Katherine had slept in late, vaguely aware of movement around her, sounds from other parts of the flat: voices, the opening and closing of doors. Until the drawing class in Walthamstow that afternoon, there was little she had to do, few demands on her time. Somewhere around ten-thirty she rolled over, looked at her phone and lay back down. Just five minutes more and then she’d get up, take a shower, wash her hair.
The next thing she knew someone was gently shaking her shoulder, telling her she needed to wake up.
Stelina.
A quarter to twelve.
‘Sorry, I must have dropped off again.’ She drew her knees back so that Stelina could sit on the bed, read the concern on her face.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s something …’
‘What?’
‘Something’s happened.’
‘What? What kind of thing?’
‘Winter. Anthony Winter.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s … he’s dead.’
‘Don’t be stupid! He can’t be.’
With a sigh, Stelina clicked on her phone and passed it across. Katherine blinked, stared at the screen, unable to believe. But there it was. The words. Irrefutable. Body discovered. Exact circumstances as yet unknown. She dropped the phone, threw aside the covers and, brushing past Stelina, rushed for the bathroom and slammed the door.
The white enamel cold against her forehead. Hands pushing her hair away from her face. Eyes clenched tight, clutching the sides of the bowl, she retched stale air, retched again, raw on the back of the throat, and brought up a thin veil of yellow vomit, vile to the roof of the mouth, the tongue.
‘Kate, are you okay in there?’
Vision blurred, broken by tears, Katherine leaned slowly back till she was sitting on her heels.
The world continued to spin.
‘Kate …’
‘It’s okay, I’ll just be a minute.’
Cautiously, she levered herself to her feet, ran water from the tap and splashed it on her face; flushed the toilet and lowered the lid. Her legs were still unsteady as she opened the door and stepped out into the main room.
‘Here,’ Stelina said, reaching out to take her arm, ‘come and sit down. I’ll get you some water. There now, just sit there.’
Katherine shivered and clutched her arms across her chest, stared at the floor.
‘I’ve got this class this afternoon …’
‘I’ll call them.’
‘The number, it’s on my phone.’
She sipped the water, set the glass back down, covered her face in her hands. A brutal attack. Circumstances unknown. Quietly, almost soundlessly, she began to cry.
It had been a sunny morning, the first after several overcast days, the sun so bright through the high windows she had to shield her eyes as she moved into position.
Anthony, some small impatience in his voice, asking her to turn her body a shade more to the right. ‘That’s good, now straighten your back just a little. No, no, too much. That’s it. That’s right. Hold that – can you hold that? Yes, yes. There. Good. There. Just don’t … don’t budge. Not one inch, okay? Good girl. Not one fucking inch!’
A smile in his voice when he swore. A laugh, almost. Not angry, like sometimes. Angry at himself always more than with her. Pleased even, she thought. Pleased with what she was doing, the pose she was holding. Obeying his instructions to the letter.
Blinking into the light, head turned away, she saw him without really looking. Black trousers, loose at the waist, black shirt open at the neck, two buttons, no, three. Chest hair, dark, tightly curled. Bending towards the easel, then straightening, stepping away, stepping back. Looking. Always looking. How many days had she had lain bare for him like this? Open, on display. A muscle, somewhere in the small of her back, was beginning to ache. Ache sharply. Touching her tongue to the underside of her lip, she controlled her breathing, absorbed the pain.
Good girl. Not one fucking inch!
He was beside her before she realised. The smell of paint and tobacco strong on his fingers; his breath, as he leaned towards her, warm on her skin.