How You See Me (16 page)

I’m missing you. No one wants to talk to me. They’re more interested in being in the vague vicinity of Dad, even as he dribbles down his new shirt. Even Maggie has an audience – she’s wrestled a tray of vol-au-vents from one of the waiters and is feeding them to a group of actors as if she baked them herself. No one knows my connection to Dad, so no one wants to know me. I’m amazed that no one recognises me, despite my face being on nearly every wall. I’ve been sitting at the corner of this table for over an
hour and not one person has interrupted or questioned my writing. Perhaps they think I’m a journalist? But then, I’ve never been very good at judging what people see when they look at me.

I watch people approach the biggest portrait. It is hung on the east wall, bracketed by two minor sketches behind glass. It’s one I had examined only briefly when I stacked it against the studio wall. I don’t even remember packing it for the exhibition. It looks larger and more imposing hung against red brick. The coils and sweeps of oil paint catch the light and look still wet. It is certainly my face, but dashed at and exaggerated by my father’s brush so as to look almost monstrous. Is this what my father saw when he remembered me?

Of course the crowd are, despite their gloomy attitude, most comfortable with the Sarah portraits. Mab says she’s gathered a number of offers from collectors who already possess Sarah’s body as a Submerged Nude. Although there has been talk of taking the whole collection down to London for an exhibition-run before any sales are made. But he – my
doppelgänger
– is drawing some attention. I don’t think anyone is interested in owning my portraits, but they don’t seem to be able to stop looking at them.

‘Oh, will you look at this one.’

‘Bloody hell! He’s hideous.’

‘I don’t know. There’s something about him I rather like.’

‘You would. He reminds me of your ex.’

‘You two have found the Caliban, then. He’s remarkable, isn’t he? I didn’t know Laird had a
him
in him, if you follow me.’

‘I know! All that talk of him hating women and it turns out he knows exactly how to hate men.’

‘Talking from experience, are we, darling?’

‘I’m not saying I know a lot about Art and all that, but I like him. It’s the eyes. There’s something sad about the eyes. As if he’s done terrible things, seen terrible things, but it’s not his fault. Does that make sense?’

‘I told you, you should have stopped at the second glass. Come away, I want to see the self-portraits.’

‘Just give me a couple of minutes. I’ll catch you up.’

I should go and talk to her, the woman in front of my portrait. She’s just my type. It would be so easy. All I’d have to do is go and stand next to the painting, show her my sad eyes. But she’s more than a little drunk and she’s not you, Alice. You’re the one I want to trust me. You’re the one I want to take me home.

The whole lot of them are pretty drunk now. The music has been turned up and Django Reinhardt is playing. I watch Mab stagger into the caterer’s set-up room and come out holding another crate of champagne aloft. People rush forward and break the corks from the bottles themselves, laughing over the noise and froth. The waiters stand back and smile, as if this is a normal turn of events. Mab comes over and swipes a kiss on to my cheek. ‘Behaving yourself?’ They are all having a wonderful time.

I take a tour of the room. Spot Aubrey deep in conversation with a dark-haired woman in green high-heels. His hand is on her shoulder and he has his professional face on. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s charging her by the hour. The extra drink is taking effect. A man falls back into a
large self-portrait and sets it swinging. He is helped up and out by two discreet men in suits. I suppose Mab must have hired security without telling me. Another thing I suppose I should have thought of myself. At least the painting is undamaged.

I find myself in front of one of the Sarah portraits. This is one I haven’t seen before. It must have been from the damaged and bound-together lot I sent off to Claggy’s restorer. This portrait is closer to the Sarah I knew than any of the others. She looks young and beautiful, but the expression is extraordinary. Her hands reach up to her face, one grasping a claw full of hair. She is despair. It’s as if unhappiness has never been painted before. I didn’t know she could look like that. The strangest thing is – the longer I stare at it – the shadow of familiarity I feel. Like a long-forgotten memory. I suppose it is well known that painters often corrupt their portraits with an image of their own features transposed across that of their sitter. There is no greater narcissist than the artist. But this is different. Behind the misery in Sarah’s face I think I recognise a younger Mab, and then maybe even you.

Just as I think I’m making sense of it, just when I’m coming to the edge of deciding how I feel about it all, a woman steps back from a laughing group on to my heel.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ we both say at once.

It’s Freya.

‘Isn’t it a fabulous party?’ She staggers and laughs, revealing her tiny white teeth. There’s a glass of something fizzy in her hand. I wonder if she’s drinking champagne. She’s wearing a spill of dark grey silk, fastened at the shoulders with sliver clasps. I can see her nipples, hard
under the dress, and find myself imagining the rest of her lithe body beneath the fabric. Her taut brown skin and my lips against it. Maybe
I’m
a little drunk.

Not that I’d ever do anything, of course. No matter how she provokes me or how much champagne they pour down my throat. Don’t be jealous. You are my girl, Alice. My one and only girl.

But, it is her hand that’s on my arm. ‘I’m so proud of Grandpa. And of Ma, of course. Everyone’s talking about them. Everyone seems to know them, and to want to know me.’ She leans in close to my ear. I can smell her breath and the taint of alcohol. ‘You know, I love it! Does that make me very vain? Or just very lonely?’

She spins on her heels as a hand reaches out from the group behind her and catches her round the waist. Her short dress gathers and I get a flash of her white schoolgirl knickers before she turns and joins the throng of the young and beautiful. I wonder if she even recognised me.

I needed to see Dad. This morning seemed an age away and I realised I hadn’t checked on him since the beginning of the exhibition. I found him still in his chair, a half-empty bottle of whisky and a glass on the small table beside him. A large man in a bright waistcoat was talking loudly at him, apparently oblivious to the lack of reply. Mab was next to Dad, her feet slung over the side of her seat as she chatted to a group of the actors from last night’s show. Sarah was nowhere to be seen. I ignored the waistcoat man and leant down to check Dad’s catheter bag. Taut and full. The bottom of his trouser leg was damp with urine. I got him to his feet to help him towards the bathroom where we could sort
him out. He put his hand on my shoulder as I lifted him. I actually could have believed he was pleased to see me. It was probably the whisky.

‘Can I help with him?’ It was Sarah. Her features looked sort of blurred. It could have been the effect of too much champagne, or the fact that her face was staring out of the walls around us.

‘I’m fine. I’m used to it. Stay. Enjoy the party.’ It was my turn to walk away from her. It felt rather good.

‘It’s not a party, Daniel. It’s an appreciation of Michael’s work. And I can take him home if he needs to go.’

‘I’m just taking him to the Gents. I don’t think you can really help there. And this crowd are hardly ready to appreciate the most basic functions of the great artist. Apparently that’s my job.’

We got away from her. It was the most normal exchange we’d had since I returned to Upchurch and it was full of hostility. I half-dragged Dad across the room to the stairs. He turned in my arms at one point to look back at Sarah. She waved and blew a kiss. The whole thing was sickening. I’ll write again when we get home,

Your Daniel

2nd April

My prison cell

Dear Alice –

Apparently I shouldn’t be writing this, but what else can I do? I don’t understand what’s going on. I’m in a fucking
prison cell, Alice, and apparently I have you to thank. There must have been some mistake. You’re lying. I don’t know why you’re lying. But you are lying.

The party was coming to a close as I brought Dad back from the toilet. The few guests that remained were trying to keep the frivolity going with the last bottles of champagne, but their laughter was getting hard and forced. Mab came over to Dad and me, taking hold of Dad’s other arm.

‘Better get going soon,’ she whispered to me, still smiling at people as we passed. ‘It’s going to get ugly if we don’t cut it short. I’ve just got to find that daughter of mine. Thundering success, though, Pops. Well done you.’ She patted Dad’s arm and moved away.

Sarah was waiting for us by the chairs. The fat man in the waistcoat was still there.

‘Where did you get to? You’ve been gone for ages. Come here, Michael, there’s someone bursting to meet you. Thank you, Daniel.’

I was dismissed. Just like that.

I stood for a moment watching Sarah ease Dad back into his seat. I remember the music was playing and it was the Django Reinhardt compilation going round again and I thought maybe they only have the one CD and why haven’t I noticed until now? I was looking for Freya, hoping we could get some time on our own, when I saw the woman. Her lips were stained with red wine and her make-up slightly smeared. She paused mid-conversation. She seemed to be looking right at me. Fascinated. She raised the glass in her hand, a parody of a toast, and instinctively I raised my own. But then I realised she
was actually groping for her companion’s back. Trying to attract his attention, without taking her eyes off me. I smiled awkwardly.

It was then that the hand dropped on to my shoulder. They actually do that: put the hand on your shoulder when they come to arrest you.

‘Daniel Laird?’

‘Yes?’

‘Daniel Laird of 1 Church Street, Upchurch? Formerly of Grey Lanes, Manchester?’

‘That’s right.’

‘We’re going to need you to come with us, sir.’

My arresting officer was a woman, short and attractive, but bulky in her uniform. My first thought was that Mab had arranged a stripper for the close of the exhibition. I imagined her peeling off her uniform piece by piece. I must have grinned. Such a cliché! I thought the whole thing was a joke. Then the second policeman stepped forward. They looked so neat and well put together in their smart uniforms. Especially when compared to the last of the party goers. It must have been the start of their shift.

They didn’t use handcuffs. I must have looked pretty docile, but I think it would have felt more real with handcuffs. People stopped and stared at us as we passed through the room to the door. I couldn’t see anyone I knew. Sarah and Dad were behind me. As far as I could tell, they were still carrying on their conversation with the man in the waistcoat. I looked for Mab and Freya but there was no sign of them. Strange. The thought I had was to ask if Freya could come with me in the car, as if it were an ambulance ride and I needed a companion for the journey.
A hand to hold to take away the pain. Instead, it was the portraits that accompanied me to the police car. Their eyes averted.

They sat me in the back of the car. The female police officer held the door open for me, but I don’t remember her guiding my head in through it. Maybe she did. The police car smelt of rubber and air-freshener. It was like being in a taxi. I wasn’t sure whether to put my seatbelt on or not. I had that same compulsion to talk that one gets in the back of a cab. I leant forward and the female officer told me to sit back. She kept calling me
sir
or
Mr Laird.
I wanted to ask her to call me Daniel. Their radios buzzed and whistled and the two of them conversed in quiet voices. They even laughed. They seemed to have forgotten all about me.

Can you imagine what I felt when they read me those charges? When they said those things about me, the things I was meant to have done to you? And for you to have been the one who went and reported it as if it were fact…

Rape and aggravated harassment.

There were statutes and sections and acts all referenced in the charges. None of which I understood. None of which seemed to have anything to do with me. What could I have done, my darling Alice, to make you so angry with me? Why are you telling such terrible lies?

You must phone the police and explain your mistake.

Daniel

2nd April

My prison cell

Dear Mab –

This is a hideous place to be writing from. I keep bursting into tears, just like my Alice. I can’t believe she has done this to me. I told you she was angry about my abandoning her, but even I had no idea she would go to such extremes to make me take notice of her. Well, she’s got my fucking attention now.

This cell is small and white. There’s a kind of shelf on the back wall with a thin foam mattress covered in shiny plastic, I suppose so one can piss oneself without causing any great damage. The smell is soiled, but overlaid with detergent. It makes me think of Maggie. I should be glad I don’t have to shit in a bucket. In fact, I just knock on the metal door and they take me down the corridor. I busy myself by reading the walls. There have been a lot of angry people in this cell before me. The walls are white-painted breeze blocks, and men – I’m presuming men – have carved or painted their threats and despairs all over them.

DEVON’S A SNITCH

fuck you bitch

I WILL KILL YOU MATT YOU FUCKING LIER SCREW YOU PIG

… and one large INNOCENT scrawled across the right-hand wall.

I don’t know how they got the materials to write. The policeman took my shoes off me as I entered the cell, so that I couldn’t hang myself with the laces. Apparently they are less concerned about blades and biros.