Temptation Close

by Scarlett Rush

  ‘You have a studio?’ she asked, the mischief back in her eyes. ‘Are you planning to release any albums in the near future?’

  ‘Not a recording studio, an artist’s studio.’

  ‘Ah, yes - where your bevy of nude models run rampant.’

  He wasn’t rising to the bait. ‘That room was the reason I bought the place. There was a particular photo on the house details of the back aspect of it - the full length windows and the French doors flung open, the light streaming in. It was meant to be an inviting shot looking out onto the garden, but all I could see was the lightness in the room. I couldn’t put the spec sheet down after that. I had to come and view the house. I wanted a dedicated place to paint, but I didn’t want to be trapped in some dusty attic or dingy shed. I decided to do away with the dining room and make it a studio. It’s not like I do any entertaining.’

  ‘Yes, why don’t you do any entertaining?’

  ‘What, me and a load of other couples, all feeling sorry for me being on my lonesome? It doesn’t sound that tempting.’

  ‘Get yourself a girlfriend then, or a mistress.’ She wished she hadn’t said the last bit. She knew it sounded way more forward than she had meant it to be. She acted quickly to gloss over it. ‘Open your present. Try and act surprised, like you haven’t already guessed what it is going to be. Try and pretend you think it might be a basketball or a massive starfish, or something.’

  Smiling again, he turned the parcel over in his hand and then ran his perfectly manicured nail across one of the folded joins to split the adhesive tape. Even this he did with precision. She had used lots of tape to confound him. Many people, herself and certainly her cack-handed husband included, would have spent ages trying to breach the wrapping with finesse, before resorting to ripping and tearing and generally making a confetti mess out of it. He just opened it. She watched him study the cover of the book, one about the portraits done by the artist Lucien Freud, who she had remembered him mentioning during the night of the Halloween party as being a particular favourite.

  She wanted to tell him the story of the gift, how at Christmas the adult residents of the street traditionally bought presents for one another, blind-picking a single name from a tub to elect the recipient of their gift. “Secret Santa” they called it. She wanted to tell him how they thought it best to include him, not knowing when he would be back; how elated she had been to see his name on her scrap of paper. It had been her intention to buy him something humorous, a throw-away nonsense, but had then, by absolute chance, seen the book in a discount retailer’s while shopping with a friend. She remembered how valuable books had been to him in his past. She wanted to tell him how they were not supposed to spend more than the set amount, and by luck this book was under it, but still she went home and found him a hardback version on-line for over twice the price. She thought it worth it. She could see in his face that he did too. It wasn’t so much the expression but the lack of it, the freedom from gurning false joy or exuberant surprise. He merely pursed his lips and nodded a little.

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘is very, very thoughtful of you.’ It told her that the hoped-for chord had indeed been struck. He then put the book down, leant forward across the table, put his hand lightly upon her shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek. It was only brief - just a nice, warm, flitting contact. It didn’t squash her flesh or leave a trace of wetness. A second after and you would have had no clue he had been there, but inside she was tumbling. How silly to get het up by such small things.

  ‘This is very nice wine,’ she said, because it was, and because she didn’t know what else to say now her face was colouring.

  ‘It’s a Pinot Gris, from Alsace in France. You know Pinot Grigio - that ubiquitous, generally face-curdling pissy dishwater with an oddly dull twang? Well, this is the very same grape but from its place of origin, and therefore how it is supposed to taste. From Alsace it is always full and aromatic, far more complex. Most crucially of all, it is always untwangy. It’s also an excellent match with food, I might add, which you seldom find with other versions. Those ones - perhaps with the exception of a couple from the New World - always have me tempted to cut out the middleman and pour directly into the sewers.’

  ‘So, only the finest wines for Mr Surfy-Kite Man then?’ She was glad he seemed so relaxed in her company. It was just about keeping her on the right side of calm. It was heartening to see how willing he was to show a bit of passion in front of her, even if it was essentially in jest. He was just so damned easy to be around.

  ‘Simple and cheerful has its place,’ he said, ‘but I do tend to prefer more depth and substance.’

  This had to be a come-on, didn’t it? Her insides were glowing, so they obviously thought so! Perhaps it was just the alcohol making her glow. It was certainly the alcohol that made her say her next sentence, before she had time to check herself.

  ‘Where did you go over Christmas? I missed you.’

  He smiled again. Thank God he took it as a joke. ‘Benbecula, if you must know. It’s an island in the Outer Hebrides. I part-owned a cottage there with an old army friend, but I’ve bought him out now. It’s where I went to live after I got back from Africa and prison. It’s pretty much the only place I could have recuperated and stayed sane.’

  ‘It must freeze your nadjers off in winter!’

  ‘Well, the wind can definitely blow, and it certainly gets a bit wild, but that is all part of the charm, especially in winter. It’s one of the best places in the world for kitesurfing - the place I discovered it and learnt how to do it. The Gulf Stream warms the sea, so the temperature in winter isn’t much lower than in the summer, and the waves are as good as anywhere. You have got miles and miles of beautiful, empty sandy beaches, some that only a few people know about. There’s also kayaking, and all the wildlife, and some days you barely bump into a soul. I’m still not great with crowds - I’m trying to learn but prolonged incarceration can make you very dependable on your own company. On fine days the air has such an incredible clarity, such colour. And the sunsets - I promise you have never seen the like of them. There is a kind of unique wild comfort about the whole of the islands and I’ve certainly never been to anywhere as soul-enhancing and inspiring. It certainly allowed my artistic aspirations to flourish and develop, and thus helped save my sanity. The place owns a part of me and has done for years now. Sometimes I just have to be there.’

  The light was in his eyes, maybe just a hint of wistful watering. He didn’t seem to do macho posturing. If it meant something to him, he was not afraid to say it, and yet every little thing had to be prised from inside; so little was volunteered. Talk like this - about whizzing off to his other house on a wild, wonderful, enthrallingly-described desert island to do his Action Man/Robinson Crusoe/Monet bit for a month or so - it could surely charm the most rigorously secured pants off most females, and yet he never even thought to tell any of them he was going. It was almost like he was embarrassed to be somewhere so remote at a time when togetherness was considered the norm. Nesta wanted to gather him and hold him and tell him it was OK, that she understood, but she still didn’t know him well enough to know if he was the cuddling sort.

  ‘Why are you here, if you like your island so much?’ She said it softly, a genuine question rather than an attempt to goad.

  ‘I had to at least attempt to ease myself back into society. I grew up nearby. My first regiment was based here. I thought if anywhere would seem like home it would be here. I saw this house with the potential for the studio and I just went for it.’

  ‘A carpe diem moment, eh? That’s your motto, then: seize the carp?’ It was an old joke for her but it made him smile.

  ‘Yes, indeed. Clasp the koi. Grasp the goldfish,’ he said.

  ‘I think I had better see this studio of yours. Does one have to be naked to enter it?’

  ‘I was thinking of making it a rule.’

>   He topped up their glasses and then led her out across the hall. As he opened the studio door her first glimpses were of totally plain walls in the same soft cream used in the hall. Some decoration, she thought. At least the floor was different: neat wooden planks stained dark, and very expensive, no doubt. Her heels echoed on the floorboards as she entered, foretelling of the room’s near emptiness. There was only one item of furniture: a chaise longue, modern rather than period in style, covered in a plain cream cover, the legs in dark wood to match the floor. It stood towards the far wall, the higher head end just in front of a lovely iron spiral staircase. She remembered the previous owners had been the only ones in the street to go for this stair option - partly because it was more expensive than traditional wooden ones, partly because it had to be sighted within a room, rather than off the hall. The last owners had still boasted about it, until they realised how difficult it was to get any furniture up to the bedrooms. It looked classy, though, she had to admit. Just like him.

  In the centre of the room, facing the chaise, was an easel supporting a canvas, although the latter could not be seen, covered as it was by a thick cotton sheet. The far end of the room was either glass or thin frame, the light able to stream in as he had described, right across the floor, bathing the chaise. Who had been sat upon it, almost certainly naked, draping themselves for his eyes? It made her suddenly uneasy again, the thought that in lifting the sheet she might recognise the face of one of her crafty neighbours staring back from the canvas. Someone other than her was in the process of being painted by him. She felt the rising jealousy. She almost had an urge to belittle his efforts with this room, just to spite him for not thinking only of her, but then she turned around.

  On the other wall was a mural. There was no furniture to block it, no radiator. It was just one whole wall, painted with breathtaking skill and beauty. It should have been the first thing she noticed but it had initially been hidden by the door and she was then immediately too busy with her analysis and judgement elsewhere to notice. The shades used were essentially yellows, light browns and creams, all soft. It was of two rowing boats moored on an open stretch of yellow beach, with seamless yellow skies behind, the tide diminishing around them. They were painted practically full size and slightly impressionistic in style. One was positioned three feet from the base of the wall, the other partially hidden behind it, with a barely visible horizon line beyond merging into the background.

  The light depicted was hard to pin down. It could have been either dawn or a dying sunset, either misty or when the light was not quite there to give absolute clarity. All was soft and wonderfully tranquil. It gave you an instant feeling of looking out onto a real scene of calm and openness. It was simple but wonderfully detailed: the thin red line on the top edge of the foreground boat that injected life into the scene; the almost white of the sand beneath them to show where the sea had all but gone, still just enough to show a dark reflection of the hulls. There was even sand mixed with the paint to give the surface texture and shade.

  The colour darkened towards the edges, focussing the eye towards the centre. This spread down even onto the floor, the shades darkening by degrees until it was the same as the stained wood, the varnish reapplied over paint and floorboard alike, giving all the shine as if covered by a thin layer of sea water. It was all instantly moving, instantly mood-changing, and close to genius in Nesta’s view. It looked so real without being photographic in quality, like the whole wall was missing and you were looking out on some mystical land. It was so instantly gripping and calming. You could study it for hours and never be entirely sure where you were or at what time of the day. All you would know was peace. It was almost mesmerizing. To think that it had come from him, that this was what was inside him. It could have been enough to define him.

  ‘You did this?’ she asked.

  ‘It was my day job when I first moved in, which is why I didn’t get out much. It took me awhile but I got there in the end.’

  ‘What inspired it?’

  ‘Well, you know, we’re by the sea - boats, beaches, simplicity, that sort of thing.’

  It was way more than that. Nesta was no expert but she almost immediately saw the imagery, the feeling of isolation of the boats amid the near nothingness around - but the sheer tranquillity of those heavenly surroundings, the safety of them. You just wished you could be in one of those boats - no, you wished you could be one of those boats. Perhaps this is how he wished himself: calm after all the turmoil. If this was so, if one of those boats represented him, then the most telling aspect was that were two boats, not just one. It meant he did not want to be there alone, despite his oath in life to remain single. It really was a very clever, very wonderful piece of art, one you just wanted to embrace, to absorb.

  He was just so endlessly fascinating and attractive. First the talk of perfect islands with their wildness and empty beaches, then the classy, flawless wine, now this incredible artwork done by his own hand. It was almost all too good to be true. The admiration wouldn’t stop billowing inside, growing too much to contain. She was feeling more than a little bit high, and it wasn’t simply the alcohol to blame. Not that she was actually aware of her decision, nor indeed was she clock-watching, but at that precise time, that rather random eight and a half minutes before one o’clock on a crisp blue early afternoon in mid-January, she underwent a paradigm shift in attitude, one of the most dramatic she could ever have considered. At that very moment, in the dark recesses of her mind, her subconscious was doing deals with her body. Between them they decided that if this man was to now make a move to seduce her, she would not try to resist it.

  ‘I wonder what other talents you’ve got hidden?’ she said, her body electrified. ‘Shall we start by looking under here?’ She went to lift the cotton sheet hiding the painting on the easel. He moved quickly to grasp her hand and stop her. He wasn’t playing. The weight holding her arms down told her so.

  ‘No one can see work I’ve yet to finish,’ he said, looking very serious for just a moment, before softening slightly and adding, ‘not even you.’

  This apparent nod to their closeness only just outweighed Nesta’s still-present niggle that someone she knew was depicted on that canvas, naked as the day she was born, and he didn’t want her to know it.

  ‘You are a true hider, aren’t you, Mr Hunt-Master. When shall we ever see the “real you” I wonder?’

  He released his grip, giving her just a little pat to the hand by way of apology, although the seriousness hadn’t left his face.

  ‘I would say that this is the real me: just glad of the blue skies outside, content to be sharing fine company and nice wine.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean just how you are now. I mean the other things - the substance, the history to you.’

  ‘If you think I am only defined by my past actions then I am in big trouble. You won’t find much of goodness there.’

  ‘I can’t believe that’s true. You seem to do goodness very naturally.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone is born good or bad, or selfish or belligerent or racist for that matter. I think there are very few character traits that are solidly defined - brain power and dexterity probably, wittiness possibly, but not much else. The rest are traits that you have picked up or learnt, and so they can be just as easily unlearnt. You say I am good but I’m only just learning to be. Before that I did some terrible things.’

  ‘So you’re saying I’ve got you all wrong then?’ She was smiling as she said it.

  ‘If we go by your method of character evaluation, then yes, you have. I am hoping there is another way to be defined. I am hoping all of us have too much potential and are too complex to be summed up by catch-all phrases. I think we are all a mix of traits that change depending on each new situation.’

  ‘But we must have things that are instinctive to us - optimism, charity and so forth?’

  ‘The
y may be usual reactions but I don’t think they are instinctive. Situations and people can have an effect. You could be a gloomy, insular so-and-so most of your life, only to have one person come along to steal your heart and make you happier than you could imagine. Your whole outlook and attitude could change in an instant. Could you still be thought of ever after as the crabby pessimist? Those who never saw you happy might think so, but are they right or wrong? Is your true character how you see yourself, or how others see you? Or is it neither? Say you were on one of those computer dating sites, being asked to describe yourself, could you ever do it accurately? Who decides what constitutes a good sense of humour? What universal parameters can be used to determine that you are indeed “great fun to be around”? You might claim to be kind-hearted and there might be many who would agree, but then there might be as many others who could give an example of your mean nature. Think you are always honest and someone will remind you of all the times you have lied. The picture you have of yourself might not be borne out by others, so who is correct?’

  ‘So, if you have never cheated anyone, never told a single lie, and one day you have to tell just a little white one, it makes you entirely a liar?’ She looked a little incredulous as she said it.

  ‘Yes, certainly to the person you lied to, because to them you are, the proof being in the pudding. It’s no good to them that you’ve never lied to anyone else. What we are is ongoing, so to not be a liar you have to not lie in each new instance. Whatever we think ourselves to be is a mere generalisation, and there may be a thousand examples that give a lie to it. However, if you act in each new instance in the way you wish to be perceived, you can at least know that, regardless of whatever has gone before, this time you did the right thing. If you just keep doing the right thing then you give others less reason to think about what has gone before. I’m hoping the Real Me, if such a thing exists, is defined only by the traits I show at every new moment.’