American art collector – Harry Broughton. Knows all about French paintings, painters, the Impressionists, and the School of Paris – Utrillo, Modigliani, Soutine, all those wild boys. He’d help.’
‘So, it’s an idea then?’
‘It’s a good idea.’
‘You could take your stuff with you, and start painting again. You painters have portable easels, don’t you? Parasols and so on?’
‘Oh yes, and smocks and berets and we hit the absinthe and cut our ears off when things aren’t going well.’ Silence, until we both smiled. ‘But yes, I could bring my stuff with me.’
‘Plenty to paint, if you do the olive groves with me.’
‘Trouble is, I tend to concentrate on the nude.’
‘I see,’ she said, nodding. ‘Now it’s clear. I thought you were just a lecher, the way you looked at me at the reception and when we had coffee.’
‘I am, but I like to paint the women first.’
Again, I expected her disapproval. Instead, she kept looking at me, smiling slightly in the hot silence. ‘Shall we swim?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I didn’t bring a costume.’
‘Nor did I. But it doesn’t matter. No one’s looking.’
We swam, just in our underwear, off the end of the boat, between the stern and the rocks, under the cliffs, in the deep blue water, with the seaweed swaying over the barnacles fifteen feet down. We dived, alternately, a froth of bubbles rising to the surface, shooting up like rockets from the depths into the bright heat.
Now I saw her body properly: the almost unnatural splay at her waist, fine rounded thighs, sturdy legs, small feet, the flash of flattened, water-soaked dark hair, glistening in the sun, as she shot up from the sea like a missile. Her body, as I’d thought, was very like Katie’s.
Afterwards, both of us drying on the deck of the boat, flat out, eyes closed, she asked, ‘That person you were talking about, who had to do you down so they could throw you overboard – I assume it was a woman. Your wife?’
‘Yes, and another later woman, the most recent one.’
‘I don’t want to pry.’
‘Why not? Supposed to be honest, aren’t we?’
‘I’m good at being honest about others, not so much with myself.’ She stayed as she was, eyes closed, stretched out. ‘It’s a relief, hearing you talk like that,’ she said. ‘Because rather the same sort of thing happened to me.’
‘Your husband?’
‘No, that was something else, years ago. No, by a woman I loved, in New York.’
‘I see.’ I didn’t see. I saw only disappointment and surprise. The last thing I’d have guessed of her. Yet maybe I should have seen it. There was a tomboyish air about her, like Katie, who had once told me she’d liked to have been a man.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said at last. ‘It’s tough, being given the boot by someone you love. Worse still when they invent reasons for it.’
‘Well, that’s reason enough for the chucking, isn’t it? – that they have to invent an excuse for it, a lie, like we were saying, because there’s usually some other reason in their lives. They usually chuck you for their own problems – not yours. That’s what happened with me, though she prettied it up by saying that she had to be free of me, to live.’ She paused, opening her eyes.
‘My friend – the last woman I was with – wanted to be free of me, not to live,’ I said.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘A week ago, near my barn in the Cotswolds where I live, when we last saw each other, she dumped me, then drove away and killed herself.’
Elsa sat up, startled. ‘She what?’
‘Drove into a tree. The car caught fire, she wouldn’t get out. Burnt herself alive.’
Elsa shook her head. ‘God, I’m sorry – that’s terrible. I still don’t follow.’
‘Nor do I.’
Elsa bowed her head, arms resting on her hunched-up knees. Her skin was dry now, and bronzed all over. I wanted to paint her. Looking
‘So, it’s an idea then?’
‘It’s a good idea.’
‘You could take your stuff with you, and start painting again. You painters have portable easels, don’t you? Parasols and so on?’
‘Oh yes, and smocks and berets and we hit the absinthe and cut our ears off when things aren’t going well.’ Silence, until we both smiled. ‘But yes, I could bring my stuff with me.’
‘Plenty to paint, if you do the olive groves with me.’
‘Trouble is, I tend to concentrate on the nude.’
‘I see,’ she said, nodding. ‘Now it’s clear. I thought you were just a lecher, the way you looked at me at the reception and when we had coffee.’
‘I am, but I like to paint the women first.’
Again, I expected her disapproval. Instead, she kept looking at me, smiling slightly in the hot silence. ‘Shall we swim?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I didn’t bring a costume.’
‘Nor did I. But it doesn’t matter. No one’s looking.’
We swam, just in our underwear, off the end of the boat, between the stern and the rocks, under the cliffs, in the deep blue water, with the seaweed swaying over the barnacles fifteen feet down. We dived, alternately, a froth of bubbles rising to the surface, shooting up like rockets from the depths into the bright heat.
Now I saw her body properly: the almost unnatural splay at her waist, fine rounded thighs, sturdy legs, small feet, the flash of flattened, water-soaked dark hair, glistening in the sun, as she shot up from the sea like a missile. Her body, as I’d thought, was very like Katie’s.
Afterwards, both of us drying on the deck of the boat, flat out, eyes closed, she asked, ‘That person you were talking about, who had to do you down so they could throw you overboard – I assume it was a woman. Your wife?’
‘Yes, and another later woman, the most recent one.’
‘I don’t want to pry.’
‘Why not? Supposed to be honest, aren’t we?’
‘I’m good at being honest about others, not so much with myself.’ She stayed as she was, eyes closed, stretched out. ‘It’s a relief, hearing you talk like that,’ she said. ‘Because rather the same sort of thing happened to me.’
‘Your husband?’
‘No, that was something else, years ago. No, by a woman I loved, in New York.’
‘I see.’ I didn’t see. I saw only disappointment and surprise. The last thing I’d have guessed of her. Yet maybe I should have seen it. There was a tomboyish air about her, like Katie, who had once told me she’d liked to have been a man.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said at last. ‘It’s tough, being given the boot by someone you love. Worse still when they invent reasons for it.’
‘Well, that’s reason enough for the chucking, isn’t it? – that they have to invent an excuse for it, a lie, like we were saying, because there’s usually some other reason in their lives. They usually chuck you for their own problems – not yours. That’s what happened with me, though she prettied it up by saying that she had to be free of me, to live.’ She paused, opening her eyes.
‘My friend – the last woman I was with – wanted to be free of me, not to live,’ I said.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘A week ago, near my barn in the Cotswolds where I live, when we last saw each other, she dumped me, then drove away and killed herself.’
Elsa sat up, startled. ‘She what?’
‘Drove into a tree. The car caught fire, she wouldn’t get out. Burnt herself alive.’
Elsa shook her head. ‘God, I’m sorry – that’s terrible. I still don’t follow.’
‘Nor do I.’
Elsa bowed her head, arms resting on her hunched-up knees. Her skin was dry now, and bronzed all over. I wanted to paint her. Looking
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