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‘I wonder. Do I tickle you into submission or simply ask you to describe yourself?’
The Forsters wanted a group dynamic to emerge. To which end, they’d marshalled the guests into a succession of ice-breaking activities: Egg Wibble-Wobble was followed by Court Jester (Sophie’s performance of the Duck Dance, excruciating for her, was widely applauded), Wise Wally (she was sent to Devil’s Island), and the rather disturbing Moral Maze, in which she was given the role of Magda Goebbels. Now it was Punchy Portrait: talk in pairs for five minutes, decide what you would highlight in a portrait of your partner, move on to someone else. ‘Strictly for fun, of course.’ Gareth wagged a finger, adding somewhat ominously that they had to spend the next six days together.
Unlike Sophie, who was starting to find the whole thing hard work, Martin Best was enjoying himself immensely. Dismissing Sophie’s gambit with a wave of his hand, he said, ‘I’ll go one better. You’ve been crossing the desert for days, hot and thirsty and exhausted, when you come to an oasis. Describe it to me.’
‘Sounds a bit risky. I’m not sure if I dare.’
‘In that case, we’ll stick to small talk.’ He affected a huff – unless it was real? He’d caused a few raised eyebrows in Moral Maze by making a curiously passionate case for eugenics (‘Very, um, convincing,’ had been Adeline’s worried response before suggesting they move onto another activity), and Sophie got the impression that whatever dynamic was emerging, harmony was the least of Martin’s concerns.
‘OK, then. An oasis.’ All in all, she thought it best to humour him. ‘Um... A clump of palm trees, dusty. Trickle of water. Maybe a couple of fish in it.’ She thought of the fish next door, and an image of Henri Seibel flashed into her mind. ‘Oh, and an old man. With a camel. Which tries to bite me when I drink.’
Martin sniggered like a schoolboy coming across some smutty drawing. Annoyingly, she had to press him before he told her why: she’d just described her attitude to sex.
‘Oh, God, I knew it! That’s so unfair!’ She shrieked, laughing it off, but was mortified. All the more so as it was true – sex was another thing that had gone by the board since Dorian’s birth. Dwindled to such an arid outback that she’d finished by looking it up, which of course didn’t help because then she set to fearing that she suffered from Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder. ‘Nonsense,’ Luc had declared, seemingly confident they’d soon be back frolicking in the lushest oasis imaginable. Sophie wasn’t so sure. She didn’t want to alarm him, but she felt as if she was glumly stuck forever in the one she’d described to Martin.
Was there any way she could put this right? Ah, but beneath it there’s a billion barrels of oil. Accompanied by a lascivious wink and a nudge. Oh, what the hell. Let him have his fun. Too late now. ‘I should have whooped for joy, ripped off my clothes and dived into the water. I suppose that’s what most people do?’
‘Quite a few. It’s the first time there’s been a vicious camel. I’ll leave you to interpret that yourself.’
She drew back a step, pointedly looking him over, with particular emphasis on the pale, hairy patch of paunch that showed between the undone lower buttons of his shirt. Martin Best was, to put it charitably, unkempt, his attempt at smart-casual having signally failed to conceal the inner slob. Or else he simply didn’t care, either about the way he looked or what people thought of him. Which in a sense was admirable.
‘I wish I could do caricatures. I’d get my revenge then.’ It wouldn’t be too difficult, in fact. Round face, spiky hair, thick-rimmed glasses and stubble. Accentuate the paunch, the jowls, give him a simian grin to go with the hands – large, ape-like appendages, one clutching his glass, the other hanging at his side. Turn him into a slovenly chimpanzee. ‘But I can’t. And nor do I have any questions as horrid as yours, so I don’t know... Tell me what your ambition is. As a writer.’
‘That’s easy. None. I dabble. Penelope’s the reason we’re here.’ He jerked his head in the direction of his trim, diminutive wife, hands clasped round her glass as she solemnly listened to Gareth Forster’s punchy portrait of her. ‘Lucy Locket.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Children’s books. The Lucy Locket series? Very well-known. To prepubescent girls, anyway.’
Sophie was surprised: she’d spent some time talking with Penelope, who’d declared herself a novice. ‘She told me she was here to learn how to write.’
‘For adults. Wants to branch out. A different ball game entirely.’
‘I see. So you yourself won’t be participating at all?’
‘Oh, I’ll tag along for the show. But I have no illusions. Nor any ambition. I’ll be happy enough lying by the pool with Styles.’
Sophie looked around. ‘Styles? There’s no one here of that name, is there?’
‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles.’ He gave an indulgent chuckle. ‘Agatha Christie. Gareth’s quite a fan, to judge by his collection.’
And you’re quite a clever clogs, to judge by your conversation. She was about to reply when a voice came in French. ‘So have you figured each other out?’
She turned: the American, Lyle Carmichael, accompanied by Claire. ‘Yes. Incorrigible wag,’ said Sophie, hand outstretched towards Martin, pre-empting any jokes about withered palm trees. She wondered if he’d have the gall to tell anyone. Penelope – he was bound to tell Penelope. Who would then put it into her first novel for adults... Sex was as frequent as an oasis in the Sahara. And even then, it was little more than a puddle. And then there’d be a film... Oh, god! She put on a sociable smile. ‘And you?’
‘Very agreeable company. And from what I gather, a highly original painter.’
His gentle features and velvet voice accentuated the compliment, but Claire was having none of it. ‘That’s not the word I used. I said “weird”.’
‘And your portrait of him?’ asked Sophie.
‘I didn’t really come up with one. The odd man out?’
‘Really? Why?’ For one dreadful moment she was afraid Claire was going to point out he was black.
‘Well, the only American.’ Claire’s hand made a swish in the air, wiping away her words. ‘Not very observant, is it? But I can’t do portraits. They’re just a mess.’ Her bout of hysterics appeared to be forgotten, but the self-doubt was there to stay.
‘Perhaps,’ said Martin, ‘that’s what we are. Gathered here in beautiful Provence, being charming and witty for all we’re worth, but beneath it we’re a mess. So your portraits,’ he added, touching Claire’s elbow, ‘capture the essence. Another drink?’
Sophie wasn’t sure that she’d put Martin down as charming and witty. More a sort of blustering buffoon. A mess. Was he serious? Perhaps it was just a trite remark about the inner turmoil of artists. Though from what she’d seen of Claire, it seemed quite accurate. As for Martin, if his outward appearance reflected the state of his mind, it could do with a good spring clean. Sophie cast another glance at his wife: there was nothing messy about Penelope, glittering with jewellery, decorative as a doll. Or rather a budgerigar, hopping from foot to foot in a bright yellow dress, head of mousy pageboy hair bobbing back and forth as she pecked at whatever morsels of wisdom Gareth was dispensing. For all her bright exterior though, she left no lasting impression; Sophie had a good memory for faces, but although she’d been paired with Penelope in Wise Wally, she barely remembered what she looked like. Perhaps the dress and the necklace were there for that reason: to compensate for an absence, lend a substance to someone who in reality wasn’t there. But of course, a couple of tortuous party games couldn’t reveal what really goes on in people’s minds. Nor, she reflected, thinking again of that trickle of water, in their marriages. What was their oasis like? A deep, clear, iridescent pool, the trees around it laden with luscious fruit? Somehow she found that hard to imagine. At any rate, she hoped for Penelope’s sake that she was on top; and she actually winced at the thought of the poor budgie crushed by a chimpanzee.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Martin.
‘Oh.’ She felt her cheeks going red. ‘Fine, yes. Just a little twinge in the hip.’
‘Ah. Well, now that we know each other’s intimate secrets, I’ll move on. So let’s imagine,’ he said as he led Claire away, ‘you come across a box in the middle of the road. Tell me what’s in it.’
As she turned to her new companion, an audible sigh escaped her, causing Lyle to raise his eyebrows. ‘That bad?’
‘Oh, no, just... All these games. A little wearying, I find. A big step up from Magnetic Fish with my daughter and that’s wearying enough.’
‘I guess they figured we’re here to lay bare our souls. You gotta dig deep to make good art, right?’
‘It feels more like group therapy than art. I suppose we’ll see by the end of the week where it gets us.’
‘Nowhere is my guess. In my case, anyway. But I’m good with that. I don’t aspire to anything, let alone art.’
‘No ambition at all? So why are you here?’
‘A vacation, mainly. Do a bit on my PhD. If I can summon the energy. Which might be difficult in this heat.’
‘What’s it on? If you’re not too fed up talking about it.’
‘Others fed up listening, more to the point. And the topic isn’t fixed yet. Something to do with characterisation, but other than that... It keeps changing.’
‘So maybe Claire’s right. The odd man out. I hope that’s not how you feel.’
‘As the only black man? Everyone’s managed to be civil so far.’
‘Not what I meant.’ She found his reaction unwarranted, almost hurtful, but then she couldn’t know how it felt or what his experience had been. ‘But the writing course is for fiction. A PhD’s different.’
‘I might glean something. I try my hand at fiction now and then. Not in the hope of producing anything good but to understand how the process works.’ He pulled a face – the task too daunting to contemplate – and with a twitch of his hand changed the topic. ‘Odd man out... That was back home. You outgrow the neighbourhood, the kids you grew up with, but don’t fit in elsewhere. So I moved to Europe.’
‘And your home was?’
‘Tulsa. I live in Chicago now. Or lived. The last six years have been France and...’ He gestured to the surroundings, face turned towards the rosy light of the sun on the Sainte Victoire. ‘It’s a hell of a nice place to be.’
‘Mmm. I forget sometimes. Take it too much for granted.’
For a moment they contemplated the scene in silence. Then Sophie said with a chuckle, ‘From what I’ve seen so far, we’re a well-matched group. Unless we’re all being modest – which I’m certainly not – none of us can paint or write. Except Penelope. And we’re looking to Gareth and Adeline to save us.’
‘No pressure, then,’ said Lyle.
Adeline, in fact, had emphasised that the workshops were ‘collaborative’, and rather than teach she ‘facilitated’. There’d be breaks for yoga in the Zenhouse to help them ‘get in touch with their creativity’. Sophie was dubious, it felt like a clever ploy – shift the onus onto them. But perhaps it was the only way to do it, get people to tap into something inside that they hadn’t been aware of. A little mojo lurking in the shadows of her soul. Tatty Fur, at any rate, would love it – she never tired of getting in touch with the inexhaustible well of surprises that her inner self produced.
Enthusiasm for Punchy Portrait was by now visibly waning, but the sangria had taken over as the main source of merriment, thanks to which the last slivers of ice, well and truly broken, were fast melting in the warm glow of alcohol. Sophie had dutifully stuck to fruit juice herself, but Isadora’s wink had said it all: easy to put away, lethal in its effects. Predictably, it culminated in a wrestling match between Martin and Gareth, who to the sound of voluminous cheers ended up fully dressed in the pool. At which point Isadora clapped her hands and declared that dinner was ready.
While Gareth went to get changed, Adeline bobbed and danced in jerky movements, her sentences seldom finished before another thought interrupted them. ‘Now, what was I... Ah, yes, the glasses... Can you just – Bumble, where did you put the – ah, there it is! Now, if you all just – oh, the veggie option for Claire – we need some more ice – what did I – let me think... Oh, the seating arrangement, I don’t – the Ferruccis still haven’t arrived!’
‘Typical!’ Isadora gestured expansively. ‘Live the closest, last to arrive, haw, haw!’
Finally all was settled, food and drink appeared, and Sophie, placed between Gareth and Lyle, had a perfect view, as the meal progressed, of the sunset bathing the Aleppo pine in a glorious orange glow. At some point, without her noticing, her glass was filled with wine, and the atmosphere was so congenial that she drank it; later, more guiltily, a second, feeling it seep through her body on its way to turning Dorian into a wino.
Darkness descended; Gareth switched on the lights. Glittering banquet, chatter and merriment, fellowship and harmony: the group dynamic blossomed. As if on a given signal, the cicadas stopped their concert all at once. Smiling across at Adeline, Sophie saw her beam with satisfaction.
But even in magic gardens, reality bites. ‘Damn! They’re coming after me.’ Claire slapped her legs and went inside to put on a pair of trousers.
‘Surprising,’ said Lyle. ‘I’d have thought it’s too dry.’
‘They water a lot next door,’ Gareth told him. ‘Not to mention the fish pond.’
Martin leaned across, pointing at Penelope, who’d put on a light cardigan to cover her arms. ‘There’s my repellent. The sweetest woman on earth. To mosquitoes, anyway.’
Martin, it seemed, was the drunkest of the lot. Penelope’s response was a pinched, stricken smile; she tucked in her chin and applied herself to her plate. She hadn’t drunk much herself, barely more than Sophie; nor did she speak a lot, but nodded, acquiesced, with a faraway look in her eyes and a polite smile pasted on so firmly that you couldn’t help wondering what would be there if it accidentally came off.
Isadora lit a couple of coils and placed citronella candles on the table, and after a while the attackers called a retreat. Adeline worried again about the Ferruccis. ‘I do hope nothing’s happened to them.’ But no reply was called for, and the conversation moved on, Lyle launching into a disquisition on William Faulkner’s Mosquitoes, to which, a few seconds later, no one was paying attention. He continued all the same, though his voice sank to a mumble in Sophie’s ear, and eventually, stifling a yawn, she turned and said, ‘Sounds fascinating. I must read it some time.’
Lyle looked disconcerted for a moment, then addressed her a tipsy, asinine grin and let his voice trail away. Sophie softly touched his hand. ‘Sorry. Getting close to my bedtime.’
It was only as the raspberry fool was being finished that the lights of a car swung into view. Adeline trotted to the carpark, and a moment later returned, beaming. ‘Eddy and Maya,’ she announced as she ushered them onto the terrace. ‘So glad you made it. We were getting a little worried.’
‘My fault, had a bit of work to see to.’ Eddy stood surveying the scene, hands thrust into his pockets. ‘Party’s almost over, I see. Don’t worry, we’ve already eaten.’ He took in the table and guests, and sensing the festive mood, nodded approvingly. ‘So. Here we are, then. The artists’ paradise. I forgot all about it. Maya’s idea, you understand.’
Next to him, Maya Ferrucci giggled, stroking his arm as if she was soothing a dog. ‘Pay no attention to him. He’s a dreadful philistine, you know.’
Eddy flipped her hand away, took off his jacket and draped it on the back of a vacant chair. Sitting down heavily, he felt in his pocket and withdrew a packet of cigars. ‘Still,’ he growled, ‘now that we’re here, might as well make the most of it. Who’s in charge?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Gareth said, ‘I am.’
‘Ah. The famous writer. Good. Well, the car’s open, the luggage is in the boot. And while you’re at it, I’ll have a brandy.’
