A Matter of Marriage (21 page)

Rohimun squinted again. For the
salwarkameez
, the darkest darks would be Egyptian violet and lamp black. Later, she would use the lighter darks: Prussian blue, with ultramarine and indigo, for the blocked-in highlights. The dusted gold of turmeric on cuffs and front she would paint as half-embroidery, half-reflection of the rose itself: alizarin orange-gold with Indian yellow, cobalt yellow, a touch of that almost edible Naples yellow, perhaps the odd flash of Courbet green. But no layering for a glaze effect here: using the very tips of her finest brushes, each color would be scattered individually onto the
salwar
's blues, as if the rose's tints had fractured, pixilated, into their components. A sort of prismed reflection of the flower. But the glow of the rose itself eclipsing that effect. She sighed with pleasure and set to work.

—

R
ICHARD WALKED SLOWL
Y
up the stairs, keeping his hand on the balustrade so as not to lose his footing. With the entry door shut, the darkness in this windowless space was almost total, and he was annoyed at himself for having forgotten this. As children, he and Henry had played in this network of narrow stairs and corridors that fed all the great rooms of the house and which were like a separate world, a cramped and distorted copy of the great staircases and spacious halls used by its official denizens. The great and the good. Who had said that? And who had ever believed it?

He remembered daring Henry to ride with him down these stairs on a sheet of cardboard. They had managed the same feat on the main stairs until caught and banned by Audrey, but to do it on the servants' stairs, with their much steeper gradient and smaller landings, looked like suicide now. Plucky of Henry really, being that much younger and determined to follow where Richard led. A broken collarbone had been the result, along with Audrey's told-you-sos in the ambulance all the way to casualty because Father couldn't leave Mother.

Reaching the upper floor, Richard started to feel about for the door that would take him into the hallway near the green bedroom. It was quiet and close on the little landing, and an image came to him, unbidden, of the scullery maids, often no more than children, who would have had to feel their way as he was doing, probably carrying hot water or linen at the same time.

Why was he here again? What possible result was realistically to be expected? He would surprise some traveller or tramp camping for a day or two, then have to deal with the inevitable unpleasantness before the local magistrate, which Henry would expect him to handle as a matter of course. And what if it really was a woman: an addict or some broken homeless creature? What then?

—

R
OHIMUN LOOKED AT
the sky outside her window, gave a cursory rinse to her fingers in the turps jar, and moved to the door. This was exactly the image she wanted: a summer sunset partially overcast by piled-up clouds, with shafts of light coming through at a sharp angle. She must see what it did to the colors in the
salwar
first-hand, see how it looked against the yew. This light would only last half an hour.

She ran out the bedroom door, crossed the hall, grabbed hold of the handle to the servants' stairs, then hesitated. No time to waste stumbling down the back way in the dark: she would take a chance on a Sunday and head down the main stairs and out the back. She set off, running barefoot.

—

T
HE DOOR HANDLE
had moved, trembled in Richard's grasp like a live thing, and he gripped it harder, tensed for confrontation, all indecision gone. But when he turned the handle and pulled the door inwards, there was no one there. He stopped in the hallway, puzzled, feeling that it was he who was the intruder. No more delays. He strode to the green room and opened the door.

—

R
OHIMUN RAN TOWARD
the walled garden, relishing the grass under her feet and the freshening air. In the
salwar
instead of the constricting tracksuit, she felt like she was flying. It might rain tonight, and now that she was sleeping in the great bed, she would enjoy the sounds of a summer storm. The bad dreams had ceased since she had abandoned the camp bed.

On the eastern side of the garden, some remains of the original stonework still lay below the hedge, no more than waist high. The yew must have encroached, then been shaped to form a replacement wall. She stood against it and looked at her arms and torso. As she had hoped, the blue and the green were more intense together. Truly harmonious. And the difference in textures was also heightened: the sheen of the fabric's draped fall was almost liquid against the yew's dense confusion of miniature spikes. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the hedge's luxuriant growth.

—

R
I
CHARD STOPPED IN
a patch of sunlight on the floorboards, dazzled after the dark stairwell. He'd forgotten how much light this room caught, with its clerestory windows as well as the windows at the western end. When he could see again, he approached the jumble of furniture by the window, feeling more of an intruder with every step. Then he saw the rose.

It glowed from the canvas: golden, gigantic, three-dimensional, hovering above the figure like a tent of light. And the woman reaching for it, almost touching it, her breasts straining against fabric, her arms rounded in yearning, reminded him of someone. Who was she, and why was Dr. Choudhury painting her?

—

T
H
E LIGHT BREEZE
that had met Rohimun at the back door had strengthened, and with it came a few spots of rain, then a ripple of thunder. A sharp gust of wind blew roses apart in front of her eyes, the petals rising and catching on her hair and clothes. As she left the secret garden, a sudden eddy of wind lifted her hair in a mass and swirled it around her face, blinding her. She clawed at it as she walked toward the house, anxious to get back to the painting. The wind was behind her, blowing her hair forward, and she could see the open back door as though through a dark and twisting tunnel. Fleetingly she wished that the front entrance was closer so that she could run straight into the main hall, but thunder clapped again, the rain began in earnest and she skipped into a sprint for the doorway ahead.

—

A
GU
ST OF
rain lashed windowpanes, and Richard moved back from the painting and looked around him. He'd heard that Dr. Choudhury had some artistic leanings, but hadn't realized their extent. How must it have been, the professor standing in this room, the long-haired model posing before him? Were they lovers? The thought was loathsome. Wasn't he Muslim? And married? No wonder the secrecy, the smell of curry.

Lightning flickered, and he went to the great bed and fingered the velvet cover. Was this the green of the backdrop in the painting? He could not decide, and walked back to the windows. Dr. Choudhury would not be coming tonight: probably having a cosy dinner up at the cottage with his wife. Fucking hypocrite.

He'd thought that this visit would clarify things. In the dwindling light, he swivelled the easel toward him, then sat down on the edge of the bed to look at it, feeling old and tired. Prim and pompous Dr. Choudhury, with a double life. He lay back, turning his head so he could still see the woman and the rose. He would wait here until the storm had passed, then think about what to do.

—

R
OHIMUN FOUGH
T THE
back door closed against the wind. The weather had changed her mood, sobered her, and she tried to ignore a small resurgence of old fears. Her hair was dripping down her back in rats' tails, and her feet were wet and covered in grass cuttings. She detoured to the builders' quarters: a temporary toilet and tearoom set up in the scullery, and found some clean drop cloths to dry herself and take some of the moisture out of her hair. In the fridge was a pint of milk, so she put the kettle on and raided the builders' biscuit supply while she waited for the water to boil. She felt like a worker again, entitled to the tea and digestives.

—

T
HERE WAS NO
such thing as lying on the edge of this bed. Richard slid and kept sliding until he was fair in the middle. The hollow in which he came to rest curved his shoulders inwards and pressed his upper arms to his sides, so he laced his fingers together over his stomach and closed his eyes. Last time he believed that Posturepedic rubbish: this was the best mattress he'd ever lain on.

—

R
OHIMUN RINSED OUT
her tea cup and replaced it on the draining board. The rain had set in, and through the scullery window, her peaceful golden sky had turned vermilion and cadmium red and French ultramarine and cobalt violet, in rough and hectic streaks.

She set off up the main stairs and along the upper hall until she came to her room. The door was wide open; she was sure she'd shut it. Tariq had already come and gone, so it wasn't him. She edged cautiously in, looking for the easel. Still there, thank god. A snore came from the great bed, and she froze. Simon was here. He had come for her, had invaded her sanctuary, touched her painting. And now he was asleep on her bed. Well, he could just fuck off. She wasn't scared of him anymore.

She snatched up the palette knife, shiny from disuse, and walked softly to the edge of the bed, her heart pounding. This time, she would have the upper hand, and he would be the one running away.

But when she got a bit closer to the figure shadowed by the bed curtains, it wasn't Simon at all. She exhaled, trying not to make a sound. This man was tall, well over six foot, and thinner. His hair was dark, and stubble shadowed his jaw. She stood still and tried to think, thumbing her blade. Not a tramp. Some kind of burglar? Well, whoever he was, he could still just fuck off. This was her room.

She crept nearer, until she was next to the bed, carefully climbed onto the mattress and, on her knees, inched toward the figure, then paused. She looked at the length of his body, the symmetry of his stance, his clasped hands and the upward-pointing toes of large feet in some truly naff white trainers. She crept closer, leaned over his face. It was his position: just like the effigies on those crusader tombs in the old churches. All he needed was a sword to hold. Well, she had the sword.

R
ICHA
RD WOKE TO
find some creature leaning over his face. He tried to rise, but the bed defeated him and a hand reached out and pushed on his chest. He grabbed the hand to move it away and a mass of hair swung over his face in a wet clinging tangle of black. Jesus Christ, like some kind of gypsy succubus.

The bed sabotaged him again, sinking him further as she tilted forward, defeating his efforts to rise one-handed. Some shiny object in her other hand flashed. Without thinking, he grabbed that wrist as well and with a muffled “Shit!” she fell onto his stomach.

He had a firm hold on her but was unable to rise from the hollow in the mattress and she, smaller than he had first thought, and with both wrists held, was clearly in the same predicament. He lifted the wrist with the weapon and saw its blunt, rounded end. Not a knife at all, just some kind of spatula.

No. A palette knife. Her hair: was this the woman in the painting? What the hell was going on?

She must have sensed a slackening in his hold because she wrenched her arms hard, and he almost lost his grip. He pulled her right arm out over the side of the bed and twisted her wrist until he heard the implement hitting the floorboards.

“You can just
fuck off
!” she hissed.

Young enough to be Choudhury's daughter. Sick bastard. They were still stuck in the same ridiculous position, but without the threat of the improvised weapon, he managed to transfer both her wrists into one spread of fingers and used his free hand to push both of them into a sitting position.

He could hear the harsh sound of her breathing, and saw the roll of eye-whites through her hair. Masses of black hair curling and twisting all over the place—and were those yellow petals caught up in it? He looked to the painting, as if he expected to see torn canvas, bleeding paint, where she had stepped out of it. What was she doing here on her own? What sway did that old man have over her?

“Where's Choudhury?” He'd almost shouted the question, the first he could put into words. Her wrists jerked in his grip.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

To think of that old man doing his morning visits. Using the Abbey. Abusing Henry's trust in him.

She twisted sideways and started to slide her feet toward the edge of the bed but stopped short, her head awkwardly angled. At the same time he felt a tug on his shirt: a length of hair was caught on the topmost button.

“Wait,” he said. “We're caught up.”

Now she looked familiar. Had he seen her before?

“Not
my
fault,” she snapped, but after a moment she grabbed the offending tress and pulled impatiently on it.

“That's hardly going to help. Let me try.” He slid his hands under hers and felt for the point of connection between his shirt button and the lock of her hair. “It's quite a tangle.” Surely he could've done better than that. He sounded like Colonel Blimp. Changing tack, he said, “What are you doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?” She averted her head despite the fighting words, and her hands reached out over his fingers and pulled fiercely on the edge of his collar.

“No point in doing that.”

She tugged again. “I don't have
time
for this.”

As if it were his fault. Her hair seemed to have twisted right around the button's axis. They both shuffled closer as they worked on the tangle. He hoped she didn't have any other makeshift weapons on her person. A staple gun, or a jar of turps. A really sharp pencil.

“Look, it doesn't matter, yeah, just rip it. It's only hair. I . . .
you
have to go.”

Was she expecting someone? Choudhury?

“There must be a way,” he said, bracing against her pulling as he tried to puzzle it out. What right did she have to tell him to get out. Expecting him to apologize.
More front than Harrods
, as Audrey would say.

Her hands suddenly tugged at his, and he felt his shirt jump forward. Something fell to the floorboards, and she laughed abruptly, revealing twin dimples in her cheeks. They both bent down to pick up the shirt button, just avoiding cracking heads. In doing so, her hair, freed now, swung against his shoulder, its massy weight as different as it was possible to be from the light brush of a tossed bob.

As he put the button into his shirt pocket, she moved to the painting, touching it in several places with her fingertips as if to reassure herself, then folded her arms and glared at the mantelpiece to his right, as if waiting for him to leave. Some nerve. In profile, her lashes curled extravagantly, below a dark brow as thick as his finger.

“What are you doing here? Are you meeting Choudhury later tonight?”

She swung to face him, her mouth open for a moment as if searching for a riposte. “What do you care? Are you here with some fucking paper? Why am I so interesting anyway?”

As she spoke, Richard stared at her face. Jesus. Was she the girl from the V&A? “Who are you? And why are you here?”

“What's it to you?”

The question struck home. Who was he to judge how she had arrived at this point in her life? He opened his mouth to rephrase, renew his questioning, but she turned away and swore again, her voice quavering now. Trying to get to the bottom of things at this stage seemed pointless: she was only getting more upset. He noticed the palette knife and kicked it under the bed for safety. It hit something with a metallic ring.

He pulled up the valance and saw a camp bed and a duffel bag. When he turned back to question her, she was fingering a jumble of brushes and paint tubes on a box, as if checking that they were all there. Facing away from him, her hair fell past her hips. He'd thought that the wild mass of hair in the painting was an exaggeration, artistic licence, but not now. Was this how Choudhury saw her hair, spread out in the wind against greenery? Or tangled across a green velvet bedspread? His stomach knotted.

He went over to her. “Look, you can't stay here, you know.” She ignored him and walked to the window.

He tried again. “If you need somewhere to stay, there are shelters. I could make some enquiries.” He felt like a complete bastard. Compared to him Choudhury must be looking pretty good right now. “Or perhaps a youth hostel. Until you can sort something out. But you can't stay here. You must know that.”

She crossed her arms. Her feet were bare and grass-stained, and her fingernails were rimmed with black. How rough had she been living since she'd left the V&A?

“Is there someone I could call for you?” Don't say Choudhury.

“What paper is it then? Which one?” Her tone was calmer but still edgy, hostile. “What's your name?”

“Richard Bourne.”

“Bourne.” She was rattled now, clearly caught by surprise, recrossing her arms, hugging her elbows.

“This is my family home.” He surprised himself, had not volunteered that information for years, and felt an odd kind of pride in saying those words.

“So, you live here,” she said, in a couldn't-care-less tone. “I mean, you're moving back in when it's finished.” She glanced at his trainers with contempt, and his feet twitched uneasily, despite himself.

“I live in London. My brother and his family, they're in the Lodge. They'll be living here.”

The rain was still falling. He couldn't leave without some kind of agreement or understanding with her.

“What's your problem with papers?”

Perhaps there was a warrant out for her as an illegal alien. A forced marriage in the offing? Or a violent husband? That Asian man in the dinner suit? No ring. But that didn't mean anything. Didn't they wear crimson on their hairline, if they were married? Perhaps he could do something, if there were legal problems. The silence stretched on, and the room grew colder and darker. A change of subject perhaps.

“Is the painting of you?”

She looked at him oddly. “It's a rose.”

“No, the figure beside it.”

“Oh. Sort of.” Her voice was flat and dismissive.

The silence returned, and he found himself casting around for something to say, as if he were at a cocktail party and she a difficult date. His watch alarm sounded tinnily. Shit. Thea must have set his watch alarm for her faux-casual pre-dinner drinks, and there were guests tonight, he'd completely forgotten. He couldn't tell them about this unwanted visitor when there was company: far too disruptive.

“Look, do you need to stay here for now?”

She appeared to hesitate, then nodded.

“Are you safe here? No one's bothering you or . . .”

She stared at him pointedly, but eventually shook her head.

“Alright. I have to be in London tomorrow but I'll be back at the end of the week to work out what's to be done. You can stay till then.” She continued to stare, her expression disdainful, and he quashed a strange urge to apologize.

“Okay,” she said, turning back toward the windows as if those black rectangles held more interest.

He left the room, stood in the darkened hallway, trying to collect his thoughts. What the hell was all that about? He remembered Thea's dinner party again. Maybe he'd just stay for drinks, skip the dinner and leave for London tonight, pleading pressure of work. No. Thea would have a fit and that would make coming back next weekend tricky. Thirty-five years old and still on Thea's social fucking leash.