Precious Things (22 page)

Christian looked up irritably from his easel. ‘What? Oh, thank you,' he said, frowning. ‘We'll see.' He bent back down to fiddle with the easel's height, and Bella realised he still hadn't acknowledged the baby.

She looked at the canvases. The finished triptych was doused in spare, angry strokes, showing patches of expensive linen canvas beneath. Alessandro's penis was rendered huge and grotesque before her. Bella thought the painting looked dour and menacing, just like all of Christian's work.

Standing on her feet, swaying and smoking, Bella smiled at her
bambina'
s happy gurgles. She thought about the money, had been thinking about it nonstop since the dinner last month. She'd barely been able to sleep that night, lying awake with the pain in her ankle and thinking about the phenomenal success of Christian's last show.
Dealer's commission, my arse
, she'd thought grimly. Surely that couldn't have been more than thirty percent?

Finally, Christian appeared to be ready. Picking up a large brush, he dipped it into his palette. Bella unfolded her arms and stuck her shoulders back, hoping it helped.

‘No. Turn around,' said Christian, impatient. Bella bent to stub out the cigarette and changed her position.

‘I'm sorry they're so . . . I need to feed her again soon . . . What if I stand like this?' she asked, hoping the low light was flattering. ‘Is that better?'

‘Not really,' Christian said, eyes narrowing. His words hung in the air, frightening Bella. She didn't know what else to do – he wasn't giving her enough instruction. After a few moments, Christian stopped. Putting his paintbrush down, he sighed, frowning again.

‘This isn't working,' he said. ‘You look—' Christian stomped over, hands on hips.

‘What?' asked Bella, hearing the cracks in her voice and hating herself for it. ‘Just tell me what to do.'

‘We tried that,' said Christian, ‘but it didn't make any difference, did it?' He sighed and moved away. ‘You look too . . . calm. It's not what I need.'

‘But I—' said Bella and then stopped, trying to quell the wave of desperation. She glanced down at her beautiful girl, who was staring entranced at the sunlight playing on her hands, a thin line of drool
trailing down her smock. Bella had taken the smock from one of the baskets of ironing she took in for extra money sometimes. People had so much, they never noticed a small thing go missing here or there.

Christian wandered over to a shelf, muttering to himself. ‘Where is that thing? It might . . . just . . . work. Here – put this on,' he told her, plucking an item from a shelf she couldn't see. What was it? Not one of his instruments, she hoped.

Christian tossed it to Bella. It sailed lightly through the air towards her, and she put out a hand to catch it. Not an instrument, then, or one of his hammers, but a crumpled small thing of beauty. Its sequins blinked up at her through the shadowy darkness. Staring at the beads and pretty seed pearls and diamantes, Bella tried to work out what it was, turning it over in her palm. She smoothed out the tangled ribbons with her hand and realised what it must be. She placed it gingerly upon her head and tied the ribbons behind her head, hoping she was right.

‘Better,' said Christian, sounding pleased. He moved back to the easel and picked up his brush.

Bella felt oddly energised somehow. A queen, with her curves and her crown. She looked over her shoulder, feeling brave enough all of a sudden to try a teasing smile. She resisted the urge to reach up and stroke the rough textured beads of the coronet.

‘That was my stepmother's,' said Christian after a long moment, distracted by the painting. ‘She brought it back from Malaya in the thirties. Before she married my father. She wore it to their wedding.' Bella remembered him telling her about his father's second marriage to the beautiful young Eurasian woman who so resembled his own mother. The mother who died not long after he was born, from an infection that eventually poisoned her. But that was when they shared the stories from each other's pasts . . . many moons ago, when Christian had been much sweeter.

Picking up a new tube of oil paint the colour of fool's gold, Christian squeezed a fat dollop onto his palette. With a few sweeping brushstrokes, he outlined the coronet's shape against Bella's bare head. It suggested the presence of a ghostly halo, nothing more. From his
stance, Bella could tell he was finding the rhythm of it now.
Not bad for a morning's work
, she thought, her lips tightening momentarily.

‘Stop that,' Christian snapped, frowning again. ‘Relax your face! Look here for a moment,' he said, pointing to a jagged crack in the grey plaster wall above his head. ‘But beyond, all right? Now touch yourself.'

Bella smiled. That, she could do. Her hand stole down between her legs.

‘Not like that,' Christian barked. ‘Cup your cheeks!'

Bella jumped, and then obeyed. She couldn't seem to do anything right – what the hell was the matter with him today? Did he even want her to model for him any more? As long as he did, they would be all right; she and the baby could stay in the pension for another six months, maybe. Two at least. She didn't dare ask her parents for more money – they would be horrified to know about the baby.

‘I would have set my hair this morning if I thought you were going for something like this,' she said, trying for a light tone.

‘You always look like you've just been screwed, whether you've set your hair or not, Bella. That's something my buyers used to love about you.'

Bella noted Christian's use of the past tense and started with alarm.

‘Be still!'

What did he mean? Was he dropping her?
Bella risked a quick look at her girl, still waving her hands in front of her face, sweet child. She resumed staring at the plaster crack – for an aeon, it seemed.

Bella could smell the stench starting to rise from the baby basket and hoped Christian hadn't noticed. She was happy now, but Bella wondered how long it would be before her daughter started crying . . .

‘When's your neighbour arriving?' Christian asked, gesturing towards the baby.

‘Three o'clock. You're all right, aren't you,
cara
?' she cooed quietly. Her
bambina
wasn't smiling any more, she was watching Bella intently.

Just then, the heavy wooden door of the studio swung open. Audrey clipped across the parquetry, rising on her toes to deliver a dry kiss to Christian's cheek.

‘Ciao,' she said coolly, studying the painting over her brother's shoulder. ‘Bravo, you clever man – it's positively haunting . . . I love the economy. It's unbelievable, truly . . . quite ethereal.'

‘Sorry Audrey, what did you say?' Bella asked, wanting her to repeat herself.

‘Ethereal,' Audrey said, rolling her eyes. ‘Do you not understand English?'

Bella shifted restlessly on her feet. The girl's mouth puckered, and she let out a small mewling sound. Audrey looked over, now noticing the baby on the floor.

‘She's hungry,' Bella said, biting her lip. ‘Can I take a break?'

‘You may as well,' said Christian, turning to his sister. ‘Audrey, what do you think of this?' Audrey and Christian stood close to the painting, talking in low voices about perspective, colour, background.

Bella leaned over to scoop up her baby. The girl sought out Bella's breast, clutching it as she latched on to suckle feverishly. Bella felt the letting down in her nipples; the sense of prickling pain followed by welcome release. She fed her standing up, swaying slightly on her feet. After a few minutes, she changed sides and the baby slowed down, eyes rolling back in her head, milk-drunk. Bella propped her upright against a shoulder and rubbed her back, cooing in her ear.

‘Mama loves you,' she whispered into the tiny, shell-like ear. ‘Yes I do, yes I do, gorgeous girl.' Holding the baby to her, she sung under her breath a soft lullaby she remembered from her youth. Moving over to the bare-mattressed camp bed, Bella sat down heavily and rocked her
bambina
until she drifted off to sleep. Bella's eyes felt heavy; she needed a nap herself, she'd barely slept a wink the night before. Laying down for just a moment with the baby on the cot beside her, Bella told herself she would close her eyes, just for a minute. But within moments, she was fast asleep.

Eyes fluttering open, Bella wondered what the time was. She could have been asleep for ten minutes or ten hours, for all she knew. These days, she tended to catch up on rest wherever she could.
That's what it is like being a mother
, she thought wearily. Stretching herself out on the cot, she noticed that her sweet girl was still asleep beside her. Glancing down at herself through slitted eyelids, she realised she was still naked; no one had bothered to cover her.

Audrey hadn't left – Bella could hear her still speaking with Christian in a low murmur, over by the sink. Her words appeared hushed and urgent, and once she glanced over at Bella on the fold-out bed. They hadn't realised she was awake. The odd word reached Bella's ears, and she continued to feign sleep. ‘—use her?' said Audrey. ‘. . . would if I were you—' And Christian's response: ‘I think we're done. It wasn't working at all today – probably good timing . . . not a good model any more . . .'

She lay frozen, panic blooming within her. What would she do without Christian's assistance? The money he gave her wasn't much, but it afforded her and her
bambina
a better lifestyle than they could have led otherwise. The dinners and social events took her out of her cloistered, increasingly small existence, and gave her something to look forward to. Not to mention the wardrobe Christian liked to clothe her in – the dresses with their tight bodices, barely containing her generous curves, the coats and gloves . . . Bella couldn't contemplate the thought of going back to the way it was when she'd first arrived in Rome. She'd been desperate, then. Desperate enough to do many things. She shuddered. She couldn't do it – not now, particularly when she had her
bambina.
Bella felt the tears well up and spill through her still-slitted eyelids.

The girl stirred beside her. Pretending to wake now, Bella yawned loudly in the echoing, chilly studio and brushed the tears from her eyes. She sat up.

‘What time is it?' she asked, opening her eyes fully.

Did Christian jump slightly at the sound of her voice, or was she imagining things?

The three of them stared at the finished painting. Layered oils depicted the coronet glinting out seductively from the canvas, catching the light and drawing the eye. Bella gently rocked the baby on her hip, stroking her fat little thighs. This painting was more raw than Christian's usual style.
So visceral
, she thought. He hadn't even prepared the canvas this time. Bella could see the textured fabric through the sparse brushstrokes and she thought,
I could do that
. The flash of contempt made her feel stronger, just for a moment. People had more money than sense, and if they wanted to believe something was a masterpiece, well – it was. It was all about connections anyway, and confidence.

Her stubborn streak stirred as she thought about the drawing lessons she'd had back home, her teacher always praising her line, her talent. That was why she'd come to Rome to begin with, wasn't it? To study the great masters? Not this . . . this
rubbish
, she thought, trying to keep her derision from showing on her face.

Wandering away from Audrey and Christian, Bella leaned down to place the baby on the floor, giving her a soft, clean brush to play with. Her dress was back on but the raffia bag and underwear sat spilling out over the dark recesses of the room, still discarded. As Bella collected her things, her bag tipped over, and everything fell out. She sighed and bent to retrieve the items: a thin purse, compact, keys, a book. As she picked up the book, a photograph slipped out, falling onto the bare wooden boards. She bent again to pick it up. It was a photo of her and Christian, standing in front of the lime-washed façade of her old apartment building. In the photograph she was smiling. Smug. Happy. Christian, standing next to her in shades of black, white and grey, seemed entranced . . . His arm encircled hers possessively. He was always that way with new flames . . . Taken several years ago, the picture was now curling at the corners.