Authors: Laura Elliot
“I’d stopped listening for the knock on the caravan window.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter. Please, don’t let me interrupt. I now appreciate why Ralph called you the Princess of Spin.”
“I’m not spinning, Lorraine. I’m telling it as it is. You’ve had too much time to brood over everything. This is your way of getting back at us. It’s cruel and upsetting –”
“But effective, don’t you think?”
Virginia slowly released her breath. “I never meant to break up your marriage. I know you find that impossible to believe –”
“On the contrary, I find it utterly believable. You had it all, devoted husband, compliant friend, vigorous lover, successful career. Why would you change anything when life was so bountiful?”
“If you can’t forgive me then I must accept it as the price I have to pay. But I won’t allow you to invade my life with these malicious accusations. I didn’t steal your husband. Adrian came to me of his own free will.”
Lorraine combed her fingers through her hair, brushed it back from her forehead. Her face, revealed in its entirety, seemed alien, formidable, the skin drawn finely under her eyes. Sleepless nights. Virginia recognised the signs.
“Free will? What an interesting concept. Did my husband leave the Great South Wall of his own free will? Did he decide to keep silent of his own free will? And you. Where do you stand on the subject of Killian Devine-O’Malley? Don’t look so puzzled, Virginia. Surely you haven’t forgotten his name? Look again if you can’t remember.” She nodded towards the last painting. “You left him for dead. Free will. Remember?”
Her eyes dulled as they rested on the imagery Lorraine had crafted with such deliberation and which seemed to expand outwards while drawing Virginia into its centre. A car speeding away and the moon shining an accusing beam on the face of the boy they had left behind. She had refused to give him an identity, imposing on him an identi-kit image: brutish features, a crude protruding forehead, hard staring eyes. But she saw him now, his young stricken face, his mouth slackly open, as if he had lost consciousness on a cry of terror.
“This is
outrageous
.” Her knees shook in a sudden violent spasm. “Does Emily know you entertain such vile notions about her father?”
“Emily is not your concern.”
“She adores Adrian. What will she do when she realises her mother is suffering from crazed delusions?”
“Don’t waste my time, Virginia. I’m preparing for an exhibition.”
“You’ll never exhibit in that gallery.”
“You have no say in where I choose to exhibit. That decision has been made by Mara Robertson.” Lorraine gestured towards the paintings. “This triptych will form the centrepiece of my collection. You and Adrian have already received invitations. Opening nights can be such interesting events. Quite revelatory, on occasions. On my last opening night I discovered that you and I both loved an insubstantial man.”
The glass jug was heavy in her hands when Virginia lifted it from the table, the smell of spirits almost overwhelming as she flung the cloudy liquid against the canvas. Oil and spirits collided, ran like blood from the painted faces. The features blurred, massed into abstract humps and hollows, no longer recognisable.
“See a shrink, Lorraine.” She placed the empty jug back on the table. “It might help get this shit out of your system. Next time you paint my portrait ask my permission first.”
Apart from the twitch of muscle below Lorraine’s left eye, her face was impassive. She walked to the door and held it open. “I know what you and Adrian did, Virginia. Always remember that I
know
. I want you to leave now. You’re not welcome in my house.”
The apartment complex was in darkness except for the globe-headed security lights in the courtyard. Virginia listened to the drip-drip-drip of raindrops falling from the balcony. The wind blew moist on her face. Adrian was sleeping in the spare room. They had hardly seen each other for over a week. When they did meet in the corridors of Blaide House they greeted each other with a sullen calm that signified the inevitable ending of their relationship. She did not want to think about him, not now. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would tell him it was over. He was too locked into his own self-absorption to protest. Unlike the night her marriage ended, this relationship would cease with a whimper not a roar. Emily would welcome him back. For all her tantrums and attention-seeking wiles, she missed him desperately. But Lorraine – forgiveness was beyond her.
A movement in the courtyard below attracted her attention. For an instant, something flitted through it, a dog, perhaps, or someone hurrying, running slantways through a splash of light before disappearing out of sight behind the red-brick blocks. The young man spun before her eyes. Her skin tingled as if tiny electrical currents had being switched on over her entire body. Her heart began to palpitate, the fast thumping beat causing a swelling sensation until it seemed as if it could no longer be contained within her chest. She returned to the living-room and sank into an armchair. When she could move again she poured a brandy and sipped it neat. The need to awaken Adrian was overwhelming but nothing would be served by opening the subject up again. She was determined that the ghost made flesh was not going to destroy her. She switched on her computer and watched the screen come to life.
Sent: 6 April 11.30 p.m
.
Subject: Sleeping Beauty
Virginia – why are you chasing sleep? Counting sheep? I used to call you my sleeping beauty. Sometimes, I switched on the light and watched you, the rise and fall of your breath, your mouth curled in surrender. I would turn you gently and slide deeply into your moist dark cunt and you would stir, call my name, a sleepy signal, and oh … Virginia … I can’t go on.
Meet me. Make love to me again. Tell no one but your heart. Is it possible? Answer me, Virginia
.
Forever yours
,
Razor
C
HAPTER
S
IXTY
From the outside Blaide House had looked the same yet once inside Lorraine could see the changes. A finance company had taken possession of the entire ground floor where Strong–Blaide Advertising once sprawled. But it was in the atmosphere rather than the physical transformation that the change was most apparent. The young people who had formed the creative heart of the partnership no longer spilled out into the corridors and the finance house had a more sedate work-force hidden behind slatted blinds. Adrian’s company, she noticed from the signpost, was now on the same floor as Ginia Communications. She allowed the elevator to continue upwards to the next storey and walked the length of the corridor towards the familiar spiral staircase.
In ten minutes’ time her exhibition would officially open. No one would come. She had been forgotten. If people did arrive they would laugh silently before drifting away. The art critics would slice her in two, their harsh judgements forcing her to crawl back to Trabawn for cover. Having rapidly run the entire gauntlet of first-night nerves she stepped forward to greet Mara Robertson.
The transformation of her one-time functional studio amazed her. Mara had used the space ingeniously, creating brightly lit display recesses in areas Lorraine had previously used for storage. The ceiling seemed higher, the walls wider, more spacious. The Donaldson brothers and Ibrahim had done a splendid job hanging her paintings. Only the triptych was missing.
Painting the triptych should have been a dramatic gesture, worthy of some form of liberation. An escape from the hurt and anger that had held her in thrall for so long. She had breeched their secret, exacted a nasty revenge which brought her no comfort. She had waited for Virginia’s arrival, knowing she would be unable to stay away, but, after she departed, driving too fast and furiously from the lane, Lorraine had collapsed into a chair and hugged her arms to her chest until she was calm enough to carry the ruined paintings to the end of the back garden. The flames licked the wood and canvas then roared into an incandescent flare and devoured their secret. It was over in an instant.
Adrian arrived in Trabawn the following day. Unable to disguise his fear, he had approached her with bluster and denials. He demanded to know if the stress of their broken marriage had reduced her to making insidious and dangerous accusations. He called her neurotic, vindictive, crazy. He demanded an end to her conniving dangerous games. He covered his face with his hands and begged her to forgive him. Emily found him in this position on her arrival home from school. He left shortly afterwards.
“He hates his apartment,” she announced when she returned to the kitchen after waving him off. “If you snapped your fingers he’d crawl back, I know he would.” She came over to inspect the roasting tray Lorraine was removing from the oven. “You could at least have asked him to stay for dinner. He
adores
roast chicken.”
“He was in a hurry to leave.” Lorraine placed the tray carefully on a heat mat and pierced the tender flesh with a fork.
“No way! He wants to be here with us.”
The argument that followed was predictable and resulted in Emily bursting into tears as she ran up the stairs to her bedroom. The door slammed, the music thumped and texts flowed back and forth between her and Ibrahim as she demanded sympathy and understanding.
Lorraine’s forehead felt bruised and tender. A headache that had been throbbing gently all afternoon developed into a painful spasm. Painkillers would take care of her headache but there was nothing in her medicine cabinet to protect her from Emily’s hopeless optimism.
The invited guests filled the gallery. Meg and Eoin Ruane arrived, followed by Lorraine’s parents. The road-works crew were there in force and gathered around the portrait, teasing the woman who had dressed for the occasion in an off-the-shoulder red dress and dangling earrings. The Trabawn art group came
en masse
. Emily abandoned her combats for the occasion and wore a black, skin-hugging mini. Aware of the impact she made as she sashayed around the gallery, she delighted, once again, in being the daughter of an infamous artist. Lorraine heard her saying, “Extraordinarily effulgent and expressively executed,” to Ibrahim, who replied, “Spit out the dictionary, girl, and kiss me.” Adrian and Virginia did not make an appearance.
Lorraine greeted old friends and familiar journalists. She smiled into cameras and uttered convincing sound-bites. Bill Sheraton held her hand in a forceful grip. She was air-kissed by Andrea. Lorcan made an impressive entrance, dressed in a black velvet suit and red frilled shirt. He seemed taller than she remembered, more confident, capable of smiling without pain. He introduced his girlfriend, a thistledown young woman called Marianne, who appeared to have an opinion on every painting in the collection.
“Very noir-
ish
and filmic. Edward Hopper influences. I like your honesty, Lorraine. You’re not afraid of realism.”
Bill Sheraton purchased the road-works painting. “Marianne claims it signifies the underground dominance of the matriarchal structures in post-modern society or some such crap,” he said in an aside to Lorraine. “For my part, I fancy that tough little woman with the cable. Reminds me of my mother.”
Andrea’s mouth tightened. The colour scheme was obviously not to her liking.
Other paintings had acquired “Sold” stickers, including the salsa women and the birthing of the calf, the latter proudly purchased by Sophie’s husband.
Mara stood beside her, smiling. “Lorraine, I’d like to introduce you to the buyer of
Sand Blizzard
.”
She turned and found herself face to face with Michael Carmody.
Her paintings had been admired, criticised, analysed, misinterpreted, praised for their iconoclastic images of desolation, isolation, alienation, inclusion, exclusion – dismissed as being too representative, photographic, trivial – and now the gallery was in darkness.
“A most successful opening,” beamed Mara Robertson before she led the Trabawn contingent towards Dawson Street and drinks in Café en Seine. Ibrahim had left with Emily whose grandparents were treating them to a meal in a Chinese restaurant.
To be alone with him was the height of folly but he had asked her to go somewhere quiet and she had nodded, unable to refuse. Their footsteps beat time against the Liffey boardwalk. The city was restless, traffic still heavy on the bridges. Soon the pubs would empty, spilling young people onto the streets, and the air would be redolent with kebabs and violence. A young woman in a slip dress shouted as she walked past, a rag doll stumbling drunk. Her face beneath tendrils of blonde hair was hazed in the overhanging lamps, her plump body lurched forward on heels that were too high. Her companions surrounded her. They laughed and bore her away, accepting with good nature the causalities the night had to offer.
Lorraine was conscious of his stillness when he stopped and rested his arms on the river wall.
“Nothing has changed,” he said. “I love you. But you can’t forgive me. I see it on your face. You’re fighting against me as hard as I once fought against you.”
“This is not about forgiveness, Michael.”
“Then what? I know we can make it work. I’ve never been more positive about anything in my life.”
“My marriage was built on deception. How can I begin another relationship when it was founded on lies?”
“We have no secrets now.”
“But you’re still tormented by what happened to Killian. You won’t rest easy until you find the people who are responsible.”
“Would you be able to rest easy?” he demanded. “Knowing that if they’d stopped and called an ambulance immediately the trauma to his brain would not have been so severe. What would you do in my place?”
“Exactly the same.” Her words dropped like stones into the sullen water flowing below them.