by Joan Taylor
“Why did you not tell me this before?” I asked. Already, I knew what he would offer me, and yet I feared him making such an offer. What did I possess that was so valuable? What was this something for which he would strike a deal? He would be my patron and I would be his—what? I knew and yet I did not know. I sensed and yet I censored out the possibility.
“Because it’s a secret.”
“Is no one to know about your sponsorship?”
“No. No one else is to know about it.” He aimed a gaze that I could not return. I observed instead my fingers, silver rings, short fingernails. “Of course, I can only ask you not to say anything. I have trusted you with what was a complete secret between Monique and myself. I could not tell you before. Moreover, had I done so, your expectations of me may have been too high.” I was still looking at my fingers, but I heard him move from the fireplace towards the sofa again and sit down. “You may have spoken purely to impress me. I wanted you to be yourself regarding your work and your ideas about literature. I had to somehow determine … whether you could be trusted.”
“Why should my expectations of what you might offer me be high when, as far as I see it, I have very little to offer you in return?” I said, testing. “I don’t see that you need another employee here, at least not until Monique leaves.” I swallowed and made myself look at him. He seemed uncomfortable, diffident, and almost apologetic.
He did not answer at once. I decided to fill the short pause by prompting him to explain, though he was in little need of that. He was about to do so. Even still, I felt my questions might ease discomfort, mine more than his. “What you’ve said doesn’t explain why I had to note Monique’s sculptural expertise.”
“Because …” I had the feeling that had he been a smoker he would have lit a cigarette at this moment. I suspected that once he had been a smoker, for he seemed as if he wished someone would offer him one. He drank martini instead. “… if I had simply told you about how good her sculptures were, you may not have believed me. You may have suspected that there was no sculptor and that I was deluding you. I wanted you to be impressed by her work without knowing the sculptor was Monique, at first. I wanted the satisfaction of knowing that you believed in her work as art. Just that. Had I said right at the outset that she created Perseus and Medusa you may have given me a polite, rather than an honest response. I needed to know that you were genuinely impressed. Had you remained unimpressed by its artistic value, I would have had to reconsider. I wanted to be certain you believed this sculpture was great art so that you would not think of my offer as … I was not at all certain I would …”
“You would?”
“I would make you the offer.” He was almost there.
“Oh please tell me what it is.”
Now we both stared at each other. By that time, I had guessed what he wanted, in general terms, at least. Looking back on the afternoon, I think perhaps I had an inkling of this from the moment I saw Perseus and Medusa, even from the moment he showed me the photograph. At any rate, it did not come as a complete surprise.
But I had to listen to the details. They interested me intensely. I was intrigued by how he would ask, and what reasons, if any, he would furnish.
“I told you that the photograph I purchased, the one of you taken by Denis Johns, was special to me. It was important that I knew for sure whether you were or were not the model, for my own peace of mind, but it would not have mattered in the long run, had it been someone else. The fact that the resemblance was so strong effected … the same spell.”
A spell? He was bewitched. He had to see me.
“It mattered mainly in that if you were the same woman, then you might not be averse to the idea of posing again. I mean, it isn’t something that very many women would do, is it?”
I put on a non-committal expression and half-shrugged. “You want me to pose naked for a sculpture?”
He seemed relieved that I had said these words. “If you do that, then you will have my patronage. I want you to be the model for a sculpture in the Classical style. Monique has agreed, for me, that she will work in marble, and omit any of her usual embellishments. She can make a copy for herself, however, and do what she wants.”
“Right,” I said, flatly. “Do you realise that you could have asked me that outright in the Market any time you came to visit, and I would have been quite happy to consider it?”
“But don’t you see, Stella? What if I really had happened to say in some conversation with you, ‘Oh, by the way, have you ever done nude modelling?’ What would you have thought?”
I smiled. “If I had never done any, I might have thought you were a nasty, lecherous creep. But since I have, I would have presumed you had recognised me from one of my depictions. There are a number of photographs and paintings of me hanging in people’s homes, and one or two in galleries. When you’ve worked as a life-model you don’t get offended if sensible people suggest further work. I wouldn’t have been as offended as I felt upstairs. The way you showed me the photo then was—”
“But I didn’t want to risk anything else. I wanted to be discreet,” he insisted. “And supposing I had said to you out of the blue, ‘Look, would you mind doing some nude modelling at my house for a sculptor friend of mine?’ Isn’t it much better that you saw Monique’s work, and it impressed you artistically, before I asked if you would like to model for her? I know you are an artist: writers like you are. This is an artistic arrangement. It is not for prurience.”
I smiled again. He knew I was an artist. “Perhaps I would have thought you were a sleazebag trying to seduce me, had you been more direct, but quite frankly the way the day has progressed here has hardly spared me from the thought. You are on shaky ground.” I looked down pitifully at my folders. “No strings, you say, or no strings that are formally part of any deal?”
“No strings at all,” he said, looking a little strained. “If you wanted, we need never meet again after today.”
A part of me was relieved to have this option presented with such apparent sincerity. To my dismay and bafflement, another part of me reacted with disappointment.
“Perhaps you think I’m … I don’t know … downright peculiar,” he said, “but I would very much like this sculpture. And in return, I offer you the freedom of my estate, to live in, to write in, for as long as it takes Monique to complete her work.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering about my double-sided reaction to the possibility of not seeing him ever again.
“I was going to suggest it, in Camden, you know. I went to visit you having in my mind a plan to ask you here to see Monique’s work, and, if you were impressed by it, to offer you a sum of money in return for a series of … sittings. But I was afraid that money would not be a good enough incentive to you, especially if you had not done any modelling before. Being the kind of person you are, you seemed almost careless about money. I knew you were committed to environmentalist ideals, and you might not have wanted to embroil yourself with someone like me, or take the trouble to come out to Banbury every few days. I wasn’t sure how committed you were to your lifestyle.” I raised my eyebrows. A good defence against the misery of being relatively poor is to pretend that money is not a great concern. “I felt you may require an enormous amount of money to agree, or else you would refuse outright, not necessarily on the basis of any inhibitions, but on the basis of certain principles.” Principles, I thought, perhaps. But he understood me little on this score. “I wished there was some other incentive apart from money.”
“And then you discovered I was a writer.”
“Yes. You were writing a poem. It was a godsend. I couldn’t believe my luck. Perhaps it isn’t necessary, but it gave me a different idea. Mind you, if you had shown no talent, I would not make this offer. Even after judging your ability, I was still uncertain of your seriousness, as I have just said. I am not an impulsive man, you see. When I make a decision, it is only after much reflection.”
“But you have decided?”
“Yes.”
“So what exactly are the precise terms of the offer?”
We both sipped our drinks. At this stage, I could have downed what remained of mine in one. I noted that he was recovering his equilibrium, becoming the businessman again. “The deal I can offer you is that you can come here to Walton Hall during the week, live here without any expenses, and write to your heart’s content, as long as during that time you make yourself available to Monique as the model for a sculpture. Anything you need for basic living expenses and materials will be paid for, including all the recycled paper in England that you want. In addition, Monique will pay you separately as an artist’s model. It will come from me, of course, but it’s better that it goes through her. The costs of your rail tickets from London to Banbury will also be paid for. You like the house don’t you? It would be a nice place to work? I know that for authors the right environment can be very important.”
I smiled and looked down. “Of course.”
“Much of it would be covered up in the autumn, but you could have a suite of rooms on the first floor, near Monique’s. You could use a laptop and printer I have here. Monique would show you.”
My mind whirred. I immediately found practical reasons why this arrangement would prove difficult, and immediately answered them by thinking of means by which obstacles could be overcome. Could I do all my work for the stall for the main weekend trade from Walton Hall? No. I would have to come back to London on Friday afternoon in order to pick up books from people who had answered my “book clearance” weekly advertisements. My flatmates would have to take down names and numbers, but they did that anyway, since I was so often out. I would have to make sure I always had the communal van late on Fridays or else Monday morning. I could still do my internet orders. I’d hire help. The stall would pay my weekly rent at the Camden flat and utilities, personal expenses and so on. But what would people think? Would they laugh if I said I had a patron? Would people think I had a sugar daddy? Principles!
“But it would also be a secret?” I asked.
“Yes. I don’t want a … reputation.”
I’d have to lie then, I thought. How could I do that, to people like my flatmates, for example? Jesus.
But—time to write, I thought, living at this house! I could walk in the woods and countryside. I would have such space. I would be almost alone. I craved it, but I stopped myself from reacting positively, or reacting at all.
“Please don’t decide immediately,” he said. “Now you know everything, you might feel it isn’t quite your cup of tea?”
No strings. No strings. I felt I had to say something, but felt anything I said would somehow give me away. I felt confused, as if all kinds of spare parts I had stored inside myself were clattering about and it was too noisy to rationalise the situation. Edward Prain was looking at me intently, wanting me to make some sign about my response.
What had Monique been trying to tell me, upstairs in the study, with the look she had given? It was surely this: Beware, he wants you, and in the strangest way.
“Nothing would be written down,” he said. “It would be an oral agreement. Nothing would be written on paper.”
Then I smiled, realising that he did not trust me that much. I realised he thought I just might be the sort of woman who would go to the press. He was a man of power and influence, whose name and picture might appear in the business and finance pages of the leading newspapers. What if some woman came along and announced that she had been propositioned, that he had made all sorts of lewd suggestions, or worse? He was actually afraid of that. He didn’t want a “reputation.” There had to be no strings, or else I could go to Fleet Street and have him for breakfast. All the same, I could lie about him. He had given me enough ammunition. Or I could tell the truth, and the tabloids could weave a tasty headline: “Perky Publisher Pays for Marble Pin-Up” or something. Would he sue? Without a written agreement, I would have a harder case to prove. It would be his word—as respectable Mr. Prain—and loyal Monique’s, against mine, and I was just an expatriate stallkeeper at Camden Lock Market, former artist’s model. I would not stand a chance.
“Monique does not know how long the sculpture would take her to complete: perhaps six months, perhaps a year. She’ll be finishing other projects as well. So you would have to negotiate with her when you would wish to terminate the agreement. As I said, she wants to return to France when the job’s done.”
I still could not react. Things seemed too complicated. His explanations were supposed to clarify the situation, and instead I felt more in a muddle than ever, immobilised.
What was the right reaction? Did he expect me to haggle for a better deal, one with a bonus: an absolute promise to publish my work, no matter what? No, he would never do that. He was offering so much already. And he would not play games with his business.
Then he made a gesture. He picked up the various folders lying next to each other on the table, and put them back in the black box. He closed the lid. By doing so, he closed the subject of my work with an awful finality.
I shuddered, shivered. All at once it felt as if autumn had blown into the room without warning. I noticed then that the sunlight had gone, and it was growing darker.
“You’re shivering,” he noted, concerned. Then I saw that in one small movement he hesitated from reaching forward. He almost let his hand move towards me in some sort of reassuring way. He said, “The summer isn’t what it was. When evening draws near it can turn chilly.”
“Never mind,” I said.
He got up, saying, “Let me borrow something for you to wear from Monique. She wouldn’t mind a bit.”
“It’s all right.” I tried to control another shiver. Goose bumps had formed all over my arms. I’m already turning into stone, I thought. “I should probably be getting home now.”
“Monique could drive you to the station. I know she wanted to pop into town to the supermarket.”
It’s odd how a word like “supermarket” can suddenly seem inappropriate. You have to wonder what is taking place, when that happens. I am so cold, I thought. This is ridiculous. I rubbed my arms, and then stood up, looking down at the box on the table as if from a great height.
So I would prepare to leave. Movement would warm me up.
“I hope this is not too … strange. I don’t like to disappoint you about your writing,” he said, surprisingly.
I tried to shrug off any hint of disappointment. What had happened to me? Something had been knocked out of place. I was not quite myself. Perhaps I was in a sort of shock. I needed to go slowly, and make sure at each pace that I was doing precisely what I wanted to do, or else I would lose, and he would win. Yes: that was it, a case of winning or losing now. But I did not understand the nature of the game. It was not chess, it was something else. To win, I had to know what I wanted; to know what I wanted I had to be clear, and accept whatever it was. Edward Prain had managed, somehow, to aim a blow at a critical part of my make-up, the weakest link.
The best thing I can do, I thought, is to get myself ready and go home. I do not need to respond to the offer. I can mull things over during the next week or so. Today has been quite enough. There is nothing more to be said or done.
“Here, take this,” he said, quickly slipping off his jacket and placing it over my shoulders as if I was the frail heroine of a 1930s movie. As he did so, I felt him. I felt this touch of his hands very lightly on my upper arms, and his warmth, his smell, preserved in the embrace of the jacket. I noticed his gaze touch my body, as if he could bring his hands down and, with one sweep, rip off my flowery curtain of clothes.
Then, as also in a film, where the camera, focused on the foreground, gradually adjusts its focus to the distance, I saw in the doorway a person. It made me jump.
Mr. Prain turned around.
“What do you want?” I heard him say.
“Need your approval for a list of purchases, sir.” It was the gardener. His voice held an insinuation that
he had seen, and there was something very funny going on here. He looked at me as a betrayer.
Mr. Prain did not ask the gardener to sit down. They stood speaking about the list in the doorway. I believe a piece of paper was signed against a wall. With the exit of the gardener, I prepared myself for departure. Leave, now.
Edward Prain turned back to me. “I’ll get a cardigan from Monique.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ll think about my offer.”
“Yes.”
“You can phone me.” He took a card out of his shirt pocket and passed it to me, with slight anxiety. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
He left me, as I stood there still shivering in his jacket, holding his name in my fingers.
chapter seven | the bathroom
When I was a child it bothered me that people in adventures, whether in books or in films, never went to the toilet. Often you would find that they could eat, or even sleep, but they never had a need for any problematic bodily functions. I still notice this, in an action thriller or chiller, how people can go for 48 hours, chased by all kinds of evil things, without ever needing to pee.
With Edward Prain’s departure in search of a cardigan, I realised I had such a need. The only bathroom I could remember was off his bedroom, and I knew that I had to go up two flights of stairs, along a hallway, down a sub-corridor and up some other steps to get to it.
I went into the entrance foyer and marched up the grand staircase to the first floor. But then I found myself pausing, looking down into the empty entrance hall, as if I had walked up through low cloud to the top of a hill where everything was suddenly clear and sunny.
