old Dolly Morton’s cottage last year. You know where that is, down by the river. He’s done wonders with it by all accounts although I haven’t been there for a while.’

  ‘Yes. I know where it is. It’s a lovely spot.’

  Her father waited, then asked, ‘Will you be long, or shall I send Henry back for you?’

  ‘No. Don’t do that. I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll catch the train to town.’ Quite unable to stand so much restrained curiosity, she turned away. ‘I think I’ll go and see about tea now. Emma? Mary? Who wants to toast muffins by the fire?’ Her nieces scrambled up to help and George numbly followed them to the kitchen.

  She took herself off to bed early, not because Lukas had given instructions that she should, but because she couldn’t bear the normality of the chatter. Her sisters discussing their children’s schooling. Their husbands talking about the state of the economy.

  And she needed to get away from the watchful eye that her father had kept on her all evening. He knew something was amiss, but he was waiting for her to tell him. He had always waited, and in the past she had gone to him with her problems. But not this time. This time there was nothing he could do to make it better.

  Chapter Ten

  George dressed with the utmost care. It had taken her a long time to decide what to wear. She had risen early and the dogs had greeted her joyously at the unexpected treat of a dawn walk. The trudge through the woods had whipped the colour into her cheeks and despite the lack of sleep she glowed after a fierce shower. Then she had turned her attention to her wardrobe.

  Her first choice had been something soft, feminine, to tempt him. To make him want her. She dismissed the idea as unworthy.

  Her hand had lingered momentarily on a pair of scruffy jeans and she smiled. Perhaps that was what he would expect. The sight of her face in the mirror, eyes dark with longing, was like a cold douche.

  She was going to be photographed by a man who despised her. Who had extracted a promise that she pose for him in return for keeping a job he had spurned her for taking. Her own feelings would have to be buried deep, hidden completely, or he might extract more from her than she would wish to give to anyone who did not love her.

  She made up with a light hand, neither emphasising nor underplaying the features that nature had blessed her with. Perfect for a day at the office, which was where she intended to go immediately he had finished with her. Her hands shook as she put on the severest white blouse she could find and found the buttons oddly elusive. Get a grip on yourself, George, she told herself firmly. It’s nothing. Like going to the dentist. That’s all.

  She examined her rear view in the long mirror. She tugged firmly at the jacket of the navy pin-striped suit bought to impress hard-headed businessmen that she wasn’t a dewy-eyed idealist. Not that she would need to impress Lukas with that fact. He was already convinced. Nevertheless she was satisfied with the overall effect. She picked up her document case and joined her father in the dining-room.

  He raised an eyebrow at her outfit. ‘You look as if you’re about to take on the entire board of the Bank of England.’

  She poured herself a cup of coffee, looked him in the eye and smiled. ‘Good.’ It hadn’t taken a genius to work out how Lukas had known where she was. Only her father could have told him.

  Half an hour later, George walked by herself up the path to the cottage door, her suit a poor substitute for courage. She took a deep breath and put up her hand to the knocker but the door opened before she touched it.

  ‘Georgette. You came.’ The bruise had gone from his temple. Only a small scar remained to remind her of the worst night of her life.

  ‘Hello, Lukas. How are you?’

  ‘Quite recovered, thank you.’ He looked her up and down, a slight smile curving his lips. ‘You’d better come in.’ She hesitated for just a moment before stepping into the hall. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘No, thanks. I have to get on.’

  The hesitant smile disappeared. ‘In that case you’d better get out of that armour plating you’re wearing. Stewart will do your hair and make-up.’ He opened the door to a small dressing-room, but she made no move to enter. They had made a deal. No one was to be here but the two of them, and he had broken it. Lukas saw her hesitation. ‘He’ll go as soon as he’s finished. We could have managed the make-up, but I’m hopeless with hair,’ he apologised.

  ‘I seem to remember you were pretty handy with hairpins,’ George retorted coldly, but there was no point in making a fuss. Just like the dentist, she reminded herself. Grin and bear it.

  ‘Miss Bainbridge? Come on through. I’m Stewart.’ He took her jacket and swathed her in a huge pink cotton garment. ‘Make yourself comfortable. It won’t take long.’ He examined her make-up. ‘Very nice. I’ll just give it a bit more intensity—the lights tend to wash you out.’ He flicked colour on with a series of brushes and, apparently satisfied, turned his attention to her hair.

  He brushed out the neat chignon over which she had taken so much trouble and spread her hair over her shoulders. Then he took small portions from each side to plait and loop behind with narrow green velvet ribbons. When he had done that several times he smiled. ‘Your dress is in the cupboard there. I’ll leave you to it. Bye.’ Stewart left and she heard the outside door of the cottage bang and a car start.

  George did not move. A dress? What sort of a dress would he have chosen? She looked at herself in the mirror. ‘Any dress, George, is better than none,’ she reminded herself. And she had been expecting none. But then perhaps he would expect her to take it off. Reveal herself bit by bit. ‘Stop it!’ she snapped at her reflection and shook herself firmly. She opened the door, then stood regarding the garment that hung there with nothing short of amazement. It was white muslin, its full sleeves caught tight above the elbows and at the wrists with the same green velvet as she wore in her hair. The neck was scooped, but hardly revealing, and the waist high, gathered below the bust with more green velvet and tiny silk flowers. She took it from its hanger and found that she wanted, more than anything, to put it on.

  She removed her clothes and stepped into it. She managed the top hook, but gave up the struggle after that, instead turning to examine this new image of herself. The reflection that gazed back from the mirror was so different from the young woman who had left Odney Place that morning that she could hardly be recognised.

  ‘Are you ready?’ He tapped at the door.

  ‘Yes. No. Just some problems with the hooks.’ He opened the door and then halted, his face like stone. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He shook his head and walked slowly around her. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I can hardly believe how well it has worked.’

  ‘It wasn’t what I expected,’ she prompted him.

  ‘No. Because you never allowed me to finish what I was saying.’ His smile sent her heart-rate up several notches. ‘But you came anyway. Turn around and I’ll do the hooks.’

  ‘I came because we had a deal.’

  ‘So we did. And you’re back in your father’s good books, I see.’ The hooks were awkward and he stood pressed against her back for agonising moments, as he struggled to fasten them. She remembered the smell of his cologne, but the musty, sweaty smell of Africa had been washed away. Today he was back to the well-groomed Lukas, devastating in a black open-necked shirt and trousers, hair trimmed and firmly under control. She wasn’t sure she knew this Lukas at all. ‘There, all done.’ He took her hand and led her through to his studio.

  ‘I want you to stand there, so your face is lit by the natural light from the window.’ He frowned. ‘Hold on.’ He disappeared and returned moments later with two three-foot-high lilies. �
��I didn’t forget, you see. Madonna lilies. I knew they would be perfect. Hold them … yes, like that. I’ll take some Polaroids.’

  She gazed absently out of the window at a clump of bluebells growing under a hedge in the garden, trying to work out exactly what was happening.

  ‘Come and look, George. See what you think.’ There was nowhere to leave the lilies so she held them gingerly to the side and leaned over the table to look at the Polaroids. ‘Well?’ She looked up into his eyes. Teasing eyes, and today the blue was dominant.

  ‘You want the truth?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I think I look an absolute idiot.’ For a moment shock replaced the humour in the depths of his eyes. They stared at one another with complete and absolute antipathy. Then, without warning, he laughed.

  ‘Oh, George, Georgette, my love. You are quite incorrigible. I turn you into a Byrne-Jones fairy queen and all you can say is that you look an idiot.’

  George turned away, well aware that a deep flush was suffusing her neck and face. ‘Perhaps I just feel more at home in a pair of jeans. This isn’t me.’

  ‘You looked very at home in that suit. Absolutely terrifying.’

  ‘That’s just work. And if you’ve finished having fun with me I do have a busy day ahead.’

  ‘No. I haven’t finished. You promised to sit for me, and sit you will. And there are certain other items of unfinished business on our agenda.’

  ‘Unfinished business?’ She trembled and she silently cursed the flowers for betraying her.

  ‘Back to your place.’ He turned her around and gently patted her bottom. ‘There’s a good girl.’ He sighed. ‘Do you think you could hold those flowers a little more sensitively? You look as if you’re about to crown me with them.’ He bent to look through his viewfinder.

  ‘Don’t tempt me, Lukas.’

  ‘They would at least do less damage than the last time.’ He straightened. ‘Why did you run away?’

  She looked at her feet, at her hands, anywhere but at him. ‘I didn’t run away. There just didn’t seem to be any point in staying. I salvaged what I could out of the mess and left before I could do any more damage.’