All Days Are Night (8 page)

You look like you’ve put on weight, said her mother.

Gillian stayed longer than she had meant to. She went out to the garden with her father, and he showed her a couple of bushes he had planted. Later on, all three of them were in the living room again, reading. Gillian went to lie on the bed in her old room. Her mother was in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. Her father wandered around, perhaps he was looking for something. The times Gillian had visited him in his workshop, he had been a different man altogether, full of energy, choleric, but often in a good mood and generous. Whereas at home, he resembled a wounded animal, looking for a place to hide.

And you’re sure it’s all right if we go skiing next week? her mother asked.

Oh, yes, said Gillian, it’s not a dangerous operation. And you’ll see my new face soon enough.

Then why don’t you go somewhere, to the mountains or the sea? asked her mother. You’ve got time.

By myself? said Gillian, and carried the glasses into the living room.

She set the table. When she came back to the kitchen, her mother looked at her apprehensively, but Gillian didn’t say anything else. After dinner, they watched the news.

I’d better go now, said Gillian.

Her parents made no effort to keep her. They saw her to the door, her mother hugged her, her father shook hands. Break a leg, eh, said Gillian, and climbed into her car. When she had turned, she looked at the house again. The door was shut.

That evening Gillian checked her e-mails, but there was nothing for Miss Julie.

The text Hubert sent her after showing her his pictures had offended Gillian. He had asked if she was disappointed. After that she didn’t write for two weeks, and he hung back as well. Matthias asked her what the matter was, but she just shook her head and said she had a lot to do, half the editorial team was away on autumn breaks.

Finally she wrote him an e-mail that accused him of exploiting her. Not every woman you lure into your studio will strip for you.

Hubert answered at once, it was as though he had been waiting for her to write. He was friendly but provocatively calm, wrote that he hadn’t asked her to model for him, though he admitted he had entertained the possibility. He had decided basically not to continue with the series of
nudes and to start on something new, but it might be interesting to have one last go. It would be different anyway, he wrote, seeing as you’re not a complete stranger to me, and I wouldn’t want to photograph you but paint you from life. Might you be interested?

What happens with the picture? asked Gillian without a salutation or greeting.

I’ll give it to you, replied Hubert.

I can hardly come home with a nude painting of myself, wrote Gillian. He wrote: I wasn’t thinking in terms of a nude.

Unusually, the program was wrapped on a Monday, and Gillian got Tuesday off. When she woke up, Matthias was standing by the window, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Look at the fog, he said, you’re lucky.

No sooner was he gone than she showered and dressed. She tried to imagine the picture Hubert would paint of her. In his last e-mail he had asked her to wear a dress. She spent a long time in front of her wardrobe. Finally she decided on a classical high-necked chiffon dress that Matthias liked. She put on a pearl necklace and pearl earrings he had given her for their engagement. She didn’t care for them, they made her seem old, but they seemed the right thing for an oil painting.

Now, by daylight and in fog, the area around Hubert’s studio seemed even bleaker. Opposite the old textile mill was an ugly ’80s office block with red metal cladding. It was a busy road. Outside the studio building stood a young man and an even younger woman, smoking. They took in
Gillian. The man was standing directly in front of the door and only moved aside at the very last moment.

Are you looking for someone? asked the young woman.

I’ve got an appointment, said Gillian, though the expression sounded a little absurd here.

The long passageway was dimly lit. Gillian walked down to the end, knocked on Hubert’s door, and walked in without waiting to be admitted. Hubert had tidied up since the last time she’d been here. He had set up the easel in front of the sofa and put a big piece of chipboard on it.

Did you find the way all right? he asked casually and helped Gillian out of her coat. He looked at her. A dress without pleats would have been easier, technically speaking. How much time have you got?

Till midday, said Gillian.

He asked her to sit on the sofa, any way that was comfortable. No sooner had she sat down than he told her not to slump. He went up to her, laid his hand very gently on her shoulders, and pulled her upper body forward a little.

Is this all right?

When she nodded, he marked the position of her feet with red tape. Then he paced about the room in silence and looked at her from different angles. He put a film in his camera and took a few pictures.

Just to have something to fall back on, he said.

Finally, he moved the easel back from the sofa a little, marked its position with tape as well, and clipped a piece of packing paper to the board. Her position quickly became uncomfortable.

Is it all right if I take my shoes off?

Hubert nodded, and Gillian slipped off her pumps. After a while, her feet felt cold, and she put them on again.

Do you mind sitting still? asked Hubert. And don’t smile. But no sooner had she changed her expression than he complained again. This isn’t a photo shoot. Can’t you just look normal? As if you were alone?

Gillian asked him if he was already working on her face.

It’s your whole posture, he said. I can’t see you if you’re acting.

Gillian had been photographed many times, but it had always been a matter of playing a part, first in the theater, then in publicity shots. She struck a pose in front of the camera, got into positions she had seen in magazines. The best pictures were ones in which she could hardly recognize herself. Now that she wasn’t allowed to move, she had no real sense of how Hubert was seeing her.

You have an enormous head, he said matter-of-factly. He unclipped the sketch, let it fall to the floor, and put up a new piece of packing paper on the backboard. After three-quarters of an hour they took a break.

Can I have a look? asked Gillian.

Sure, said Hubert, as he took an old espresso can apart. Do you want coffee?

Marked on the paper in charcoal she could see the shape of the room and the furniture. Her body was roughly sketched but it looked astonishingly lifelike. Even so, she wasn’t satisfied. She had hoped the picture would tell her something new.

I wonder what you’re going to discover in me, she said to Hubert, who had filled the espresso can and put it on the hot plate.

I don’t see anything in you. I’ll be pleased if I manage the exterior half decently.

Gillian knelt on the floor and leafed through the sketches. Hubert brought two full cups of espresso. He stopped just in front of her and said, stay like that. He set the cups on the floor, got a big sketchbook off a shelf, and started drawing her in quick strokes. By the time Gillian was allowed her coffee, it had gone cold.

Maybe it’s better if you’re standing up. He drank his coffee all in one go, left the dirty cups in the sink, and clipped a fresh piece of paper on the board.

They tried out all sorts of poses that morning: Gillian sitting on a chair, standing behind the chair leaning against the back, looking at Hubert, looking out the window, with her back to him or sideways. Sometimes he just looked at her without drawing her. Sometimes he took one or two photos. The poses tired Gillian, but she enjoyed the atmosphere of concentration, the attention Hubert gave her, and the gentle touches with which he coaxed her into different positions. By the time it was twelve and she had to go, there was a whole heap of sketches on the floor next to the easel.

Tomorrow the same time? asked Hubert. And please be sure to wear something different.

When Gillian arrived in the studio the next morning, the previous day’s sketches were taped up on the wall. Again, Hubert helped her out of her coat. She wore a tightly fitting short skirt, sleeveless top, and dark stockings.

He had decided on a pose overnight. He set Gillian in an uncomfortable straight-backed cane chair and asked her
to cross her arms. He took her right hand and put it on her left knee, and put the left on her right thigh.

Sit up straight, he said. How does that feel?

Not comfortable, said Gillian. Any chance of a cushion?

Hubert shook his head. We mustn’t let you be too comfortable, otherwise you’ll get that self-satisfied look on your face again.

This position feels stupid, said Gillian. I’d never sit like this.

So much the better, he said. Before he began, he set an egg timer for forty-five minutes. When it goes off, we can have a break, he said.

He went up to Gillian again and tweaked her clothes. He hardly spoke while drawing, but his facial expression changed continually, sometimes he looked angry, then suddenly he brightened. He drew his eyebrows together, looked intensely focused for a while, then relaxed again. Gillian looked out the window, where there was a huge mound of gravel, presumably spoils from some sort of dig. Behind it was a wooded slope. The sky was overcast. In spite of the uncomfortable position, Gillian’s thoughts started to wander, as though the cramped attitude evoked certain memories. She thought about her early days at drama school, her strickenness when the teacher had criticized her. You’re acting — that was his refrain — be yourself, show yourself. Only when she was completely exhausted, despairing and close to tears, did the teacher sometimes say, now that was the real you. Just for a moment.

Gillian was jolted out of her memories when Hubert asked her to please concentrate.

What does that mean? She asked. I thought as far as you’re concerned I might as well be a milk jug or a bowl of fruit.

A jug doesn’t look out the window, he said. You’re dissolving.

When the egg timer rang, they took a short break. Gillian went to the bathroom, which was at the other end of the passageway. It was dirty, and even though the window was open and it was freezing cold in the tiny space, the stink was sickening. When she returned to the studio, Hubert had replaced the board with a prepared canvas and was in the process of mixing colors and getting brushes lined up. She walked up and down the room, stretching her legs.

All ready? he asked finally and wound the egg timer again.

She sat down. He adjusted her attitude and ran his hand over her hair to smooth it. Gillian settled down to watch Hubert paint. He had the brush out, and to judge by his sweeping movements he was painting the outlines.

It comes and goes, he said. Painting from photographs is definitely easier. Then he stopped talking; a little later he swore. It’s not possible to render a three-dimensional object on a flat canvas.

By the object do you mean me? asked Gillian.

I don’t even know what makes people try, he said, ignoring her. I only know I can’t paint what I see. It would be better just to look at people instead of painting pictures of them.

So why do you do it?

He groaned.

Gillian imagined a museum with empty walls. People walked through the rooms, stopped in front of one another, took a step back, circled and scrutinized each other.

Hubert snapped his fingers. Hello? Anyone home?

The worst were the first few minutes after each break. Each time Gillian would think she couldn’t possibly hold her pose for another forty-five minutes. Her mouth was dry, she needed to clear her throat, somewhere she had an itch that she would give anything to scratch. As time passed, she got used to sitting still. She still felt the pain in her back and bottom, but it had become part of her. She became stiller, stopped wondering what she would look like in the picture and who would get to see it. The painting would exist independently of her, it wasn’t a copy, not a depiction. Every snapshot would contain more of her than this painting. The next time the egg timer went off, she walked around next to Hubert and looked at what he had done.

If you want, she said, you can paint me naked.

For two days Gillian had been going around with the proofs of the second book by a rising young novelist. She had taken the train out to Hubert’s studio and had read another dozen pages. When she looked down at her cell phone during one of the breaks, she saw that her editor had sent her a text, asking if the book was worth devoting a slot to, and if she had an idea for how to do it. It wasn’t easy for books to get coverage, you couldn’t get interesting images out of writers. Think outside the box, the series editor said every time, I don’t want to see another shot of
a moody author tramping through autumn leaves. Gillian wrote back to say she wasn’t far enough along yet, but she’d know by tomorrow. After dinner, she went on reading the proofs and wondering how the young author could be produced for television. She was glad of the distraction. At eleven Matthias came into her office and said he was going to bed. By midnight she had roughed out a concept for a film, no walk in the woods but a retelling of the novel with some archive footage, and a brief interview with the author on the difficulties of a second novel, and a couple of clips from a reading, with comments from readers. That should stand a chance in the editorial meeting. She went to the bathroom and got undressed. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time. She turned and looked over her shoulder.

Normally, Thursdays weren’t too strenuous, but Gillian spent almost the whole morning editing a piece. In the afternoon it was okayed, and she made a couple of phone calls to advance the concept she wanted to present in the editorial meeting tomorrow. She still hadn’t gotten to the end of the book. It was an eccentric story with lots of humorous inserts, but even so — or maybe just because — she was bored by it. If you asked her, most literary publications were superfluous anyway. Perhaps it was her fault, but it was more and more unusual for her to be caught up in a book. When writers complained that they were never invited to be on the program, she often felt tempted to say, write better books.