is all it says in an untidy scrawl.
For some reason, I feel odd about spending time alone with Ben; there’s the tiniest nervous flutter in my stomach. Why? I wonder if I would feel the same if Klaus was giving me lessons. I test the thought a little, but no, that doesn’t seem alarming. Certainly not stomach fluttering at any rate.
This is unusual and not precisely welcome. As always, what I need, I decide, is facts, data, information. I have not had a lot of exposure to young men. I will observe Ben closely and try to normalize my response to him. I will be polite, pleasant. I will treat him with cool detachment, as an interesting specimen in a jar.
I wash and change into my new linen trousers and a crisp white shirt with short sleeves. I tuck the shirt into my waistband and turn to look at myself in the mirror, my eyes widening at the unfamiliar sight. I lift one leg and then the other, and I tuck my hands into the pockets. (Pockets! What a delight.) The trousers are light and soft against my legs and the way they let me move around is genuinely thrilling.
I have to admit that Filomena’s taste has proved to be spot on. The white shirt lies open at my throat and my slightly sunburned skin loses some of its pinkness, turning more of a tawny gold against the cotton. Instead of looking as though I have been squeezed inside my clothes like an overstuffed sausage, this outfit fits my curves; the masculine cut even emphasizes them in a way that surprises me and leaves me a little bashful. I pull my dark curls into a long braid and reach for the wide-brimmed straw hat to complete my ensemble. I stare at a reflection that is both myself, and, at the same time, someone else – a girl who’s off to have an adventure.
At ten to three I am sitting out on the terrace, nursing a cup of tea. I take a sip and wince, realizing that I’ve let it go cold. I think it’s the first time since I arrived here that I’ve had to be anywhere at a specific time. Still, I have put the time to good use, eating at least four of the crumbly almond-scented biscuits that Rosa left out for us.
“Oh, there you are.” It’s Ben, and the impatience in his voice implies that he has been searching for me for hours rather than finding me waiting at the exact time and place he told me to. I notice his eyes widen as he takes in my new outfit.
“Here I am.” I smile encouragingly.
For a moment neither of us says anything. Ben is looking at me with a slight frown.
“Shall we go?” I ask finally.
“Fine,” Ben says. “I’ve set up in the gardens; follow me.”
“It would be my pleasure.” I might be laying it on a bit thick now, and certainly the look Ben gives me as we walk along is not friendly.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Is that something that would make you anxious?” I ask, interested. I wish I had brought a notepad and pen with me to record this sort of information.
Ben comes to a stop and gives me a stern look. “What game are you playing now, Beatrice?”
“No game,” I say. “I’m just being pleasant.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Perhaps you could try it,” I am unable to resist muttering under my breath. I know that Ben is as reluctant as I am to do these foolish lessons, but I think he could be a bit more gracious about it.
“Here we are,” he says, rather unnecessarily, as we arrive in a small, shaded part of the garden where two easels have been set up. We’re in a paved area lined with trees, and the easels face back towards the house. There’s a charming view of the villa, its walls glowing rosily, almost pink under the sun. The tumbling red bougainvillea on the pergola is just visible to one side and splashes of green and yellow from the gardens complete the image. It already looks like a painting.
“So,” I say, moving to stand in front of one of the canvasses, “how exactly does this work?”
“Well, with painting the general aim is to get the paint on the canvas.”
He has set up a small table between the easels which holds pallets, small tubes of paints, brushes and jam jars full of water.
“Let’s just see what we’re working with, shall we? We can start with a landscape. Choose something to use as a subject and begin with that.”
“Right,” I say. The canvas looks very big and very white all of a sudden. “Right.” I pull back my shoulders and pick up a brush, dipping it carefully in the red paint and assessing the scene. The house, the pergola and the flowers. I can see them all with my eyes. How hard can it be to communicate this vision to my hand?
Ben watches me begin, then goes to his own easel and starts work. Unfortunately, while Ben is soon absorbed, I am not doing terribly well. I can certainly see the view in front of me and I can sort of see the different lines and shapes that make it up, but something gets very lost in translation as I try to recreate those lines and shapes in my painting. There’s a sort of squashed orange cube on my canvas where the house should be and it’s hovering somewhere above the ground. When I try and fill that in it looks even more wrong. I push my hair out of my eyes and realize I have smeared paint on my face.
After a while – how long I’m not sure, but it feels like hours – Ben stops working with a murmur of something that sounds like pleasure. He drops his brush into the jar of water and it makes a ringing noise as it bounces from side to side. Ben rolls his shoulders and stretches, blinking as though he has just woken up.
“Well.” He turns to me. “How have you been getting on?” His voice is happier, more relaxed now.
“It’s not exactly what I had in mind,” I mutter, and I can feel myself growing hot with mortification as he comes to stand behind me. The painting on my easel is absolutely horrible, and it’s still the best I could do. Being terrible at something in front of him makes me feel vulnerable and I think that if he makes fun of me now I won’t be able to forgive him.
“You’ve got the perspective wrong.” Ben’s voice comes from behind me. Much to my relief, he doesn’t sound mocking. His voice is measured and he’s standing so close that I can feel the heat from his body on my back. “You need to shorten that line there.” He leans forward, pointing at one of my wobbly orange lines and his arm brushes mine. “And this is closer, you see? So you need to lengthen it.” He takes the brush from my hand and makes some quick alterations. It’s still a terrible mess, but at least that one corner looks better.
I sigh. “You make that look easy. Why couldn’t I see it?”
“You’ll get there. It takes practice.”
“Which I definitely need,” I say glumly.
“Mmmm,” Ben murmurs, surprisingly diplomatic for once. “It can’t hurt. Now, you try with this corner here.”
Trying to remember his advice I make some awkward alterations. It’s better, but not right.
“Almost,” he says, and again he points to the different lines, helping me to see the changes that need making.
A lock of my hair comes loose again, and I swipe irritably at it with paint-stained fingers.
“Here,” he says. “Let me get that for you.”
As though it’s happening in slow motion, I feel his fingers as they skim lightly across my forehead, and then down the side of my neck, and it is as if a trail of sparks follows the path they take, my skin crackling under his touch. My mouth goes dry and my mind empties as I stare up at him, for once lost for words.