Now that she was approaching what was probably the end of her life, she worried about him more than ever. What could he be capable of, or what might he have done. It was nothing she could put her finger on, and she had no evidence, but despite his charm and his acts of kindness she felt a chill in the air when he was around her. A sense of creeping malevolence.
Richard came in with the coffee. It had been a while since he’d seen his father and in the interim he’d shriveled and aged. His once healthy complexion looked sallow and there were crevices of worry around his eyes. He’d been a big man but his wife’s illness had diminished him. He seemed shrunken now and drawn in on himself.
He observed this change in his father with detached interest. He was intrigued to see how one person’s illness could make another healthy person look so ill. He knew his father loved his mother and if this was what love did to you he was glad it was a weakness he didn’t need or feel. It was pathetic and demonstrated just how far beyond his parents he’d evolved.
His father’s hand shook slightly as he passed him the coffee. “Here you are Son, strong no sugar, hope that’s still how you take it.”
He was tempted to say he now took two sugars just to wind his father up—God, those childhood lectures—but he didn’t have time to waste on small pettiness.
“Thanks Dad,” he said, “that’s fine.”
His father perched on the edge of the sofa next to his wife and took her hand.
“Mum and I’ll be flying out on the Sunday. It’s an early flight so if you want to pop over Saturday for the keys and to say goodbye that’d be nice or if you can’t, you can take the keys now.”
His father’s eyes flickered upward to meet his and there it was. That fleeting look of speculation, of suspicion tinged with dread. Just what was it that his father suspected him of, what was the thing that had lain unspoken between them for all those years? He smiled to himself. He thought he knew but he also knew the old man would never have the guts to voice it. If he hadn’t by now then he never would.
“Sorry Dad,” he said, “I’ve got something else to do on Saturday so won’t be able to. If it’s okay with you I’ll say goodbye and take them while I’m here.”
A glorious plan was forming, one worthy of his genius. He smiled, feeling so uncharacteristically benevolent that he deigned to hug his mother goodbye. Her bones were frail like a bird’s and he wondered for a moment what his father would do if he suddenly crushed her until they splintered like twigs.
5
“Love does not dominate; it cultivates”
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Today we have moved in and the last of our things are being unloaded from the removal van. Our cats, Major and Mina, glare balefully from their box in the hall and I fear my expression mirrors theirs. The Lodge is now our home.
The last few weeks have been difficult. Initially after the viewing I allowed Tom’s enthusiasm to infect me—until the old doubts began to creep back in. I loved my old home with its proximity to the gallery and to my few good friends, but this quickly became irrelevant. I have never known Tom to show such disregard for my feelings as he has over the past few weeks. Perhaps he’s never wanted anything quite as much as this.
When I come to think about it, he’s never really been challenged in all the time we’ve been together. There’s never before been a time when we’ve disagreed over anything so important, not because I’m passive by nature—far from it—it’s more because the boundaries of my life have tended to be so restricted there’s been little to take issue over. Maybe with hindsight I should’ve been more assertive just to maintain my place in things.
It sounds disloyal but I’ve sometimes suspected Tom thrives on my vulnerability, that it allows him to be in control without being perceived as controlling.
Tom and I first met in 2011 at an open art exhibition. I was showing a collection of winter landscapes, abstract studies in a palette of whites, purples and grays. Tom was early for a meeting and only came in to kill some time. I was taking a break and he found me in the corridor sitting on the stairs. The chatter and the lights were beginning to overload me. There were too many signals to process, so I’d gone in search of a few moments of peace and quiet. I’d also stopped drinking at the time and the chink and fizz of champagne glasses was becoming unbearable.
“God, are these people always that pretentious?” he said, leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs.
I wasn’t in the mood for company so chose to ignore him but he persisted.
“Most of it seems a bit emperor’s new clothes to me, unless I’m missing something. I suppose I don’t mind the snowy ones, if that’s what they’re meant to be, at least they’re interesting.”
Obviously not an art critic. I couldn’t help but enjoy a certain short-lived satisfaction before he went on to say, “Bit pricey though. How anyone can ask that for just slapping a bit of paint on a canvas I don’t know.”
I looked at him properly for the first time. I registered that he was tall and nice looking in an understated sort of way. He had the most striking eyes, a pale brown, almost amber. His suit was well cut, expensive without being ostentatious and he wore nice shoes. I wasn’t past noticing such things.
I snapped. “So, I suppose from that you work for nothing doing something worthy for the good of mankind? You must struggle to afford those shoes.”
He laughed, “I’m sorry, I must sound a complete prick. I’m actually on my way to a meeting and I’m really not looking forward to it, it’s obviously affecting my usually charismatic personality.”
I saw him glance with sudden interest at the scar at my temple and the slight mistiness in my left eye.
“Are you Isabel Weir? I was just reading your bio. So, they’re your paintings. God, you must think me terribly rude.”
I felt the familiar embarrassment at Caitlin’s promotional efforts, but he looked so genuinely contrite I couldn’t help but smile and soon, against my better judgment, we were chatting as though we’d known each other forever. I’m okay when I’m one to one, it’s crowds that get me confused and aphasic. Often what’s on the inside feels clever and articulate but what comes out isn’t so much.
He eventually asked me if I fancied meeting up for a meal and, although I tended to be wary of new encounters, I said yes, and we went out the following Saturday to a trendy Italian restaurant in Soho. He was amusing in a gentle self-effacing kind of way and seemed genuine. He asked me a lot about what had happened to me and how it affected me and my life, but not in a creepy or gratuitous way. Not like some of the boys at college who only asked me out because they’d heard stories, albeit most of them wildly inaccurate, about what had happened to me—and that I’d sleep with anyone after a few drinks.
The latter had an element of truth and was partly why I’d stopped drinking, that and the fact it was damaging my recovery. I’m not exactly ashamed of anything I did, I look at it objectively and mainly I just feel sorry for the girl I was back then. Most teenagers are learning how to make and break relationships, how to be and how to feel, how to forge the friendships that last into adulthood. I spent my teenage years relearning how to control my limbs and to speak coherently. Finding a way to live in the world again as the new and unimproved me. Yes, by the time I was at college I was sufficiently recovered to function practically but emotionally I was little more than a fourteen-year-old living in a twentysomething’s body. That coupled with my residual boundary issues and tendency toward impulsive and uninhibited behavior was a recipe for disaster. I soon gained a reputation for being a bit “weird.” I was lonely, isolated and afraid, and sought any short-lived comfort I could find. To say I slept with every boy at college would be an exaggeration, although I was certainly generous with my carnal favors. Of course, on reflection it may just be that I’m my father’s daughter.