‘Well, do what you can. I’m going to go out for an hour
or so, get a drink.’
An hour: another hour of waiting, of feeling nervous,
feeling sick. They’d waited nearly three hours for him this
morning.
‘Fine. It’ll take an hour, give the skin a chance to rest.
Hair okay?’
‘The hair is wonderful. Thank God.’
Romilly knew what he meant: nothing else was.
‘We had such fun,’ said Megan, beaming at her mother.
‘Sandy was wonderful. We took about ten pictures and
then Mrs Ford appeared and said what were we doing, and
did we know we were trespassing. Sandy said he was
terribly sorry, he’d thought the house was open to the
public, he was interested in architecture and could we
possibly do some from the back of thee house. And she said
no, we couldn’t, and then her husband appeared and got
really stroppy, and then one of the old ladies came out and
she turned out to be Mrs Sanderson, and she was really,
really great and said she’d take some pictures for us. So it
was all very successful.’ She smiled up at Sandy. ‘And then
we went and had a drink, didn’t we, Dickon, at the Coach
and Horses, and—’
‘Sorry we were so long,’ said Sandy, smiling at Pattie,
interrupting this monologue, ‘but they were so great, both
the kids.’
‘It couldn’t matter less,’ she said. ‘I was enjoying the
peace and quiet. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound
rude!’
‘You didn’t.’
‘Beer? And then I’ve just made a big salad, so it’s hardly
spoilt.’
‘Great idea. Both of them. Megan, let me lift you out of
the car …’ She was very light; horribly light. She was a
sweet child, he thought: uncomplaining, cheerful even,
highly intelligent, full of funny, blithe comments about
everything. Dickon adored her.
‘Pattie, I’ve had a very nice morning with your charming daughter, and it’s taken my mind off my troubles.’
Now why had he said that? Sandy wasn’t given to talking
about his troubles; that wasn’t what you did. Troubles were
your own business, nobody else’s.
‘I’m sorry you have troubles.’
That was all she said: but accompanied with her sweet,
rather tired smile, it was absolutely right. Not pressing, not
over-sympathetic, not do tell me about them, not can I
help, just that she was sorry.
‘Yes, well; we all do, don’t we? You certainly do.’
He looked over at the children; they were drinking
lemonade and giggling over some card trick Megan was
showing Dickon.
‘Yes, I do. But I’m pretty used to them.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not used to mine yet,’ he said suddenly
and was shocked at himself again.
‘Look — if you feel up to talking about them, do. I mean,
don’t feel embarrassed or anything. Just because you don’t
know me very well. Sometimes that’s better. And it can
help.’
‘Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’
She was right: someone who didn’t know him, didn’t
know all about him, didn’t know his friends, or his history.
It would be better. He probably wouldn’t talk to her,
certainly wouldn’t tell her much. But the thought that he
could, if he got desperate, was oddly soothing.
‘When my husband left me,’ she said suddenly, abruptly
almost, ‘I was so ashamed, I didn’t tell anyone for months.
Pretended he was away. When finally I did manage to talk
about it, I felt a million times better. I was surprised. Having
been brought up to the stiff upper lip and all that.’
‘Oh, that ruddy upper lip,’ said Sandy and laughed. ‘My
father’s was so stiff, he could hardly talk through it. Poor
old Dad.’
‘What’s he do now? Retired, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid he’s in God’s regiment now,’ said Sandy.
‘Oh, Lord. Oh, Sandy, I’m sorry.’ It was the first time she’d said his name, not called him Mr Trelawny. It was warming, nice.
Sandy smiled at her. ‘Don’t be silly. It was a couple of
years ago now. I’m quite recovered.’ He decided to return
the warmth. ‘Pattie, could I have another beer? And men
maybe we could get the kids over, start our lunch? I’m
famished.’
‘Yes. Yes, do let’s. Oh, dear, now I haven’t brought out
any more beer.’
‘I’ll go. Relax. In the fridge?’
‘Yes. Yes, well, I hope so.’
It wasn’t in the fridge, it was on the work surface
warming up nicely. He picked it up and went out and told
her he’d found it in the fridge.
‘Okay, little baby.’ Stop it, stop calling me that, thought
Romilly, gritting her teeth. ‘Now let’s try it another way.
Sit with your back to me. No. No, that doesn’t work. Lean
back on the stool. Yes, that’s better. That’s definitely better.
Only now the neck is strained. Maybe a chair would be
better. Tang, get a chair. Now now now!’
Tang ran silently out of the room, ran in again, holding
one of the Lloyd Loom chairs from reception.
‘Put it down there. Romilly, sit on it. Not like that,
darling, not like a chicken on a perch. Push your bottom
into the back of the chair. That’s better. Okay, let your
arms hang free over the sides. Relax, darling, relax. You
mustn’t be so tense. I’m not frightening you, am I?’
He bent over her, smiled into her eyes; he had been
drinking wine and was slightly drunk. His breath smelt
horrible; she had to fight not to turn her head away. ‘No, of
course not.’
‘Good. Because I think we are beginning to get
somewhere.’
Beginning! Only beginning. She was so tired. Her head
ached unbearably and she hadn’t dared ask for an aspirin.
Her back ached too, and she wanted to go the loo, but
didn’t dare say that either.
‘Pattie, I’ve had a very nice morning with your charming daughter, and it’s taken my mind off my troubles.’
Now why had he said that? Sandy wasn’t given to talking
about his troubles; that wasn’t what you did. Troubles were
your own business, nobody else’s.
‘I’m sorry you have troubles.’
That was all she said: but accompanied with her sweet,
rather tired smile, it was absolutely right. Not pressing, not
over-sympathetic, not do tell me about them, not can I
help, just that she was sorry.
‘Yes, well; we all do, don’t we? You certainly do.’
He looked over at the children; they were drinking
lemonade and giggling over some card trick Megan was
showing Dickon.
‘Yes, I do. But I’m pretty used to them.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not used to mine yet,’ he said suddenly
and was shocked at himself again.
‘Look - if you feel up to talking about them, do. I mean,
don’t feel embarrassed or anything. Just because you don’t
know me very well. Sometimes that’s better. And it can
help.’
‘Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’
She was right: someone who didn’t know him, didn’t
know all about him, didn’t know his friends, or his history.
It would be better. He probably wouldn’t talk to her,
certainly wouldn’t tell her much. But the thought that he
could, if he got desperate, was oddly soothing.
“When my husband left me,’ she said suddenly, abruptly
almost, ‘I was so ashamed, I didn’t tell anyone for months.
Pretended he was away. When finally I did manage to talk
about it, I felt a million times better. I was surprised. Having
been brought up to the stiff upper lip and all that.’
‘Oh, that ruddy upper lip,’ said Sandy and laughed. ‘My
father’s was so stiff, he could hardly talk through it. Poor
old Dad.’
‘What’s he do now? Retired, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid he’s in God’s regiment now,’ said Sandy.
‘Oh, Lord. Oh, Sandy, I’m sorry.’ It was the first time she’d said his name, not called him Mr Trelawny. It was wanning, nice.
Sandy smiled at her. ‘Don’t be silly. It was a couple of
years ago now. I’m quite recovered.’ He decided to return
the warmth. ‘Pattie, could I have another beer? And then
maybe we could get the kids over, start our lunch? I’m
famished.’
‘Yes. Yes, do let’s. Oh, dear, now I haven’t brought out
any more beer.’
‘I’ll go. Relax. In the fridge?’
‘Yes. Yes, well, I hope so.’
It wasn’t in the fridge, it was on the work surface
warming up nicely. He picked it up and went out and told
her he’d found it in the fridge.
‘Okay, little baby.’ Stop it, stop calling me that, thought
Romilly, gritting her teeth. ‘Now let’s try it another way.
Sit with your back to me. No. No, that doesn’t work. Lean
back on the stool. Yes, that’s better. That’s definitely better.
Only now the neck is strained. Maybe a chair would be
better. Tang, get a chair. Now now now!’
Tang ran silently out of the room, ran in again, holding
one of the Lloyd Loom chairs from reception.
‘Put it down there. Romilly, sit on it. Not like that,
darling, not like a chicken on a perch. Push your bottom
into the back of the chair. That’s better. Okay, let your
arms hang free over the sides. Relax, darling, relax. You
mustn’t be so tense. I’m not frightening you, am I?’
He bent over her, smiled into her eyes; he had been
drinking wine and was slightly drunk. His breath smelt
horrible; she had to fight not to turn her head away. ‘No, of
course not.’
‘Good. Because I think we are beginning to get
somewhere.’
Beginning! Only beginning. She was so tired. Her head
ached unbearably and she hadn’t dared ask for an aspirin.
Her back ached too, and she wanted to go the loo, but
didn’t dare say that either.
‘Right, lean back. Right back. That’s it. Good. Only here, let me pull that down a bit more,’ he said, gesturing at
the muslin.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Romilly quickly. She couldn’t see how it
could go any lower, without showing her nipples. She
pulled it cautiously; it moved a couple of millimetres. He
nodded, started shooting again.
He had taken the camera off the tripod now, was moving
round her, shooting from the top, the side, then the back of
her. ‘Now, darling, turn, now, yes, that’s better. No, no,
no, too much. Much too much. Romilly, don’t be silly,
darling. Not your head, just your eyes. Tang, I’m still
getting the muslin.’
Tang came over, eased the muslin down further.
‘Not enough. That’s it. Now Romilly, again. Yes, yes,
that’s better. Beginning to get better. Think, darling, think
about what you’re doing. No! No, too stiff. Start again,
relax. Deep breath, darling, move your bottom again, back
into the chair. Right! Now then, stretch your neck right
up, think of a bird, darling, think of a swan, yes, yes, that’s
good, good, yes - shit, fucking muslin. Darling, take it off,
would you? Just take it off.’
‘Off? But—’
‘Oh, darling don’t go all virginal on me. I’ve seen breasts
before. They’re not going to show, I just keep getting the
shadow of the fucking muslin, and I can’t manage.’
Romilly thought of sitting there, with her breasts bare,
knowing both he and Tang were looking at them, knowing
they’d be in the pictures, and she tried and tried to cope
with it. It didn’t matter. It really didn’t matter. Of course
he’d seen breasts before. It was like — well, it was like being
at the doctor’s. It would mean no more than that. And they
wouldn’t show in the pictures. Not when they were
printed. Only on the actual prints. All the models had
pictures taken with bare breasts. She’d seen some of Kate
Moss and Naomi Campbell. It wasn’t as if he wanted her to
show her pubes. Of course it was all right. Of course she
had to do it.
‘Darling, just do it, would you? Take the muslin off.
Come on.’
Very slowly, very miserably, she pulled it down. Right
down. Tang came over to her, stretched out his hand for it.
She sat there, her arms crossed over her breasts; she felt very
hot suddenly, hot and scared.
‘Right. Now then. Arms over the sides again, just like
before.’
So easy. All she had to do was move her arms, let them
hang over the arms of the chair. But she couldn’t do it. She
really couldn’t. It was as if they were glued to her breasts.
She swallowed, stared at Alix.
‘Darling, please. I’m getting a little bit tired here. Come
on. Like this, look.’
He walked over to her, tried to move one of her arms.
Panic shot through Romilly; she pulled away from him.
‘No! No, don’t. I’ll - I’ll do it.’
She managed it. Her arms felt rigid.
‘Right. Let them fall. Now, look at me. Come on, come
on. Jesus, Romilly, relax. Just relax.’
‘I can’t,’ she said and bunt into tears.
‘Dear sweet Jesus,’ he said and stalked out of the studio.
She could hear him shouting, hear the door bang.
When Ritz and Serena came in, she was sitting, her head
buried in her hands, crying quietly.
Tang was being very sweet and standing by her, draping
her shoulders with the muslin and offering her his
handkerchief.
Gabriel felt quite panicky already. And he was only on the
airport tarmac. The heat was stifling, blanket thick. How
was he going to stand it?