Forget to Remember (21 page)

He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to talk
business, chatting instead about his art collection and telling
interesting stories about where he obtained some of his pieces.
Carol relaxed in his presence, her nervousness about meeting a lord
gone, and enjoyed the moment. After emptying one cup of tea and
pouring himself another, he changed the subject.

“Sean tells me you’re looking for a girl who
may have lived in his flat once upon a time.”

“Yes.” She briefly outlined the information
she had about Cynthia being in London, sparse as it was.

“You say this was two years ago. That would
be two thousand seven. A young fellow had the flat then. He was
about Sean’s age. I never ask questions about who they have staying
with them. None of my business. Unfortunately, he died in a crash
on the M twenty-five.”

That was a jolt. “If Cynthia died with him
that would have been reported.”

“Yes. As I recall, he was alone in the car.
What did this Cynthia look like?”

“I’m told she looked like me.” Carol hadn’t
bothered to bring a picture of Cynthia, since she was apparently a
better likeness for her than the picture on the Internet missing
persons Web site.

Lord B focused on her as if seeing her for
the first time. He was about to say something when a small bundle
of energy burst into the room in the form of a woman wearing a
long, black dress that might have been fashionable eighty years ago
and incongruous sneakers, or trainers as Carol knew they were
called here. Her cheeks were flushed under her white hair that was
pulled into a severe bun.

She strode directly to the cart and poured
herself a cup of tea. Then she addressed Lord B. “Lovely day for a
brisk walk, Abie. You should try it. It would help your
arthritis.”

“Yes, Hermy, I plan to do a few miles on the
stationary bike in a bit.”

“Better to go outside in the fresh air. The
sun gives you Vitamin D and siphons the toxins out of your system.”
She pronounced the “vit” in vitamin to rhyme with “it.” She took a
couple of sips of tea and turned to Carol. “I’m Hermione. No, don’t
get up.”

She shook hands with Carol, who mumbled her
own name, and then turned back to Lord B. “Where did you find her?
I’m sure she’ll make a good subject for one of your infamous
paintings. In fact, if I recall correctly, there’s a girl in your
den who looks a lot like her. Well, I’m off to a meeting of the
Young Ladies Welfare League.”

Before either of them could say anything
more, she was gone. Lord B smiled at Carol. “Well, now you’ve met
my sister. My older sister, although you wouldn’t know it by
watching her nonstop activity.”

“She seems very nice.”

“She is that, but we operate on different
planes of existence. Since she alluded to my weakness, I feel it
only fair that I mention hers. She’s never been married, never had
a date as far as I know. There’s a bit of verse that describes her.
Since it uses baseball terminology I can’t usually recite it in
England, but I spent several years in the States and I’m sure
you’ll understand it.

“It goes like this: ‘
Beneath this clay lies Ellie May; for her life held no
terrors. She lived a virgin, died a virgin; no runs, no hits, no
errors.’”

Carol laughed. “She doesn’t seem to be any
the worse for it.”

“No. Certainly she’s a good spokesperson for
her lifestyle although, it’s not one I could undertake. She
mentioned a painting in my den. I would like you to see it.”

Lord B laboriously rose from his seat. Carol
followed him to another room containing a high, glass-topped table
that must double as a desk—it even had a computer on it—and more
paintings on the walls, with a higher percentage of nudes than in
the other room.

He pointed to a good-sized nude hanging
above the table. “What do you think of that?”

Carol couldn’t suppress a gasp. It was
either a picture of her or her twin sister. The face, the body
style. The model’s hair was longer, but the same color as Carol’s.
She looked at it for another few seconds and calmed down a little.
It wasn’t her. “That must be Cynthia.”

“I don’t know the name of the model, but it
was painted by Jacques, the fellow who died in the crash. Too bad.
He had talent.”

“I’m sure that’s Cynthia. At least I can be
certain she was here.”

“I never met her. Since we can’t ask Jacques
about her, I don’t know how we can trace her. Would it help if you
had a picture of the painting?”

Carol nodded. “Yes it would. At least it
would prove I tried to find her.”

Lord B stepped up to the table, which was
high enough so he could operate the computer while standing. He was
obviously an expert. With a few clicks of the mouse, he brought up
a likeness of the painting on the monitor, activated the printer,
and printed a copy. Carol asked him for a second copy. He made
three and handed them to her. She thanked him. He turned toward
her.

“As far as I know, that’s
all I can do for
you
. Let’s talk about what
you
can do for me.”

“Anything.”

“Sean tells me he asked you to pose for him.
He saw you as an ideal candidate for my collection. Of course, he’s
seen this painting. He was correct. If you’ll be his model, I’ll
make sure you get paid double the usual fee.”

She should have seen this coming. In a way,
Sean had set her up. Still, she had learned something about
Cynthia. Old men were obviously attracted to her. There was nothing
wrong with that as long as young men were, too. “I’ve never modeled
before—at least not nude.”

“I’m told that once you get started, it’s
like any other job and you forget about what you’re wearing. But if
it’s too much to ask…”

At least he didn’t call her an uptight Yank.
“He’s working on a bowl of fruit.”

“His skills are eclectic; he’s very
versatile. He’s good at portraits. He’ll make you look beautiful,
if that’s what you’re worried about. The fruit, by the by, is for
Hermione. She’s got her own art collection. Needless to say, it’s a
bit different than mine.”

“I guess I’m a little afraid of being alone
with him.”

“Well, I’d love to be there—to protect you,
of course.” Lord B gave a hint of a smile. “Unfortunately, I can no
longer navigate the stairs. However, you’re safe with Sean. He’s a
professional. If he did anything to hurt you, I’d have him
castrated.”

Carol was wincing too much to laugh. “All
right, I’ll do it.”

***

Carol found a post office, purchased an
envelope and a stamp, and mailed a copy of the painting to Paul.
Cognizant of the five-hour time difference with North Carolina, she
called him on her cell phone late enough so he’d be in his office.
She told him briefly what she’d found out. He was more excited than
she thought he’d be.

“That painting is the only proof she was
actually in London other than the letter. Good work.”

“Unfortunately, with the artist dead, I
don’t know where to go from here.”

“Maybe he had friends…”

“Maybe, but I don’t know how to go about
finding them. For one thing, he was French.”

“Do you want to go to France?”

She was sure he was being facetious. “Not
right now.”

“Well, keep on plugging. Maybe you’ll come
up with something else. I miss you.”

He missed her body. She wasn’t going to play
that game. “I’m about to go on a tour of the House of Commons. If I
find anything else, I’ll call you.”

CHAPTER 27

Over a breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast
at the Balmoral, Carol decided she couldn’t possibly pose for Sean.
Maybe she
was
an uptight Yank. Anyway, she had cold feet.
Frozen feet. She would call him and cancel. She was supposed to be
at his loft at nine. She would call him at eight. He should be up
by then.

At eight o’clock she was ready for the day.
The thought occurred to her that if she didn’t pose, she didn’t
have anything else on her schedule. She was at a dead end as far as
Cynthia was concerned. She decided to walk to Sean’s loft—it
couldn’t be over two miles—and tell him face-to-face she wouldn’t
pose for him. That would give her something to do and be less
cowardly than telling him on the phone.

She joined the throngs of walkers rushing to
tube stations or other destinations. She almost got hit by a bus
when she looked the wrong way before crossing a street and felt
invigorated from the walk itself. By the time she arrived at Sean’s
building, she’d put together an explanation for him, succinct yet
logical. He would understand her reasons.

She rang his intercom button. He verified
who she was and buzzed her in. She walked up the three flights of
stairs. He yelled that the door was open in response to her knock.
She went in and prepared to launch into her speech. He was setting
up his easel and paints and barely looked at her.

“You can change in the WC. I put a robe in
there. I’ve figured out a pose you should be able to hold without
giving you a permanent bad back.” He chuckled.

Now was the time to talk to him. Carol
wished he would stop working and turn in her direction. He had
rigged up a set, consisting of a low platform with a skeleton frame
on it—a window. He had already spent a lot of time getting it
ready.

She could picture herself looking out the
window in the painting. If done right, the painting could be
beautiful, as Lord Binghamton had said. Cynthia had been
immortalized, wherever she was. In a hundred years, her painting
might be worth millions of dollars—or pounds. Carol decided if
Cynthia could pose nude, she could, too.

“Well, get a move on. We don’t have all
day.”

Sean’s words stimulated her to action. She
headed for the bathroom. She took off her clothes and was about to
put on the robe when she saw her abdominal scar in the mirror. It
was ugly. She had completely forgotten about it. She couldn’t model
like that.

She quickly put on the robe and walked out
into the open loft and over to Sean. “I forgot to tell you about my
scar.”

“Let’s see it.”

She had to open the robe. Now was the time
to quit. Something stiffened her spine. She would make him fire
her. Then she’d be off the hook with her conscience. She couldn’t
be accused of being a quitter. She timidly showed him the scar.

Sean took a quick look and went back to
setting up. “I just won’t paint it. Not a problem.”

Surprised, Carol knew she couldn’t quit now.
She was committed.

***

Lord Binghamton had been correct. Once Carol
had been posing for about an hour, her lack of clothing ceased to
bother her. She was much more concerned about holding her pose. She
was supposed to be looking out the window and waving to somebody
outside. She could lean against the window frame for support—Sean
had made it quite sturdy—but the hand she was waving with was up in
the air. Every few minutes she had to lower her arm.

She could only see Sean in her peripheral
vision because she wasn’t directly facing him. She wondered whether
he had posed her like this on purpose, so she wouldn’t freak out
watching him work, wondering what part of her he was painting.

The heater radiated warmth, but she was
still chilly. Sean had promised her a break after an hour, so she
could put on the robe for a bit. She hoped he couldn’t see her
goose bumps.

He didn’t talk while he painted. That was
all right with her. She spent the time wondering about the
relationship between Sean and Lord Binghamton. Lord B must be
Sean’s patron—wasn’t that what they used to call them?—buying his
paintings, subsidizing his rent. Well, if he could afford it, why
not?

Carol heard the door to the loft open, but
it was out of her field of vision. She panicked and became very
aware of her lack of clothes. Who was it? The only thing that kept
her from grabbing the robe was Sean’s calmness when he spoke.

“Melanie. What a surprise. I thought you
were working at the shop today.”

“I have a client nearby I have to talk to,
so I thought I’d pop in for a moment and see how you’re getting
along with your new model.”

“Somehow I thought you might just do that.
Take a break, Carol, and we’ll have some tea. Melanie, this is
Carol. Carol, this is Melanie. Melanie is an art dealer.”

They said hello from a distance. Carol was
happy to put on the robe, not only to warm up but because she was
self-conscious in front of Melanie, even though she was a woman—or
perhaps
because
she was a woman. Melanie was the
quintessential English blond with blue eyes. She didn’t have
anything to fear from Carol. Carol, in fact, was surprised,
thinking the girlfriend of an artist would be more laid back than
to worry about his models.

Melanie had evidently gotten a good look at
her, because she said to Sean, “She’s got the combination of beauty
and sex appeal Lord B likes. But that scar on her abdomen…”

Sean spoke gruffly. “I’m not going to paint
the scar.”

“You’re going to have to add some pubic
hair, however, because he’s a traditionalist.”

Sean’s voice became gruffer. “I’ll take care
of it. I know what I’m doing.”

Carol hoped Melanie was through picking at
her. At least she didn’t ask how Carol got the scar.

Melanie heated water and got the tea things
ready while Sean cleaned up a little and covered the canvas,
explaining it was off limits until the painting was finished. Carol
went over to see if she could help Melanie, who started asking her
questions.

“I understand you live across the pond in
the colonies. What part?”

Carol gave the simplest answer. “California.
Los Angeles.”

“Near Hollywood?”

“Sure.”

“What brings you to swinging London?”