The Intimates (13 page)

“He doesn't know that. And he doesn't need to know details. He just needs to be surprised by your boldness.”

He finishes his cigarette, and we spend a little more time watching those swirling petals beneath us. Some have escaped that motion we cast upon them and fluttered to the surface, now bobbing on the little waves we've made.

“This conversation is
so
male.”

“However much makeup you wear, you don't stop being an archetypal man,” I reply.

“What a horrible fate,” he says, throwing the remainder of his cigarette into the water. “Come on. There's something inside that I want to show you, that I think might be of interest.” I follow him back through the patio and into the drawing room. “This way,” he says, walking up a long and ornate staircase. As we reach the top of the stairs he loses himself for a second, and then points down the hallway. “It's along here,” he whispers. Gold lights hung in small stone baskets line the passageway, dimly lighting the path to Francoise's room. As we move down I see that on either side of the hallway there's a series of alcoves, gold strip lamps lighting up the paintings embedded within them. In each one, satin curtains are parted to reveal the picture, but as we reach the end of the hallway one painting's curtains are closed, hiding it from passing observers.

“Have a look at this.” After looking each way to check that Francoise is not nearby, Graham parts the curtains to reveal the picture.

Immediately I am startled by the portrait. Unlike the tasteful, sparse paintings around it, this one is vivid and confrontational.

It depicts a slender, waif-like man who is facing the viewer. His skin has a faint grey hue and he is clasping the chair he is sat upon on, which is on the flat roof of a house. Behind him are the vibrant colours of a setting sun. The streaks of scarlet and burgundy in the sky suggest a Mediterranean climate, though his distressed confinement to the chair denies him the spectacle of it. Standing over him is a Greek-looking woman in a domestic dress, her hair scraped back into a bun. Her features are attractive, but the expression she gives the man is one of amused scorn. In one hand she holds a large pair of scissors, and as I look closer I see that half the man's hair is lying around him, having been cut or torn from his head. The woman is leaning in and opening the scissors as if to remove the rest of it. I see how terrified the man is. He looks utterly emasculated, and he clasps the chair that imprisons him as if his life depends on it. There is a gold plate at the side of the picture.
A Biblical Scene
it says. ‘By James Hewston'.

“This is one of James' paintings?” I ask.

“It's one of his post-accident pieces.”

“I had no idea they were like this.”

“Disturbing, isn't it?” he says, craning into it and then stiffening up.

“It seems to depict a morbid terror of the power women have over him. As if they are all evil and oppressive, as well as potential castrators. It is a biblical scene; one of Samson in distress. He lost all his powers once Delilah had his hair removed. And do you remember what happened next?”

I look back at the picture, casting my mind back to school. “After Delilah had his hair cut, even God deserted him and he was captured by Philistines who… ”

“Who put his eyes out. Samson's downfall came because of misplaced trust in a woman. This is James' self-portrait, Vincent, don't you see? He blames Carina for the loss of his vision, for the loss of his gift. Look closer. Does the woman in the picture remind you of anyone?”

I lean in, wary of what I will see. But from the high cheekbones, and the rich dark eyes it is evident that the woman in the painting strongly resembles Carina.

“How come no-one's said anything before? And how come Francoise has this painting in her house, hidden away?”

“No-one has said anything because everyone is scared of him. Everyone is frightened of how he will react when confronted with his take on the past.” I consider whether I should tell Graham about my conversation with James earlier, but decide not to.

“Francoise bought this painting out of pity,” he continues. “James' inability to distinguish colour explains why the picture is so garish, why none of them sell anymore. But the real reason Francoise closed the veil over this painting is because she doesn't want Carina to see it tonight.”

“I don't blame her,” I answer. “Carina would be extremely hurt to learn that he blames her for his downfall.”

“That's right. And that's why I wanted to show you this. I am worried about James, Vincent. He hasn't just lost his ability.” Graham starts to look serious, lowering his voice and looking around him. “He is also starting to lose his mind. Since the accident he has developed a hatred of women that is becoming very dangerous.”

“He believes they've stripped him of his potency, doesn't he?”

“Yes. He thinks they're all sadists, who set traps for him and laugh when he's ensnared. Did you hear about the Belgian waitress?”

I shake my head.

“James was staying in Belgium for a long weekend when he struck up a conversation with a local waitress. Pretty thing apparently, very petite. But when he asked if she would like a drink and she politely declined, rumour has it that he lost it. Completely lost it. ‘You only spoke to me so you could enjoy rejecting me!' he shouted. And apparently, though I don't know if this is true – he broke her jaw.”

“James broke a woman's jaw? Are you sure?” “No. Not at all,” he replies, exhaling. “It's just a rumour, but a rather detailed one, you must admit. Look Vincent, be careful with him tonight. I'm speaking in terms of you and Carina. Don't pay her too much attention. If James sees the two of you exchanging glances, we might all get to see his volcanic temper. I get the sense he is just about keeping a lid on it but Carina's presence is putting him on edge, I can see that. Be careful.”

I nod. Footsteps suddenly become audible in one of the parallel hallways and Graham hurries me down the stairs. He nods to Francoise out on the patio.

As we move outside my attention is arrested by the ice sculptures, which are now starting to melt into a pool of silver. The mist emanating from them has built into a translucent cloud. In their state of disintegration they now seem more realistic portraits of their subjects, and all the more beautiful for the decadent air that they give off. I catch a glimpse of a woman's figure moving between them, but think I should dismiss it as drink-induced. But then I make out that strange motion again, a figure weaving meditatively through the sculptures, and it strikes me. Elise is down there.

“I was wondering where you've been,” I call, walking towards the mist. The movement stops for a moment and then resumes, as if the figure has dissolved into the cloud. “You keep disappearing.”

I run towards the statues, flail quickly towards the moving shape to catch it. But as I level with the statues I see it is not Elise between them at all. It's Carina.

“I keep disappearing?”

“Sorry, I thought – I thought you were someone else.”

“You did?” She stands still, and with her unique air of slightly bruised confidence I wonder how I ever mistook her movement. Perhaps I knew it was her all along. Perhaps I tricked myself. That's what I told myself at the time.

“I don't know who I mistook you for.” I step around the statue of Barbara as Carina resumes her movement. I see now that it is a slightly drunk, faltering dance that she is conducting as she cradles a glass of champagne in one hand. It seems tonight is affecting each of us in very different ways, revealing how we each deal with unusual situations.

I want to speak naturally with her, but can't find a way to penetrate that cloud. I am so used to her feeling distant from me. For so long both of us have managed to stay intimate, while also keeping one another at an arm's length. But now the trick of the mist has drawn me into her, and I am not sure if I should escape.

She opens her mouth as if to speak, but instead cocks her head to one side and bites her bottom lip. I look back to the house, to the gold silhouettes just visible within it, and wonder if I should go inside. But I know that I won't forgive myself if I do.

“Your statue looks so serious.” She leans round to it, swinging on Barbara's elbow. “Does this statue suggest that she sees you as a critic?”

“I think this statue suggests that she sees me as gay.”

“Then what,” Carina says, swinging round to the elegant sculpture of herself, “could this possibly say about me?”

“I don't know.” I consider the statue of Carina. It depicts a ballerina in flight, holding a pose which seems to defy gravity. Carina appears in the mist behind it, smiling curiously. The mist seems to have distilled on her face, giving it a pale sheen that for a moment makes her resemble another statue. “I don't know,” I say again. “Perhaps it alludes to some flamboyant temperament that you keep hidden?”

She doesn't smile, but slips a slender arm over her statues shoulder. She pouts next to its face. She seems more playful than usual; I wonder if it is the drink. That would explain her dancing alone, outside, with a series of ice sculptures. “She's prettier than me, isn't she?”

“No she isn't.”

“Well she's certainly more flexible. That's not a pose I have been able to pull off for quite some time.”

“Then tonight is the night to try,” I venture, setting down my drink. She smiles. “Put down your glass Carina. If you need me to show you how to pull off this move, then that's just what I'll have to do.”

She laughs brightly, and considers herself. Then she flicks a foot forward and with flashing eyes raises the hem of her dress above her knees. Slowly, like a swan dipping into a pool, she eases up her back thigh and gradually extends her leg. Her sudden focus, her sudden professionalism, is really quite attractive.

“Thank God you didn't need me to do that,” I whisper.

“I'm not there yet,” she says, her Spanish accent suddenly distinct. “It still hurts at this point.”

I pass alongside her leg, and gently lift her knee a little higher. “Does that hurt?” I ask.

She pauses. “No, that helps. I'm sure it can still be done.”

I gently squeeze her knee, feeling a pulse run through me as I take in the scent of her body. Up close the combined effects of her movements are overwhelming, and I wonder if a woman's body has ever had such an effect on me. “Slightly higher,” I murmur. “And you have to look more serious when you do it.”

Carina winces as I ease her knee a little higher, and then something in her body seems to click. “I think I'm there,” she says, holding the pose.

“I think that's it,” I say, and we both start to laugh, out of synch. This makes us laugh more.

She straightens up, jumping a few times with happiness. “I didn't make it look easy, did I?” She laughs, “but I did it.”

“You didn't make it look unfamiliar,” I answer.

“That makes me feel better than any drink. Come on.” Then Carina takes my hand and pulls me into the mist.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You'll see.”

The summer house looks crooked and spectral, as if it came straight from the pages of a fairy tale. It looks as if we have caught it pulling off some strange pose that it now has to hold for the duration of our visit. Carina holds my hand as she leads me up its wooden steps, to the dilapidated bench on its porch.

We peer within its windows. Inside we can just about make out rocking chairs and a maypole, the multi-coloured ribbons now faded. I wonder if these objects were left by the previous owner and if so what they reveal about his life. “Something tells me Francoise has preserved this summer house exactly from our last visit,” Carina whispers. “You see – there's the champagne bottle that we drank on the lawn.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Francoise has these pet little obsessions, doesn't she? And I suspect we are one of them.”

We sit on the bench, and for the first time our rapport starts to feel unbridled.

“She did make a rather pointed reference to the two of us in her reading.”

“That's not what I meant,” she replies. “I meant that The Intimates are an ongoing obsession of hers.”

“Oh.”

“Although I think you might be right. I've always wanted to be like Francoise, but was never any good at being manipulative. My mind is full of these vague preoccupations, and she always has an agenda. Her reading made me think about the signals we unwittingly give off to our friends though.”

“Are you talking about us now? I should check this time.”

“Yes, I'm talking about us now.”

“And do you think her portrait of you then was accurate?”

She flashes a glance at me, looks down. “I think that other people can sometimes see things about you that you don't see yourself, yes.” I feel my heart lift and I instinctively try to move closer to her, but the arm of the bench stops me. “Did you think her reading was effective?” she asks.

“Effective? I think it has made us see ourselves in a new light. It certainly reminded me of the ambitions I had when I was young, and what became of them. I realised that you never see yourself in focus, as you obscure your own vision.”

“Her little speech made me understand the egotism of youth,” she replies. “She accurately portrayed me as someone with an underlying sense of entitlement. At that age I was sure that fate would take a hand in making sure all my desires were satisfied. And now I see that the world is more chaotic, and more self-involved than that could possibly allow. I was so arrogant!”

“I think all of us felt that when we were young. It's just that most of us could never have put that into words.”

“All those times when you looked at me and thought I was miles away; I was probably just working these things out in my head.” She taps her head as she says this.

“Something always told me that we had the same take on things.”

“Really? But we never spoke. We should have found the time to open up to each other. But something always got in the way.”

She swings her legs down and steps to the window. I wonder if she's going to try another ballet move, but instead she puts her hands over her eyes and peers within. “Let's go inside.” I feel a rush of exhilaration as she takes my hand again.