The artist swapped three glass-shapes round, to make room for one last piece, ensured that none was touching. ‘There’s definitely a sense of power arising from that labyrinth. According to the dowsers, it’s sited on the junction of half a dozen power-lines, which give it quite some charge. And its whole design is ‘‘charged’’ in a more complex sense, with deep mystical significance. Its basic form and structure ties in with the dimensions of the cathedral itself, and is a key to its geometry, but don’t ask me to explain. It’s so damned complicated, it would take me half a lifetime.’ He paused a moment, brow creased in concentration as he tracked back forty years. ‘I walked it in a state of near elation, Rose. Even at that age, I knew it was significant – a winding track through eleven concentric circles which inevitably lead ‘‘home’’ – bring you to fulfilment, to your goal. I was already doing a painting course at St Martin’s, though I hadn’t yet decided I wanted to work with glass. But the impact of the Chartres windows seemed to make my mind up for me, as if I were being ‘‘led’’ by the labyrinth itself, brought to a decision by some outside force or power.’
He shivered suddenly, despite the stifling heat. ‘Perhaps I was imagining things. The atmosphere was very other-worldly. They’d had some special celebration earlier that day, and moved out all the chairs to make more room in the nave. The crowds had mostly gone, but there were still a lot of people lighting candles at the shrines, or just kneeling on the hard stone floor, and a Bach toccata was rumbling on the organ, and the whole cathedral seemed to flicker and vibrate, and there was this amazing sense of prayer and …’ He left the sentence hanging, reached down to brush white powder off her skirt. ‘Why not fetch an apron, Rose? You’re ruining your clothes. And can’t you get a move on? You’ve hardly done a thing yet.’
She stared at him, bewildered. His mood had changed completely, the earlier irritation returned in his brusque voice. Perhaps he’d regretted what he’d told her, decided to clam up before he gave himself away, or permitted her a glimpse into his soul. If she’d ‘hardly done a thing’ it was because she’d been engrossed in what he’d said, trying to take it in. It was too late to help, in any case. If she stayed there any longer, Isobel would worry – or worse – begin suspecting things.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Christopher, but I’ll really have to go now. Isobel’s already very curious about why I left the studio, and if I don’t get back, she’ll only start cross-questioning me.’ She shook herself, like Byron, to remove any more loose powder, then went to fetch her coat. ‘May I use the phone?’
‘Help yourself. And forgive me if I snapped. I’ve been working too damned hard, that’s all.’ He took both her hands in his, kissed her on the forehead. ‘Listen, Rose, let’s go away again. We need a break – both of us. Christmas didn’t count. As soon as this window’s safely at the glazier’s, we’ll book a weekend somewhere – and I promise not to talk about cathedrals or labyrinths, or say one single word about my work.’ He laughed. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ He kissed each hand in turn, still clasping them in his. ‘D’you mind if I don’t come and see you off? I must get these last trays in.’
‘No, that’s fine. Isobel should only be ten minutes, and by the time I’ve tidied up a bit …’
He seemed reluctant to release her, scooping up her hair, and holding it in two long reins, as if he were controlling a small pony. She tossed her coat behind her, pressed herself against his naked chest; was aware of him responding. Perhaps he’d changed his mind, at last, and decided work could wait. She could almost feel the conflict in his body; his hands and shoulders tense still, while, lower down, his excitement was quite obvious. Then, decisively, abruptly, he thrust his tongue between her lips, bit her own tongue, hard. She flinched in pain, but he simply forced her tongue aside, started exploring her whole mouth like some dark and secret cave, his teeth grating against hers, grazing along the outside of her lips.
‘You’re hurting,’ she choked out.
He fumbled with his corduroys, pushed her back against the wall, tugged off her pants and tights, and suddenly she felt him hard inside her. She could barely move in that position, but she shut her eyes, used all her effort to grind and churn against him, tensing up her muscles, trying to hold him in a vice. Her skirt was creased around her middle, her flower-sprigged blouse soaking up his sweat. She had to bridge the gulf between them, muss and soil her prissy clothes till she was as hot and brute as he was.
‘Stand on my feet,’ he ordered.
She placed her bare and powdery feet on his clumping white-snowed shoes, feeling some strange sense that she was growing out of him, two bodies with one root.
‘Now climb me.’ He cupped his hands beneath her buttocks, helped her clamber up. She latched her legs around his waist, gripping with her thighs, clutching at his shoulders, her fall of hair cascading back behind her. He was bearing her full weight now, his legs trembling from the strain, his mouth still scalding hers. He hadn’t courted her or wooed her, or asked her if she wanted him – simply given orders – but she could almost hear his body howling out its own needs: how it craved her and desired her, yet also sought to punish her, pay her out for leaving.
He was moving faster, faster, driven by some wild relentless rhythm, and she tried to steel herself against the sense of being overwhelmed, annihilated; fought an instinct to shrink back, escape into the safety of her mind.
‘No!’ he rasped, his voice gravelly and ragged, unable to compete with the violence of his breathing, the convulsive jerking movements of his body. ‘I love you, Rose, don’t you understand?’
His nails were digging into her flesh, and she could feel her helpless spine scraping up and down against rough and rutted stone. She hardly registered the pain, focused only on the words he’d said – red-hot words, molten from the kiln, exploding now in his headstrong hurting climax.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘I love you, Rose,’ she murmured, faking Christopher’s gruff voice. ‘I love you, Rose. I love you.’ However many times she said it, the words still stupefied. She fumbled for the light-switch, sat up in bed again. It was impossible to sleep. Not only did Rowan’s room seem wildly large and colourful after the cramped beige of the bungalow, but the artist had sneaked into it, left his home and wife, and come running – eager, ardent – to Windy Hollow House. She sat him in the wicker chair with its pink and orange cushions, had him explain about the labyrinth again, and this time she responded with deep and searching questions, trenchant observations about the symbolism of mazes. Then they discussed the Manchester commission, and she made him repeat his comforting remarks about how busy he could keep her, how useful she would be; how he could offer her employment for eighteen months at least, and also up her wages.
She had returned from the studio skittish, effervescent, but had tried to keep the bubbles down, stop herself from fizzing. Isobel had probed, of course, but she had answered very casually, given nothing much away, except the fact that she’d be returning there to work. Isobel had seemed subdued, not quite her jolly self, complained she had a headache, and finally retired to bed at ten. She herself had stayed up till after midnight, wandering through the downstairs rooms, relishing the sense of space, admiring all the works of art, comparing them with Trish’s china horses and the picture of a flower-girl with a puppy and a parasol, which graced the Carters’ sitting-room.
She threw the covers back, reaching for her handbag, fished her diary out of it and started checking on weekends, keen to write in every one: ‘Away, with Christopher’. She wondered where they’d go – perhaps abroad this time – knew from Trish’s brochures all the exotic destinations: Amsterdam, Vienna, Rome, Sofia, Leningrad. Imagine Russia in a weekend! It sounded quite incredible, when her grandmother had told her once that it used to take them two whole days to drive from Kent to Cornwall. Though even Russia paled beside Vienna, the romantic city she’d always longed to see. There’d been a picture in the brochure of a Viennese palace with at least a thou
sand windows and a lake so blue it blazed, and the statue in the fountain had looked distinctly like Christopher – small, lean, muscly and intense – with water spouting from his loins and a dolphin as his sofa. Palaces were two a penny, according to the write-up, and so many famous composers had lived in old Vienna it must disgorge music like other towns belched smoke. Christopher would warm to that, and she could also surprise him with her German. She had dropped it after GCSE, but Miss Monteith had always said that her accent was remarkably good; even gone so far as to ask if she’d lived some time in Germany, or had a German relative. ‘Ringstrasse,’ she practised, remembering the caption to another sun-drenched picture in the brochure: an attractive tree-lined boulevard with elegant shops and coffee-houses enticing people in.
She stuffed the diary back again, her fingers grating on the rough side of a matchbox, an empty one she had picked up from the studio. She pushed it open, unwrapped the two pink Kleenex folded tight inside, drew out the cross and chain.
‘I didn’t steal it,’ she told the stern policeman in her head. ‘I simply shoved it in my pocket when I discovered it at Adrian’s, and I’ve been wondering ever since how on earth I could return it.’ She had never dared to try it on; somehow feared the tiny trinket, which seemed more potent than a wedding ring, more lethal than a gun.
She moved over to the dressing-table, pulled off her pyjama top, dithered for a moment before shaking back her hair, then fastened the fiddly clasp around her neck. She edged nearer to the mirror, so she could admire the pearls gleaming on her skin. The cross felt strangely heavy, despite its trifling size; weighed her down with new responsibilities. By wearing Anne’s jewellery, she had somehow also taken on her character, and so become the artist’s wedded wife. Which meant that she could sleep with him, stay with him all night, wake with him in the morning, make love not standing up, but lying in the marriage-bed, a good eight miles from glass-screens, hungry kilns.
She slipped off her pyjama bottoms, so that she was now completely naked, then luxuriated back in bed, rolling to one side, to make more room for Christopher. She shut her eyes, could hear the clop of horse-drawn cabs spanking down the Ringstrasse; Strauss waltzes thumping out above the pealing bells of Karlskirche; the Vienna Boys’ Choir joining in, and above all the happy hubbub, the artist’s voice, pounding, thrusting into her: ‘Ich liebe dich, Rose.’
Jane was still in Austria, eating Sachertorte, Hadley sitting opposite, gnawing not the chocolate cake, but soft lumps of her flesh, which he dug out with a long red-handled spoon. She had only half her stomach left, which was oozing bloody cream. Hadley’s spoon had struck a bone, and was rapping it and rapping, so that the noise went through her head.
‘Come in,’ she mumbled peevishly, suddenly awake.
‘Tea up!’ boomed Isobel.
‘But it’s the middle of the night.’ Jane shrank away from the intrusive voice, from the flood of light frisking through the window, as Isobel drew the curtains with a rattle and a swoosh.
‘It’s twenty past eleven – in the morning. I’ve just come back from church. I thought I’d better wake you, as Rowan and the rest will be here in half an hour.’
Jane sat up in bed, relieved she had her pyjamas on. She had dragged them back in the dark of six A.M., woken by the cold; must have returned to sleep again, slept ten hours in all. ‘Gosh! I’m sorry, Isobel. I meant to help you with the lunch.’
‘No – my turn today. And it’s mostly done, in any case. Getting up for church is the only thing which seems to make me organised. I always feel that God’s a bit like Tom was – prefers the potatoes to be peeled and the roast beef browning nicely in the oven, before we sing the hymns.’ Isobel plumped down on the bed, stretched out her stripey legs. She was wearing woolly winter socks in stripes of green and gold, beneath a pale blue summer skirt, with a jerkin in autumnal brown linking the two seasons. ‘Don’t let your tea get cold.’
Jane reached out for her mug, sipped appreciatively. ‘What luxury! The first time I’ve had tea in bed for weeks.’ She screwed up her eyes against the light – not the reluctant bleary light of recent mornings, but a flamboyant glare and shimmer more suited to midsummer than to February. Christopher had made her so much more aware of light – shown her its mysterious power of changing everything it touched; blurring lines, or sharpening them; continually working on the quilt of fields which spread beyond the studio, dousing them with mist or dusk, then rekindling them at sunrise, like stained glass brought to life again after dying in the night hours.
She shifted in the bed, so that a shaft of sun fell directly on her face. She, too, had died, in one sense, lost her glow and sparkle, let all her colours darken. Today was a new start, and she was glad that she was spending it at Isobel’s, in a lively house with a sunburst on the door; roast beef on the table and good friends to share it with. ‘How was church?’ she asked, cupping both hands round her mug.
‘Well, it’s the first Sunday of Lent today, so the service was a bit subdued – no flowers or organ or Gloria. But although Anthony may disapprove, I always find Lent rather exciting. I mean, Easter’s round the corner, and I like that sense of stripping off the old self and preparing for the new, as if we’re leaves or bulbs or something, shooting up in spring. And we’re given forty days to do it, which seems to me just perfect. Oh, I know it’s penitential – forty days in the desert, forty years in the wilderness – all that sort of thing, but it’s psychologically right, you know. A month would be too short for all that spiritual spring-cleaning, and two months far too long, so that we’d lose all heart, or begin to get quite corpse-like from the fasting. Happy Lent, Rose, anyway.’ She stretched a hand out, endangering the tea. ‘I saw Veronica in church, which was a nice surprise, as well.’
‘Veronica?’
‘You know, Christopher’s ex-wife.’
‘I didn’t realise she still lived in the area.’
‘She doesn’t. She moved up to St Albans after the divorce. But she’s staying with the Mortimers, a mile or two from here. She said she tried to ring me yesterday, to let me know she was in my neck of the woods – three times in all, she phoned – but of course I was out all day with you and Trish, and she was out all evening. I’ll pop and see her later on, leave you to hold the fort.’ Isobel kicked off a navy patent shoe, wiggled her green toes. ‘I’ve missed her in the last few years. We got very close when she was breaking up with Christopher, used to meet each Sunday for tea and a long walk. Which reminds me, Rose, I ought to have a word with you about our dear friend Christopher.’
‘What about him?’ Jane put her mug down, pulled the bedclothes tight around her chest.
‘Well, I’m very glad you’re going back to work with him. That’s marvellous news, but …’
‘But what?’
Isobel clasped her hands, as if in prayer, the fingers tense and tight. ‘I don’t know quite how to put this, but … well – try not to get involved.’
‘Involved?’
‘I hate to gossip, Rose. I think it’s very dangerous and definitely unkind, but poor Veronica got badly hurt, so I feel it’s only fair to warn you.’
‘What d’you mean, ‘‘hurt’’?’ Jane could suddenly see Veronica cringing on the floor in pain, white dust on her stylish clothes, bloody spittle in her mouth; the artist’s lips too wild for her, his nail-marks on her bruised and naked back.
‘I’m not too keen to go into the details, and after all, I’ve only heard her side, so it’s not really fair to Christopher, but I’m aware that you’re quite fond of him …’
‘I’m not!’ Jane slammed out of bed and over to the window. ‘Look, if you’re trying to insinuate that I’m having an affair with him or something, you must be out of your mind. He’s old enough to be my grandfather.’
‘Yes, of course he is – I realise that, but …’
‘And, anyway, I … I’ve got another boyfriend.’
‘Really, darling? Who?’
Jane kept her back turned, fiddling
with the curtain. ‘Someone Trish knows. She thinks he’s great, and I know you will, as well.’ That was true, at least. Isobel adored her only son.
‘Oh, Rose, I’m so relieved! I’d really love to meet him. You’d better introduce me, invite him here for lunch one day, or supper or high tea, or …’
Jane slouched back from the sill. ‘He’s not around at the moment. He’s away at university.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, wait till Easter, then.’ Isobel jumped up to let the ginger tom in. He was scratching at the door, flounced in with his tail held high, sniffing round her legs. ‘I must admit I have been rather worried. You see, Hadley brought the subject up, and …’
‘Hadley?’
‘Yes. He drove up here one Saturday, from college, said he was depressed about his course and wanted to have a chat with me about it. I was rather touched, you know, the way he thought his totally unscientific mother could grasp the ins and outs of modern physics. Anyway, we stayed up very late, drinking this quite frightful wine he’d had left over from a party, and he suddenly asked me if I thought you were in love with Christopher.’
Jane picked up her hairbrush, tore it through her hair. ‘That’s total utter rubbish. How on earth could I …?’
‘Don’t be angry, Rose. I’m sure he meant it well. He was probably just a bit concerned about you working there.’
‘Concerned?’ Jane kept on brushing, her head tipped down, so all the blood was rushing to her face. ‘Why should he be?’
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