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‘Humping that load on your shoulder? No, I think not, and I’d be surprised if a bus driver let you on with that roll. I’ll treat us to a taxi.’

At the framer’s, excitement began to mount for both Jarret and Amy. The framer, who worked for Robert Motherwell and Hans Hoffman, Clifford Still and Jasper Johns, and was in the process of mounting a Jim Dine, was clearly more than interested in the first five canvases to come off Jarret’s roll, the five that Amy and Jarret had agreed were the ones to be stretched. Amy stepped aside and watched Jarret charm the framer during the discussion of what he wanted done. They asked her opinion about a frame for one of them and excitement mounted as the framer’s assistant arrived with stretchers and frame samples. Finally they chose simply carved and silver-leafed wooden picture frames for two of the paintings and merely to stretch the other three. They would be ready for five o’clock, delivered for half-past six to Amy’s flat, the five pieces and the roll of canvases that remained.

Together Jarret and Amy walked arm in arm from the framer’s back to the Cordigon Gallery. Briefly, they joined the surging crowds rushing up and down Fifth Avenue. There was a spring in their step, smiles on their faces. It had been so far a thrilling morning and Jarret was beginning to get the buzz of New York. The excitement of seeing the Motherwells and Jasper Johns in the framer’s studio helped to make him
understand what Amy was talking about.

It was less crowded on East Fifty-seventh Street. One thing about New Yorkers – busy as they are, they are lookers and can always find time for a glance at the beautiful people. To passersby that must have been how Amy and Jarret looked. A tall couple, handsome, well turned out, high on confidence and life, and obviously in love, they walked as if the world was their cupcake and they were eating every last morsel of it. They were somebodies, could even be celebrities, and deserved a second glance.

With a few minutes to spare before they were due back at the Walter Cordigon Gallery, they dashed into the Andre Emmerich Gallery for a quick viewing of the Sidney Nolan show. Impressive, bold, exciting, they had not enough time to do justice to it. On their way out they bumped into John Chandris, a curator from one of the city’s most prestigious museums. He greeted Amy and seemed to be surprised to see her with Jarret.

‘Amy, I had no idea you knew each other. Jarret, when did you arrive?’

‘Only just.’

‘Is Fee with you?’

‘No, he’s in Istanbul.’

‘That marvellous
yalis
on the Bosphorus? What an amusing time we all had there! How is Savannah? Pity you two couldn’t keep it together. Is she still in Paris?’

‘London.’

‘Where are you staying? With the Clarksons?’

‘No, another friend.’

John immediately produced a pocket memo pad and pencil. ‘Give me your number. You must come for dinner. I’ll call you.’ Amy felt as if she were invisible for all the attention he was paying her. A closet homosexual in love with her lover? Well, one could almost understand his rudeness.

John Chandris was flushed and nervously dancing from one foot to the other. He was so obviously smitten with Jarret, Amy found it embarrassing. Even more difficult was watching Jarret charm and flirt with the eminent curator. Amy, unable to bear it, looked away.

‘I don’t know the number, John. I have yours. I’ll call you in the morning at the museum.’

Jarret did know the telephone number, she was the friend he was staying with, why couldn’t he be straightforward and come out with it? She found that disconcerting.

‘You won’t forget?’

‘Of course not, John.’

‘How long are you here for, Jarret?’

Even Amy hadn’t asked that question but now her ears pricked up. She too had been wondering how long he would be staying in New York. For a moment she allowed her fantasies to take hold and waited for him to say, ‘Indefinitely’. What he did say was, ‘I only just arrived, John,’ with a laugh, and gave John Chandris a flirtatious smile that made the man all but twitter.

The three said their farewells. Amy and Jarret were alone in the elevator. ‘John knows the score. He just never gives up, the poor sod. After all these years and
rejections, he’s still as smitten as ever. It’s actually rather sweet, don’t you think?’

‘No, I don’t,
actually
,’ she mimicked.

‘You’re jealous because I flirted with him,’ he teased.

Amy gave him a harsh look. ‘More amazed that you enjoyed it so much.’

He laughed even more, and placing an arm through hers said, ‘Well, you needn’t be jealous, it’s you I’m sleeping with.’ And whispered in her ear, ‘And you I fuck.’

It was a silly incident and she would not allow it to spoil the great day they were having together. It was after all not her problem or Jarret’s but John Chandris’s.

The Cordigon Gallery was on the first floor of a large brownstone house on East Sixty-fifth Street between Park and Lexington Avenue. With Amy still on Jarret’s arm, they climbed the flight of stairs from the pavement to the entrance of the building. Amy was astounded how happy they were. The world had never looked bigger or brighter. At last she had cracked it. So this was what life was all about, these special moments in time and space that could carry one through no matter what it delivered. Thinking how sad it would have been had she and Jarret not fallen in love, she felt the luckiest woman in the world.

They entered the gallery to find Walter placing a small red sold dot at the corner of a painting. ‘What a break, he’ll be in a very good mood,’ whispered Amy.

Jarret smiled at her while removing his arm from hers. He took several strides forward, leaving Amy to
walk into the gallery behind him. ‘Walter!’

‘Dear boy!’

Amy watched Walter Cordigon’s face change on seeing Jarret. It was full of smiles and a sparkle came into his eye. She thought, Oh, no! He fancies my lover too. What am I up against here? Walter Cordigon walked forward and first shook hands then hugged Jarret. Only then did he see Amy.

‘Do you know Amy Ross, Walter?’

‘Yes, we’ve met. It’s a long time since I’ve bumped into you, and a very long time since you’ve been in the gallery. How are you? Didn’t know you were a friend of Jarret’s. Known him long?’

She had seen him fishing for gossip before. With Walter Cordigon it was the major part of any conversation he had. Because he was basically such a pleasant and harmless person, people accepted it, treated it no differently than if he had a wart on the end of his nose, were merely careful not to make an issue of it.

Jarret was quick to interrupt. ‘Not nearly as long as you have, nor as well.’ That was followed by one of his handsome smiles.

Walter seemed to take that as a compliment. He became not exactly twittery but was clearly flattered. He all but threw back his shoulders and raised his chin just that little bit higher.

‘Oh! Then you’ve not been to the
yalis
. I meant to ask you yesterday when we were catching up, how is the Countess Armida, Jarret? When I was in London I had lunch with Savannah and Billy Bolton … you’d better
watch out there, Jarret, he’s taken sides with Savannah, thinks you will lose in your fight to keep the Paris flat. Well, that’s neither here nor there. As I was saying about the Countess Armida … somehow they got news that she was now bedridden, had gone into complete seclusion, given up seeing anyone but you and Fee?’

‘Just gossip, Walter. She’s very well. I think you offered lunch? I’m famished.’

‘I’ve already sent Rory out for sandwiches and a bottle of wine, but I didn’t expect another guest for lunch. Never mind, we can send him out for more. Have you met the Countess Armida Montevicini, Miss Ross? No, of course you haven’t, she never leaves Istanbul and you haven’t been to her wooden mansion on the Bosphorus. She must be getting on now – seventy-five, eighty. Whatever she claims she must be older, many years older. Women like the Countess Armida never tell their real age. I wish I had known her in her hey-day. She was one of the greatest beauties of her time. Her portraits and the photographs – no wonder men gave up their lives and their wallets for her, one even a kingdom! Oh, you must get to meet her. Even in old age she has charisma, a faded beauty that won’t let go, and she can still seduce men less than half her age to her bed. Bed and sex … well, she was famous for that. They say that was how she enslaved the last ruler of the Ottoman Empire and she was a mere child then. She adores Jarret and Fee. And the people she knows who used to pay homage to her, well …’

Jarret looked neither disturbed nor discomforted by Walter’s gossip, merely as if he had had enough of it when he interrupted the art dealer. ‘About my paintings. Having looked at them, I decided I wanted five of them stretched. It was a matter of getting the framer on the job. I knew you would have no objections if we went through them together on Friday. We can still have preliminary talks about an exhibition today after lunch. You don’t mind, do you?’

Of course Walter didn’t, he was too carried away on the gossip he had just delivered and enchanted to see himself as part of Jarret’s inner circle. The timing was perfect. Rory arrived with the sandwiches.

Chapter 12

The rare roast beef sandwiches on buttered rye had hardly been served nor the bottle of cheap red wine opened before Amy realised she did not belong at this lunch and the meeting that was to follow. But that alone was not what made her want to escape from Jarret and Walter Cordigon who was fussing unnecessarily.

‘Amy, if you want me to, I’ll send out for another roast beef on rye? But it’ll be busy at the sandwich bar at this hour and we’ll have to wait lunch, and Rory should be doing an errand for me. What do you suggest?’

Walter looked all dithery, and before she could answer him changed the subject, something he was known to do when he didn’t want to hear something. Walter had a reputation for that but people forgave him for it.

‘I remember Savannah loved these little office lunches we three used to have here. They were her favourite, these roast beef sandwiches. She always said it was more fun than going out to one of those overcrowded chic restaurants. I do miss Savannah. Were you a friend of Savannah’s too, Miss Ross? She and Jarret, the most beautiful and enchanting couple in the Paris art world! When in New York they were like visiting royalty. None of us believe you two won’t get back together again,’ he
told Jarret, very nearly producing a tear in his eye for effect.

‘It’s not true about the sandwiches, Walter. Savannah loathed these dried-up excuses for lunch. She was always remarking how very mean you were, never taking us to a proper lunch.’

‘She didn’t?’ Walter looked shattered by this news.

‘She did. I think she might even have settled for a department store lunchroom for ladies, although she did always claim that one day she would get you to take her to The Russian Tea Room.’

‘You’re making this up, just teasing me?’

‘Am I? You know better than that, and you know very well that you’re mean, the meanest dealer in town, and take a perverse pride in being so. It’s no secret, Walter, just one of the facts of life of the New York art world.’

Jarret went to Walter and placed an arm round his shoulder. He took one of Walter’s hands in his: a large, plump and coarse hand with fingers like sausages, pink and soft, with well-manicured fingernails.

For a few seconds while Jarret patted it, Amy imagined Walter sitting in an elaborate Gothic oak chair, a white sheet wrapped round him like a Roman toga, pale pink flesh popping out: a naked arm here, a bare shoulder there. A beautiful catamite, a naked boy with blond curly hair, was sitting on his lap giving Walter a manicure. She had to hold back her laughter.

‘I always think it’s more intimate, these little business lunches in my office,’ spluttered Walter to Jarret while staring admiringly into his eyes.

‘And it is, Walter, it is. And I’m delighted to be here
à deux
with you.’

It was outrageous flirtation on Jarret’s part. He was a tease, and Amy found something quite cruel and unsavoury about it. Charm was one thing, this was something else – and something she found unpalatable, not to mention that
à deux
excluded her.

‘Don’t bother about lunch for me, Mr Cordigon, I won’t stay. Thank you just the same.’ Amy buttoned her coat and took her handbag in a deliberately slow and easy manner, not wanting either man to see how offended she was, or how unwelcome she had been made to feel.

‘I’ll see you to the street,’ offered Jarret.

‘No. Please don’t bother.’

‘It’s no bother at all, I insist.’

To protest any further would have been to make a scene. She managed a smile, said goodbye to Walter Cordigon, and walked with Jarret from the gallery to the hall and down the stairs to the street.

He stood with her there, buttoning his coat, turning up the collar. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Don’t you think it’s quite cruel to flirt with men who are clearly infatuated with you, lead them on?’

Jarret began to laugh. ‘They love it, it gives them hope, although they know I only fuck women.’

‘I don’t see it as funny, Jarret.’

‘Well, you should, especially since it’s you I’m fucking and not them.’

‘Oh, so that makes it all right?’

‘Yes, I think it does.’

‘They wouldn’t.’

‘But they don’t know and aren’t likely to.’

That quite stunned Amy. Though she had never thought of shouting to the world that she and Jarret were in love, she certainly had not expected their love for each other was going to be a deep dark secret. She was further taken aback when she saw a serious light come into his eyes.

She was about to walk away when he smiled at her and said, ‘Please don’t walk away from me like this. I’m sure that Walter is peeping out the window looking to see if we’re having a lovers’ tiff, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? We’ll talk about this at home this evening. Don’t behave like a silly jealous woman – you have nothing to be jealous about. After yesterday and this morning, surely you must know that? You could have stayed for lunch, no one asked you to leave.’

‘You must be joking! Walter did everything he could to discourage me from staying. As a matter of fact I didn’t hear you make any protest about my leaving. What was that
à deux
, Jarret? In my book
à deux
still means two and implies intimacy.’

‘Walter’s gossiping was getting on your nerves. I was giving you an out in case you wanted one.’

‘Well, you would be right there.’

The two of them began to laugh, as much at themselves as they were at Walter. ‘I’ll call you at home when I’m free from him and maybe we can do some more looking at art together.’

It was a long walk from the gallery to Amy’s flat but
the weather, though crisp and cold, was bracing. She somehow couldn’t bear the idea of getting on a bus and never used the underground. The fact was she needed the air and a brisk walk to clear her mind. If anyone had told her that she would be happy to get away from Jarret, she would never have believed them. But she was.

He was such a different man in the way he related to other people from the one she knew in their intimate life. She saw clearly for the first time the two sides to Jarret’s personality. Can one love a man and not like him? Now that was a question to ponder. By the time she arrived home she had already made up her mind that she would never be upset by Jarret’s behaviour again. Walk away but never close your eyes had to be the right solution.

On entering the flat she had to smile. He did have a way of making his presence felt. The room seemed no longer hers but theirs; evidence of him was everywhere and it warmed her heart. She missed him already. Her life seemed so much more full and rich, she was so much more alive, when he was with her. Just to watch him reading in the chair by the fire, to make him a cup of his favourite tea, to listen to him talk about his work, was already a part of her life. Would it happen that one day they would have to give each other up? She picked up his shirt and buried her face in it. Love for him overwhelmed her. She said aloud, ‘Is it possible that to love a man as I love you, Jarret, is not prohibited, but to love you, Jarret Sparrow, for now and eternity, is forbidden?’

Amy curled up on the bed. She was suddenly exhausted, so very tired that she could not even manage to remove her coat. She fell asleep instantly, tears still wet on her cheeks.

It was the street door intercom buzzing madly that finally awakened her. The room was dark, she was disorientated upon awakening and felt as if her brain was scrambled. Then quite suddenly her mind cleared. It was Jarret at the door. She all but sprang from the bed, switching a light on as she rushed to the intercom.

‘Jarret,’ she called into it and buzzed him in.

Amy was surprised to hear a strange voice ask, ‘Miss Amy Ross?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hampshire Holland, the framer’s. What floor, ma’am?’

‘Oh, of course, the first floor.’

Amy looked at her watch. Six thirty-five. They were on time but what had happened to Jarret? Had she slept through a phone call? The buzzing of the intercom earlier in the day? She opened the door to her flat for the delivery men and struggled out of her coat as she hurried to the telephone to call the Walter Cordigon Gallery. No answer.

She was in the bathroom combing her hair and fussing with her face when she heard the men enter the flat. First came Jarret’s roll of paintings and then the five on stretchers, two of which were heavier for frames. They were wrapped in brown paper and tied with string and seemed to fill the room. On the one hand it was thrilling
to have them there; on the other it was a disruption to her home, their love nest.

‘Sign here, ma’am.’

Amy signed the delivery slip.

‘Are you paying cash, or do we bill you, Miss Ross?’

That rather flummoxed Amy because she had no idea what arrangements Jarret had made with Hampshire Holland. It was a rush job and done as a favour to a friend of hers, and Hampshire Holland was such a nice man, one she would not like to take advantage of in any way. She started for her desk and her cheque book. ‘I don’t know what arrangements Mr Holland and Mr Sparrow made but I think I had better give you a cheque,’ she told the delivery man.

‘I think not! The invoice is to be sent to the Walter Cordigon Gallery. That’s what Hampshire and I agreed upon,’ said Jarret who had just entered the room.

Amy swung round to face him. How handsome and happy he looked, all charm with the two delivery men. One of them thumbed through the papers on his clipboard and said, ‘Sorry ’bout that. Here it is, payment to be billed. Got my papers out of order.’

‘No problem,’ offered Jarret who ushered them from the flat.

On his return, he went directly to Amy and said, ‘I don’t want ever to take advantage of you, not for a penny. Anyone else in this world I don’t give a toss about, only you. We’re something special, private, personal, intimate, and I want to keep it that way. You do enough for me, loving me, giving me all of yourself, caring for
me. You’re in a secret part of my life. I want you for sex and love and nothing else. No matter how I behave with you, what you see and what you hear, as long as you know that we’ll be all right.’

It was the speech every woman in love wants to hear but somehow not from the man who lights up her life and is wanted completely by her. The words were flattering and demeaning both at the same time. That was bad, but added insult to injury had to be the manner in which he delivered his little speech: matter-of-factly, without a semblance of emotion in it. It was as if he had come home to set love guidelines. Never step over the mark was not her idea of love, nor was a backstreet romance, and most especially not since they were both free and had no reason to slink around hiding anything.

‘You don’t look happy, Amy.’

‘I’m confused.’

‘Do you doubt that I love you?’

‘No, but I would like to know why you’re putting the brakes on. It’s as if you don’t want our love to get out of hand.’

He went to the fireplace and put a match to the well-laid fire which flared up at once. Then he turned to look at her. ‘I suppose we have to have this conversation and now is as good a time as any. My love for you is already out of hand, stronger and more important to me than I ever wanted it to be. The kind of love I have for you is forbidden to me. I’ve made a pact with myself and Fee that a love that could take over my life is forbidden territory. If we keep it in bounds we’ll be together forever,
but it must not play havoc with my work, the plans and goals Fee and I as partners are working on. He has taken the same vow. And now so must you.’

‘The only thing I
must
do in this life is die, Jarret.’ Having said that Amy went to the drinks table and poured herself a whisky with a splash of water. She took a long draught of the drink and went to sit down on the sofa bed in the middle of the room.

Jarret suddenly went ashen. The firmness in her voice, her refusal to do as he asked, quite took him aback. He removed his coat, dropped it over a chair and went to Amy. Clearly her reaction was not what he had expected. He sat down next to her, removed the glass from her hand and placed it on a table in front of the
lit en bateau
. Then taking her hands in his, he held them and stroked them. ‘Say you love me? I need you to love me. I’ll give you everything I can of myself, we’ll be happy together, you’ll never know a better lover than I will be to you. Don’t throw that away.’

Amy could find no words, emotions were running high for them both. They were involved in a deep and profound love that he didn’t want and Amy knew he could not sustain.

They sat there holding hands, each of them silent, knowing that no matter what, they could not for the time being give up what they had together, each of them aware that they would do what they had to. Everything in Amy’s life might have been entirely different if in those moments when each of them was making choices about how to handle their love for each other, Jarret
had been able to take her in his arms, kiss her with the passion and love she knew he was capable of. But he didn’t.

It was some time before he was composed enough to lower his head and kiss her hands, still held in his. Very nearly in a whisper he asked, ‘Shall we look at my paintings?’

Amy wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek, push back the lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead. He looked so handsome and vulnerable, so in need of her love, just as he had claimed that he was. It was then that she knew she would stay with him, love him, give herself to him utterly for as long as they were willing to add to each other’s lives.

He would never marry her, they would never build a grand open life together that she would be proud to show to the world, nor would he be a father to her children, but just as he had told her, he would be the great love of her life.

Amy no longer had any need to tread carefully in her love for Jarret. She no longer had that fear that he would leave her if she put a step wrong; she knew for a fact now it was just a matter of time before he did. And so she did caress his cheek and did move the lock of hair from his forehead.

She answered him, ‘Well, of course we must.’

‘You won’t leave me?’ he asked rather pathetically.