That Summer: A Novel (26 page)

Gavin was standing by his easel. At the sight of her, he stopped what he was doing, stopped and looked her up and down, from her unbound hair to her bare toes and all the curves and contours in between.

But he said nothing.

“Well?” Imogen demanded. She resisted the urge to cover one bare foot with the other. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I’m past words.” His voice was husky. Something in it brought the color to Imogen’s cheeks. He looked at her with frank admiration. “If Iseult had looked anything like that, there’d be no need for a potion.”

Imogen smoothed her hands along the dropped waist of the gown, following it as it flared out over her hips. “Some say that the potion only lasted for three years. And then the effects wore off and they found themselves intimate strangers, with a kingdom at war for nothing.”

Gavin closed the distance between them, gently smoothing the hair back from her face. “I prefer the other version,” he said. “The one in which they love one another well and truly for the rest of their lives, risking all and forsaking all others.”

His words felt like an incantation. The rest of their lives …

Imogen felt her throat tighten. They didn’t have that kind of time. Only today and possibly tomorrow.

She tilted her head up to him, her heart in her eyes. “Even if it was all an enchantment?”

Gavin’s thumbs traced the curves of her cheeks. “Enchantment or chance, does it matter how two souls come together, so long as they do?” Quietly he added, “Love is love, however you come by it.”

The air in the studio felt suddenly charged and fraught, as though the very dust motes had paused in their dance to wait and listen.

Love. They didn’t speak of love; it was an unspoken rule.

There was no future for them; they both knew that. This was borrowed time, stolen time, as much of a fantasy as the dress she was wearing or the props piled in the corner, none of them made to withstand the test of time.

If only it were otherwise. If only she could slither out of her old life as she had from her stays and stand with Gavin in the sunshine, and tell him, truly,
I love you,
and know that it was a pledge and not a curse. For a wild moment, in her borrowed gown, Imogen grasped at the idea. They could flee over the hills and far away—and ruin Gavin’s career and Arthur’s reputation and Evie’s chances of a good marriage.

The words
I love you
felt like ashes in Imogen’s throat. Her love ought to be the one thing she was free to give, but it wasn’t, not really, not when it came with promises and expectations and all they had was this moment, this one, suspended, moment.

She had made grand declarations of love before, and look how that had all turned out. It was a nasty, slippery thing, love, and she didn’t trust it. Or maybe it was that she didn’t trust herself.

So Imogen reached up and drew Gavin’s head down to hers and kissed him instead, kissed him hungrily, passionately, her fingers tugging at his shirt, expressing in action what she couldn’t say in words. They made love on the dusty floor, amid the paint drops and the charcoal shavings, breathless and frantic. But there was an urgency to it that sapped the sweetness from it, a chill that wouldn’t go away, no matter how Imogen burrowed against the warmth of Gavin’s body after, as they lay there, sweaty and sated, on the dusty floor.

Whatever it was they felt for each other, however powerfully it possessed her, their time together was limited; Imogen could feel it fragmenting like sand between her fingers, with no idea how to hold on.

How long until someone saw them? How long until Arthur found out?

Herne Hill, 2009

Julia and Nick argued all the way up to the attic.

“There’s no reason to assume that the lives of the real people mirror those of the characters in the painting.” Julia led the way down the second-floor corridor, to the narrow door at the back that led to the attic stairs. There was another way, from the basement straight up to the attic, but it was just a little too Nancy Drew: narrow and dark and ill lit. “You said yourself that the Pre-Raphs tended to co-opt anyone within reach as a model.”

The bulb on the attic stairs was one of the sort with a dangling string. Nick obligingly reached over Julia’s head and tugged it for her. “Yes, their friends and relatives. What relation does Thorne have to the Granthams?”

“Poor relation?” suggested Julia, wrinkling her nose at the strong scent of dust. She started up the stairs. “Cousin? Nephew? Illegitimate son? For all we know, Thorne might have been here for tea on alternate Tuesdays or living in a shed in the yard.”

“The other makes a better story, though, doesn’t it?” From behind her, Julia could hear the note of amusement in Nick’s voice. “Art replicates life; the repressed Victorian housewife finds passion in the arms of an artist right beneath the nose of her stodgy husband. Not to mention,” Nick added practically, “that it might bring the price of the painting up.”

Julia stumbled slightly on an uneven step, closing her mouth over an instinctive denial. Of course, the logical thing would be to sell. And, given his efforts, it would be equally logical for Nick to assume she intended him to take on the task for her. And the commission.

The thought gave her a nasty sensation in the pit of her stomach. What did you expect? she demanded of herself. That Nick was doing all this for the sheer joy of discovery? Or for the promise of her inconsiderable charms? He was an antiques dealer. She had a promising antique. That was all.

Pausing on the landing, Julia said rather shortly, “I doubt you’ll find Imogen Grantham’s diary up here. And even if you did, she’d hardly detail her illicit affair for posterity and leave it lying around the family home.”

If Nick noticed the change in her tone, he didn’t comment on it. He said mildly, “Of course not. But there might be letters, account books. Anything that places Gavin Thorne in or near this house would be useful. What’s in here?”

Julia looked back over her shoulder. “That’s the old nursery, from the days when children were meant to be neither seen nor heard. There’s nothing there. The rooms we want are around here—old servant rooms, I think.”

Instead of following her, Nick opened the nursery door wider. “Someone’s used this as a studio.”

Reluctantly, Julia tagged along after him. “Not Gavin Thorne. I don’t think you’ll find anything that old in here.”

“Those tiles are,” said Nick, crouching down to inspect the story tiles around the hearth. “Or nearly. I’d put them somewhere between 1860 and 1880.”

“They don’t look like Thorne’s work,” said Julia flatly. The tiles illustrated scenes from fairy tales: Cinderella by her hearth, Rose-Red and her bear, Red Riding Hood and the wolf. There was a stylized sweetness to them that was a far cry from the wild romanticism of the printouts Nick had shown her of Thorne’s work.

“No, they don’t,” Nick agreed, rising easily to his feet. “Pity. It would have made a nice twist, a mad artist in the attic instead of a mad wife.”

“We’re the only ones who are mad here,” said Julia sourly.

All her joy in exploring had been sapped by the feeling that there were price tags being appended to everything. Which was silly. That was what she had come out here to do, to appraise and sell up. But it felt like a violation all the same.

She moved hastily forward as she saw Nick prowling towards the easel. “I don’t think that’s anything to do with what we’re looking for.”

“Too modern,” Nick agreed, but he was already peeling back the cloth that covered it. Julia’s hand fell back, too late to stop him.

It was a watercolor, not an oil, the colors light and delicate but as clear as the day they had been painted, protected from light and grime by the cloth that had been draped over it.

“I don’t think anyone’s touched this since it was painted,” said Nick, and Julia could only nod, her throat suddenly tight, her vocal cords not working properly.

In the picture, it was autumn, the leaves on the trees just beginning to turn, the grass still bright and green. The grounds had been better maintained then, but Julia could still recognize the view down the slope in the back. In the center of the scene, by the summerhouse, a little girl was spinning in circles, her fluffy pigtails whipping around, her arms flung wide with the joy of movement. She wore a navy corduroy pinafore over a long-sleeved blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and on her feet were a pair of shiny red Mary Janes.

Julia remembered those shoes. Big-girl shoes, like the ones the girl in the flat upstairs had. Julia had wanted them so. Her father had said,
Why not brown? They would wear better.
But her mother had just smiled and said,
Let her have her spot of color.

So she had had her red shoes, shiny and new, with the pricked-out tracery on the tops and real buckles on the side. Red shoes. Big-girl shoes.

“Julia?” Nick was looking at her, not the painting. “Are you all right?”

“That’s me.” The words came out as a croak. Spinning and spinning, the wind in her hair, and Mummy, with her easel, standing halfway up the hill, laughing. “She was painting me.”

Flopping on the grass, breathless, giggling, the ground cool under her back. Squirming and laughing as Mummy pounced, tickling her.

Julia stuffed a fist in her mouth, fighting to hold back the sobs that seemed to come out of nowhere, that rose up from the pit of her stomach, bending her double, a quarter century’s worth of sobs stampeding their way through her.

She could remember the feeling of the autumn air on her cheeks, the slosh-crunch of damp leaves beneath her feet, the scent of cigarette smoke in the air. And not just that. Memories were flooding back. Mummy, tucking her into bed, with that horrible, battered stuffed rabbit Julia used to take everywhere with her, Peter Rabbit, his coat permanently unbuttoned and one ear off. Mummy, holding her hand in the Tube, herding her through an underground tunnel on some sort of outing, a holiday outing.

That horrible crunch and those flashing lights.

Where’s Mummy?… Mummy’s left us.

Julia’s entire body was trembling; she was powerless to fight it, overwhelmed by grief that had no words, no voice, the grief of the child she had been, shaking, and scared, and so painfully lonely.

There was an arm around her shoulders, a hand rubbing circles on her back, a low voice saying, “Julia?”

She didn’t hear it at first; the pounding in her head was like the howling of the waves, carrying all else before it.

“Julia?” whoever it was said again, and she remembered, disjointedly, where she was and who was with her.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m all right,” she croaked, keeping her eyes down, her face hidden. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. The pain was still so strong, strong enough to keep her from thinking how she’d made a fool of herself.

“No, you’re not.” Julia lifted her head and saw Nick, blurred and indistinct, like a watercolor that had run in the rain. One arm around her shoulders, the other holding her elbow, he guided her forcibly to the couch. “Sit,” he said.

Julia sat. Heavily. The ancient springs creaked beneath her, sending up a wave of dust. She coughed feebly, a cough that turned into a hiccup. Her eyes were red and her nose was running and she felt drained, drained beyond imagining.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. It sounded painfully inadequate. She blinked at Nick, rubbing the salt from the corners of her eyes. “I feel like an idiot. I never—” She shook her head unsteadily. “I never cry like that. I don’t know— I didn’t realize—”

Nick didn’t push it. Gently, he said, “Who painted that?”

“My mother. A long time ago.” Julia pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to say anything else.

She felt—better now. Not good, but better. “Better” being a very relative term. She felt drained and hollow and thoroughly miserable, but herself again, not a howling mass of jelly. She wondered, abstractedly, if that was what possession felt like, that sense of being so entirely swept away from oneself, from one’s own thoughts and behaviors. She had always prided herself on her self-control, on her poise.

“She was an artist?” Nick’s voice was soft, undemanding. His arm sat loosely around Julia’s shoulders.

She nodded, not looking at him. “An art student.”

The arm behind her back shifted slightly. “She was good.”

Julia kept her eyes on her hands. Same old hands. Same old freckles, same old school ring. “She died. A long time ago. When I was five. That’s why we moved to New York.”

The words came out jerkily, painfully. She wasn’t sure why she was telling him this.

“Not easy, is it?” Nick’s hand dropped to her shoulder, squeezed, lightly. “Mine walked out on us when I was seven.”

Julia looked up at him, so abruptly that her head nearly collided with his chin.

Nick held her gaze, nodding as if in answer to an unspoken question. “She’s an actress, in LA. I used to visit her there, summers, but it didn’t suit either of us.”

And she’d thought she had it bad. Julia’s voice came out in a croak. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Nick kept his voice light. “I have a trio of very interfering aunts. They made sure to take up the slack.”

Julia looked back down at her hands. “I have a very nice stepmother.” Somehow, saying it made Julia feel weirdly teary again. “But we’re not particularly close.”

Her fault, not Helen’s. Thinking of all those years of tentative overtures that Julia had so blithely brushed aside made her feel obscurely guilty.

“It’s hard to be, after something like that.” Nick spoke matter-of-factly. He retrieved his arm from around her shoulders and sat back, looking her full in the face. “Better?”

Julia nodded, biting her lip. “Sorry to melt down on you. I didn’t realize that the attic would be so—booby-trapped.” She managed a wobbly smile. “I feel like I tripped an emotional land mine.”

Nick tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear for her. There was something oddly soothing about the gesture. “Do you think you can cope with going through some old boxes?”

Julia breathed in deeply, feeling the new air filling her lungs. She felt completely wrung out, but not in a bad way. More like when she was small and would come home after a day of camp, half-asleep on her feet after a day of sun and chlorine and pool water.