All My Sins Remembered (27 page)

Clio edged closer to Nathaniel. She saw that her father was looking carefully at
The Janus Face
, rubbing his beard with the palm of his hand as he did when he was giving something his critical attention.

‘I won’t pay for it,’ John said at last. ‘Not a penny. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue.’

‘We couldn’t hang it, you see,’ Blanche fluttered beside him. ‘Not at Stretton. Not alongside the Sargent.’

Pilgrim’s smile had vanished. ‘The Sargent,’ he snarled. ‘The bloody chocolate box Sargent. Well, my lord and lady, I tell you that I wouldn’t sell my picture to you. I wouldn’t sell it to you if it were the last thing between me and starvation. I wouldn’t take your mothball-stinking, blind-eyed, miserable money to save myself from the gallows.’

He was shouting now. Grace imagined that the words boomed down the stairs and swirled up through the glass skylights to echo over Charlotte Street for all the world to hear. She wanted to hide her face in her hands. ‘
The Janus Face
is not for sale. Not to you, my lord. Go and buy yourself another Sargent, if that is what you want.’

John Leominster pulled his tweeds more closely around him, as if Pilgrim might touch and contaminate him. Then he gripped Blanche by the elbow, jerked his head at Clio and Grace, and steered them all to the door without a backward glance. He made an ostentatious detour around the easel.

Nathaniel lingered. He was still examining the canvas. Pilgrim rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and scowled at him.

Nathaniel said, ‘I would like to buy the picture. It is a portrait of
my
daughter, as well as Lord Leominster’s.’

‘I told you. It’s not for sale.’

Nathaniel inclined his head courteously. ‘That is for you to decide, of course. If you should change your mind, I would be glad to hear of it.’ He took out one of his cards and placed it on the corner of the table. Then he followed the rest of the family downstairs to the waiting car.

Pilgrim snatched the picture from the easel. He held it up, twisting the wooden stretcher, glowering as if he was about to fling it to the ground. But then he seemed to think better of it. He replaced the portrait and stood for a long moment looking at the two figures. At last, he gave a snort of laughter.

‘Filthy daub,’ he said affectionately. He found a half-empty bottle of whisky in the clutter, took it up by the neck and drank deeply.

Grace missed Clio’s company. It was five days since Nathaniel had taken her back to Oxford.

She stood up from the writing desk in her bedroom and walked across to the window. A gale in the night had stripped the leaves from the trees in the square. There was nothing to see.

If Clio were here, there would be someone to talk to. To Grace, their quarrels were no more than enjoyable sparring matches. Clio irritated her sometimes, with her accuracy and circumspection, but Grace thought of her as an ally. Especially so now that Jake and Julius were busy with their own lives. Grace remembered the red-haired, actressy-looking woman who had blown kisses to Julius at the opera, and the way Julius had blushed when Anthony asked him about her. Grace had been just a little shocked. Julius had always been her own unquestioning admirer.

She turned back across the room and sat down at her table again, resting her chin in her hands. She thought nostalgically of the days when they had been the magic circle, Clio and herself and Jake and Julius.

If only there were someone to talk to.

She had begun a letter to Clio, but she had broken off after only a few lines. She wanted to write about Pilgrim and the anger and shame she had felt when John rejected the portrait. But Clio had become her rival for Pilgrim’s attention. They had stopped talking about him and had set out to make their separate claims on Charlotte Street.

Grace picked up her pen and turned it over in her fingers before putting it down with a sigh. The house was empty. John and Hugo were in the country, Blanche was out at a luncheon party, and Phoebe was a baby in the schoolroom. Thomas was away at Eton.

There would be plenty of talk in the Eiffel, Grace thought. She could see Pilgrim sitting at his table with a bottle in front of him, papers spread all around. There would be Stulik, surging forward in welcome, and the regular traffic of friends.

It came to Grace with sudden clarity that she could be part of that traffic, simply by walking into the Eiffel herself. She was a modern woman, and needed no one’s permission.

She went straight to the nursery and told Nanny Brodribb that if her mother should come home and happen to ask where she was, she had gone shopping. To Selfridges. To buy some handkerchiefs. She walked out into Belgrave Square and hailed a taxi.

The restaurant was almost empty in the late afternoon lull, but Pilgrim was in his usual place. Grace looked through the red curtains and saw him, and she felt a moment’s shyness. But then she straightened her shoulders. She only wanted someone to talk to, she told herself, and Pilgrim was always happy to talk. Clio had gone and left her on her own, but that also meant that the field was clear. She had Bohemia all to herself.

Pilgrim looked up as she came in. A shadow of impatience was replaced by a welcoming smile. He stook up and took her hands. They had not seen each other since the unveiling of the portrait.

‘Grace, Grace. This is a pleasure. Sit down here with me. You look very pretty, but you know that, don’t you? Shall I have Giovanni bring you some tea?’

One of the waiters loitered near the brass centrepiece. Grace shook her head. ‘No tea, thank you.’ She peeled off her gloves and laid them on the cloth in front of her. The white linen was spotted with wine and gravy. Pilgrim had been having a long lunch, and she wondered with whom.

‘I came to say I was sorry,’ she improvised.

Pilgrim lit a yellow cigarette and handed it to her, and took another for himself. They contemplated each other through the smoke.

‘You don’t have to apologize for your father’s philistinism.’

A spark of tension licked between them. Grace breathed in sharply. She had never heard her father spoken of with open disrespect.

But Pilgrim was right, she thought. John Leominster had revealed his rude ignorance.

‘What will you do with the portrait now?’ Pilgrim had not asked her for her opinion of
The Janus Face
, she noticed, although he had been eager to hear Clio’s.

‘I shall keep it. I’m pleased with it. I may loan it, if a suitable place for it to hang presents itself.’ Pilgrim watched her expectantly, but Grace did not know how she was supposed to respond.

‘I hope it does,’ she said calmly. She had seen that his eyes were bloodshot and the skin was grey below them. Bluish stubble emphasized the hollows under his cheekbones. Pilgrim had evidently been enjoying himself since she had last seen him, and she wondered again who his companion could have been. Perhaps the silver-haired girl from the opera, she thought. Possessiveness together with an absurd wish to protect and care for him overtook her. Pilgrim’s weariness made him seem vulnerable, and less awe-inspiring than he had done before.

Remembering the afternoon in the studio a week ago Grace felt an angry distaste for Belgrave Square, and a consequent sense of her own isolation. She was not sure now where she belonged, or where her allegiance lay. But out of the confusion of her feelings came one certainty, that she was powerfully drawn to Pilgrim, and that the attraction was adult, no longer anything to do with the childish subterfuges she had practised with Jake and Julius, and with Peter Dennis. She raised her eyes, and looked into his.

Grace wondered if this moment was the first of real adulthood. The sense of its importance created a pressure in her chest.

‘And so, what now?’ Pilgrim asked softly.

Colour rose in Grace’s cheeks. ‘I was lonely,’ she said. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

The honesty of the admission touched him. It had not occurred to Pilgrim that Grace Stretton might feel anything of the kind. He had supposed that her days would be too full of shopping and lunching. He put out his hand and rested it over hers. Her bones felt small and brittle, like a bird’s. She was, he was thinking, so …
ordered
. Her shining hair was coiled under her little hat and secured with a pearl hatpin. Her single strand pearl necklace showed at her throat under the collar of her shell-pink blouse. Her dove-grey suit fitted her, must have been made for her, and it was brushed and pressed, and the empty fingers of her pale grey gloves were neither stained nor darned. She smelt sweet, and her lips were slightly parted, and her breath stirred the hair of her fur wrap.

Jeannie was not ordered. She carried her own grubbiness and disarray with her. And Isolde …

Isolde could not be categorized, but Pilgrim knew that he would never see her in a pearl necklace. The recollection of her, and the juxtaposition of that image with Grace, made him feel suddenly, distinctly aroused. He had thought that he was much too tired, but now he knew that he was not.

‘We can’t talk here,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

He held on to Grace’s willing hand and led her out of the restaurant. Giovanni watched them with an impassive face, but when the door had closed behind them he clicked his tongue. He turned the card that hung against the glass so that it read in its French script ‘FERME.’ They could all wait now, he told himself, until the proper time to open for dinner.

Pilgrim locked the door of his studio behind them.

Grace looked around her, suppressing a shiver, although she was not cold. It was all familiar, but she was seeing it differently. She had no reason to be here alone with Pilgrim, no social alibi.
The Janus Face
might be one of any of the dozens of canvases turned with their faces to the wall, and it was finished.

She was on new territory. Modern women, she reminded herself. She thought fleetingly of Clio, and as Pilgrim came towards her she felt a little, indecent flicker of triumph.

He undid the clasp of her pearls and let the strand run through his fingers into the palm of his hand, a nacreous snake. With an answering gesture she drew the pin out of her hat and lifted off the shell of veiled felt. Her hair fell round her shoulders.

Grace was not embarrassed to find herself undressed. She had sat for hours in her silk underclothes on the shawled divan, with Pilgrim’s eyes on her. He led her back to her old place now, and slipped the silk straps down. His hand felt large and rough on her skin, on her breast.

Grace was exhilarated and afraid, as well as triumphant, but as Pilgrim touched her she felt another sensation. It was a surprising and strident physical urgency all of her own.

She put up her arms, wrapped them around Pilgrim’s neck. She drew him down to her, closer, until his unkempt head obliterated the light. Then there was nothing to see but his eyes, and the dark bar of his eyebrows, and the puckers and creases of his skin, suddenly revealed to her in all their intricacy.

He pushed her backwards until she lay flat and he hung over her, magnified in the field of her vision. He kissed her, reaching his tongue into her mouth and she opened it to admit him, wanting to offer no barriers. He tasted faintly of onions, much more strongly of tobacco, and the bristles of his beard scraped her face. He was breathing heavily, with a tiny rasp of mucus deep in his chest.

His fingers probed her flesh. Grace found that she was holding her breath, and then gasping in a lungful of the thick studio air.

Pilgrim fumbled with the last of the tiny pearl buttons.

‘Let me,’ she whispered. She wriggled out of the last wisps of her clothes, and then lay back again. He looked at her, his eyebrows drawn together and his lower lip jutting. His hand ran over her ribcage, the curve of her hip, as if she were a piece of sculpture. Grace found herself thinking of the pictures of Jeannie.

‘Won’t you take your clothes off too?’ she asked him. ‘I’m not your model today.’ The lightness and steadiness of her own voice surprised her, and she saw that he looked with a kind of admiration.

‘It’s your first time,’ he said, not asking a question.

‘There always has to be a first time.’

Pilgrim was very hairy. His arms and shoulders and chest were covered in dark hair. Peter Dennis had had smooth, very pale skin, and Julius and Jake had only been boys. Long ago, long ago. Pilgrim lay down beside her and took her in his arms. Grace knew there would be no running away now, no slipping back into the noisy currents of the Woodstock Road house or escaping across the water-meadows to where the other children called out for her in their game.

She knew what was supposed to happen now. She knew, but she had no idea.

He began to rub and stroke her. The vague, smothering feeling of wanting him that she had felt at the beginning had all disappeared, but now she felt a different, stronger but imperfectly localized sensation that made her want to wriggle, and roll her head. It was like glimpsing a face that ought to be perfectly familiar but was hidden by a thick veil, and so was tantalizingly obscured. She frowned, trying to identify it.

The feeling did not last long. Pilgrim rolled above her, and then nudged between her thighs. The smell of onions, tobacco and sweat intensified.

‘You’ll learn,’ he was mumbling. ‘You’ll soon learn, the goodness of it.’

It was painful, but not unbearably so. After a moment of stillness in which he grunted and nuzzled against her neck, Pilgrim began to move. Grace lay for a moment and then twitched her hips, willingly trying to echo what he did. His mouth curved into a smile against hers, and their teeth grated together. His breath was very hot in the back of her throat as he murmured to her.

‘That’s right. Oh, you’re a natural little chippy you are, my lady, my love, I could tell that from your mouth, that first day in your mama’s drawing room. Like a tiny red pillow, all soft, for a man to lie on.

‘Lift yourself up to me, like that.

‘Sweet, sweet, isn’t it? Like nothing in the world. They call it a little death, you know. To die a little …’

It was as if Grace’s head had been severed from her body. Her body with all the friction and pressure and stickiness belonged to someone else, and only her head was her own. She kept repeating to herself, I’m doing it, here and now, with this man. This hairy body. On this divan with the musty shawls. Is this what it is? Does it mean this, all the business of men and women?