Little White Lies (19 page)

Rebecca took it from him in silence. Her whole body was stained with a blush that travelled from the crown of her head to her toes. She crumpled the scarf in one hand, too embarrassed to speak. They watched him stride off, his coat flapping imperiously behind him.

‘Oops.’ Hugh was fond of stating the obvious.

‘How much d’you think he heard?’ Rebecca asked anxiously.

‘I’ve no idea. But at least
you
were complimentary.’

‘He might
not
have heard me,’ Rebecca said hopefully.

‘Yeah. Deaf as well as fat and old.’

‘Shit.’ It was Rebecca’s turn to state the obvious. There wasn’t much else she could say.

Almost a week later, she was standing in a small knot of people in front of a painting by Modigliani at the National Portrait Gallery on yet another wet Saturday morning in mid-October. She was a month into her course, and was loving it. She had her sketchbook in hand and her headphones on, oblivious to the people around her. Slowly the knot of people around her thinned and drifted off. She turned to go and almost bumped into the person standing next to her. It was Dr Garrick. Again. He inclined his head gravely as their eyes met.

‘Morning.’

‘G-good morning,’ she stammered, uncomfortably aware of the blush spreading up through her neck and chest.

His eyes flickered over her face for the briefest of seconds, then he turned back to the painting. ‘Exactly the sort of thing one should see on a wet Saturday morning. A timely reminder of the finer points of life.’

‘Er, yes. It’s . . . it’s beautiful.’

‘No, not “beautiful”. Striking, yes. Complex. Profound. But not “beautiful”. Never
that
. Beautiful is too simple for Modigliani. His work’s hard to place and that’s what makes him so special.’ He paused. She gazed up at him, too impressed to speak. ‘He’s the bridge, the link between two worlds,’ he went on. ‘Influenced by the Cubists, but not part of their movement. Still, the antecedents of Art Deco are already there in the work. One of those in-between artists without whom we wouldn’t understand what went on before or what followed.’

She swallowed nervously. What on earth was she supposed to say in response to
that
? ‘I . . . I love the portrait of the Lipchitz couple,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I used to sneak downstairs to stare at them when I was a child. It’s funny. I thought I
knew
them. I thought they were relatives or something. I used to run my fingers over the canvas. If my father ever knew, he’d probably kill me.’

He turned to look down at her and frowned. ‘Downstairs? Downstairs where?’

She blushed. ‘Um, at home.’

‘You have a Modigliani at home? An
original
Modigliani?’

She blushed even more violently. She hadn’t meant to show off. ‘Um, yes,’ she mumbled. ‘My father . . . he sort of collects . . . different artists.’

‘And what does your father do?’

‘He’s . . . um, he’s a banker.’

‘What’s your name again?’

‘Rebecca Harburg.’

‘Ah.’ He pulled a face. ‘Well, Miss Rebecca Harburg, enjoy the
Red Nude
,’ he said gravely. He inclined his head, taking his leave. ‘And the rest of your weekend.’

‘Er, thank you, sir,’ she stammered, wishing she didn’t sound quite so breathless and . . . and
stupid
. She waited until she heard his footsteps die away and then she turned. He was standing in the doorway. Their eyes caught and held again, and she felt her whole body slowly start to dissolve.

She ran into him a fortnight later on the stairs in the entrance hall.

‘Miss Rebecca Harburg.’ He inclined his head. There was that same narrowing of the eye, as if trying to decode something about her. She found it deeply flattering. Dr Jeremy Garrick, trying to work something out about
her
.

‘Oh. Oh, good morning, sir,’ she squeaked.

He gave a slight smile. ‘We’re all on first-name terms round here. You ought to know that by now. It’s Jeremy.’

‘Oh.’ She turned brick red. ‘Right. Of course, Jeremy.’ Saying it out loud sounded almost sacrilegious.

‘So, where are you off to?’

‘A . . . a lecture. It’s “Art in Venice”. Dr Crawford. I mean, James.’

He grimaced. ‘Dear God, he’s not still teaching that, is he?’ he asked with another faint smile. She looked up into his light blue eyes, watching with fascination the network of laughter lines that radiated from their edges, hinting at a side of him that was lighter than that which his students were allowed to see. A delicious prickling of pleasure broke out across her skin. Something of it must have communicated itself to him. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said suddenly.

‘An idea?’ she repeated and the thought of it made her knees tremble.

‘Mmm. Fancy a stroll?’

‘Right now?’

‘Yeah. I’m going to show you something that’ll put James’s
Art in Venice
in its proper perspective.’

She swallowed. ‘Um, yes. Yes, I . . . I’d love to.’

‘Good. I’ll meet you on the corner by the bridge.’

She turned and watched him walk off. He was a strange contradiction: the large, solid man who looked as though he’d be more comfortable on a rugby field than in a lecture hall, combined with the curious, sensitive face of the intellectual. She was absolutely transfixed.

He took her to a small antiquarian bookstore, just off Charing Cross Road. There was a bell above the door that jangled as they entered. Like Alice tumbling after the White Rabbit, she followed him in. It was dark and fusty inside. The owner clearly knew Jeremy, greeting him like an old friend and waving them through. ‘You know your way around here,’ he chortled. ‘Shout if you need any help.’

Jeremy led her through a series of corridors until they were in the very back of the shop, in a tiny room that housed not much more than three old wooden chests. He slid open the top drawer of the chest closest to the window, and beckoned to her to come closer. She could hardly breathe. Inside, separated by layers of fine, crinkled tissue paper that let off a scent of mothy, yeasty decay, were a series of original sketches.

‘Recognise these?’ Jeremy asked, his voice breaking the reverential silence that the tiny room seemed to demand.

Rebecca looked closely at the pencil and ink drawings nestled in the sleeves of tissue before her. They were studies – quick, sharp flicks of the wrist and hand, frozen moments of time and place in the construction of a painting that was yet to emerge. They were of a couple locked in a close embrace. As he gently peeled the layers of drawings, one from the other, the sensation was of watching something in motion, of a series of moving parts. She stared at the sketches. She’d never seen anything quite so expressive. On each, she could almost feel where the artist’s soft lead had bitten into the creamy surface, the paper resisting at first, then giving way to the dent, then the mark, and then all the marks combining to provide an opening into the soul. ‘No,’ she whispered, because it somehow seemed appropriate to whisper. ‘Who’s the artist.’

‘Francesco Hayez. Eighteenth-century Venice. These are the study drawings to his most famous work,
Il Baci
. The Kiss.’ He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. ‘It’s the most passionate representation of a kiss in the history of Western art.’ He turned and opened another drawer. He pulled a drawing out, placing it on top of the chest. ‘Look how he’s holding her. See? She’s leaning backwards, away from him. We can’t see their faces. For the first time in Western art, it’s not important
who
they are, but what they’re
doing
, what the embrace represents. It’s the
kiss
that’s the centre of the painting, the expression of
feelings
, rather than rational thought. But look at it a bit more closely.’ He bent forward slightly. Rebecca followed suit. Her heart was racing. ‘Look at his clothing. He’s wearing red, white and green. Those were the colours of the
Risorgimento
, the Italian patriots fighting for independence from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. She’s wearing pale blue, the colours of France. In the same year as he painted this, France made an alliance with the Kingdom of Piedmont and Sardinia, which allowed the states of the Italian peninsula to unify under the Italian flag. It’s a kiss, yes, but it’s also the birth of Italy. And in these sketches,’ he turned back again to the first drawer, ‘you get a glimpse into the layers that constructed it, that whole vision of independence . . . the beginning of a new identity. That’s
art
, Rebecca Harburg. Here, in this bookstore, in these drawers, between the tissue paper and the reproductions and what we know of the period.
This
is where it lives. Not in some lecture hall.’

She was moved beyond words. He made no gesture towards her but just stood there next to her, lifting the sheets with a gentle, careful hand, letting them fall, touching, stroking, lightly caressing them . . . and all the while it was her skin he was touching. That much was thrillingly, shockingly clear.

TASH/ANNICK

‘What’re you drinking?’ Tash shouted above the racket, trying to catch the barman’s eye.

‘Glass of white!’ Annick yelled back. ‘But something decent.
Not
Blue Nun.’

‘Give me a break!’ Tash rolled her eyes. She finally caught the bartender’s attention and fixed him immediately with a beady glare. ‘Glass of white, please. And a double whisky. On the rocks.’ She slapped her debit card crisply on the counter. No point in ordering for Rebecca. She was late. She collected their drinks and turned back to Annick. She rolled her eyes again – in the time it had taken Tash to turn round and order drinks, two men had sidled up to Annick.

‘Here you go,’ she said, quickly elbowing them both out of the way. ‘A glass of the Rising Sun’s finest.’ The men took one look at Tash, opened their mouths to protest and then quickly changed their minds and sloped off. She was six foot tall with an expression neither wished to question.

Annick picked up her glass. ‘Is it safe to drink?’

‘Don’t be such a snob,’ Tash said, taking a sip of her own drink. After a couple of shots, she mused, she felt ready to take on anything, including the embarrassment of standing next to Annick whilst half the men in the room drew near, ignoring her. Not that anyone would guess – she’d long since perfected the mask of bored insouciance that protected her from most of life’s indignities. ‘Where the hell
is
Rebecca? And why’s she always late these days? She never used to be.’

Annick shrugged. ‘Dunno. I was supposed to meet her on Saturday on Oxford Street and she never showed up. Said she forgot.’

‘What were you doing on Oxford Street?’ Tash felt a sudden pang. She hadn’t been invited.

‘Shopping. Well,
she
wanted to go shopping. She’s got some dinner party or the other coming up. She’s acting very weird these days.’

‘Why don’t you ever ask
me
to come shopping with you?’ she asked, already cross with herself for sounding plaintive.

Annick looked at her in surprise. ‘You
hate
shopping!’

‘That’s not true. I just hate crowds.’

‘That’s why we didn’t ask you, silly. Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon? You?’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Tash was partly mollified. She looked at her watch. ‘So what d’you want to do? I don’t much fancy sitting here all night watching every bloke in the room try and get off with you.’

Annick laughed. ‘Don’t exaggerate. Just because
one
person came up to me—’

‘Two, darling. Two men came up to you as soon as my bloody back was turned. Oh, well, whatever.’ It was still her favourite expression. What-
ever
. Delivered with a small shrug of the shoulders and the faintest twinge of an American accent. It suited her perfectly. What
ever
.

‘There she is.’ Annick pointed to Rebecca, who had just hurried in through the door. She looked flustered. Her hair was prettily dishevelled and her face was flushed. She looked as though she’d just woken up.

‘What time d’you call this?’ Tash said, pointing to the clock above the bar as she rushed up to them.

‘Sorry, sorry . . . I . . . I got caught up.’

‘In what? Bed?’

Rebecca flushed scarlet. ‘No,’ she mumbled, turning away and busying herself with her coat.

Tash and Annick exchanged quick, surprised glances. ‘You’ve been in bed all afternoon. You have, haven’t you?’ Tash said slowly, incredulously. ‘With who?’

‘Shh!’ Rebecca’s head jerked backwards. ‘Not so loud!’

‘With
who
?’ Tash repeated, her eyes as wide as saucers.

Rebecca’s face was buried behind her hair. She began fishing around in her bag for something as a distraction. She mumbled something inaudible but didn’t look up.

‘Rebecca?’ Annick said, more gently than Tash. ‘Is something wrong?’

Rebecca shook her head furiously, still keeping it down.

Tash and Annick looked at each other again. Neither had any idea what was going on, or what to do. ‘D’you want a drink?’ Tash asked finally. ‘Red?’

‘Yes, please.’ Rebecca finally looked up. Her face was still flushed but she was a little more composed. ‘Sorry . . . I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’

‘Tired? How can you be tired if you’ve been asleep all afternoon?’

‘I’m just not feeling very well,’ she mumbled. ‘I . . . I think I might be coming down with a cold or something.’

Tash’s eyes narrowed. ‘What aren’t you telling us, Rebecca Harburg?’ she asked finally. There was an awkward silence. Annick and Tash glanced at each other. Rebecca continued to stare at her hands. Finally she lifted her head. She cleared her throat, an odd, high sound, audible even above the racket of the bar.

‘He’s . . . he’s one of my professors.’

There was a further moment of stunned silence as Tash and Annick stared at her. Then Annick drained the rest of her wine, set her glass carefully down on the counter and picked up her coat. ‘Coming?’

‘Where to?’ Tash asked, already grabbing her own coat.

‘Follow me,’ Annick said grimly. The other two had no choice but to do as they were told.