by Jodi Taylor
‘Not what?’
‘I’m not sure. Something’s missing.’
‘This sofa’s really uncomfortable,’ I said, to take his mind off things. He loves it and steadfastly refuses to get it replaced. Or re-upholstered. Or even re-covered.
He patted the arm affectionately. ‘This old thing could tell a tale or two.’
I sighed in mock exasperation. ‘Did you ... sleep with all your models?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, shocked. ‘Only one. And even she abandoned me in the end.’
He spoke lightly and I thought what a long way we’d both come. Not so long ago he’d been incapable of talking about Francesca leaving him. Not without a great deal of alcohol and anguish. In an effort to sort him out, his father had packed him off into the army. He meant well and I think Russell understood that now, but it hadn’t ended positively. Relations between the two of them had deteriorated and then his father had died. Convinced that without Francesca he could never paint again, Russell had taken to drink as both his house and his world crumbled around him. Now, though, not only could he talk about it, but with humour, too. I put my arms around him.
‘Steady on,’ he said, grinning. ‘Just because I’m covered in Payne’s Grey doesn’t mean you should be too.’
‘So tell me about these models then,’ I said, sipping my coffee. ‘Tell me about all these naked women you had to force yourself to look at.’
‘What an ordeal, Jenny. Day in and day out. No respite. None at all. Every time I looked up there was another piece of female anatomy dangling in front of me. People have no idea how we artists suffer. It was exhausting.’
‘Well, if you ... slept with all of them, I’m not surprised.’
He was shocked. ‘What do you take me for? No, never mind,’ he added, as I opened my mouth to tell him. ‘Apart from anything else, there were thirty other people in the life class with me. I know Andrew always says I’m a bit of an exhibitionist, but even I draw the line at performing in front of thirty other people. Not that most of them would have noticed. They’d have just told me to hold it right there and picked up another brush. A big brush, of course.’ He grinned at me.
‘Would that have been the one for your head?’
‘The one I do remember, though ... Christa. She had all this red hair. Really, really red. The most gorgeous vibrant crimson red. And the collar and cuffs matched, if you get my drift.’
‘Russell...’
He wasn’t listening. He was lost in his past. ‘I remember her stretched out on an acid green silk sheet and the way the shaft of sunlight just caught her hair...’ He stared into space, mug in one hand and brush in the other. ‘I think I might still have it somewhere.’
‘Christa?’
‘No, idiot. The sheet.’ He put down his mug and brush, crossed the room, and wrenched open a cupboard door. A pile of different materials lay folded on the bottom shelf. ‘Yes, here it is. Oh, wait – look at this, Jenny. I’d forgotten I still had this.’ He yanked something free. ‘Stand back.’
With a dramatic gesture, he threw a great length of glorious blue velvet in the air, to settle over the couch. But it wasn’t just one colour. Depending on which way the nap lay, it was purple, or it was turquoise, or it was nearly every shade of blue in between. Sumptuous and opulent, it lay across the couch, reflecting the light and capturing the shadows.
I experienced a stab of jealousy, imagining myself stretched out on blue velvet while Russell painted ... I pulled myself together. ‘Who lay on this one?’
He didn’t answer, staring at it, deep in thought. I’d lost him again. I smiled, shook my head and moved towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I was leaving you to your lascivious thoughts.’
He crossed to the door and locked it. ‘Jenny, you are my lascivious thoughts.’
We looked at each other for a long time.
‘Take off your clothes.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes, I mean it. Take off your clothes.’
Well, the door was locked. Joy was with Mrs Crisp. Thomas had disappeared, doing the things that invisible golden horses do at eleven o’clock in the morning. It was just me and Russell. And Rigoletto, of course.
He heaved the canvas off his easel and stood it carefully against the wall. Selecting another, he set it up and looked around impatiently. ‘Do you want a hand?’
‘Russell, it’s half past eleven in the morning. I can’t just...’
He grinned wickedly, his hair flopping down over one eye. ‘Can’t you?’
And suddenly, I felt wicked too. I pulled off my T-shirt, kicked off my sandals, slipped out of my jeans and stood awkwardly, wondering what to do next.
‘And the rest,’ he said, pulling out a new palette. ‘All of it, Jenny.’
I did as I was told, pulling a fold of the blue velvet around me for warmth and modesty.
He glanced up and frowned. ‘Not quite.’
He came to stand in front of me. ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to eat you. Now, let’s get this hair down.’ He arranged it gently on my bare shoulders. I shivered under his touch. ‘Now, give your head a good shake and let it fall over one eye.’
‘What?’
‘Think Jessica Rabbit. Now, I need you to trust me for this next bit.’
‘What next bit?’
He picked up the velvet and swirled it loosely around me. ‘Look at me Jenny. The couch is just behind you. I want you to fall backwards. You won’t hurt yourself. Just trust me. Close your eyes if it helps.’
I closed my eyes.
His lips were very close to my ear. I could feel his hot breath as he whispered, ‘Just ... let go.’
I let go and the next moment I was sprawled across the couch, entangled in folds of heavy velvet.
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Just what I wanted.’ He twitched the material aside. ‘Where’s your leg? Ah, got it.’
He gently lifted my leg clear and laid it back on the velvet. ‘Is that comfortable? Could you stay like that for a while?’
‘Russell, you’re not ... painting me nude.’
‘You’re not nude. You’re wearing three acres of blue velvet. And very nice you look too. Everyone will think so.’
I struggled to sit up. ‘They ... bloody won’t.’
‘No, don’t move, Jenny. I mean it.’
‘But people will recognise me.’
He picked up a piece of charcoal and began to sketch. ‘No, they won’t.’
‘They’ll see my ... face.’
‘It’s not your face I’m painting.’
‘Somehow that doesn’t help.’
He made no reply. I’d lost him again.
Time passed. I was actually quite warm and comfortable, if a trifle unconventionally posed, but the door was locked.
Russell worked at a tremendous rate, rubbing charcoal into the canvas, muttering to himself, pushing his hair off his face, staring from me to the canvas and back again. Transferring energy from himself to the canvas in front of him.
Eventually he stood back. ‘I haven’t finished. Don’t move.’
He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out an old polaroid camera. Moving around, he snapped me from every angle, paying particular attention to the folds of velvet and the way they fell to the floor. That done, he seized a palette and began to squeeze paint. Blue, purple, magenta, green, white – huge blobs of colour dotted the surface and, it has to be said, a great deal of Russell as well. Seizing a couple of brushes, he began to lay in the colour – wild sweeps of it if his arm movements were anything to go by.
He worked steadily for about forty-five minutes, talking to himself, humming odd snatches of music and occasionally bursting into song. Once he said, ‘You still OK, Jenny?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, because I was. The pose wasn’t difficult. I could listen to the music or close my eyes and daydream a little.
‘Not much longer. I just want to make sure I’ve got the
colours right and the light is perfect at the moment. Your hair glowing but your face is in shadow. I really think, Jenny, that this might be quite good.’
He worked furiously for about another half hour, scrubbing in the paint, working as much with his fingers as with his brushes.
Finally, he had what he wanted. He laid down his palette and stared hard at what he’d done so far. I was dying to see it myself, but I lay still as instructed. Because I’m a Good Girl.
That done, he stepped away from his easel and stared first at me, then at his work, then at me again. Comparing, measuring.
I lay back and watched him through my eyelashes.
He came closer, crouched, and inspected the way the material was falling, making a minute adjustment.
My bare leg looked very long and pale against the dark material. He reached out and touched it very gently, running his fingertips up the inside of my thigh, and I felt it with every cell of my body.
Russell has two ways of making love. The first is cheerful and chatty and makes me laugh and is full of joy and fun. The second is more dangerous. His eyes grow dark and intense. His focus is complete. He doesn’t talk at all and usually, by the time he’s finished, neither can I. It’s a wild ride, sometimes.
This was one of those times.
Chapter Fourteen
He worked solidly for two days and nights. I barely saw him. But he seemed happy enough and if the loud singing all over the house was anything to go by, this new painting was going well. If it turned out as well as he hoped, it would be included in the exhibition. I was torn between panic at people knowing it was me and a huge satisfaction knowing that Francesca would no longer be the only person who’d had a stunning Checkland portrait forming the centrepiece of a London exhibition. I felt a moment’s guilt at such an unworthy thought. But only a moment’s.
Emerging on the third day, mostly paint free, he announced it was time for another driving lesson. Not that I was very enthusiastic. Not with everything else going on at the moment.
‘Oh go on,’ urged Thomas. ‘I’d love to see you driving, Jenny. How clever you are.’
I shot him a look, which he blandly ignored.
Even Russell was unexpectedly firm.
‘You mustn’t give up just because you’ve had some setbacks,’ he said, handing me the keys. ‘Do you remember what happened when you were learning to ride? When you kept falling off.’
‘I do,’ I said, bitterly, handing them back. ‘You pulled me to my feet with one hand, dusted me down with the other, and made me get straight back on again. Whether I wanted to or not.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ he said, proudly.
‘My nose was bleeding!’
‘I remember it well.’
‘And then Mrs Crisp came out and shouted at you.’
‘I don’t remember that at all. I’m sure you’ve got that wrong. Anyway, what I’m saying is – a driving lesson is just what you need. There’s nothing like crushing a few oil drums under your front wheels – much easier than pedestrians by the way. They tend to try to run away and can be quite hard to catch sometimes – and – I’ve lost the gist. Where was I?’
‘Crushing pedestrians beneath his front wheels,’ said Thomas, amused. ‘I can’t believe you’re letting Russell Checkland teach you to drive.’
‘He’s very good,’ I said, doggedly placing wifely loyalty over accuracy once more.
It didn’t go too badly, although oil drums f and p would never be the same again, and the next day was the opening of Sharon’s cupcake shop. Really, with everything going on at the moment, I hardly had time to think about Christopher at all.
*
We all went, all wearing something green or purple, or both. Joy was a sensation in her green and purple babysuit, specially made out of the same material as Sharon’s tablecloths. Russell offered to hire her out on an hourly basis.
He took it upon himself to greet people at the door but, not feeling this was enough to stretch his talents sufficiently, left his post to roam up and down the street outside, as if the possession of a plate of cupcakes was an excellent reason for accosting ladies of all ages. I have to say his hit rate was impressive, so he may have been right.
Tanya and Andrew turned up. Russell ignored Andrew and flirted madly with Tanya who regarded him with Teutonic calm. Andrew and I sat down outside the kitchen on the back step with a quiet cup of tea while I told him about Christopher. And about Julia. He sat for a while staring at his tea, and then offered to come and stay at Frogmorton for a while. And Tanya too.
‘It’s not as if you don’t have the room, Jenny. And we’d be happy to do that.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for nearly a week now.’
‘Typical Christopher,’ said Andrew, grinning,’ you just can’t get a decent class of stalker these days.’
I grinned back and we were interrupted by Russell demanding to know what we were doing.
‘Deploring declining standards in today’s modern stalker,’ said Andrew.
‘Well, if you’re talking about Christopher,’ said Russell, ‘then I’m in complete agreement. I, however, am talking about the fact that every time I turn around you’re smiling at my wife. Go and smile at someone else’s wife.’
‘You do it beautifully,’ I said to Andrew.
‘Thank you,’ he said, radiating Checkland charm.
It was a lovely afternoon, spending time with friends, helping out where required, and enjoying Sharon’s success. Everything was light and happy and wonderful.
And then – all of a sudden – it wasn’t.
*
We stayed until the very end. When even Russell had to admit he couldn’t force down another cupcake. Although that didn’t stop him accepting a boxful from Sharon – for later, she said. When he would be hungry again.
‘In about thirty minutes, then,’ said Thomas.
We said goodbye to Sharon and Kevin in the kitchen, while Mrs Crisp waited for Bill to come to take her away and do ... whatever it was they did together.
‘Hello,’ said Thomas, as Bill edged his way through the door. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Bill the Insurance Man.’
‘That’s an odd choice of surname. Isn’t it lucky he went into insurance. Imagine being a doctor with a name like that. Doctor Bill the Insurance Man will see you now,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t trip off the tongue, does it?’
‘Well, it’s not his real name, obviously.’
‘What is his real name?’
‘Good question. Waite. Wayman? Russell probably knows.’
‘Are you sure about that? What do you know about him?’
‘We know he’s Mrs Crisp’s boyfriend.’
‘And?’
‘Um...’
‘Good grief.’
‘Well, I expect Mrs Crisp knows all about him,’ I said desperately, trying to make out we’d done our due diligence.
‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ said not Doctor Bill the Insurance Man.
We murmured politely.
‘Can we give you a lift anywhere?’ said Russell, fishing.
‘No, thank you,’ said Bill. ‘It’s not far.’
‘Are you sure?’ demanded Russell, adding another worm to the hook. ‘It’s no trouble, and Mrs Crisp has that thing with her leg.’
‘What thing with my leg?’ demanded Mrs Crisp, breaking off her conversation with Sharon.
‘You know – you mentioned it the other day when I wanted you to help me worm Agatha.’
‘It comes and goes,’ she said, straight-faced.
‘Really – and what causes that do you think?’
‘I’m not sure. It usually comes on when I hear your Land Rover pulling into the yard.’
‘Would you like me to get Andrew to check you out?’
‘He’s a vet.’
‘I know that, but the principle’s the same, isn’t it? A leg is a leg.’
‘There is n
othing wrong with my leg,’ she said dangerously.
‘You don’t have to be brave for me. Let’s face it, the sooner poor Bill here is aware of your – well, other people might say “shortcomings”, but we who love you prefer to think of them as your little quirks. For instance, Bill, did you know that on the nights of the full moon...’
I removed him before he experienced a quirky tea towel around his ear.
Andrew and Tanya followed us in their car. We were all having a takeaway and DVD evening back at Frogmorton.
Russell was in a happy mood, singing ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor?’ loudly all the way back home and tooting the horn in time to the chorus. Joy squealed and waved her fists.
‘More like her father every day,’ said Thomas. ‘Do you have plans for any more children?’
‘The only plan I have is for crispy fried beef and the new Star Trek movie.’
*
The afternoon had passed as we pulled into the yard. The place looked strangely empty without half a dozen challenged chickens running around, and Marilyn skittering all over the place, peering beguilingly through her fringe in the hopes of being given something to eat.
‘I’ll go and let them all out,’ said Russell in resignation. ‘Although by the time I’ve done that it’ll be time to get them all back in again. Do you ever remember the days when we didn’t spend all our time hauling livestock around?’
‘Fondly,’ I said, climbing out of the car with Joy before I could get roped into imminent livestock hauling. ‘I’m off for a nice bath but I’ll try to remember to spare you a thought.’
Andrew and Tanya had gone for the takeaway. I suspected they were deliberately dawdling, waiting until the dust settled and all our animals were in their rightful place.
The house had been shut up for the afternoon and smelled of dry sunshine and dust. I popped a sleepy Joy in her cot and went downstairs to open the French windows.
I didn’t see him at first. I pushed open the doors and pulled the curtains well back to let in the fresh air.
And there he was.
He wasn’t doing anything. Just standing in the garden, looking up at the bedroom windows. About twenty feet away. And suddenly, he was looking at me.
