The thirteenth tale by Diane Setterfield

the first time it had happened to me. Like those
of a great many solitary people, my senses are acutely attuned to the presence
of others, and I am more used to being the invisible spy in a room than to
being spied upon. Now someone was watching me, and not only that, but whoever
it was had been watching me for some time. How long had that unmistakable
sensation been tickling me? I thought back over the past minutes, trying to
retrace the memory of the body behind my memory of the book. Was it since the
nun began to speak to the young man? Since she was shown into the house? Or
earlier? Without moving a muscle, head bent over the page as though I had
noticed nothing, I tried to remember.
     
    Then I realized.
     
    I had felt it even before I picked up the book.
     
    Needing a moment to recover myself, I turned the page,
continuing the pretense of reading.
     
    ‘You can’t fool me.“
     
    Imperious, declamatory, magisterial.
     
    There was nothing to be done but turn and face her.
     
    Vida Winter’s appearance was not calculated for concealment. She
was an ancient queen, sorceress or goddess. Her stiff figure rose regally out
of a profusion of fat purple and red cushions. Draped around her shoulders, the
folds of the turquoise-and-green cloth that cloaked her body did not soften the
rigidity of her frame. Her bright copper hair had been arranged into an
elaborate confection of twists, curls and coils. Her face, as intricately lined
as a map, was powdered white and finished with bold scarlet lipstick. In her
lap, her hands were a cluster of rubies, emeralds and white, bony knuckles;
only her nails, unvarnished, cut short, square like my own, struck an
incongruous note. What unnerved me more than all the rest were her sunglasses.
I lid not see her eyes but, as I remembered the inhuman green irises in the
poster, her dark lenses seemed to develop the force of a search-it; I had the
impression that from behind them she was looking through my skin and into my
very soul.
     
    I drew a veil over myself, masked myself in neutrality, hid
behind appearance.
     
    For an instant I think she was surprised that I was not
transparent,‘t she could not see straight through me, but she recovered
quickly, re quickly than I had.
     
    ‘Very well,“ she said tartly, and her smile was for herself more
than me. ”To business. Your letter gives me to understand that you have
reservations about the commission I am offering you.“
     
    “Well, yes, that is—”
     
    The voice ran on as if it had not registered the interruption.
“I could suggest increasing the monthly stipend and the final fee.”
     
    I licked my lips, sought the right words. Before I could speak,
Miss Winter’s dark shades had bobbed up and down, taking in my flat brown bags,
my straight skirt and navy cardigan. She smiled a small, pitying smile and
overrode my intention to speak. “But pecuniary interest is clearly not in your
nature. How quaint.” Her tone was dry. “I have forgotten about people who don’t
care for money, but I never expected to meet one.” She leaned back against the
cushions. “Therefore I conclude that the difficulty concerns integrity. People
whose lives are not balanced by a healthy love of money suffer from an
appalling obsession with personal integrity.”
     
    She waved a hand, dismissing my words before they were out of my
mouth. “You are afraid of undertaking an authorized biography in case your
independence is compromised. You suspect that I want to exert control over the
content of the finished book. You know that I have resisted biographers in the
past and are wondering what my agenda is in changing my mind now. Above
all”—that dark gaze of her sunglasses again—“you are afraid I mean to lie to
you.”
     
    I opened my mouth to protest but found nothing to say. She was
right.
     
    ‘You see, you don’t know what to say, do you? Are you
embarrassed to accuse me of wanting to