Then my attention was caught by the reflection in the mirror and I looked at the woman who looked back at me. What a mess. Her hair, blonde and still spiky from the regrowth of an impulsive close shave, was prickled with bits of dried grass and leaves collected during the bike ride. Grey eyes, now red from lack of sleep and crying. Skin pale and streaked with dried mud. She never was good at keeping clean. Dust had even caked into the little lines at the corners of her mouth, making her suddenly older. Perhaps she needed another earring or two to even things up. There were two on one side, four on the other. Could that cause an imbalance? Sally would know about that sort of thing.
Then I noticed the dressing-table mirror, or rather the mirror and its frame. It was circular and set on hinges to swivel between carved posts. The glass had thickened slightly near the bottom edge, a sign of age as the semi-fluid succumbed to the forces of gravity. It had become tinged with yellow but the backing was still good, no trace of the quicksilver breaking down. The image was clear and without imperfection.
But it was the frame that made me draw breath—a circle of delicately carved oak in the form of tangled branches that twisted and twined around the glass. At least, it looked like oak, although that was hard to believe. Oak is excellent for most kinds of work, but it’s nigh impossible to cut to that fine a detail. Even in the best wood the grain isn’t hard and tight enough to produce such delicacy. But I was looking at swathes of leaves, each leaf perfect, each vein picked out in relief. Acorns coincided with spring buds,
minute creatures, birds, insects—all perfection. Perhaps I was deceived. Was it the real thing somehow dipped in a preservative? I bent closer, pulled the dressing table out from the wall so that the light from the window fell on it. No, this was definitely carved wood and it definitely was oak. I was sure of it.
There did not seem to be any join between the decorative edge and the backboard, as if they were carved all of one piece. Yet the mirror was sandwiched between them. Either the seam was so perfect as to be undetectable or…or what? What I was looking at appeared to be an impossibility.
Perhaps Sullivan would know about it. I’d have to find some excuse to talk to him. But I couldn’t think about that then, I was too tired and hungry. I grabbed a loaf, some cheese and a bottle of wine and sat out on the deck to watch the sun setting over the lake. Through the dimness of the trees I could just make out the house where Jason grew up.
T
HERE
was a flash of white light and Jason exploded into my life. I was so shocked that I screamed out loud and most of my drink splashed down my clothes. I could feel the wetness tacking my shirt to my skin, but I was blind to everything except the flare of a dozen flash bulbs searing the back of my eyes.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘What I’m doing is my job.’ It was a disembodied voice, as smooth and sweet as chocolate. The owner was still invisible so I swung out in that general direction with my clenched fist. It was either that or burst into tears. My hand made contact with a metal post, smashing it hard enough to nearly break my fingers.
‘Well, fuck you and your job!’
‘Yes, Ma’am. Certainly.’ I swung out again. This time my wrist was caught in a vice. A face started to take form out of the darkness, the eyes first, like Alice’s Cheshire cat, only these eyes were blue, far too blue to be believed. As the rest of the face emerged I realised he was laughing at me.
‘Look what you’ve done. My shirt’s ruined. How am I supposed to get through the evening looking like this?’
‘I think you look just great.’
‘Don’t you dare patronise me. What are you doing in here anyway? The press isn’t allowed in until seven o’clock. No one is.’
‘So what are you doing here then?’
‘It’s my exhibition. I ask the questions. And let go of my arm!’
‘Only if you promise not to take another swing at me.’
‘I’m not promising anything except to have you thrown out of here.’
‘In that case I’d better keep a tight hold. Come out here to the light so I can see the damage.’
Still clutching a glass in the other hand, I was dragged into the corridor.
‘Oh dear. Red wine on a white shirt. Not good. Look, I’m sorry I startled you. Do you always react like that when someone takes your picture?’
‘Not usually, no. Do you always break into private previews and scare the shit out of the artist just before their opening?’
‘Not usually. Actually I’m here at the invitation of the gallery owner. Old Remborne invited me as his personal guest. Thought I’d get here a bit early and catch the star of the show before she got swallowed up by the rest of the crowd.’
‘Chewed up and spat out, more like.’
‘Do I detect a note of self-doubt?’
‘No. Just terror. At least you’ve given me a good excuse to escape. I can’t stay here looking like this so I suppose I should be grateful. It’s OK, you can let go now.’
Instead he twisted me round, looking me up and down. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
This time I was dragged into the ladies’ room where the lights were blazing and the mirrors showed the full effect of the disaster on my outfit. He released my arm at last and started taking off his coat.
‘Take your shirt off,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Take your shirt off. You can wear mine. It’s a tad on the big side, but if you tuck it and button the sleeves tight so the arms drape loose it’ll look good.’
‘And what are you going to wear?’
‘I’ll just button up my jacket. It’ll look cool. We’ll both make a fashion statement.’
I didn’t have much option. A few moments later we were standing side by side in front of the mirror. I barely came up to his shoulder. He was right, I did look good. The shirt I was wearing was a gentle silk and the same colour as his eyes. His hair was sun-bleached corn and his jacket lapels revealed a chest still too smooth to be a man’s. The camera slung round his neck was all the explanation he needed.
‘See? No problem.’ He grinned at me from the mirror. ‘You look great.’
‘I wish I felt as good. I’m sorry I got so uptight earlier. I’m feeling a bit anxious.’
‘Oh, really? I’d never have guessed. One piece of advice: when dealing with the press, always swing with the right arm. Oh, and never drink red wine when wearing a white shirt.’
I shot him what I hoped was a look of pure venom and headed for the door. As I went through I was stopped by his hand on my shoulder. He whispered so close I could feel his breath, warm on my neck. ‘I’ve seen your work. I think it’s wonderful. Don’t be afraid. You’ll be great. They’ll love you.’
I was and they did. And that was the last I saw of him that evening.
Three days later he rang me. I asked where he got my phone number and he said it was a trade secret. Then he asked if he could have his shirt back. He was at the café around the corner and I could deliver it to him there. He said he would shout me
a coffee if I promised not to spill it, as he was running out of clothes.
I thought, thank God I’ve washed the shirt. I’d felt I ought to just in case I saw him again. I’d actually ironed it, something I don’t normally do with my own stuff. I dropped everything and ran all the way to the corner where I slammed on the brakes and strolled casually up to his table. He was seated under an umbrella on the pavement. In the light of day I saw how young he was and almost faltered. But, then, I was only returning his shirt.
I ordered a cappuccino with heaps of chocolate and three sugars, which he seemed to find amusing. Of course it spilled over into the saucer and then I dripped it all down my chinos. I explained that getting stuff spilled on me is a recurrent theme in my life. He said he had to have a record of this and clicked his camera before I could protest. We talked about the exhibition and he asked about my work, the sort of questions that showed he understood and led to further questions, which forced me to probe deeper. By the third coffee I had learnt a lot about my creativity and myself, things he seemed to have known all along.
As we talked he held up his camera and looked at me through the lens. He did this constantly as if he saw the world more clearly through that third eye. If something caught his attention he would click the shutter. He took several shots of me. At first I found this disconcerting, but after a while it became a part of his body language and I accepted it as naturally as if I were watching him blink. I was to learn that his camera was always with him, like an extension of his ego. He told me he worked freelance and, although I didn’t recognise his name, I realised I was already familiar with his work from the pages of the more upmarket magazines.
Suddenly he said he had to go. I had somehow imagined we would stay talking forever and I could feel the disappointment running down my face but was powerless to control it. I frantically
dredged around for something astounding to say that would keep him there. All that came out was, ‘Oh—oh, OK.’
Then he said, ‘You do like peppers, don’t you?’
‘Peppers?’
‘Yes, I thought we’d have stuffed peppers for dinner tonight. I know you don’t eat meat. Your place at seven. I’ll bring the food and cook. You sort the wine.’
And then he was gone.
He turned up at seven-thirty, just late enough for me to think he wasn’t coming. He was a good cook, much better than me. We drank a lot of wine, watched an old movie on TV and fell asleep on the sofa. I woke next morning to find him still there. And he was still there three months later.
I can remember the fairground that used to come to our town in the summer. Us girls, there were four or five of us, would hang around most evenings and giggle and squeal at the flashing lights and the raucous music in the hope of attracting the attention of the young men who worked the sideshows. But I think it was the rides that did it for me; the Loop-De-Loop that turned the Earth on its head and the Round-Up where only the scream jammed in your throat saved you from certain death. I got hooked on the head-sickening, blood-draining terror. All that addictive adrenaline pumping through my adolescent veins.
I suppose that’s how it was with Jason. He would disappear for days on end. Then suddenly he was back and I was the centre of his universe as if what I thought, or felt, or did, was his whole life. His mood swings were infuriating. When he was cold and dismissive it was as if a cloud obliterated the sun. Then, just as inexplicably, the black moods would melt and he would be the blue-eyed little boy looking for friends to play with. Not my friends, of course. They lived in grungy bed-sits and shared one bicycle between three of them. The people he knew owned boats
and private planes; they could party till three in the morning, and then get up at six to go water-skiing.
Sometimes he scared me. He could be so sweet and gentle, then the slightest thing would make him erupt with anger. I never knew what was happening and it was exhausting. Not that he was ever violent. No, that was me. He had me spitting and scratching like a wild cat while he calmly held me at arm’s length. Then I’d dissolve in floods of tears and he’d be so sweet and gentle. He had a way of stroking my arms and shoulders that made every nerve in my body sing out loud.
Yet I don’t know how I would have got through those three months without him. He even came to Europe with me. Two of the pieces that sold at the Remborne exhibition went to a French industrialist who gifted them to a new research centre near Paris. They offered to pay my fare and expenses if I would attend the presentation. Probably all a big tax write-off for them, but I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Besides, the buyer did seem to know something about art and was talking about further commissions. While I was there I crossed over to London to visit the Barbican. Winston Remborne had arranged a small opening of my works there for the following year. But the thought of dealing with those high-flyers scared the hell out of me. Jason just dropped everything and came along. He fended off unwanted attention, gave orders to the hotel staff and renegotiated the new commissions in my favour. I wouldn’t have survived without him.
So what went wrong?
Funny, that’s what Sally asked the last time I saw her. Well, almost the last time. Sally and I had known each other since art school. Both away from home for the first time and trying desperately to appear cool and contemptuous while trembling in our boots, we gravitated towards each other, then clung together like tadpoles in a shark pool. At first we shared a room on campus, then moved into a grotty rental in town shared with
three others, where we subsisted on endless pasta, overdue rent and a bottle of cheap plonk when anyone sold a painting. They were the best days.
Most of the students produced and sold work commercially to eke out their allowance. I, on the other hand, refused to compromise my art for the sake of a few extra bucks. As a result I was permanently broke and made up for it by doing most of the cooking and housework.
Sally painted, usually portraits. Commissions came easily, so it was usually Sally who supplied the wine. Even then she had an eye for people, or maybe it was more an intuitive knowledge of what goes on inside. Sally was our Wise Woman; she always knew what was hurting and how to heal it. As an artist she seemed to capture the essence of a person with just a few strokes of charcoal. Maybe that, too, was a kind of healing. And when she painted she did things with light that made your spine tingle.
After we all graduated Sally and I stayed together. She saw me through the first frustrating years of work and my tempestuous break-up with Andrew. Meanwhile she quietly established her own studio and built herself a name. Naturally she was my appointed guide and mentor on the merry-go-round with Jason so there was no surprise when I turned up on her doorstep, all red-eyed and puffy-faced and carrying bunches of soggy tissues.
‘So, what went wrong?’
‘Oh, nothing. Everything.’
‘I’ve made us some green tea. Here, drink it and tell me what happened.’
‘I’d rather have coffee.’
‘You’re getting tea. It’ll calm you down. So what’s he done this time?’
‘Like—he asks people to stay without my knowing. I find strangers in my apartment, eating my food, and Jason’s nowhere in sight.’
‘And?’
‘He has parties without telling me. I come home late, wanting to go to bed and the house is full of people. God, Sally, this tea is disgusting.’
‘It’s good for you. Drink it. So, what else?’
‘And you know he does drugs. I’m not really into that.’
‘Oh, come off it Regan, I’ve seen you stoned.’
‘OK, I smoke a little weed occasionally, but that’s all. Jason’s into other stuff. I don’t like it or what it does to him. And I don’t like the friends that go with it.’
‘Sounds to me like typical teenage behaviour.’
‘Yes, well I’m sure he has stuff stashed somewhere in my flat. I can’t afford that sort of publicity. The press already have me typecast as some kind of arty social rebel. Besides, he’s not a teenager. In lots of ways he’s more mature than I am. He knows the art world better than I do. I sort of rely on him.’
‘Well, I know you don’t like me saying this, but I still think he’s using you.’
‘To do what, for heaven’s sake? He’s got more money than I have. He’s the one with all the influential friends. It’s not as if he can’t find work.’
‘Yes, but you’re flavour of the month, the name on everyone’s “got to see” list. I’ve seen the way he parades you about. It’s like he owns a champion racehorse.’
‘No, that’s not fair. He can be really kind and thoughtful—’
‘And selfish and inconsiderate. But then I don’t trust him, as you know. Drink your tea.’
‘He understands my work and—’
‘And you have great sex. Not that that would influence you.’
‘OK, so we have great sex, that’s not important.’
‘Oh, really? That’s not what you said last week.’
‘No. Really. There’s more to him than that.’
‘Regan, you’re so mixed up. Your whole world’s been turned upside down these last few months. It’s not surprising you can’t
see past him. Look, what do
you
want? I mean
really
want. Right at this moment.’
The answer leapt straight into my head, although I tried to cover it over with something easier. In the end I had to say it.
‘I want to run away.’
A few days later I did run away. But I didn’t know it would happen in the way it did.
I’d been to a reception, another presentation of one of my works. This time it was in the city and Jason was supposed to meet me there but he didn’t turn up. I was jumpy all evening. He’d never let me down before—well, not like this. There had to be something very wrong. An accident? Jason didn’t have accidents. For some reason I thought he’d been in a fight or had been arrested. I made some excuse to get away early and went home. Not that I expected to find him there, but I could make some phone calls. When I opened the door I found lights on, music playing. Of course it could have been anyone. I tried calling out. Hell, this was my home and I was acting like I was the interloper. Then I heard voices coming from the bedroom, whispers and muffled sounds. The door swung open and Jason walked out. I was so relieved that all I could see was him and nothing else.