13

‘No trouble finding me?’ MOAT said.

She shook her head. ‘I sometimes come this way to the market. I’ve always admired these houses.’

‘Late Victorian. Nothing out of the ordinary. But it suits me.’ He took her coat. ‘Let’s have coffee and I’ll talk you through the project.’

He’d swapped his eccentric garb for sweatshirt and jeans. His language was less arcane, his manner less arch. He seemed altogether more relaxed and she felt that perhaps having seen her naked he trusted her to see him as the plump, balding man that he was. He ushered her down the tiled hallway to an untidy kitchen. He gestured towards a chair and, whilst he ground coffee beans in an old-fashioned hand grinder, she sneaked a look around. There was enough crockery on the shelf for a family, and mounds of fruit in the bowl. But no plants or photographs, or those odds and ends that revealed a woman’s touch.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ he said.

‘Neither was I.’

Driving home yesterday, she’d almost changed her mind. Things between her and Bing were progressing at a pace. Why fill her life with unnecessary complications? And yet. Since working at the college she’d begun to mend. There had been months when she’d doubted such a thing could happen – maybe hadn’t wanted it to. But this off-the-wall job had enticed her back into the world. Naked Widow Rising from a Sea of Despair. So, yes, she would do the Moat thing, see out the term at the college, and then take stock.

‘What swayed you?’ he said.

‘I realised it’s not good to base decisions on what another person – people – might think.’

She expected a follow-up question or, at the very least, an observation but either out of tactfulness or lack of interest, he offered neither.

‘Let’s get down to business,’ he said.

He folded his arms and stared at the ceiling. ‘You’ll be standing, looking straight at me. Life-size, so it’ll be a biggish canvas. No gimmicks. Success or failure rests entirely on the quality of the painting.’ He drummed his fingers on the table and she noted the absence of nail varnish. ‘What else?’

She gave it a few seconds then said, ‘I’m wondering why you want a middle-aged model.’

‘Fair question. Apparently, when they reach a certain age women become “invisible”. Every time I open a magazine, that’s what I read anyway. I think it might be interesting to investigate that assertion, through painting.’

‘I’m not sure I want to be the invisible woman.’

‘Miriam. You didn’t listen. I said I wanted to investigate the idea. Show people a middle-aged woman and let them decide for themselves. I could get a friend to sit but that wouldn’t work. The model needs to be unfamiliar to me. Callum spoke highly of you, and as soon as I saw you I knew you were right. You have a certain vulnerability that professional models don’t. I’m after authenticity. I’m not explaining myself very well am I?’

‘You want to paint a vulnerable, middle-aged stranger,’ she said, ‘who might or might not prove to be invisible.’

‘That’s pretty much it.’

She couldn’t imagine why he would wish to do this, yet something made her want to be a part of his venture.

‘I’ll show you where we’ll be working.’ He stood up. ‘Come.’

He led her up two flights of uncarpeted stairs to what was obviously a recent loft conversion.

‘This is my studio,’ he said. ‘It can get chilly up here but I’ll turn the thermostat up when we get started.’

Did he imagine room temperature was her main concern?

She’d expected his studio to be cluttered with bric-a-brac. Stippled with paint. A curiosity shop of artiness. Quite the opposite. Units, complete with worktops and a stainless steel sink ran down one side. Grey vinyl flooring. Off-white walls. Outsized roof lights. It might have been a dental surgery awaiting delivery of the chair. It was conspicuously devoid of colour apart from an enormous flag draped over a screen in one corner. Three broad vertical stripes in green, white and red and, dead centre, a circular emblem.

‘Mexico, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Correct. I bet everyone wants you in their quiz team. I picked it up in a junk shop near the bus station.’ He traced the emblem with his index finger. ‘What d’you make of this?’

She took a closer look. It depicted an eagle sitting on a cactus, tearing at a snake. ‘What a bizarre thing to put on your flag.’

‘I think so too,’ he said, and she felt childishly pleased to have given a satisfactory opinion.

He had her stand in the centre of the room looking straight ahead. He told her to ignore him – not easy as he circled like a predatory shark. Now and then he came right up to her, removing the clip holding her hair back and tilting her chin this way and that.

‘A few close-ups of your face and we’re done for today,’ he said.

He produced an expensive-looking camera and rattled off a quick succession of shots. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. After checking the screen he said, ‘You’re not wearing make-up.’

‘I used to but I don’t anymore.’

‘Good. Your face needs no enhancing.’

His comment was without guile. The more time she spent with him, the more she respected and trusted him.

‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘I’m going to ask you something and I want you to say the first answer that comes to mind.’

‘It’s not one of those psychological tests?’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘In the painting, you’ll be wearing one item of clothing. So. What will it be?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Quick.’

‘Shoes. Red pumps.’ It was out before she had time to think.

He clapped his hands. ‘Miriam Siskin, you amaze me.’

She found herself laughing. ‘D’you want to know why?’

‘Absolutely not. It must be an enigma to everyone, me included. Does that make sense?’

‘Perfect sense,’ she said.

When she was leaving he asked whether she wanted paying with cash or a cheque. The college paid her wages into her bank account and she’d overlooked this embarrassing detail. ‘Oh. Gosh. I don’t mind.’

‘Cash then,’ he said producing a roll of notes from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Fifteen pounds an hour, wasn’t that what we said?’

He handed her thirty pounds and she blushed.

‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned it. Don’t forget to bring the shoes next time.’

Red pumps shouldn’t be hard to track down. And they needn’t be top quality. She would never wear them outside Moat’s studio. The thirty pounds she was holding should cover it.

‘How did you get on with Moat?’ Callum said when she turned up for the Tuesday session.

‘It all seemed straightforward,’ she said. ‘I rather like his house.’

‘It was his mother’s. He moved in a few years ago, after she died.’

‘Did he grow up there?’

‘Haven’t a clue. Moat’s not one for small talk as you must have discovered by now.’

To account for her additional absences, Miriam had given Naomi the impression she’d taken on extra hours at the college. Obviously she needed to be better organised than she had been. No aimless meandering or little naps in the afternoon. But that was a matter of time-management, something which had never been a problem when she was teaching full-time as well as taking care of her family and the garden.

The studio was warm as he’d promised it would be. He’d pulled the screen away from the wall and found a chair for her clothes. A large canvas, painted pale brownish-yellow with rough brush strokes leaned against the wall. Tubes of paint were set out in ordered ranks on the work top.

‘Could you manage twenty minutes?’ Moat asked.

‘I’ll try.’

‘Okay. Let’s get started.’

She went behind the screen and began undressing. She was accustomed to doing this in her little room at the college but it felt different here in this airy room, flooded with light.

Last night, as she was packing a rucksack ready for her first session with Moat – red pumps (a snip from Top Shop at £19.99) and a robe to put on during breaks – she’d considered what she was about to do. Going to a stranger’s house and stripping off her clothes was, on the face of it, a reckless act. Were Naomi to do such a thing, she – Miriam – would freak out. Yet this was precisely what she was doing, and she knew she would be safe – far safer than when she crossed that nasty bit of dual carriageway to get to the shops.

Moat was pottering about on the other side of the screen. She could hear him opening and closing cupboard doors.

‘Should I wear the shoes?’ she said.

‘Yes. People hold themselves quite differently when they’re bare-footed.’

She pushed her feet into the shoes. They were stiff and thin-soled, no use at all for walking in. Robe on or robe off? She dithered for a few seconds before putting it on. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out from behind the screen.

‘Your hair’s very distinctive,’ he said, ‘the way it contrasts with your eyebrows. I wonder whether it should be tied back as it is now, or loose. How do you usually wear it?’

‘Like this,’ she said.

‘Let’s go with that. I want you to feel as much like yourself as possible.’

He pointed to a chalk mark on the floor. ‘There. Feet together.’

He held out his hand and she took off the robe and passed it to him, and stood, feet together, looking straight ahead as instructed.

Bing was hell-bent on driving down as soon as he’d finished his Friday evening surgery. Miriam was eager to see him but didn’t like the idea of his setting off when he would be tired especially as the temperature had dipped again and roads were treacherous.

‘Don’t make me worry,’ she said. ‘Come first thing on Saturday morning. We can all have breakfast together. David isn’t collecting the children until eleven. It’ll give them plenty of time to pester you.’

She spent Friday in a whirlwind of effective, efficient preparation for the weekend and the coming week. Tackling routine tasks – shopping, cooking, washing, cleaning and tidying – at full tilt was satisfying and energising. When she got into bed on Friday evening, she felt the frisson that heralded Christmas and birthdays.

The alarm went off at seven which was as well because Bing was knocking the door at eight. Naomi and the children were still upstairs. Max was singing at the top of his voice, regular thuds on the ceiling suggesting he was jumping off the bed.

‘Paul’s here,’ Miriam shouted and the children flew down the stairs, whooping and hurling themselves at him, bickering over who would sit next to him at breakfast. Naomi greeted him as though she’d known him forever.

Breakfast went on and on, the grown-ups trying to hold a coherent conversation whilst the children came and went, nibbling bits of toast, darting back regularly to make sure they weren’t missing anything. They’d barely cleared the table when David was at the door, another excuse for Rosa and Max to explode with excitement. Naomi, usually keen to hand them over, invited David in, introducing him to Bing as if he were her long lost uncle.

‘Coffee?’ Naomi said.

As Miriam filled the filter machine, the two men chatted away and again she noted how well he fitted in. Rosa and Max. Naomi and David. She and Bing. They might be three generations of a happy family. At one point he caught her eye and winked, and she felt a lightness of spirit which had been absent for years.

After everyone had dispersed, they discussed how to spend their day.

‘I want to do the prosaic things that old married couples do,’ he said. ‘Catch a bus. Change our library books. Always get our meat from the same butcher.’

‘Quotidian, is that the word?’

‘Far too fancy,’ he said.

They took the bus into town and strolled through the mall, hand in hand, joining the army of Moat’s invisible, middle-aged people, custodians of their own little histories. They ended up meandering around M&S, studying corduroy trousers and easy-grip socks. She persuaded him to buy a dark green crew-necked jumper and, for her, he chose an orange scarf.

‘You’re not looking sufficiently henpecked,’ she said as they waited to pay. When the woman behind the desk trotted out the statutory ‘Thank you for waiting,’ he said there was nothing in the world more pleasurable than standing in an M&S queue with the woman of his dreams. And yes, he would like the hanger.

‘Now can I take you to one of my favourite places?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t quite fit in with your hankering for the banal but they do great coffee.’

‘If you like it, I like it,’ he said and kissed her on the lips, a noisy, passionate kiss, and she felt waves of envy and disapproval from the onlookers. Only when they reached the Arts Centre did it cross her mind that Callum or one of the students might be there. Whilst Bing went off to find the lavatory she ordered coffee and scones, scanning the crowded cafeteria, thankful not to see anyone she knew.

Fargo was showing at four o’clock.

‘Shall we?’ Bing said.

She’d seen it with Sam when it came out (he’d hated it) but pretended she hadn’t and they sat in the dark holding hands. She was absurdly happy.

He offered to treat her to a meal in town but she had lashed out on a couple of steaks. ‘My turn to cook,’ she said. ‘Naomi’s out with her friends. She promised she won’t be back ’til late.’

They made their way back to the house, Bing regretting not having the car and admitting that standing at a bus stop at six-thirty on a winter’s evening was perhaps too ‘prosaic’.

‘I think we should live together,’ he said when they were setting the table. ‘Why don’t you drive back with me tomorrow.’

‘Be sensible,’ she said, her breath sucked from her by his invitation.

‘Don’t you want to?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘There’s no problem. But it’s moving so quickly.’

‘Quickly? I’ve dreamed of this for forty years.’

‘I know. The thing is, we don’t live in a vacuum. There are other issues to consider.’

‘For example?’

‘Well, have you spoken to your children yet?’

‘I’ve told Leon and Camille, but not Pascale. Her blood pressure’s sky high. They’ve taken her in for bed rest. It seems sensible to wait until after this baby arrives.’

‘How did they react?’

‘Leon didn’t seem bothered. Camille? Well, she’ll come round.’

‘She wasn’t happy about it?’

‘She asked if we were seeing each other before Eloise and I split up. I told her that until two weeks ago we hadn’t seen each other for forty years.’

‘And?’

‘She said if that were true, we were behaving like a couple of irresponsible teenagers.’

‘So damned if we did and damned if we didn’t?’

Back then it had been her parents, now it was his daughter. A fine irony.

‘Pretty much,’ he said. ‘Naomi wouldn’t object, would she?’

‘She’d be thrilled. You’re a superhero, come to rescue her mother from her dreary life. But I can’t just up sticks. She relies on me to help with the children.’

‘Naomi must know you aren’t planning to live with them forever.’

True. In the turmoil of having to sell up, childcare had been a trade-off against a roof over her head. She’d never intended it to be a permanent arrangement, merely a breathing space whilst she sorted out somewhere of her own. There were options. Naomi could employ an au pair. Or let the granny flat and pay a childminder with the income. This wouldn’t stop her helping should an emergency arise, and the children could come and stay in the school holidays.

‘And there’s my job,’ she said. ‘Can’t we stay as we are until Easter? Three months would give Naomi time to sort something out. I can give notice at the college. And your children can get used to the idea of their father shacking up with his new woman.’

He made a sad face. ‘If that’s what you want.’