wine in the cooler, how she planned to leave daughters and father together, take the children for a walk and show them the sea perhaps, come back and find them talking, like the families of her imagination did. What stupid imaginings she had, as if she ever had any power to make things better. Why would anyone ever trust her?
Thomas put his arms round her and stroked her hair. It had grown long and thick in her year’s residence.
‘Was it me? Was it me who spoiled it?’
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t you.’
They did not come back. The rest of the day fell into darkness and disappointment. Thomas tried, but could not help his own, utter despondency. The turquoise tent disappeared, the floors were cleared; the room returned to the grand room still full of the magic of the paintings, the light in them, the music they brought. She left him to write. He wrote to Saul.
You are quite right. When I die, they will descend like locusts. There will be no collection left. They will spread everything to the winds. They will kill everything I love. The collection will die.
Saul emailed back.
You must make sure it doesn’t. You owe the world more than you owe your children.
A fter dark, she crept up behind him. His hands were quiet. She could see his face mirrored inexactly in the screen of his computer, next to her own, blurred, brown complexion. She could feel the vibrations of his sadness from a mile away, it was if it was in her own blood, and she could not bear it. His hands and feet were icy cold, and the skin on his neck was hot and she wrapped her arms around he. Soft and brittle, she was, featherdown and steel. And he, old polished leather with a layer of salt and bright, bright, blue eyes, holding on to her so hard, he almost hurt.
Thomas in his gallery room, having an attack of sheer panic, déjà vu, fear, so acute it paralysed the hands that wrote something every day. She read the words on the screen.
Tell her about the alterations made to the basement. Explain what happened.
Di leant over him and typed with one hand.
I know.
His hands began to move again. The shaking stopped. Shewaited, holding his shoulders with her strong hands and this time she did not let him go.
T he next morning, they walked on the beach in a different way, still holding each other. An invisible jet plane flew above them, leaving a fussy white plume behind itself as far as the eye could see, scarring the sky with a line of ragged lace, making them stop and stare, shielding their eyes. They stood and stared like imbeciles, wondered out loud where that jet would go after leaving its mark, and not wanting to be anywhere else. It was the perfect, abstract picture with the blinding colour no one would believe.
I’d like to collect the clouds
, Di said.
And flints.
Will you marry me?
Thomas said.
She laughed, and held on to his arm.
‘Some pictures are best unframed,’ she said.
R aymond Forrest, the lawyer, called in the late summer. There was a sign on the door.
Gone swimming.
C HAPTER F OUR
W ell
, Monica said. ‘Well, well, well. I must say, they give a fine party. And it was nice of him to ask my nieces, even if he did it through you. They liked it. Been telling each other stories ever since, which was more than they did before. And Di’s good with kids, I’ll say that for her, but then she is one, isn’t she?’
Jones sat in Monica’s barber’s chair, heavy-hearted. He thought of watching from the pier with his binoculars fixed on the front door, seeing the daughters of Thomas Porteous stuffing their wailing children into two cars and driving away as if the hounds of hell were after them and that shifty fucker, Edward, running down the front steps last. That was a month ago.
‘Something went wrong, though,’ he said.
‘Something was always wrong,’ Monica said, ‘with those girls of his. Maybe their mother.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because I know a woman who worked for old Douglas,that lawyer
Thomas put his arms round her and stroked her hair. It had grown long and thick in her year’s residence.
‘Was it me? Was it me who spoiled it?’
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t you.’
They did not come back. The rest of the day fell into darkness and disappointment. Thomas tried, but could not help his own, utter despondency. The turquoise tent disappeared, the floors were cleared; the room returned to the grand room still full of the magic of the paintings, the light in them, the music they brought. She left him to write. He wrote to Saul.
You are quite right. When I die, they will descend like locusts. There will be no collection left. They will spread everything to the winds. They will kill everything I love. The collection will die.
Saul emailed back.
You must make sure it doesn’t. You owe the world more than you owe your children.
A fter dark, she crept up behind him. His hands were quiet. She could see his face mirrored inexactly in the screen of his computer, next to her own, blurred, brown complexion. She could feel the vibrations of his sadness from a mile away, it was if it was in her own blood, and she could not bear it. His hands and feet were icy cold, and the skin on his neck was hot and she wrapped her arms around he. Soft and brittle, she was, featherdown and steel. And he, old polished leather with a layer of salt and bright, bright, blue eyes, holding on to her so hard, he almost hurt.
Thomas in his gallery room, having an attack of sheer panic, déjà vu, fear, so acute it paralysed the hands that wrote something every day. She read the words on the screen.
Tell her about the alterations made to the basement. Explain what happened.
Di leant over him and typed with one hand.
I know.
His hands began to move again. The shaking stopped. Shewaited, holding his shoulders with her strong hands and this time she did not let him go.
T he next morning, they walked on the beach in a different way, still holding each other. An invisible jet plane flew above them, leaving a fussy white plume behind itself as far as the eye could see, scarring the sky with a line of ragged lace, making them stop and stare, shielding their eyes. They stood and stared like imbeciles, wondered out loud where that jet would go after leaving its mark, and not wanting to be anywhere else. It was the perfect, abstract picture with the blinding colour no one would believe.
I’d like to collect the clouds
, Di said.
And flints.
Will you marry me?
Thomas said.
She laughed, and held on to his arm.
‘Some pictures are best unframed,’ she said.
R aymond Forrest, the lawyer, called in the late summer. There was a sign on the door.
Gone swimming.
C HAPTER F OUR
W ell
, Monica said. ‘Well, well, well. I must say, they give a fine party. And it was nice of him to ask my nieces, even if he did it through you. They liked it. Been telling each other stories ever since, which was more than they did before. And Di’s good with kids, I’ll say that for her, but then she is one, isn’t she?’
Jones sat in Monica’s barber’s chair, heavy-hearted. He thought of watching from the pier with his binoculars fixed on the front door, seeing the daughters of Thomas Porteous stuffing their wailing children into two cars and driving away as if the hounds of hell were after them and that shifty fucker, Edward, running down the front steps last. That was a month ago.
‘Something went wrong, though,’ he said.
‘Something was always wrong,’ Monica said, ‘with those girls of his. Maybe their mother.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because I know a woman who worked for old Douglas,that lawyer
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