by Anna Kent
‘Are they good enough?’
‘Good enough? For who? Tate Modern?’
‘Oh, just… I know they’re not… pretty. I know they’re disturbing. But…’
A sob gathered in my throat and I had to blink back tears. Rohan was the first person to see the portraits and it mattered so much what he thought. It mattered that he understood this was art; that this is why I ignored the phone and ignored the door; why I forgot to eat. That this was what I found at the bottom of the vodka bottle. While I was painting things like this, I was hanging onto the edge of human existence by the tips of my fingernails. I was in another dimension; possessed by something otherworldly.
And, yes, I wanted his opinion, but I was also scared of it. I still had three or four portraits to go and my creativity at this point was as fragile as the head of a dandelion at seed; the slightest breeze or negative comment could too easily disperse the tangled wisps of inspiration that created the artwork, and leave me with nothing. It was crucial that he didn’t say anything critical.
Rohan swallowed. ‘They’re… awful… but incredible-awful. Each one is a masterpiece – and then, together, they tell a story. There’s so such an impact when you see them together. It’s that juxtaposition of beauty and horror as she ages that makes them so, God, compelling. I can’t stop looking. It’s like watching the freeze frame of a car crash.’
I wiped a tear with the back of my hand. ‘So, you like them?’
‘Understatement of the year. I can see them in some collector’s home.’ He arced his hands. ‘Arranged along a long corridor – God, the feeling you’d get walking past them. Just wow.’
He stared at the third picture. Here, Grace’s hair was tied back and her eyes were slightly closed as she looked out of the canvas almost knowingly. Rohan tilted his head.
‘What’s that look in her eyes? Resignation? Or something else?’
The background colours in this image were darker, ominous; clouds gathering before a storm; that sense of waiting you get as a heatwave ripens, ready to break.
‘Yes, maybe resignation,’ I said. ‘Do the colours remind you of anything?’
Rohan’s face cracked open with a smile. He pointed at me with his index finger and thumb in the shape of a gun.
‘That night at Mr Ho’s in the summer, when the weather broke and the rain finally came. It reminds me of that. Right?’ I nodded. ‘I could look at this for hours,’ Rohan said. ‘There’s something spellbinding about it, something hypnotic, as if it’s trying to say more than the sum of its parts.’
Right answer. I smiled, and he moved on, frowning now at the fourth. Here Grace was clearly in her early twenties. Her hair was tied back from her face, and there was a bright, inquisitive look on her face, or on as much of the face as I’d allowed the viewer to see. This was the ‘underwater’ image, the one in which her features blurred across the canvas as they surrendered to the current. Rohan stared at it, mesmerized, then turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘No words. Beautiful. Haunting.’
‘That was two words,’ I said biting my lips.
As he drank in the fifth, his hand moved to his throat. This was the one in which an older Grace was suffocating under the canvas, trying to claw her way out. Even I could barely look at it. When painting it, I’d had to concentrate on little areas at a time or I’d find myself struggling to breathe.
‘Very disturbing.’
Finally, he bent and examined the sixth picture, the one with the melting face. He studied the texture of the paint. ‘Abs?’ he said. ‘Did you mix blood in with this?’
I closed my eyes. I hadn’t thought anyone would notice, though the ferrous oxide did add a distinctive rusty tone. Rohan didn’t turn around but I could see his jaw clenching.
‘How did you get it?’ His tone was neutral but I could tell from the way he held himself so still that it was taking all his self-control. ‘Did you cut yourself again?’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘Well, not like that.’ I pulled up my sleeve and thrust out my forearm, showing him the old, healed scars, white worms splayed across the pale skin, and just one new slice, still pink and raw. ‘See? Just one. For the art. I promise. It’s mainly paint. Otherwise it wouldn’t last.’
He stared at me intently and I could see him weighing up this new information; wondering if he needed to take it further. Then he nodded slowly, accepting my words at face value; questioning no further although I knew he would be bursting with ‘why’s.’
‘Okay.’ He stood up slowly and moved towards me. ‘Baby, I…’
‘So what do you think? Of the paintings?’
He rubbed at his forehead. Wiped his hand across his eyes. Looked back at them. Exhaled loudly.
‘Jesus, Abs. Francesca’s going to be blown away. They’re… exceptional.’
He stepped closer, and this time I let him. He slid his arms around me and my body flopped against him, drained.
‘You’re a genius,’ he said into my hair. ‘You’re going to be a legend of this century.’ He rocked me for a bit, then pulled away. ‘So – what happens next? I get the feeling death is stalking her. That she’s running away from it.’
I took a deep breath, my hand on my chest. ‘I’m not sure. It comes from… I don’t know.’
‘Something dramatic, though. It has to be, after that build-up. But, please, no more blood. You barely have enough for yourself.’ He touched the dark circles under my eyes with his thumb then gently lifted my chin. ‘Promise?’
I looked away. ‘It’s art. There’s only a couple more. It wouldn’t be much.’
‘Abi, please.’ But defeat dripped in his tone. He knew I would. He knew I had to. My mind was on the next portrait. Rohan was right. Something dramatic was looming. I could feel it building inside me and dread slid through my veins like poison. Rohan would be back in New York when I painted the remaining canvases and I wasn’t sure how I would get through the process. If I would get through the process.
‘Can I take a couple of photos and call Francesca?’ Rohan was tapping his phone. Back on safe ground.
‘I…’
‘She hasn’t seen them, has she? I think she should. It’ll help her choose the right space for your exhibition. She’s going to go crazy when she sees these. Trust me.’
He started snapping, bending low to get different angles. ‘Right. I’ve sent them.’
I flopped onto the sofa, empty, while Rohan paced the attic. ‘She’s seen them… she’s typing… okay. She wants to phone. That’s fine, isn’t it?’
Moments later, his phone rang. ‘Hi, darling. How are you?’ he said. ‘So what did you think? Amazing, aren’t they? Even better in the flesh.’ His eyes flicked to mine. Bad choice of word. ‘The things she’s done… they blow me away.’
I listened to Rohan’s side of the conversation. He was animated, pacing, stopping abruptly, gesticulating at the pictures and talking fast. He didn’t mention the blood. After he hung up, he came over to where I was sitting, squatted down and put his hands on my shoulders so he could look directly into my eyes. I could smell the beer on his breath.
‘She thinks they’re incredible. And she never minces her words. She can’t wait to see them herself.’
‘Only when they’re finished.’
Rohan chewed his lip. ‘She was hoping sooner, but maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better she sees the entire story. Anyway, Abs, the main thing is you’re totally on the right track. This is going to be the show of the year. I’m so proud of you!’ He plonked himself down next to me on the sofa and started to massage the back of my neck between his finger and thumb.
‘But tell me one thing. Where did this come from? What goes on in that head of yours? And what does Grace do to pull this out of you?’
‘If I knew how this worked, I’d bottle the idea, sell it and be a millionaire by now.’ I smiled, trying to navigate us to safer ground. ‘Look, I know the house gets a bit chaotic when I’m pa
inting, but I really am in another world. It’s like I forget everything. There’s nothing more to it than that. Once I finish the series, everything will get back to normal. You’ll get your wife back. And Grace will be gone I promise.’ My smile was weak.
Rohan sighed and rubbed his beard. ‘I suppose when you put it like that, the state of the house for a few weeks really isn’t so important.’
Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
‘How did you feel when you saw Abigail’s paintings for the first time?’
‘Wow. Well. Absolutely staggered, to be honest. I knew she had something dark inside her, but… they were really something.’
‘Were they not what you’d been expecting? Given her last series?’
‘How do you ever expect something like that? I thought they were macabre and beautiful. Haunting.’
‘Did she tell you at that point who they were of?’
‘No. No, she didn’t.’
‘Would it have worried you, had you known they were, in fact, of Grace?’
‘Of course it would!’
‘You mentioned to me earlier that she’d used blood in them? Did that surprise or shock you?’
[Sighs] ‘Look. I knew Abi had had some issues with self-harming in the past. She has the scars. But she assured me it was a long time ago and that the issues that caused her to do it were resolved, and I kept an eye on her. She hasn’t done it at all since I’ve known her – I never saw fresh cuts – so I think she was telling the truth. So, yes, I was… worried… when I saw she’d used blood in the pictures, and that she’d cut herself to get it. But she’s an artist and, if she wanted blood in the picture… who was I to tell her what to do?’
Forty-Eight
After I’d shown Rohan the paintings, I did my ‘rounds’ downstairs, checking all the doors and windows, and turning off the appliances and, when I came up, Rohan was waiting naked in bed. He snuggled up to me and whispered, ‘Let’s try’ – and, well, having felt a disconnect for much of the day, I was relieved things were still okay – but I guess the result was that, as we lay together afterwards, he forgot to put in his earplugs.
My dream that night was different. I don’t know if it was the food we’d eaten or the conversation we’d had about Grace, but this time I woke with a twitch, a huge twitch that made the bed bounce. ‘No!’ I shouted at the shadowy figure that dodged, unidentified, between slices of the universe, and then I felt Rohan’s hand on my arm, the warmth of his fingers reeling me back in.
‘Abs?’ he whispered in the dark. ‘Can you hear me?’
I turned and took in his face, a dark mass against the white of the pillow; a scent of home.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s not good enough?’ he whispered. ‘You were saying “never good enough”. It’s not about your art, is it?’
My mind was blank. ‘No idea.’ But even as I mouthed the words, the shadowy figure slipping through the blackness between sleep and wakefulness took on the shape of Grace. Something about the flip of a ponytail and the turn of a hip. Never good enough.
‘Is there anything bothering you?’ Rohan whispered. His arm snaked around me, pulling me closer, and I felt his breath on my cheek. ‘I mean, your paintings… If there are things that you want to talk about, we can get you counselling or therapy, or something. Something to help you get it straight in your head. It might help with the dreams.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, and fell back asleep with Rohan’s arm around me but, when I woke to the chattering of the birds in the trees outside, and to the grey of the dawn squeezing around the edge of the curtains as if it were intent on suffocating us, Rohan’s eyes were still wide open; his brow furrowed.
Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
‘And so, given what you now know, how did you feel about Grace when you came home from New York that weekend? Did you feel that she could, in any way, be responsible for the changes you noticed in Abigail?’
‘Yes. I guess there was something about her that made me uneasy. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. Do you know what I mean? I felt that she had some sort of a hold over Abi. But it seemed to be positive, at least in terms of her art. Abi told me that Grace was her muse. To be honest, I was a bit jealous. Why couldn’t I inspire her to paint like that? What was it that Grace had that I didn’t?’
‘But you didn’t broach the topic with Abigail?’
‘No. No, I didn’t. No more than I’ve already said. Abs was difficult to talk to. Prickly. I guess I just hoped it would all work out in the end. These things usually do.’
Forty-Nine
I painted all morning. When I stopped, the light was still flat and grey, the morning sliding towards the tipping point of the day. Outside, the front garden was a picture of sogginess, the weekend’s rain having dampened the fallen leaves into a wet mulch. Even next-door’s lawn, usually so well kept, looked sorry for itself. I remembered, again, Rohan’s instruction to get the tree removed and eyeballed it, willing it not to fall.
I’d been working on the seventh painting. The base was there: a mouth encompassing the whole face, its lips yawning open in a scream. No eyes, no nose. Behind it, the background would be swirling clouds of dark, rusty red. It would take a lot more blood than last time. I’d do it after Rohan had left.
I took one last look at my work, then backed out of the attic, closing the door quietly behind me. The light fell differently on the landing, illuminating dust motes. I paused for a moment but the hairs on the back of my neck prickled with the sense of the paintings gathered behind the attic door. I flew down the stairs, my bare feet silent, and then I heard it: Mili’s laugh. In the kitchen. A joyous cackle from Sofia; the deep baritone of Rohan’s voice. I dropped down to the bottom step and sat, hugging my knees.
‘You’re so good with her,’ Mili was saying. ‘Such a natural.’
‘Aww, she’s my good girl, aren’t you, Sofia?’ Rohan replied, then there was a giggle from Sofia. I heard the tinkle of bells and a clickety-clack: toys to keep her occupied.
Mili’s voice again. ‘Yours and Abi’s kids will be gorgeous. You’ll make beautiful babies.’ A pause, then a lowered tone. ‘Are you even trying, or is Mum barking up the wrong tree?’
I held my breath. Rohan coughed and a chair scraped on the floor. ‘We’re practising,’ he said.
‘But nothing’s happening?’
‘Watch this space.’ The hope in his voice made me squeeze my arms tighter around my knees.
Hope in the upward inflection of Mili’s voice, too. ‘She’s pregnant?’
‘No – well, not that we know of. But you never know. This might be our lucky month.’
‘Fingers crossed. You’ll make such a great dad.’
There was a clatter and some chattering from Sofia. I stood up, ready to go in, but then Mili’s voice again: ‘How is Abi, anyway? It’s hard when it’s not happening. Is she all right?’
‘Well…’ Rohan cleared his throat. ‘I’m not sure.’
I sat back down.
‘Okay,’ Mili said slowly. A teaspoon chinked on china. ‘So tell me. What’s up?’
Rohan sighed. ‘Have you met her friend Grace? The one who’s staying here?’
There was a pause, then, ‘Nope. Don’t think so. Why?’
‘I just… I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. Something’s not right.’
‘In what way “not right”?’
‘I don’t know. She’s staying with Abi for a while until she finds her feet, but – God, I just don’t know.’
‘Houseguests aren’t always easy.’
‘It’s more than that. I get the feeling she’s using Abs.’
‘Okaay,’ Mili said.
‘And Abi’s such a soft touch. She can be a bit “absent” when she’s painting. I worry about her without me here to keep an eye on things.’
There was a silence, t
hen Mili said, ‘You need to trust her. She’s an adult. She can take care of herself.’
Rohan sighed again, and I could picture him running his hand through his hair. A chair scraped back and I tensed, ready to leap to my feet, but Rohan spoke, his voice slightly less audible. Staring out of the window, maybe.
‘You’ve seen how thin she’s got. And she’s so pale.’
‘She’s working, Ro. She’s not going outside much. Maybe you should book a holiday for when you’re back. After the exhibition.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Some sun would be nice.’ Silence. ‘She’s changed since Grace’s been here.’
‘Changed? In what way?’
‘Drinking more; not taking care of herself, or the house.’
Mili laughed. ‘You mean she’s not being a Stepford wife? Keeping house and putting her lipstick on for you? Come on! You said yourself she’s painting. I’m sure she doesn’t worry about a bit of mess when she’s working.’
‘It’s more than that.’
‘Okay, let’s gauge this,’ Mili said. ‘What do you mean “not taking care of the house”?’
Rohan started telling her about the bins, the dishwasher, the dirty dishes and, even to my ear, he sounded a bit whiney; the henpecked husband with his nose out of joint. ‘And why isn’t Grace pitching in? That really annoys me. It’s basic manners when you’re a houseguest, for God’s sake! And she’s living here for free!’
I jumped as a fist slammed on the table. Sofia yelped.
‘It’s all right, Sofe,’ Mili said, making shushing noises. ‘But if you’re in New York, why does it even matter? Surely the main thing is that Abi’s painting. She has that exhibition, right? You can always clean up the house later. Or, God forbid, get a cleaner! Have you seen what she’s been painting?’
‘Yes. They’re… oh my God. Amazing. Incredible. But so dark.’
‘Dark in a good way, right? Honestly, Ro, you’re so like Mum: always looking for a problem where none exists. You worry too much. How much longer are you in New York for? Two more weeks? That’s nothing – what can go wrong? The way I see it, having Abs’s friend here while you’re away actually works in your favour. At least she’s not alone.’
