The Ecliptic (23 page)

‘I should really be getting home.’

He twisted round and made a circling gesture to the barman anyway. ‘You’re still not convinced,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘I’m not like you. I don’t see art as a game.’

‘All right. Let’s try it another way.’ He picked something from his tongue—a tiny node of lime-flesh—and flicked it to the carpet. ‘I’ll bet when you
painted the diptych you weren’t even thinking of painting, were you? You didn’t have a purpose in mind, not even a theme, you were just trying to express a feeling—you let your
arm go wherever it wanted until you ended up with mountains. Am I warm?’

‘I’m still listening,’ I said.

He wet his lips again. ‘Something felt wrong after that, I’ll bet—I don’t mean erroneous.
Less than whole
would probably be more like it. Anyway, let’s say
you stepped back from the painting at this point—exhausted most likely, sweating a lot and ready to give up working on it altogether—but then—and you don’t know exactly
where
it came from—you saw another form leaning against that panel: not completely
there
, in the same frame, just set off against it somehow, almost joined but not quite. It
just dropped into your mind. And that’s how you painted the baby on the right—from nowhere. You didn’t copy from a photograph—not your style. You just painted it straight
out of your imagination, didn’t you? From memory. It just sort of
felt right
to paint it, so you carried on. And, I don’t know, maybe you were afraid of what you were painting
as you were doing it, mountains and babies not being your normal kind of subject matter, but you had to see where it all led. Because it
felt
right. In fact, it probably seemed as though
the entire thing was somehow predetermined. Like it was happening
to
you. What was that old line Michelangelo had about his sculptures waiting for him in the marble?
That
.
I’ll bet you made the whole painting so quickly you didn’t even stop to eat or sleep. And that’s why you begged for it to be in the show. Because you composed all the others
yourself, thought about them very deliberately, but that diptych was pure inspiration.’ With this, he sat back, returning his cigarette case to its frayed little pocket. ‘See,
that’s the kind of thing you need someone like me to communicate. Your average person can’t just intuit it when they walk in off the street.’

Our corner of the bar now seemed more private. The gentle piano music had become an unmelodious ripple, as frustrating as a dial tone that never engaged. ‘You might have a bit more
understanding than I gave you credit for,’ I said, and took a last sip of daiquiri, just to steady myself. His level of insight had disarmed me. ‘I suppose you’d like me to cross
your palm with silver now.’

‘We’ll consider it a freebie,’ he said. ‘There’s no magic involved. Anyone who’s ever created anything remotely original will explain his process in the same
way. As if he had no control, just influence. Channelling—that’s the word that seems to get used.’

‘And I take it you’re more cynical than that.’

He shrugged. ‘I told you, I’m no artist. I don’t know for certain. But I prefer to think that great work is made through talent and sheer hard work. If some can channel
greatness and the rest of us can’t even get an outside line, it’s a very unfair system.’

‘Says the nephew of a lord.’

‘That’s irrelevant. I’m talking about art. Creativity.’ His face began to twitch. ‘You know, my uncle can’t stand the sight of me. It’s fine. The
feeling’s mutual. I just wish people would stop lumping us together.’

‘I was only pointing out the unfairness of the world.’

‘I’m still right about creativity, though. Science is going to prove it one day. Just remember who it was that told you so.’ He smiled, allowing a silence to gather.
‘What time is it? We ought to see about that cab.’

‘Past one, I think.’

‘Come on, I’ll fetch your coat. Hope I haven’t lost that ticket she gave me.’ He stood, calling the barman over.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Would you have someone bring my drink up to the room, please?’

‘Of course, sir.’ The barman went away.

‘Hate to drink alone in public,’ Wilfred said, ‘and it seems a shame to waste it.’

‘You’re staying here?’ I asked.

‘For now. I’ve rather fallen out of love with London lately. I’m still working out where I want to go next.’ He made it sound so unrehearsed. Patting his blazer pockets,
he mumbled: ‘Where’s that ticket she gave me? It must have got into the lining.’

I had been to bed with two men in my life before that night—enough to keep my expectations low. But I let myself believe that sleeping with Wilfred Searle would at least
be an improvement on those shy and muddling art school students who had preceded him, the first of whom had been too conscious of the act’s significance to finish what he started, the second
of whom had curtly wiped his mess from my thighs with his shirtsleeve before rolling off me.

It was in this generous spirit that I allowed Wilfred to stoop and kiss me in the hotel corridor, forgiving his clumsy lips and their lingering bitterness. I tried not to be disheartened when he
insisted I undress myself in the bright lights of his room, or sigh when his dry fingers worked my breasts like sacks of oats he was trying to prise open. Even as he lay on top of me, lodging his
elbows by my head so that his chest-hair tickled my chin, I stared up at the ceiling and politely stroked his back, thinking there would surely be a moment when I would feel connected to him. I let
him thrust away with all the stolid purpose of a derrick bobbing in a field, and held on to the fading hope that he would notice the disappointment in my eyes and try to make amends—but he
did not even have the good grace to pull out of me. A few minutes later, he fell off me, panting, and I lay tangled in the soggy hotel linen, wishing I had never met him.

I got up and put my slip on.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked. ‘Lie here with me. We need to make wedding plans.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I’m serious. What’s a good time for you? My Thursdays are free until August.’

‘I suppose you’ll have to organise that with Dulcie,’ I said. ‘She’s in charge of my calendar now.’

‘Ah yes, I forgot—the Roxborough owns you.’ He sat up against the headboard. ‘Do you think if I call downstairs they’d bring me up some Dunhills?’

‘I doubt it. Have you seen the time?’

‘Well, I’m going for it anyway.’ He reached for the phone, patting the empty space beside him on the bed as he dialled. ‘Yes, reception, hi. I was wondering if it would
be possible for the concierge to do me a small favour . . .’

I stopped dressing and got back into bed, keeping what I thought was an appropriate distance between his hip and mine.

‘Cigarettes, actually . . . Yes, I know, it’s awfully late, but perhaps there’s a machine somewhere near by? It’s Mr Searle, or did I mention that already?’

Pulling the sheets over my chest only exposed my feet and ankles, and I became aware of Wilfred staring down at them while he bartered with the concierge.

‘Excellent, thank you. Dunhills, yes—two packets, if you don’t mind.’ He covered the mouthpiece and asked me, ‘Anything for you?’ I shook my head. ‘No,
that’s it, thank you. That’ll be everything.’ He put the phone down, exhaling. Then he turned to slide an arm across my stomach. I felt his wiry belly hair against my back,
needling the silk of my slip. ‘Ten minutes,’ he murmured, kissing my ear. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had to wait so long for a smoke afterwards.’

‘We could make love again twice in that time.’ I assumed he would take this as a good-natured gibe, the kind that we had spent most of the night aiming at each other. But, instead,
he planted a palm between my shoulder blades and shoved me forwards, and I almost hit my forehead on the bedside cabinet. ‘What the bloody hell was that for?’

He was already on his feet, walking naked to the bathroom. ‘If you’re so dissatisfied, you might as well go home,’ he said.

‘I was teasing you, that’s all. I thought you’d laugh.’

He flicked a switch and stood there in the bathroom light, his body taut and wan. ‘Well, I don’t find that sort of thing amusing.’

‘You needn’t take it so personally.’

‘I happen to have some pride in the way I—oh, forget it. I don’t have to explain myself.’ He was scrubbing his hands firmly with soap now, from fingertips to elbow.
‘Perhaps you would’ve enjoyed it more if you hadn’t just lain there looking so horrified. It felt like I was hammering a skirting board.’

I gathered my clothes. ‘Now you’re starting to disgust me.’

‘Just hurry up and leave, would you? I have an early train.’ He shut the bathroom door and locked it. I heard him clattering about in there while I stepped into my dress and found my
coat. Then the door flashed open and he came bounding towards the bed. He was wearing a fresh hotel gown, and every stride he took gave off a strange crunching sound, like spare buttons rattling in
a box. ‘Still here, I see,’ he said, removing a bottle of pills from the front pocket. ‘Another one who can’t take a hint.’ He dry-gulped a clutch of tablets.

The concierge came knocking then: two discreet pips on the wood, barely audible.

‘Thanks for a horrible evening,’ I said, and showed myself out.

The concierge stepped aside to let me through. ‘Madam, your scarf is trailing,’ he called after me as I made my way along the hall. ‘Madam—your
scarf
.’ I
unravelled it from my sleeve and let it drop onto the carpet. Ahead of me, the lift doors opened but nobody stepped out.