Mortal Love (6 page)

“That's what she always says! But then she just goes on as before, swooping through the garden, leaving a trail of broken hearts. And she doesn't even have the grace to be ashamed of it!” He headed back into the house. “Mind her little claws, Danny boy!”

Daniel winced and cradled his glass against his chest. Larkin turned to plant her elbows on the rail and gazed down at the Two O'Clock Club. A strand of hair had caught at the corner of her mouth; he wanted to reach and brush it aside, he wanted to ask about what Nick had said—could she really be a mental patient?—but before he could do either, she turned back to him.

“What's your novel about? If it's not rude to ask.”

“Well, it's not a novel.” He stepped beside her, looking down at that mass of unruly hair, her leaf-colored eyes. “It's a . . . well, a sort of study—not an academic study, a popular one, at least it's supposed to be popular—a history of romantic love. The Tristan and Iseult mythos.”

“You mean Wagner?”

“No. I mean, Wagner's in there, of course. But I'm trying to trace all the versions of the story, not just the famous ones—Gottfried and Malory, Béroul—track them all, see if I can find a single primary source, then come back around again and do the Victorians—Swinburne and Arnold, the Pre-Raphaelites—then the twentieth and twenty-first centuries so we can see what
we've
done with it.”

“It's a bit ambitious.” She laughed, but not mockingly. “I think you're brave to try it.”

“Not really. There's a whole cottage industry in this stuff. Especially the Victorians. Little books for Valentine's Day, upmarket romance novels.”

“So how will yours be different?”

“I guess I'll just have to bring a certain level of literary distinction to it,” he said, and laughed. “Without sacrificing the populist touch. Show how much we have in common with our Victorian forebears.”

“You believe you understand them?”

“Sure. Add or subtract a few revolutions in scientific thinking and abstract art, and we could all be sitting here together right now, being insulted by Nick Hayward.” He grinned, but Larkin shook her head. “What, you don't think so?”

“No. A few of them would feel and think the way you do, but . . .” She lifted her head to gaze at the City's distant towers. “You forget. Some of them actually believed in what they wrote and painted about.”

“Meaning I'm a crass twenty-first-century cynic cashing in on their idealism?”

“Meaning maybe they weren't being idealists at all. Maybe the world was different then.”

“Of course it was different. But that's the whole point—it's never different
enough
.” Daniel stared past her, his expression hardening. “We think things change, that they get better—but the truth is, nothing ever changes all that much. Except maybe for the worst.”

“You
are
a crass twenty-first-century cynic,” said Larkin, and turned. “Ah, here's Sira with dinner.”

They ate at the table outside, the long twilight brightened by candles that Sira set along the rail. Everyone but Larkin drank Daniel's champagne, though she clapped in delight as the cork flew overhead. Nick seemed more brooding than usual, staring at Daniel as though he were someone unknown who'd dropped in by mistake; he hardly spoke at all. Daniel, meanwhile, sat beside Larkin, grinning so broadly he felt somewhat embarrassed, as though he were an impostor, playing someone who was cheerful and confident and good with women.

And yet he
was
good with women, he thought, finishing another glass of champagne. Or . . . well, at least he had his moments; he'd be very interested in reviving some of them with this Larkin here, now.

He found himself watching her avidly. He didn't normally go for dark-haired women, or women so flamboyant. Those Early Anita Pallenberg clothes, that old velvet tunic and Tony Lama boots; her mass of serpentine hair; her strong, rather masculine features and those strange green eyes; not to mention that business with the acorn.

He couldn't keep his eyes off her. When Sira finally stood and started clearing the table, he began to relax, certain that Nick would follow.

But Nick didn't go. Instead he moved his chair beside Larkin. “Well, lass,” he said, and flashed her a smile so false that Daniel scowled. “Why don't you step inside with Sira and leave us gents to have our brandy and cigars.”

Daniel's scowl deepened. Before he could retort, Sira's voice came from the kitchen. “Nick! Leave them and come in here, please!”

Nick swore softly, and Daniel was surprised to see his friend staring at him with an expression that, in anyone else, would have betokened genuine concern. It only made Daniel more suspicious. “Yes, Nick,” he said. “Go help Sira. Where's your manners?”

Nick started to say something but stopped. He pushed his chair back and headed for the door. With a last glance at Daniel he went inside.

Daniel sighed with relief. Larkin smiled, swiveling her chair to face him; her knees touched his, and he felt strangely exultant, that he had been chosen over Nick.

“Well,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Tristan. Have you ever seen the Burne-Jones drawings?”

He shrugged. “Just prints of watercolors based on his Oxford panels.”

“So you've never heard of any others he did?”

“Well, the stained-glass designs for Morris's company. Is that what you mean?”

“No.”

“Believe me, I've looked at them all, and I couldn't find anything unusual that dealt specifically with Tristan and Iseult. There's that one Morris painting, and the Beardsley
Morte D'arthur,”
he said, ticking them off on his fingers, “one or two minor Rossettis, and a whole bunch of off-brand Pre-Raphaelites. I don't find any of them very interesting, except maybe the Beardsley. And Jean Belville's drawing—it's kind of different. But all that other PRB stuff's just been overexposed. Like I told you. I wanted to find something new, but . . .”

He opened his hands. “Nada. It's all been done.”

Larkin picked up his champagne glass, refilled it, and handed it to him. “These pictures are different.”

“How?” He raised his glass, then drank. “What do you know?”

“Well, for starters, hardly anyone has seen them. They're studies, not actual finished paintings,” she said. “A series of studies—three of them. You're familiar with
Pygmalion and Galatea
? Burne-Jones did two versions of that story, an early one commissioned by the Cassavetti family and another series in 1878. These are similar.”

“Cassavetti? Wasn't that—”

“Yes. Maria Cassavetti became Maria Zambaco, the model for all the famous Burne-Joneses. They were talented, those girls. Her cousin Marie Spartali painted a Tristan—”

Daniel felt a flicker of excitement. “And Maria Zambaco modeled for this Iseult?”

Larkin shook her head. “Ned had broken with her by then. He treated her quite badly, you know. He thought she was something she wasn't. When he finally admitted the truth to himself, he left her. The drawings date from after their affair was over, the early 1880s.”

“Where are they kept?”

“A place called Paynim House.”

“A gallery?”

“A private club. At least it was, a hundred years ago. It's in private hands now. And it's not open to the public. But . . .”

Larkin leaned toward him. He could smell her hair: a woodsy scent, crushed bracken and a sharper underlying smell like green apples.

“... I know how to get in. There's not much there, some oddments. A small painting by Jacobus Candell. Do you know him?”

Daniel was so entranced that it was a moment before he realized that this demanded a reply. “Uh, no,” he stammered. “Another Tristan?”

“Nothing that normal. Candell's a bit of a loony,” she confided, and laughed. “But he knew all those people—Swinburne and Burne-Jones and Rossetti, and—”

“Knew them until he was locked away,” broke in Nick. He stood in the doorway, staring at them; Daniel wondered how long he'd been there. “I'm surprised you've never heard of him, Daniel. He's just your sort of person.”

“Obscure literary figure?”

“Homicidal maniac.” Nick slipped back beside Larkin. “Hasn't he bored you to tears yet, Lark? Has he started quoting Bulwer-Lytton on Gottfried of Strasbourg?”

“Oh, shut up, Nick.” Larkin turned her electric eyes on Daniel, who hoped the candles wouldn't reveal his blush. “Nick's just jealous. It's a
brilliant
idea. Sexy, too—”

Nick hooted. Larkin ignored him.

“So it's to be an illustrated book, Daniel?”

He shook his head. “Well, that's the problem. I want images, but not the same old stuff. There's supposedly some remnant of the frescoes Rossetti and Burne-Jones and Morris did at Oxford, Iseult embroidering the black sails—”

“Doesn't exist,” said Nick. “I know, because I wanted it as cover art for
Black Sails.”

“But it
did
exist.” Behind them Sira appeared, holding a tray of steaming demitasse cups. “I remember hearing about it when I was at Oxford. They hadn't prepared the surface properly, only whitewashed the brick, and the paint wouldn't hold. The frescoes fell to bits and faded away. You can barely make out where they were in the gallery above Oxford Union Debating Chamber, just a few vague patches. Oh, dear, I forgot the milk!”

She bustled back inside. “A lesson for us there,” said Nick. “Always do your prep work.”

Daniel looked at Larkin. She smiled at him; he smiled back, rapturously, and Nick kicked him under the table.

“Excuse me.” Larkin stood, resting her hand on Daniel's shoulder. “I've forgotten something upstairs.”

As she left, Daniel felt a wave of vertigo.
The acorn.
He slid his hand into his pocket, and yes, it was still there. His fingers closed around it; he thought of tossing it over the railing, had begun to turn when Nick grabbed his arm.

“Danny.” Daniel froze, certain that somehow Nick knew what he was up to. “Danny, listen—don't.”

His mouth went dry. “Don't what?”

“Don't fall for her. Don't fall for it.”

Daniel's hand relaxed. The acorn slid into his pocket as he stared belligerently at his friend. “What're you talking about?”

“Her. Larkin. Don't fall for it, lad. It's a trap. It's just beauty, Danny, and you're above all that.”

“The hell I am,” said Daniel. “You were the one wanted me to meet her. She's . . . interesting. Intense.”

“That's—”

“Nick!” called Sira. “Phone!”

“Don't move,” warned Nick. “Stay right there. Don't touch her.”

Nick stalked inside. Sira passed him in the doorway and slipped back into her chair.

“It's the manager at Dingwall's,” she told Daniel apologetically. “This midsummer concert they're trying to set up. He won't be long.”

Daniel waved magnanimously. “Sure, sure. So . . .” He flashed her his most sincere Professional Journalist's smile. “Tell me about Larkin.”

“There's not a lot to tell. I mean, from my perspective.”

“I thought you were good friends?”

She laughed. “With Larkin Meade? Not likely! I hardly know her.” She glanced at the door, then lowered her voice. “She and Nick were involved, ages ago. It was awful. But you knew that, right?”

Daniel tried not to look taken aback. “Oh, sure, sure.”

“She really did a number on him. That was when we first met, Nick and me. He was a mess. He looked so bad, I thought he was a junkie. Didn't want anything to do with him. He was drinking himself to death, not eating—he weighed less than I did, which is saying something. One of his friends, Robert Lord—I knew Rob from school; he was just starting to do bookings back then—he introduced us, thought I'd be a good influence on Nick.”

“Which you were.”

“Which I am. Robert told me Nick had gone 'round the twist over this girl he'd gotten messed up with—a photographer's model, one of those David Bailey birds. There was a rumor she'd been Leonard Cohen's girlfriend, so of course everyone wanted a piece of her. Rob said she absolutely cut a swath through their crowd—all these young lads, you know, folkies making the scene down at Covent Garden who were used to passing girls 'round like cigarettes. Only, this one girl just
wasted
them—Rob said she was worse than heroin. She had a different name then—you know, one of those silly sixties things, Liberty Belle, Susie Goldenrod, something like that.”

“Susie Goldenrod?”

“Well, no, not really. But something awful. I know, hard to believe, isn't it? Our Nick falling for that. He was just a lad.”

“What about her? She must've been, what? Twelve?”

“Oh, no. She's the same age as you, I think.”

“Just taking the same drugs as Dick Clark.” Daniel craned his neck to peer into the flat, but Nick was still safely on the phone. There was no sign of Larkin. “So Nick took up with this groupie, and ... ?”

“I don't think she was a groupie. I think she might have played something, the psalter maybe? Something twee like that. Rob wanted to ban her from the club, but the lads—and the girls, too—they still couldn't stay away from her. When I met Nick, he and Larkin had just split up. He was completely mad, told me he was in love with this girl who'd tried to kill herself. Which I thought was strange, because from what Rob told me,
she
left Nick, not the other way 'round.

“As a matter of fact,” she went on, “after a while someone told Nick she actually
was
dead. That's when we first moved in together. But then someone else told him no, he'd seen her somewhere—Turkey, maybe? Anyway, Nick heard she was still alive, and that almost ended it between us. It really made me hate him.”