The Blue Bath (23 page)

Kat shivered, remembering how cold the studio had been that morning. Spring had not yet arrived in Paris, but the heat had already been turned off for the season. The air felt raw and clammy and she could smell bitter, heavy rain through the closed windows. She had bought two tests, but she had only used one. She already knew. She thought at first that maybe she would not tell him. That she would just leave Paris. Just go back home. But she needed to see his reaction. She knew what she was looking for. And so she had said the words to him.

She had watched his face closely. So very closely. And there it was. She had seen it.

In the instant that she had told him. He had winced. It was so quick that she might very well have missed it if she had happened to blink at that exact moment. But she had not blinked. In the next moment, he had pulled her to him, roughly, and they had held each other. Neither trusting their faces. She felt his breath coming quickly.

He had said other things on that afternoon. Vague, reassuring words that she could no longer remember. But pressed hard against his chest, she had known that this was the way it ended. In the airless space, she had recognized the familiar shape of it, if not the detail. She told herself that it had been there all along. Biding its time within the ample shelter of the unasked questions, the unknown history, the unshared dreams. But had she been looking for it? Had she only seen what she had wanted to see?

Later that same night, she had woken to the sound of the floorboards creaking and early-spring rain on the window and had lain silently, as he paced in the small space by the bed. Two steps one way and then two steps back. Adjusting his stride to fit the confined space. Already trapped. Much later that night she had woken to hear the catch on the window being released and smell the fresh air entering the room.

The next morning, she had woken early. The weak sun streamed through the dusty windows of the studio. Kat squeezed her eyes shut against the light. Closing her eyes, the ghost image of the window appeared before her—darkness where light had been. Daniel was already awake and dressed. Opening her eyes again, she watched him as he moved stealthily around the small room. He stood silently for a while in the center of the room, surveying the paintings arrayed around him, almost invisible in his stillness. Finally he spoke.

“You choose.”

She did not hesitate.

“
The Blue Bath
.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I thought it was your favorite.”

“You’ll make more.”

She closed her eyes. In place of a reply, she heard the soft crinkling noise of the canvas being wrapped in paper. She stayed in bed under the covers, feigning sleep. Before leaving, he had lain down on top of the blankets next to her, his hand stroking her hair softly. She felt the shape of his body, but not his warmth, not his skin on hers. And then his hand slipped from her hair and he was gone.

He returned several hours later. The gathering clouds had finally burst. She heard drops falling onto the studio floor and turned to the window to pull it closed. When she turned back, Daniel was holding it between his thumb and forefinger. A small patch of color. A single opaque green stone suspended in a thin lattice of silver, its shallow facets reflecting light from the overcast sky. A pretty thing.

She looked from the ring to his face.

“For you.”

Before she could say anything, he pressed it into her hand and enfolded her in his arms. Outside the city dripped with spring.

After he was asleep, she examined it, snug on her finger. It was the first thing he had given her, but she doubted it was the first time it had been given. The inside felt soft, and the bottom bit was scratched and worn thin. She wondered whose fingers it had graced before hers and what long-forgotten promises it represented. Had it been extravagance or trifle? Affection or atonement? Had someone looked at it and thought forever?

She thought about what he had traded for it. One object for another. The murky blue water for a single spark of green clarity.

*   *   *

I
T WAS SEVERAL
days after the departure of
The Blue Bath
and the arrival of the ring. Alone in the studio, she had sat in the middle of the bed and, turning as one following the sun, made a complete circuit, viewing all of the paintings. Some in shadow, some in light, some half hidden behind things, some right side up, some sideways. She sometimes felt that without the pressure of her gaze affixing the paint to the canvas, it would simply slip off. She wondered if without Daniel’s gaze, the girl in the paintings would slip from her as well.

Looking around the studio at the remaining paintings, she had thought that they were more than pretty pictures. That they were important. That they had value. But something was different. The easel was gone. An unfinished painting of her lay on the table. He had stopped working on it. She sat alone in the studio that afternoon, watching the setting sun draw lengthening shadows on the walls. By the time he returned, all light was gone.

Standing at the sink, he pushed up his sleeves and answered her unasked question.

“It’s a commission. A portrait.”

She hesitated. “Is that what you want to be doing?”

He turned from the sink to look at her. In the dim glow of the one lamp, she saw that his hands and arms were streaked with colors she did not recognize.

“You were the one who wanted me to do this. To sell something. Remember? Something I believed in.”

“Yes, but…”

“Well, this is what they wanted to buy.”

He turned his back to her and bent over the sink. He was already compromising. Doing what was expected. She saw that the streaks of paint extended up his forearms. Colors that did not belong. Soft dove gray and ruddy brown. Some yellow and flecks of red near his elbow. She pictured him rolling up his sleeves in a dove-gray drawing room. The same color that now streaked his arm. Taking care not to drip any excess paint, he had deferred to using his arm to wipe the brushes on.

As Kat watched, his subject began to materialize out of the various colors on his skin. She saw her thick dark brown hair. It must be long—falling past her shoulders. She wore a dark red blouse that complemented her warm skin. Had he suggested it? Had he volunteered that as a flattering color? Or had he been presented with a choice from her wardrobe? Several silken garments laid before him. She pictured him looking them over, selecting one and moving it to where she would be sitting, perhaps holding it up to her face, watching to see how the color looked in the light, feeling its soft-as-air texture, noting the way her skin glowed next to it.

In Kat’s mind, the girl sat straight-backed on a wooden chair, the top of its delicate reddish brown curves just visible over her right shoulder. She looked sideways at him as he took into account the different hues in her hair. Noticing how it contained some red and even some black, but that in certain light looked nearly blue. How her skin was an altogether different shade of brown, and the light sheen it acquired later in the day, when it seemed to gleam around her brow. The contrast to the white of her eyes and teeth when she smiled. A shy smile, she thought. Something fragile. Something rare.

The faucet made a whining sound as he turned on the tap, rising to a familiar high pitch when he added the hot water. Pushing his sleeves farther up, he reached for the soap above the sink.

Was she silent while he painted her? Or did she talk to him? What did they speak of in that cool drawing room with its pristine dove-gray walls? Kat pictured him unpacking his easel and setting out his brushes and paints. Had she been curious? Asked questions? How long would it take? Would she need to be entirely still or could she move? Where did he want her? How did he want her?

His shoulders shook slightly as he lathered up, his hands reaching up his arms as he scrubbed at the paint and then bent down and turned slightly to rinse it off. As he straightened, she saw that the water had reached almost to his elbow, leaving only a few flecks of red behind. The color of blood. The color of wine. Outside newly illuminated windows made small rectangles of light against the darkening sky. He had been gone most of the day. Even in the best of circumstances, the light would only have been good for a few hours.

*   *   *

K
AT MADE HER
way along the soft, empty corridor of the Dorchester toward Daniel’s room. Even before she reached the door, she heard the voices. They grew louder as she moved closer. She slowed down.

“For Christ’s sake, Martin, they talk about it in square feet—four hundred square feet of art.” She could hear the indignation in Daniel’s voice through the door. “It’s wallpaper. They should just put their money on the wall—that’s all this is about.”

“You signed the contract!” Martin was shouting. She was surprised at how loud the small man’s voice could get. “After a lifetime of anonymous work, someone wants to give you three million pounds and now you’re jeopardizing it because of a little creative difference of opinion?”

“Look, it’s me they want, right?” Daniel again. “They don’t care what I paint, they just want to have a Daniel Blake on their walls. They’ll change their minds when they see it completed.”

When Martin continued, his voice was weary. “I don’t know that they will. You heard Sir Richard, the Tate’s patrons don’t want…” There was more, but it was unintelligible.

Their voices quieted and she edged closer to the door.

“… and why are you suddenly so interested in the money? It’s her, isn’t it?” Martin’s voice lowered and Kat could not hear what followed. She moved even closer until she stood in front of the door, straining to hear the voices beyond it. “… the things you forget. Look at the scars on your wrists, for Christ’s sake.”

Kat shivered, remembering the feel of the thick raised lines on Daniel’s skin. She waited for his response, but either he was silent or she could not hear him.

There was a pause and Kat reached out a hand to steady herself against the smooth pale yellow plaster of the wall before Daniel resumed speaking, his voice ice. “And you’re slipping, Martin. You told me two million pounds. Planning to take a little bit off the top for yourself, were you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? It may be your life, but it is my story.” Martin’s voice rose at the end of the sentence. Pausing for a breath, he continued, his voice increasing in volume as he went on, seeping out under the door and seeking her out in the hallway. “You owe me everything. All of this was my idea. I made this happen. You may have painted them, but I created the myth behind the redhead paintings. I spun the tale that made the art world sit up and take notice. I created you. Without me this is just another sad story and you are just another unknown artist.” Kat heard a strange gurgling sound, like someone being strangled. Martin was laughing. “I’m so good, I even made you believe it.”

“Maybe you did. Maybe you made everyone believe it. But it’s me they want now. You don’t have to be here at all.” There was a pause and she leaned in closer to the door, although she needn’t have bothered, as Daniel pronounced his next words clearly and slowly. “You are no longer necessary.”

A maid came around the far corner and started down the hallway toward her, pushing a cart laden with eye-wateringly bright white towels. Kat didn’t move, momentarily struck by the absurd thought that maybe she was invisible. That maybe she would not be seen.

“Is there something I can help you with, ma’am? Are you locked out of your room?”

“No. Thank you…” Kat replied, keeping her voice down as she backed away from the door and made her way toward the lift. As the lift doors slid open, she heard a door open in the corridor behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a figure emerging from the room, but she did not turn to see who it was.

Kat stared at her distorted reflection in the polished metal lift doors before her. Suddenly unrecognizable.

*   *   *

A
S
K
AT ENTERED
the house, her foot caught on something hard in the foyer between the two sets of doors. Looking down, she recognized the familiar shape of Jonathan’s suitcase, standing upright against the wall. Will saw it, too, and he rushed past her, shedding his coat, his calls of “Daddy!” echoing through the house. Kat stood for a moment and then moved farther into the house, listening. Was he here? She heard nothing in response to Will’s repeated cries.

If he was going straight into the office from the airport, Jonathan would sometimes have the driver drop his bags by the house. Retrieving her phone from her pocket, Kat saw that there was a message from Jonathan. He was back in London. He would be home late that night. There were two other missed calls. Daniel. She switched the phone off and went to find Will.

chapter sixteen

Kat stood at the doors to the garden, preoccupied by the lingering image of Will’s slight form stretched out under the covers, hands curling over the top of the quilt. Struck once again by the joy she took in every new layer of form and experience that stuck itself to him. Thickening him. Making more of him. Had his fingers been that long before he left for the countryside? When had she last examined them closely? She felt a stab of shame.

As she watched, the little red fox appeared from under the far wall and came close to the door, pressing its nose against the glass. She could see it clearly. It was the first time she had gotten a good look at it. It was about the size of a small dog, with a delicately menacing, tapered face. They regarded each other through the glass. In that moment there was a tapping sound behind her. She looked away and when she turned back the fox was gone.

The tapping sounded close by. Will must be awake. She was surprised. He had been so tired that she was fairly certain he had been asleep before she left his bedroom. She was halfway up the wide front stairs when she heard the sound again. This time it was behind her. At the front door. She glanced at her watch. It was late.

Even before she opened the door, she knew who it must be. As the door moved inward on its hinges, light from behind her reached out to touch his face, illuminating his features. A car slid by, a mercurial blur in the near distance, and she shrank back, hesitating for just an instant before motioning him to follow. Watching him cross the threshold was at once the most natural and unnatural sight she could have imagined.