Rachael's Gift (31 page)

‘Amen,’ said Marie, and everyone picked up their knives and forks and got stuck in.

After lunch, the party moved to another room they’d opened up especially, where they served coffee and more drinks. I looked at the people my French family had invited and wondered what I was doing here. They were nice enough, sure, but I had nothing to say to them. My mother was dead. They hadn’t known her. The Australian her. Wolfe was skulling yet another drink. Francine monopolised Rachael, showing her off. I snuck away to the studio. The smell of oils and chemicals faintly wafted. I touched the squeezed and dried paint tubes left to oxidise and then several curled and browned sketches. I leant against a bench, sucking on the butt of a cigarette, waiting. Ten minutes later the door opened and Lucien walked in.

He wiped rain from the shoulders of his coat.

I stubbed out my cigarette in the sink. It was a bad habit.

I’d thought about Lucien, about us, so much over the years that even those thoughts had lost their edge as I’d used and re-used them like some kind of addict.

Just now, he looked as if he were the younger man I’d met: the older man who had seduced a young woman. Had I ever thought that what he had done had possibly been wrong? I’d been nineteen and he’d been thirty-two. I knew exactly what I’d been doing. But then again, so had he.

I thought of Rachael and her shameless behaviour. ‘I don’t like the way Rachael flirts with you,’ I said.

‘Are you jealous?’ he said, coming over and putting his arms around me. He kissed my neck. ‘When I saw you with your husband . . .’ He squeezed my shoulders. ‘Camille . . . Camille.’

‘Stop it,’ I said, pulling away. ‘Someone might see us.’

He cupped my cheeks with his hands. ‘You drive me a little crazy, you know?’ He pressed his chin against my face, the bristles prickling. ‘I want to kiss you.’

I grabbed his hand. ‘We need to talk.’

He gave me a questioning look. I’d been turning scenarios over and over in my head. Where was all this going? ‘What are we doing here?’ I asked him.

‘You tell me.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Isn’t this what you wanted?’ he asked, kissing the top of my head.

I hesitated. Lucien had not been part of the plan, but Wolfe and I, well, it wasn’t that simple either. Lucien broke away, moving over to the bank of old canvases stacked in metal shelves. ‘It was a good idea your grandfather had, setting this up for new artists. It’s a shame it’s gone to dust.’ He let canvases fall and touched the workbench where I had once tried to make my own paints.

At that moment, I saw Wolfe through the window, striding towards the studio. I felt a slow flush. ‘It’s my husband,’ I said, my voice catching. I stood back from the door in the shadow of the wall. I heard a tap on the glass and then the handle turn. I scanned the room, searching for an exit, but there wasn’t one. We were sprung.

‘We’re in here,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘Lucien and I were just checking out the old studio.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Francine said I’d find you here.’ His gaze flicked between the two of us. Could he sense my nerves? Did he look suspicious?

‘So this is where you learnt all that stuff?’ he said, breaking the silence.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’d better get back,’ Lucien said, heading towards the door.

Wolfe watched him leave. His lips were stained red from the wine at lunch. I saw that his skin had lost its tan underneath the sunless sky after only a few days.

‘I can just see you here,’ he said, walking around. ‘All serious – all determined.’ His eyes shone with the flush of alcohol. ‘You’ve always been a determined girl.’

He picked up a paintbrush and began to scratch the hardened paint off. ‘What’s going on, Cam?’

My throat went dry. Did he know?

‘You saw her with him.’

‘Please don’t start.’

‘You must have noticed. I saw it on your face.’

‘You’ve had too much to drink.’

I needed some water and tried to turn the tap on but it was impossible to budge after so many years of disuse. ‘Shit . . .’

‘Why are you being so blind?’

‘You’re paranoid,’ I whispered. Heat crawled up around my ears. I stopped struggling with the tap, spent.

Then I felt him behind me. The smell of whisky. He took my hand from the tap and tried twisting it himself. The muscles worked in his neck, there was a squeaking noise and then the tap began to move. The pipes groaned. We waited for the water to run and Wolfe kept turning, metal on metal, but there was just the gasp of an empty pipe.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d been with him?’ he said.

What? I panicked inside, turning my head away from him, and realised he meant from before. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was so dry. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Fuck, Camille – is there anything else I should know?’

I gave a slight laugh, resting my hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be silly.’ I rubbed my neck, feeling where Lucien had touched and kissed me moments before and hoped Wolfe couldn’t hear the guilt in my voice.

But he was too concerned about Rachael to hear the off note. He exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know, Cam. I’ve just got a bad feeling.’ He ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to brush his thoughts away.

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Trust me.’ But even as I said it I wasn’t so sure myself. ‘We should go back inside.’

Rupert passed around a box of cigars and refilled our tumblers with whisky. A few of the troops had already left, the nurse had taken Anton back to his room and Marie had excused herself. Rupes had put on some Frank Sinatra and the smoke from the cigars hovered above our heads like a snow cloud. I bowled from guest to guest, the whisky loose in my hand, the dirty taste of cigar in my mouth and tried to tune in to Rupes’ stories. Something about the time when he’d met so-and-so and when they’d done such-and-such but I just couldn’t seem to follow – possibly because he was speaking French. The room swayed and I grabbed hold of someone’s shoulder and we ended up having a little dance until Rupes took me aside and put me into an armchair and I was vaguely aware of Cam digging her nails into my shoulder and saying something about going upstairs. I waved her away.

I spotted Lucien with Rach across the room and a hot fog came over me. I watched as she draped herself across him, whispering in his ear. She smiled, opening her mouth wide, exposing her teeth, then throwing her head back and laughing. It was as if she was moving in slow motion with the sound turned down. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. The way he turned towards her. The way she couldn’t take her bloody eyes off him. What? She wanted to jump this guy’s bones now? Fuck. What a sleazebag – fucking rich guy with a roving eye, thinks he can do anything he wants. Did he know she was just a kid? I looked into my drink, amber liquid swirling, distorting my fingers underneath. My shoulders felt heavy. I closed my eyes and let them rest shut for a moment. The earth disappeared beneath me. I saw Clippo’s bruised and bloodied face and shook the memory free. I felt the pull from the Pacific Ocean – what I wouldn’t give to dive in right now.

When I opened my eyes again I saw her hair brush the side of his face as she slid to his lap. Where was Cam? I couldn’t sit here and watch this another second. I looked around, the floor uneven, strangers’ faces moving in and out of focus.
Never trust a bloke who wears jewellery
, I heard my old man’s voice say in my head.
Fucking poofters
.

I stood up and pitched across the room. ‘Get up, Rachael.’

Rach looked up at me in horror and then covered her face in her hands.

Lucien pushed Rach to her feet and stood up himself. ‘Now, now, what’s the trouble?’

I poked him in the shoulder, not taking my eyes from his. ‘Get yer filthy paws off –’

He held his palms up. ‘Everything’s okay.’

I shoved him and he staggered back.

Rach’s voice was in my ear. ‘Dad, what are you doing? You’re embarrassing me!’

I went to push Lucien again but felt a strong arm around my shoulders and suddenly I was being guided to the terrace doors.

‘It’s all right, old boy, you just need some air.’ It was Rupert.

I shook him off me. ‘I don’t need some fucking air. I need to smash that guy’s face in.’ But the cold worked itself into my lungs and doused the fire in my blood. ‘Shit. Sorry, mate. It’s been a long day.’ My breath was still short. I looked back through the glass, seeing the people shrouded in light, carrying on as if nothing had happened, and then Cam and Rach’s faces appeared, looking at me in double disgust.

‘Think I’ll just go for a walk.’

Sobering up in the cool night air, I cringed in shame at the scene I’d caused in there; but still, it just didn’t add up. Rach’s behaviour was out of order – his was out of order. Why was I the only one seeing this? I began to feel angry again and had to keep walking to stop myself from running back and having another go at him.

I kept going until I reached the local village, where I was relieved to find a bar open. Entering, I heard the roar of a crowd and the blowing of a whistle. A crew of locals watched France play Argentina on the telly. I felt a smile spread across my face. Even in the middle of nowhere, as far away from home as I could get, I’d found a tiny slice of the familiar in a game of rugby. I ordered a beer and a Coke and settled in for the rest of the night.

My mother stood in flared blue jeans, a scarf tying up her hair, a saucepan full of boiling water in one hand and a cigarette in the other. ‘
Chérie
, come here. Look at this.’ Underneath a chair on our veranda lay the glistening scales of a coiled brown snake. I hid behind her thigh, clutching her hip. She crouched beside me. ‘It’s beautiful,
non
?’ she whispered in her lilting French accent. ‘But very dangerous. Now get back inside.’ I ran in and watched her from behind the flyscreen. She stubbed out the cigarette with the toe of her sandal and flung the boiling water in the direction of the snake. Then she squealed and started banging on the door for me to open it. I pulled and pulled but the door wouldn’t budge; it was stuck. The banging grew louder. And suddenly I was very cold.

I woke with a start in a cold sweat. I’d left the window open. It took me a moment to remember where I was. What time was it? I checked my phone. It was after midnight. The other side of the bed was empty. Wolfe had not come back; his outburst was inexcusable. He was going to get an earful when I saw him. But anger was replaced by uneasiness. Perhaps he’d got lost? Or perhaps he had fallen asleep downstairs? Or couldn’t find our room? I opened the bedroom door and listened. Silence. Down the hall I noticed a sliver of light from beneath the door of my mother’s old room; Rachael must still be up. He could be with her.

I tapped on the door, but there was no answer. She must have fallen asleep with the light on. I opened it and peered in. The light was indeed on, but the bed was neatly made, completely untouched. Rachael’s overnight bag was upended over it; t-shirts, underwear and jeans were flung from one end to the other. Her make-up was spread across the dressing table. The door to the ensuite was ajar; a tube of toothpaste lay in the sink, half squeezed. Where was she? Was she still up with everyone else? I stood on the threshold in the dark and listened for noises, but there was nothing. I hesitated a moment longer and heard something else: the click of a door from down the far end of the east wing – Lucien’s room – followed by muffled footsteps and the rustling of clothes.

I sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Seconds later Rachael opened the door and turned her back, quietly and carefully clicking it shut, her boots in her hands.

‘Rachael?’ I said.

She jumped and put a hand to her chest. ‘You scared the shit out of me.’

She wore an oversized shirt over jeans and her hair was a wild mass of curls. ‘What do you want?’

‘Where’ve you been?’ I couldn’t hide the edge in my voice.

She threw her head back, her hair tumbling away to reveal black smudges and tearstains. She threw her boots into a corner of the room and lifted the large shirt – a man’s shirt – and undid the zipper on her jeans, peeling each leg off.

I bit my tongue. She was like a rabid creature, crouched down like that, ready to pounce. Her silence made my head pound. There were times when we had raged at each other. There was a scar on my forehead from a flying plate; I had dug my nails into her arm and felt pleasure as they tore her skin. She had bit my calf, leaving a circle of ridges, and I had yanked her hair hard and then harder and felt a warm ink spread through my chest – but when I opened my palm to find a dark furry clump in my hand, my heart clenched in fright. Now I wanted to slap that face, whichever one it was, and bring more tears to her eyes.

‘Whose shirt is that?’

She moved to the dressing table, tied her hair up in an elastic band and began to scrape the mask of make-up off with a cotton pad and cleanser. The soft glow from the lamp veiled her face in odd angles.

The shirt fell off one of her shoulders. ‘Is that Lucien’s shirt?’

She shrugged. ‘He gave it to me.’

The face that emerged from beneath the make-up was scrubbed raw: her true self without the mask, a baby lamb, but sharper somehow – keener. She looked at me, her eyes narrowing in hate and something else; hurt, perhaps. Was she deeply hurt by something? I had done everything for her. The sacrifices. All the work. How could she be so ungrateful?

The corners of her lips twitched, and she smiled. ‘He’s been painting me,’ she said, unable to disguise the glee in her voice.

‘What, here? Now?’

‘He brought it with him.’

I thought of the painting under the sheet in the studio. The one I had almost looked at but didn’t. Of the red toenails. I looked at Rachael’s feet. Her toenails were scarlet. I imagined him painting her skin the way he had painted all those other women – the way he had painted that woman I remembered – and the anger grew.

‘You can learn a lot from being the subject,’ she said smugly, as if she had won a game.

I stared at her face, searching for clues, for deceit, but her expression was clear, fresh and clean.