10

Paul left after lunch, THE whole family standing at the front gate, waving him off as if he belonged to all of them. He’d offered Miriam a lift – ‘Come with me. It’d be a chance for you to see your parents’. She could think of nothing she’d like more than to be cocooned in a car with him, talking and talking for a hundred miles. But her parents would throw a fit if she turned up unexpectedly. Besides, she had to be back in time for school drop-off. As soon as she got there, she would have to start making her way home again – not straightforward by public transport.

A couple of hours later Paul phoned to let her know he was home. And again after supper to wish her goodnight.

‘I meant to ask you,’ he said. ‘Why “Paul”? Why not “Bing”?’

‘It seemed… I don’t know… as if I were taking something for granted.’

‘Mim,’ he said, ‘it’s me. It’s us.’

‘He’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Naomi said after his second call. ‘How come you’ve never mentioned him?’

‘Why would I?’

‘It sounds like it was pretty intense.’

‘Don’t be silly. We were school kids. Everything’s intense when you’re seventeen.’

‘How long were you together?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember,’ she said. ‘We were constantly swapping and changing. Before me, he went out with Frankie.’

‘So who dumped who?’

‘Whom,’ Miriam corrected her. ‘When we left school, we went our separate ways. And can you stop the interrogation, please?’

The children went back to school, Naomi to work and Miriam prepared to settle back into term-time routine. But everything was different. Pushing her trolley down Sainsbury’s aisles, or chopping vegetables for minestrone soup, or ironing Rosa’s school blouse, she imagined herself wandering with Bing (of course he was ‘Bing’) through Montmartre or along white-sand beaches. And when no one was around to read her mind, they tumbled together between fresh cotton sheets.

His gift took pride of place on the mantelpiece and she returned to it again and again. He must have more photographs from those sixth-form days. She did. She’d not exactly hidden them from Sam but for years they’d been in the loft, at the bottom of a box of linen tablecloths which she never used. When she had a moment, she must go to the storage place and fish them out.

‘Good Christmas?’ Callum said.

‘It was,’ she said. ‘I bumped into an old friend and it’s reminded me of the person I used to be. How about you? Did Father Christmas bring the right things for the twins?’

He told her about the Robertson family’s trip to Scotland and how he’d spent best part of three days helping his sons with the Airfix kits Father Christmas had delivered. ‘Then we had to get them home in one piece. Not straightforward with two boys and an over-exuberant dog in the car.

He started to walk away then turned back. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. I was with a painter friend last week. Bob Moat. He’s on the lookout for a life model. A “mature person”.’ He hooked the air with his index fingers. ‘I said I’d mention it to you.’

‘Me? Gosh.’

‘He’d pay well. Better than this place, anyway.’

She was flattered. Sitting for a professional painter was a step up from a class of students, and Callum wouldn’t have suggested it unless he thought her up to it.

Today she was standing, extended left arm supported on a tripod-affair (not to be included in the drawing). It was a demanding pose. Now, for instance, her lower back and the muscles in her arm were beginning to twitch. The heating system was struggling against the January chill and Callum had rustled up a couple of heaters which he’d stationed close to her but they weren’t quite doing the job.

She had plenty to take her mind off her aches and goosebumps as she reached out into thin air. Bing had suggested a weekend get-together. He was on call which meant her going there. Her parents would be thrilled, if somewhat bewildered, to see her so soon. She must be up front about her reunion with Paul Crosby. They might not like it but they’d have to put up with it. They’d lost the right to object. After all, their preferred candidate had turned out to be a shit. They must accept at least some responsibility for what Sam Siskin had inflicted on her. Come to think of it, why should she worry what they thought? Over the years, their outlook had grown narrower and narrower, excluding everything not directly related to their own survival.

And now there was Callum’s flattering proposition. Were she to accept, it wouldn’t be for the money. Of course that would come in handy but she could probably earn as much without taking her clothes off. The artist’s muse. Wouldn’t that be something? When Bing asked what she did at the college, she’d fudged her answer. What would he make of it? A doctor couldn’t be shocked by nudity. On the other hand, naked ill people weren’t at all the same thing as naked well people. He might not like the idea of her being alone, unclothed, with a man. And why was she worrying what Bing thought, anyway? It was for her to decide.

‘The Moat thing sounds interesting,’ she said when she and Callum were walking to the car park.

‘Why not have a chat with him?’ he said and scribbled Moat’s number on the back of a flier.

They arranged to meet in the museum café. She made a point of getting there early, sitting at the table in the corner, screening the customers as they trickled in. Bob Moat. The name evoked a boxing promoter but Google images showed a stout, middle-aged man, more librarian than artist. He warranted a Wikipedia page. His work was held by various galleries and he’d been awarded several commissions. His paintings (without exception, the human figure) were, from what she could make out on the screen, visceral. Energetic. Flurries of swirling brush strokes. The man was definitely not a ‘Sunday painter’.

He arrived five minutes late, wearing a fake-fur hat with ear flaps.

‘Moat,’ he said, pulling off the hat to reveal a balding head, fringed with sandy-coloured hair. ‘And you’re Miriam Siskin.’

‘That’s me. How did you—?’

He glanced around. ‘Let’s be fair, you’re the only middle-aged woman here.’

There was something unsettling about his face. His features were spread out leaving, what seemed to Miriam, too much space between them, these gaps emphasised by pale, uncannily smooth skin. He took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of the chair. Beneath it he was wearing a suit teamed with a black shirt and pale blue tie. He rubbed his hands together and she noticed his nails were painted a matching blue.

‘Coffee?’ he said.

Without consultation he went to the counter and was soon back with two Americanos, a jug of warm milk and a pile of Danish pastries.

He plonked down the tray. ‘I’m looking for a model. Female. About your age. How old are you, by the way?’

‘Sixty-one,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Much as I guessed.’

‘How old are you?’ She knew from her Google research but she could see she needed to stand up to this odd little man.

He grinned. ‘Fifty-two. Only child. Parents dead. Never married. No children. No pets.’

And that was all she was going to get out of him.

He set about an apple Danish as if he hadn’t eaten for days, swilling down each mouthful with a slurp of coffee. He might have been performing for her benefit but it was more likely he gave not a fig what she thought of his table manners.

‘Any objection to my sitting in on Callum’s class?’ he said when he’d finished eating.

She was nonplussed by his request (yet impressed by his handling of the gerund and possessive). ‘I suppose not. If it’s okay with Callum…’

‘Good. Now. Anything you want to ask me?’

She’d jotted several questions on an A4 sheet, but before she could read them, he whipped it out of her hand and rattled through the answers.

‘Twice a week. In Torrington Street, near the market. I was thinking fifteen pounds an hour. “How many sittings?” Mmmm. As many as it takes.’ He folded the paper and handed it back to her. ‘Anything else?’

‘I have sessions at the college twice a week. And I pick up grandchildren from school every day. Would that suit your schedule?’

‘We can work around that,’ he said and pointed to the remaining pastries. ‘Help yourself.’

After he’d gone, she stood for a while studying the ‘Woman on the Stair’. She could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as sexy. Yet it was impossible not to weave an erotic story around her. (Those red shoes?) Bing had said the answer to everything was a few clicks away. But she’d tried that and come up with nothing. It seemed ‘Woman’ was determined to keep her secrets.

Moat turned up in the same suit. Callum, very properly, checked that she was happy to have him sit in on the session. When he introduced Moat to the students, a frisson of excitement ran around the room.

Callum had her adopt a sequence of short poses – standing, sitting, lying down. Ten minutes each. He was putting her through her paces for Moat’s benefit. As the students worked, Moat wandered around, looking at her and inspecting the work on the easels, now and then murmuring something or pointing something out. The usual relaxed atmosphere was replaced today by a sense of concentration and eagerness. In her breaks, she retreated to her little room to stretch and warm herself against the radiator. When she came out for the final pose he’d gone.

‘He apologised for scooting off,’ Callum said. ‘Optician’s appointment or something.’

‘The students were impressed,’ she said.

‘He’s something of a star. Anyway, you’ve got the gig if you want it.’ He paused. ‘Do you want it?’

‘Can I ask you something before I make my mind up?’

‘Fire away.’

‘He’s… above board isn’t he?’

‘Don’t be put off by the flimflam. You’ll be perfectly safe with Moat.’

Naomi expressed delight when Miriam told her she was visiting Paul. (She wasn’t ready yet to share his nickname with anyone.)

‘How romantic,’ Naomi said. ‘You’ll stay at his?’

‘Of course not. I don’t know why you’re getting so exercised about this.’

Naomi threw her arms around her. ‘You’re allowed to be happy, Mum. None of it was your fault.’

Miriam dipped her head against her daughter’s shoulder. They rarely mentioned Sam and when they did it tended to be inadvertently, as if the rule of silence had slipped their minds. Occasionally Rosa and Max remembered they’d once had a Grandpa Sam. They appeared to have taken his death in their stride and perhaps that was no bad thing. One day they might be curious about him, and the circumstances surrounding his death and, if the time were right, she would tell them.

Naomi rubbed her back. ‘If this guy helps you to feel better, that’s fine by me.’

‘I must admit it’s a relief being with someone who didn’t know what happened,’ Miriam said. ‘Is that a dreadful thing to say?’

‘Surely he’s asked about Dad.’

‘He knows he died. That’s enough for now.’

‘I miss him, Mum. There were happy times, weren’t there?’

It was easy to forget that Naomi, too, had lost something but Miriam had to look out for herself. ‘I can’t think about that at the moment,’ she said. ‘One day, perhaps.’

Naomi pulled away. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t pretend he didn’t exist.’ She tore off a length of kitchen roll and blew her nose.

‘I don’t expect you to. But you have to understand I’m not ready to let him back in to my life. Maybe I never will be. Oh, dear. We’ve ended up talking in clichés.’ She went to the sink and filled the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee?’

But Naomi wouldn’t let it go. ‘I know it’s not your thing, Mum, but mightn’t it be a good idea to talk to someone?’

‘We’ve been through this,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it would help. In fact I’m beginning to think things are turning around.’

‘That’s wonderful but maybe talking to someone would speed things up.’

‘You mean a psychiatrist?’

‘I mean someone who understands what you’ve had to deal with.’

‘I think you’ll find the only person who understands that is me,’ she said.

‘No need to snap my head off. I’m trying to help.’

‘I know. And I am grateful. But everyone seems to think we can all – every one of us – be happy all of the time. Well we can’t, and perhaps the sooner we accept that it’s okay to be sad or angry or whatever, the better.’

Bing persuaded her to drive up on Friday evening.

‘No need to disturb your parents,’ he said. ‘Come straight to mine. I’ve got stacks of room.’

He had a point. Turning up after dark on Friday would raise too many questions. She’d join them for coffee on Saturday morning and let them assume she’d just arrived. She told Naomi her plan. This seemed wise on three counts. Naomi could cover should her parents phone after she’d left. The shared confidence would act as all-girls-together olive branch following their prickly conversation about Sam. And whatever resulted from her reunion with Bing would stand a better chance were Naomi part of it right from the off.

By Friday lunchtime, she’d arranged with Moat to be at his studio on Wednesday morning at nine-thirty for the first sitting, and packed and repacked a weekend case. For a brief visit like this she would normally take a couple of changes of socks and underwear, jeans, a spare shirt and an extra sweater to combat her parents’ stinginess with the heating. Today her case was full to bursting. Pyjamas and the sexy nightie. Jeans and neat black trousers. The linen suit she’d worn to her art college interview. A casual shirt and a silk blouse. And the heels Naomi had insisted she take. Clothes to suit all eventualities. Tonight she would spend with him, of course. With him. The English language was at times extremely coy.

Whilst the children were eating supper, she phoned her parents.

‘Still okay for tomorrow?’ she said.

‘Your mother’s baking,’ her father said as if that were irrefutable proof of her visit. ‘You’re phoning at peak time.’

‘I’m going out later so I thought I’d best do it now. But Naomi will be here if you need to pass a message.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘No reason. I’ll see you tomorrow. In time for coffee.’