Chapter Twelve

Artist’s Licence

As Forrester finished, he smiled.

There was nothing predatory about it, but there was daring with a hint of danger. She did not think she had ever met a more masculine man; one who by his very pose and manner could make her aware not only of him, but of herself. Had John told her that he would behave like this she would have said laughingly: “I can look after myself, darling,” and she would have felt quite sure.

And of course she was sure: wasn’t she?

It was uncanny that he could loom so large and near without moving. Or was he moving? Had he drawn a little closer? Whether he had or not, her heart was thumping louder and the sense of fear was greater, her breathing was much more shallow, each breath coming through slightly parted lips. She wanted to make some casual or commonplace comment, to pretend that she was not aware of this – this magnetism in him, but if she spoke while her heart was thumping so it would be gaspingly, and that would be fatal.

Fatal? What on earth was the matter with her?

Now he moved, closer, and held out his hands.

“I can see he doesn’t,” he said. “Too many men take their wives too much for granted. Don’t they?”

She didn’t put out her hands although the impulse to do so was nearly irresistible. She could not move further back in the chair which seemed to close about her, holding her back, her waist, her thighs: hugging her. She sensed, she knew, that if she yielded even so far as putting out her hands, she would be lost.

Nonsense!

But it wasn’t nonsense. This was real. She was sitting in the corner in a chair from which she couldn’t rise without holding or pressing against something to help herself up, and only this man’s hands were within reach. And they were drawing closer, long, pale, strong-looking hands.

“Lorna,” he said, “you are mature enough to know better.”

At last, she could control her voice well enough to answer: “Better than what?” The words came out quite clearly but perhaps with a shade of vehemence.

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he said.

“No,” she denied. “I don’t.”

But her heart was now thumping furiously and she was breathing with greater difficulty even than before.

“You do,” he insisted. “You are a very beautiful and desirable woman and I am a handsome, strong and virile man. We have been thrown together by chance and we have an opportunity to make love. Two perfect human beings with a perfect opportunity. And—” he moved again and rested his hands on her elbows. She could feel his strength, and sense the urgency of his desire. “No one need know,” he went on. “If you live in a comfortable convention-cluttered world, no one need know. I promise you.”

The pressure of his hands grew stronger, and he began to lift her. She was surprised how easy it was for him. And he was utterly serious. He had such confidence in his mastery that it did not seem to occur to him that she would not be compliant. He was smiling more broadly, and the glint of his teeth against the harp-shaped lips made him very like John. John. The unbelievable thing was that she was so acutely aware of his overwhelming masculinity; there had been a time when she would have yielded as she had, all those years ago, to John.

But she had been in love with John.

This wasn’t love.

This wasn’t even conscious attraction; only awareness. It was as if this man had cast a spell over her.

“Lorna,” he said, his lips very close to her cheek. “Don’t resist. You’ll only spoil things if you resist. You are quite beautiful. Adorable. Utterly desirable.”

He drew his hands up along her arms towards her shoulders, and tilted her head back, so as to kiss. She did not know quite what it was that clicked in her mind; a kind of reflex action as strong as the attraction of this man. She spoke again and much more softly, whispering, almost as if she were answering seduction with seduction.

“You really are a most arrogant boy, you know.”

He was so shocked that his hold on her loosened, and effortlessly she moved to one side, between him and the wall. He made a grab at her but she avoided his hands as if she was unaware of them, reached the end of the divan and, as he took a long stride towards her, went to the window and looked out into the street.

Forrester came very close to her but all her fear had gone and the half-formed temptation had vanished too; she was in complete control of herself. She peered further out, and saw the top of the policeman’s helmet. A car passed, noisy but slow. She turned to look at Forrester, smiling quite freely.

“You may not believe it,” she said “but I really did come to see your paintings.”

Her eyes laughed at him.

She thought, this will help to find out what he’s really like. If there’s any humour in him, and any gallantry, it will show now. But if he were truly arrogant, if a repulse carried real injury to his pride, then he was worth no one’s trouble, least of all John’s.

Suddenly, he backed to the bed and dropped down on it, raising his hands palms outwards in a gesture of surrender. And whatever he was feeling, outwardly he began to laugh at her congé.

“I give in,” he said. “You’ll live to regret it, though.”

“If I do, I can always come to you,” she retorted lightly.

“As a supplicant? You? Not on your life!” He moved further back on the bed. “You wouldn’t care to change your mind?”

“No, thank you.”

“Ah, me. The old world has talons that hold you fast. The period of transition is hard. But if I can’t persuade you, I can show you my etch—paintings.”

“Please,” she said.

“You will still look at them?”

“Didn’t you say something about art for art’s sake to my husband?”

“If I didn’t I’ve no doubt I implied it,” Forrester conceded. “So in spite of my outrageous behaviour you will look at my work?”

“Yes, of course,” Lorna said. “I may not want to be compliant but I can be flattered that you should want me to be.”

“The incredible Lorna Mannering,” exclaimed Forrester, springing to his feet with startling agility. “Instead of crushing me with your refusal you make me feel both virtuous and virile; the virtue is not usually one of my moods, except of course in my work.” He held out one hand and she placed hers in it lightly. “Come into my bathroom,” he invited, his eyes gleaming, “and see the wondrous pictures on the loveliest loo in London.” They reached the door and he spread out both arms to encompass walls and bath, pedestal and ceiling. “Observe! And the police obligingly supplied a loft ladder, on loan, so that access to the attic is no longer difficult or, for the beskirted, indelicate. There used to be just a chair which could turn into a ladder of sorts. The nimble had no trouble, as witness yesterday’s intruder. Now while you’re appraising the gems artistic here I will go up and make sure no one is skulking in the attic this morning.”

He bowed from the waist and turned and mounted the ladder which rose at a sharp angle from floor to hatch. He moved so lightly that she hardly heard him. And after a few moments she became so absorbed in the painting, of succulent breasts and enticing nipples, and, all around, the mouths of babes open in eagerness to suckle. Then she went into the kitchen and spent perhaps ten minutes in there. He had taken the murals at Pompeii for his models, she felt sure, but the subject matter concerned her less than the texture of the painting, and its style. One word occurred to her: relaxed. It was more than competent and had a quality of communication which was rare.

When she went out, Forrester was sitting at the head of the ladder, his legs dangling; the bright red socks were obviously hand-knitted. He did not ask what opinion she had formed but sprang back, squatted, and helped her into the attic. There was more light than when Mannering had seen it, for cleverly concealed fluorescent lamps were switched on among the rafters, and here and there a floodlight, equally well-concealed, shone on a group of the small paintings. They were all faces; families of faces, of every size and shape and colour. John had told her of them and yet she had not even begun to understand the variety and the cleverness of the execution.

“Mrs. Man—” he began.

“Lorna,” she interrupted.

“Thank you. For a square you are a pet! May I sketch you?”

“Now?”

“Please,” he begged.

“If you really want to,” she conceded.

“Oh, I do! There’s a stool over here.” He moved a leather or plastic seated stool close to a beam, and took her arm and drew her to the seat. “Just sit there and put your elbow on the rafter for comfort. And—keep still, won’t you?”

She wondered how many hundreds of times she had said that to a sitter or a model.

He had placed her so that she could see him working and he put up an easel and placed a piece of hardboard on it, took a palette and a brush, which he held up as if he were using it to help him get her face in focus. Then he began; and seemed to undergo a metamorphosis, much as John’s – remarkably like John’s when he was concentrating on a problem or examining some jewels which he hadn’t seen before. Everything else dropped away from John: and everything but what he was doing seemed to fade from Forrester’s mind. He worked quickly and with a sure touch; a professional’s touch. Certainly he was no dilettante, but then, the number of pictures in this flat proved that. Now and again he looked across at her, his eyes quite brilliant, his gaze so naked that he seemed to be stripping her of make-up of every kind and was seeing her as she really was.

She began to feel stiff and uncomfortable but did not shift her position. She was aware of noises in the back garden, of distant traffic, high-flying aircraft, a car horn. She began to think of what had happened here yesterday and what John had told her, and she knew why she had really come and what questions she wanted to ask Forrester. But his concentration was so great, so fierce, that she kept silent; but she did not think she could keep still much longer.

Then suddenly, he backed away and let his arms fall by his side; and he seemed to let the breath out of his body like the air hissing out of a punctured tyre.

“Like to see it?” he asked, flatly.

“May I?”

“As a special privilege. And if I can rely on you not to comment.”

She slid off the stool but didn’t move towards him; his manner was challenging again, the arrogance was back.

“Not even if I like it?”

“You would say you did whether you did or not. All kind-hearted people do. And in any case you would only form a quick impression, you would give me a reaction, not an opinion. I distrust reactions.”

“I may want to ask questions,” Lorna said.

“I think that will be all right,” he conceded.

She was startled: “Only think?”

“I don’t remember having been asked intelligent questions about my painting,” he said. “Certainly not just after I’ve finished a session. I am seldom watched, of course. Or scrutinised.”

She moved across, without speaking. He was pale and there was a beading of sweat, a mass of tiny globules, on his forehead and upper lip. Tension? Reaction, once he had finished the sketch. She knew how quickly that could come after a period of concentration; how utterly exhausted one could feel. He moved aside to allow her to get in front of the easel, and he looked at the north light, as if anxious not to see her expression, but he couldn’t keep his gaze averted and although she couldn’t see them, the deep grooves were in his forehead and a network of crows’ feet was at his eyes.

She looked at herself.

The astonishing, the unbelievable thing was that he had caught her likeness exactly as she had been twenty or twenty-five years ago. The freshness, the bloom. The eagerness which was born of innocence. The features might or might not be right, but the expression was: it was like looking at her long lost, beloved past.

She turned to look at him, and quickly he moved to the window. She shifted her position two or three times to see the painting from different angles. Soon, she crossed to the other paintings, so skilfully lit, and after a while, she asked: “Do you always have models?”

“Whenever I can.”

“These negroes,” she pointed.

“Notting Hill or Hammersmith,” he answered, “or on the other side of Wandsworth Bridge Road. Sometimes I sketch. Usually I can keep the models in my mind’s eye until I get back here. Then—” he broke off, wiping his forehead with a tiny ball of a paper handkerchief.

“Then you rush round here and get it on canvas or hardboard before the picture fades from the mind.”

“So you know,” he breathed. “You know.”

“I can see how much you take out of yourself,” she remarked gently.

“Very few can. No one can. Julie pretends to but only because I keep telling her so. She really wouldn’t mind if I wiped my feet on her.” When Lorna didn’t comment, he went on: “I was pretty sure when I saw you in the hall. I was sure when I saw you sitting in the corner. You know what happens when one pours oneself into a creation. So you must experience it.” He moved nearer, still wiping his forehead. “It’s like—it’s like the way tension builds and leads to an orgasm. Did you ever think of that similarity?”

“No,” she answered.

“But you see what I mean?”

After a few moments, Lorna said quietly: “Yes. All your strength, all your nervous energy, everything in your body and your metabolism are concentrated on what you’re painting, and nothing else matters.” After a moment she repeated: “And nothing else matters.”

He gave her a strange look, and said: “Nothing else exists.”

She thought: And it doesn’t, with John and me. She thought again: And it doesn’t when this man is painting.

“Tom,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Is it always like this when you paint?”

“If it isn’t, I paint over the picture and start afresh.” He was much less exhausted now, and gave a fierce grin. “Mind you, some models arouse me to instant action more than others. As some women! You did both, which is quite remarkable. And I’m glad you weren’t—” he broke off, frowning, and then asked. “What was the word you used?”

“Compliant,” she supplied.

“I’m glad you weren’t, or all my energy would have been concentrated on you then and I’d still be exhausted now. We have something to show for this, not simply remembered pleasure.” He gave a short bark of a laugh and let his hands fall on to her shoulders as he went on: “I’m breaking all my rules today. I’ll break another one. Do you like this fantasy of you, or do you hate it? Do you think it’s the real you beneath the make-up and the sophistication, the worldly experience and the wisdom – or do you think it’s pallid and weak?” He stopped and held his breath, and then commanded: “Come on, tell me.” And then suddenly his tone changed, the arrogance faded into humility, and he pleaded: “Please.”