Keep You Close

by Lucie Whitehouse

  Putting the picture back in the wallet, she closed the drawer and went to the window where she positioned herself out of sight behind the curtain.

  The street was empty, people at work, children still at school. There were five or six cars parked at the kerb, her elderly silver Golf among them, but none moving. The heavy glazed-cotton curtains smelled dusty. When she held her breath, the only thing she could hear was a single bird in the tangled branches of the willow.

  As St Giles rang the hour, however, a sleek silver car, a Mercedes, came down Crick Road, paused at the junction then pulled sharply round the corner and parked. A few seconds later, the driver’s door opened and she saw jeans, a dark coat, a shaved head. He locked the car with the fob, the lights flashed, then he turned and strode across the street. On the pavement, he stopped to look up at the house just as she’d done on the day of the funeral. What was he thinking? His face, upturned, gave nothing away.

  Staying out of sight, she moved away from the window and made her way quietly downstairs.

  Through the coloured glass panels, his silhouette was round-headed, square-shouldered. The tips of his ears stuck out slightly, as if primed for listening. She had the advantage of the step but he was still taller than her by several inches. Taking a breath to compose herself, she opened the door. A momentary impression: grey needle-cord shirt, black coat. Grey eyes.

  ‘Michael? Hello, I’m Rowan.’

  The hand he extended was dry and callused but of course, she realised, he worked with his hands, pencils and paints, brushes. Knives.

  He made an infinitesimal movement forward into her body space. The natural thing was to stand aside, let him in, but she stood her ground, obliging him to shift back, wait.

  ‘We’ve seen each other before, haven’t we?’ he said, looking her in the eye. ‘At the wake.’

  ‘Yes.’ Now she opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Thanks.’ A twitch in his eyebrow said he’d registered the exchange, made a note.

  In the hallway, he took off his coat. Rowan waited to see whether he would give it to her or, without thinking, turn to the pegs himself. How familiar was he with the house? Thwarting her, however, he did neither, and instead put it over his arm. He glanced into the sitting room and then up the stairs as if he expected Marianne to appear.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’

  On the way down to the kitchen, she felt his eyes on the back of her neck as plainly as if his gaze had physical weight. While she made the coffee, he moved around the room, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him tip his head to look at the books stacked by the sofa. Her computer and papers were at the end of the table and he stopped and picked up Catholic Gentry, turned it over to read the back. His self-assurance was striking: other people would hover, make awkward conversation, but he seemed to feel no need for that sort of social nicety.

  ‘You’re studying?’

  ‘For a doctorate. History.’

  ‘Where are you doing it? Not here.’

  Was that last part a question or not? Rowan wasn’t sure. ‘No, not here,’ she said. ‘London.’

  ‘Which college?’

  ‘You’re well informed. People don’t necessarily think of London as being collegiate.’

  He gave a half-shrug. ‘I have a friend who’s a professor at Imperial. She’s American, an old friend from California, but she lives here now.’

  On the point of saying something about it being good to have old friends around, living overseas, she stopped herself. Confident as he was, he’d no doubt be baffled by the idea of needing familiar faces. The kettle whistled and she filled the pot. Cory pulled out a chair at the table and dropped his coat over the back.

  When she brought the coffee over, he gave her a crooked sort of smile, one side of his mouth lifting but not the other. His eyes were on her face again. ‘Thanks for doing this,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘I hope I can help. How far along are you with the portrait?’

  ‘I’ll be painting soon.’ He pulled his mug closer and looked at the raised pattern in the china. ‘I’ve done a lot of the preparatory work, the drawing. Marianne was working hard herself, for her show, so she didn’t have as much time as I would have liked but, you know, that was fine. If you want to paint interesting people, you have to expect them to be busy.’

  How reasonable of you, Rowan was tempted to say.

  ‘My method, what I try to do, is build up as complete a picture of a subject as possible. The intersection of personality, personal history and appearance, how the former influence the latter – that’s what interests me.’ He took a sip of coffee then set the mug deliberately back down. The nail on his right thumb was longer than the others, purposefully so, she guessed; by the look of the moon of gunmetal-grey paint trapped underneath, he used it as a tool.

  ‘Marianne intrigued me,’ he said, ‘more than anyone I’ve painted before.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She was so … complex. We talked a lot, hours and hours, but the better I got to know her, the more convinced I was there was something else there, another layer, something that was key to getting her, you know?’

  Rowan’s stomach turned over. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to figure out.’

  She put her coffee down. ‘Excuse me if this sounds rude but are you sure you should be painting her portrait? Now, I mean.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’m far from an expert but it’s hard not to know your reputation.’

  ‘Hanna Ferrara.’

  ‘Yes, but, from what I’ve heard, some of your other work, too. Marianne’s family are grieving; they …’

  ‘Marianne wanted me to do it.’

  ‘Have you talked to her mother about this?’

  ‘We met at the funeral – James introduced us. She knows.’

  ‘Are you going to talk to her about Marianne?’

  ‘I hope so. I want to talk to everyone who knew her well.’ Cory looked Rowan straight in the eye and at this range, across the narrow table, she saw that his pupils were ringed with a blue so dark it was almost navy. Tiny tendrils snaked out into his irises. The day of the funeral she’d thought he wasn’t attractive but she could see now why some people might go for him. There was something purely masculine about the width of his face and the size of his nose, which was slightly longer at the tip, giving it an arrowhead shape when seen straight on. If anything, it was hooked rather than Roman but in combination with the shaved head and broad shoulders, it made her think of Romans – ancient ones. He looked gladiatorial. And beneath that nose, his soft, full mouth seemed particularly sensual. Strength and sensitivity – potent combination. Would Marianne have thought so? Yes, Rowan knew she would.

  ‘Why did you two fall out?’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Because I was a moron.’

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘There’s no point being anything else now. Did she tell you about it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It was just after her father died. She needed space and I didn’t give it to her. It was stupid, she was so raw and I was too selfish to leave her alone.’ Rowan felt her cheeks go red.

  ‘It’s a shame. James said Jacqueline told him you’d been pretty much part of the family. Hence your being here now, presumably?’

  She held the eye contact. ‘If I can help her feel easier about the house, Marianne’s work being safe here, it’s one thing she doesn’t have to worry about. And I can work anywhere.’ She gestured towards the pile of papers. ‘Should I ever feel motivated to work again at any point. I’m supposed to be researching a couple of archives at the Bodleian but I haven’t got there yet.’

  She’d barely touched her coffee but Cory’s mug was empty. ‘You’ve seen her new work,’ he said, and again she wasn’t sure if he was asking or merely stating a fact. ‘What do you think?’

  Self-conscious about offe
ring her half-baked amateur opinion, Rowan paused. ‘I think they’re incredibly powerful,’ she said. ‘The first time I saw them, especially the later ones, I felt … unsettled. Unnerved. They’re angry, they’re political. As I said, I’m no expert but I think they’re brilliant.’

  She waited for him to respond, to agree or disagree, but instead he pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Let’s go look at them. They’re still in the studio, right?’

  She hung back to see if he would take the lead but at the foot of the stairs, he gestured for her to go first. Manners or had he second-guessed her? It was impossible to tell; he was so difficult to read. She felt his eyes on her again as she reached the first-floor landing but when she turned, he smiled, unembarrassed.

  ‘Where did you do your work with her?’ she asked.

  ‘Here, for the most part, to maximise the time. We worked around her schedule – she’d work and then when she needed a break, we’d talk and I’d sketch.’

  Famous as she was, Rowan remembered, Hanna Ferrara had blocked out time in her schedule so that she could sit for him. Considering how much she was paid per film before he destroyed her career, it must have cost her millions. By contrast, Marianne had made Cory, so much more established than she was, fit around her. Rowan suppressed a smile, that’s my girl, but then had another, more disturbing thought: if he was prepared to do that, he must have thought he was on to something good.

  ‘Did you work up here?’ She turned and saw his face washed in the cold January light spilling from the studio.

  ‘Yes. It was where she was most herself.’

  She made a noise meant to communicate ‘Interesting’ but he was right, of course. And it told her something else: Marianne had let him spend time up here. She’d always been protective of her studios, the one in Bethnal Green, too; she’d let people see them, she wasn’t precious or superstitious, but in the years Rowan had known her, she and Turk were the only people Mazz had ever let spend longer than a few minutes in her work-space.

  Two sets of feet echoing on the boards today. The pictures were behind the old bathroom wall, hidden from view, but Cory headed straight for them. She followed then stood back and watched him. Again, the apparent lack of social awareness: as soon as he saw the paintings, it was as if she ceased to exist.

  His way of looking was physical. He moved frequently, standing away from the pictures and then swooping again to home in on a detail. At one point, his face was so close to the girl in the fourth picture Rowan thought he was going to kiss her. He tipped his head this way and that, pulled back, narrowed his eyes, brought his fingertips to within half an inch of the canvas and followed the movement in the paint as if he were stroking it.

  For a couple of minutes, neither of them spoke. The silence in the room became a bubble that held them both inside, part of the world but separate from it, too. Rowan thought of the afternoon Marianne had drawn her naked, the way time had seemed to ebb and flow like water.

  ‘You’re right.’ He spun on his heel.

  The bubble burst and the world rushed back in. ‘What?’

  ‘They are brilliant.’

  Rowan smiled, proud for Marianne and relieved not to have embarrassed herself.

  ‘They’re a self-portrait, obviously – you know that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Was it her imagination or did Cory look as if she’d disappointed him?

  ‘Did she tell you that?’ she asked.

  ‘She didn’t need to.’

  ‘What are you saying? That she had an eating disorder?’

  Now he looked at her as if she were the village idiot. ‘Plainly not. How well did you know her?’

  Stung, Rowan bit down the sharp response that jumped to the tip of her tongue.

  ‘She’s expressing how she feels,’ he said. ‘Consumed, destroyed from the inside out. It’s not about eating or not eating – it’s about being eaten.’

  Rowan’s face was still burning as she followed him back downstairs. She was furious with herself: the idea hadn’t even occurred to her. He might not be right, necessarily, but she should at least have considered it. And now he thought she was stupid. Of course Marianne hadn’t been anorexic – Rowan had never thought that for a second. She’d only said it because he’d put her on the back foot.

  ‘Was she popular at school?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Popular?’ Embarrassed and angry, she had to shut down the acid voice that said his real question was whether Marianne couldn’t have done better for herself, friends-wise. ‘Well, not in a cool-gang sort of way,’ she said. ‘Knowing her as well as you did’ – she couldn’t resist – ‘you’ll know she didn’t have a group mentality, but, yes. She was funny and interesting – people liked having her around. She was always invited to parties.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ he said. It had seemed like the start of a line of questioning but when they reached the hall, he stopped abruptly and turned around. ‘My coat’s in the kitchen. I’ll get it then I’m going to go.’

  Rowan bristled. No doubt it was a cultural difference, just a way of talking, but the announcement irritated her, the implication that he was the one who decided how things were going to work. She listened as he took the stairs to the kitchen and tried to picture his movements, estimating how long it would take him to round the end of the table and fetch his coat from the chair. The seconds stretched. Maybe she should have gone down with him. What was he doing? She was on the point of going after him when there were footsteps on the tiles and a series of quick creaks as he jogged up.

  He went straight to the telephone table where he casually took a pen from the pot and scribbled something on the pad. He tore off the top sheet and handed it to her like a doctor with a prescription. ‘That’s my cell. I’ve got yours, obviously. I’m going to be in Oxford for a few days so …’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I’ve booked a hotel. I’ve just driven up from London now, I came straight here, so I’m going to go and check in but I’ll come by again tomorrow. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’

  Sixteen

  She listened as he crunched away across the gravel. She’d been standing in exactly the same spot, naked bar the patchwork quilt, when Theo stamped off home to his wife. She shuddered at the memory, and as she did, the telephone started ringing. There had only been two calls since she’d been here, one a gas supplier scouting for new business, the other Miriam Jacobs, Jacqueline’s old roommate from her undergraduate days at Sussex, who’d just returned from a kibbutz, heard the news and phoned in a panic, having failed to get Jacqueline on her mobile. When she picked up this time, Rowan was surprised to hear Adam’s voice.

  ‘You’re in,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d probably be at the library.’

  ‘I haven’t actually got there yet.’

  ‘One of those days?’ Before she could clarify, he said, ‘I wanted to give you a call: I’ve been in touch with Savills to ask if they’ll value the house and they’ve suggested Friday morning. I don’t know what time you usually leave but I wondered if you’d mind letting them in? It won’t take long, apparently. I’m sorry, it’s a pain and …’

  ‘No, it’s absolutely fine. No problem.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course. And if there’s anything else, will you let me know? I’m watering the plants.’

  ‘Oh, yes – thank you. I totally forgot about that. Actually, though, I had another reason for calling. I’ve got to be in Oxford again on Friday, I’m coming to see Marianne’s solicitor, but not until later, the afternoon – I won’t be able to get there any earlier. Anyway, I wondered whether you were doing anything.’

  For a moment, she was confused. Did he want her to go with him?

  ‘In the evening, I mean,’ he said, ‘afterwards. Can I take you out to dinner?’

  Rowan saw him on the stairs ahead of her, the moon through the landing window casting him in silhouette, Blondie’s Atomic booming up from the ground floor. Of co
urse he wasn’t thinking about that, though. Even if he was single, he was grieving. He’d just lost his only sister.

  ‘As a thank you,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind, ‘from us both, Mum and me.’

  ‘You don’t need to thank me. But yes, I’d love to.’

  A blanket of heavy white cloud had covered the sky since the morning but while Cory had been at the house, the wind had picked up and driven it away. When she reached the studio again, the setting sun was a ball of brilliant orange. It poured through Adam’s old window, filling the room with a peachy light that looked balmy and inviting but in fact offered no warmth at all.

  One by one, she examined the paintings again. The girl on the chair with her unsettling smile and that luscious red apple: a low-calorie food but temptation, too, of course. Into Rowan’s head came the lines of a poem she’d learned at school. If you should meet a crocodile Don’t take a stick and poke him; Ignore the welcome in his smile … The second girl was sitting on the floor, her body tucked tightly into a corner. A book balanced on her bony knees, but she stared into middle-distance with a look in her eyes that was either dreamy or glazed. The third, incrementally smaller, hunched over a desk, her little head clamped between a pair of bright red Beats headphones. Hollow cheeks and, etched either side of her mouth, the faint beginnings of the lines Rowan thought of as anorexic parentheses. For as he sleeps upon the Nile, / He thinner gets and thinner.

  The final picture was propped directly opposite the window, and it glowed as if the light were coming not from outside but from within it. She approached slowly, as if the tiny wasted figure curled on the floor might find a final desperate burst of energy and lunge out, snarling. That mouth – maw, she’d thought, the first time she’d seen it – all black and angry red, the missing teeth. She’d interpreted it as slack, open because its owner had no energy to close it, to suggest hunger, but now it was a scream, The Scream, a stretched O of fear and anguish turned towards the lovely varnished floor because there was no point in crying out any more: no one could help.