Short Story: A Painting Holiday

Short Story: A Painting Holiday

Tawny Adams stared seawards, anticipating the type of glamorous vessels witnessed as they disembarked from the ferry, but the sea was bare this morning. Perhaps it was too early or perhaps this side of the island was too demanding for the gin palaces and sun worshippers to stray.

She could smell breakfast being prepared, and feeling hungry she sipped the brew she had prepared earlier as it was too early to scamper down and stake a place at table.

Her knee was playing up and she thought again about the operation recommended by the doctor, but it would mean being laid up for a month and who would care for Benjie, her little dog? Her daughter was settled in Adelaide and son, Michael, was always too busy – perhaps she could ask Sally Howard, but even taking care of the dog during this small break had appeared an imposition, and it was only a five day painting holiday.

She wanted a cigarette; the wicked weed, started, stopped, started again. She knew what had made her begin this time; it had been the death of her husband – three years come October, and following the funeral had been at a loss, and forced to admit she needed a new direction. The smoking filled a hole, one of many but it was at her daughter’s suggestion she found a pet. They’d had dogs before, but nothing since Wolf, the family Alsatian, had been put to sleep. The children broken hearted, and she’d promised at the time – no more animals, but seeing Benjie for the first time melted her heart, and now they were inseparable.

She knew he’d be pining; he made a kind of whining sound whenever she left him alone, and she’d warned Sally he’d demand attention. The desire to phone was strong, but it was too soon. It would make her appear like an overprotective parent and if she ever needed to rely on Sally again…..

She turned back to the window; her stomach was grumbling – they’d eaten at a fish restaurant the evening before, and it wasn’t very good. Filling up on bread and some kind of apple tart with custard, but whatever training the chef possessed must have been learned at a different kind of establishment. She prided herself she could have done a better job, but that wasn’t why she was there. Taking stock of the fellow amateur’s with whom she was to spend the next few days she found they were of a similar age, and like her keen to enjoy the splendid scenery in which the island of Jersey excelled. Looking forward with a mixture of trepidation and excitement to the tuition of the well known artist Guy Ledsham would provide.

Most were attracted by the reputation enjoyed by the great man, and only she it appeared had met him previously – not just in other circumstances, but in another era – and at a time when none but his closest friends foresaw the glittering career that came his way.

It was forty years plus, and she’d been a simple girl about to blossom into womanhood at a time when he was one of a dozen bohemian types living at an artists colony in fairly primitive conditions on a tiny Greek island. Even then their paths should not have crossed; her father was in the diplomatic service, based in Athens, and the family were spending a holiday at a villa lent to him for the summer.

In those days she was fairly athletic, a good swimmer, and being an only child she was used to making her own entertainments, and while discovering a man identified later as Guy Ledsham sketching a young woman perched on the rocks, she remained concealed in the water feeling far too shy to make herself known.

She told her mother about the encounter and was warned not to make friends as the ‘artists’ enjoyed a poor reputation and their behaviour was said to be scandalous. For 1964 that meant an unconventional attitude and an unwillingness to conform; ‘loose morals’.

Despite such dire warnings she felt drawn to return, observing the same man on several occasions until curiosity got the better of her, bringing her ashore, and at first sat at a distance watching him work until he turned towards her impatiently, snapping a lighter to ignite a cigarette.

“And who are you?”

She told him, and he laughed.

“That isn’t a proper name – are you an alien? You did emerge from the sea.”

Tawny was a family name inherited from her maternal grandmother and she was rarely called upon to attest its provenance. She thought him abrupt and impertinent, particularly as he ignored her response to return to his sketchbook. Obstinately, she remained despite several attempts to fling off her scrutiny, the sun thoroughly warming her body and allowing her to feel more relaxed in his presence. He stared at her from time to time, but made no comment, eventually relenting.

“What are you?”

“A girl,” she snapped.

This brought a wry smile to his face. “And how old are you girl?”

“Sixteen.”

It wasn’t entirely true, but she felt a strong desire for him to regard her as more than a mere curiosity, feeling the need to be treated with respect.

“Do you live on the island?” he asked.

She answered honestly, and he nodded. His hair, long for the period fell into his eyes as he worked and she came forward cautiously to push it back using a hair grip. He stared at her with a bemused expression on his face.

“Are you one of those?” he asked enigmatically. “Believe I need to be saved?”

She didn’t know what to answer, turning to watch as a rich man’s sleek yacht sailed past close enough for them to view the playful antics on deck, imagining herself as one of the bikini clad lovelies smiling and waving towards them, startled to find him standing at her side watching with a hand shielding his eyes.

He grunted in disgust at what he saw. “I’m ready for a drink – how about you?”

She nodded, and he strode ahead up the beach which was a mixture of sand, grit and rock. She followed as best she could forced to step carefully in bare feet and feeling a little over exposed in the one piece costume she wore.

He led the way along a broken road towards a white washed taverna, where a group of friends were already gathered under cover of the heavily shaded area, drinking beer and wine and deep into the kind of absurd conversation that permitted no entry to outsiders and excluded those that fell foul of the supposed intellectual content.

Once they arrived she was left to her own devices and found herself entirely ignored, stared at as if she was an object to be pitied, and beginning to wish she had never agreed to come and almost leaving before a German woman named Trude took pity. Trude was there with Anders her Swedish boyfriend, and found a towel for her to drape around her body. She was given local beer which her father favoured but which was extremely gassy, and though not the first time she’d drunk alcohol, grew heady after two bottles, closing eyes against the sensation.

Trude explained that they rented houses on the outskirts of the nearby village and were mostly artists, but some were friends that had come for the summer and it was a case of pooling resources to survive, so they lived cheaply – eating, working and having fun.

They liked her name, believing for some reason she must be American with Tawny arguing against the suggestion until they grew tired of the game. Throughout it all Guy seemed determined to remain remote, employing an indifference Tawny found rude. Trude offering the view that Guy was accepted by all as talented, but had become self centred and as a result the others treated him with a lack of respect bordering on contempt. Going on to explain that no one really wanted the status attached to being considered better than anyone else as it did not accord with the life they were leading. Anders describing the man as incredibly arrogant.

Tawny wasn’t put off by what she saw or heard, returning whenever she could, and generally accepted into the company. Trude she came to know well, but not Lizzie who was Guy’s girl and who could be depended on to cause an argument with Guy whenever they were together. It was easy to believe that Lizzie existed in a state of perpetual jealousy, able to turn on anyone at the slightest provocation.

Downstairs, in the hotel, Tawny joined in the simple tittle-tattle that a first meeting among strangers with a similar pursuit produces, pleasantly surprised by the passion for the subject displayed. Perhaps it was an eagerness for action – in her case the holiday had been booked and paid for months before, and anticipation among the participants had clearly grown.

She shared her breakfast table with a man named Phil and two women that came together named Jill and Donna Brook, related by marriage it seemed. Jill, the slimmer of the two, was quite a fan of Guy Ledsham believing as she did that his abilities with a brush were entirely matched by the autobiography published the year before and which she’d devoured prior to embarking on this holiday. She had so many questions for the man; her companion smiled and nodded as each was outlined. Phil was in process of reading the book and begged them not to spoil it for him.

Tawny hadn’t known the book existed, following Guy’s career from press reports and knew about failed marriages, the lovers, the children and particularly the death of a much loved son at the age of eight. Phil was retired and had become what his wife described as a serious bore on the subject of art, now free to paint whenever the fancy took him. Everyone it seemed was a fan of Guy’s work, owning reproductions and copies of his famous ‘How to’ series of books. When asked about her own prowess Tawny was forced to confess that she considered herself entirely talentless, hoping this short break would provide the confidence she sorely lacked.

Knowing smiles were produced around the table, and false modesty on her part assumed.

However, truth was she did feel inadequate, more so in company with these people and though capable of a simple ‘naïve’ style felt certain the work she’d completed could never match the pencil sketch he’d dashed off in a matter of minutes forty odd years previously, and which still adorned the wall at home.

Glancing at it, she was often left wondering who the rat haired girl was, and why the face remained as inscrutable as it appeared. At the time of commission, he’d caught her emerging from the sea, ordering her to sit still and stop fidgeting.

The expression the drawing provided missed that vital element of indignity and discomfort she had felt, but that was how he could appear; blind to other people’s emotion. And she became absolutely positive when days later Lizzie disappeared into the sea and her body was never found.

Samantha Kane, Guy’s wife and partner of recent years, took the first session. She was well built, a blonde, and ex actress of indeterminate age with a no nonsense approach to people, arranging everyone into small groups along the clifftop where a good view towards the harbour could be obtained. She was accompanied by a young man during this first encounter who they discovered was her son David from a previous marriage, and who remained close to his mother throughout.

During a break in proceedings Samantha gave an explanation of the way the week was intended to go, indicating that Guy’s frequent health problems meant he couldn’t be expected to be present during every session but they would meet him that evening during dinner at the house.

It was a disappointing start to proceedings made more so when Tawny’s pitiful effort on this first morning failed to convince. And as the great man was expected to cast an eye over the paintings before dinner his comments were eagerly awaited.

In glancing at Tawny’s painting there was something disparaging in the expression Samantha employed, although her words remained encouraging.

“Have you been painting long?”

“Not long. I’m afraid it just gets worse.” Tawny offered by way of apology.

“Let’s see if we can’t improve you – maybe this week will encourage a break through.”

“Is Guy ok at the moment?”

Samantha examined the older woman. “Well enough, but you’ll see him later.”

She walked forward, her gait employing the manner of one well used to being observed; the son plodding faithfully at her heel.

There was an American girl at the colony on the Greek island – Audrey – large hazel eyes and dreamy expression; someone whose likeness Guy drew constantly. She had a quick smile obscured by masses of auburn hair, usually worn loose unless she went swimming and then it was tied back into a pony tail. He delighted in coming upon her unannounced, loosing the hair, and mussing it thoroughly, insisting she sit for him before she could protest.

She was supposed to be studying art history in Paris, but this was a ‘wild’ scene and not to be allowed to get away from her, and was the kind of woman that attract men as prettily as fallen fruit attract wasps with a constant buzz of activity about her. Whichever man had brought her had now departed and her allegiance appeared to vary day by day. There were times when one or another of the unattached men were brewing for a fight over access rights.

It was during this brief stint in the company of strangers that Tawny felt herself make the awkward transition from childhood into adulthood, discovering to her surprise a talent for flirtatious behaviour that should have shocked except it seemed to provide a licence for the men to treat her in the same casual manner as other women present. That everyone was too long in one another’s company she was unable to see; that they were bored - feeling the need for fresh meat - and she was female, and if not entirely yet a woman, fitted the bill.

The colony did not remain her sole focus for she was supposed to be on a family holiday and days might go by when she didn’t see her new friends. Her mother was prone to bouts of depression and had become highly strung, collapsing into a fit of self loathing and despair, particularly if she felt slighted or in need of the kind of attention that demanded a presence at all times. Unfortunately she was extremely sensitive to any change of mood, and there was often a sense of walking on eggshells around her, which was another reason Tawny felt glad to escape the stifling atmosphere home life could become.

Her father proved a tower of strength, as a devoted husband willing to undergo furious exchanges of temper whenever her mother felt prone to that devastation of spirit that overcame her without warning. Today there are probably drugs to deal with what she suffered at the time, but back then it was described as nervous anxiety and dealt with by long suffering partners employing self sacrificing love, tolerance and dutiful care.

Tawny did her share, but on one occasion, when her mother was complaining that one of her heads was coming on, she decided to escape, discovering stalactite filled caves in which green pools scooped out of the bedrock made it possible to dive down to sandy bottoms where the relics of past antiquity lay scattered; great pillars of stone and statues displaying featureless faces far too impossible for the best equipped archaeologists to haul towards the surface.

Going cave by cave she headed towards the wonder the ‘Great Cavern’ provided, intending to dive into its unregulated waters to discover the treasures this one held, but was disturbed on her approach by laughter and recognised with absolute certainty the voice that echoed back. It was the American girl, Audrey, lying on her back as Guy played at her side, laughing, squealing – love play as she came to realise from later experience.

She felt immediately jealous, secreted behind rocks and watching, afraid to announce herself in case they thought she was spying – which indeed she was. Only when they took to the pool did she think about breaking cover but then heard something that caused her to remain where she was. He was discussing the prospect of leaving Lizzie and taking off for Rome with Audrey at his side.

Tawny felt shocked at the disclosure, failing to appreciate what she saw as duplicitous behaviour on his part and of a mind to run to Lizzie with what she had overheard, but watching them kiss and play together in the water alerted a different instinct. Perhaps they were in love – at the time she was an impressionable creature and the works of Jane Austin were embedded in her young soul. If it was truly love then she should honour ‘the pledge’ they had surely made one another and if not, what business was it of hers?

That evening, with paintings done earlier in the day spread out on side tables, the group assembled for dinner at Guy’s lovely home. The years had been kind to Guy Ledsham and the success he’d found was reflected in the home and possessions shared with Samantha. Now in his seventies he moved slowly, but the smile was as agile as she recalled and even though he leaned on a stick she would have known him anywhere.

Samantha prowled at his side protectively; with blonde hair swept back to reveal to dramatic effect the cheekbones that had once given her a prominent role in various low budget and made for TV epics.

Guy took time to examine the paintings, and the group anxiously awaited his criticism, clutching their drinks and trying to make small talk so as not to seem as nervous as they felt.

Tawny observed carefully that he gave no sign of recognition to the signature her lacklustre effort held, replacing it more quickly than the others. He turned towards the group as he finished, eyeing them curiously.

“Well, we’ve made a start and some are better than others…..” He smiled. “I’m not going to judge – that isn’t the purpose….. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to a favourite haunt of mine and we’ll paint together, and I’ll share a few observations on the methods I employ – together with some tips.”

He sat at the dinner table and was immediately assailed by questions from the group. Never once did his eye settle on her, and Tawny felt a little disappointed that Guy couldn’t recognise a woman he’d had a profound influence on all those years before, and so she spent her time studying the man.

During dinner she found herself seated beside David, discovering he held no pretensions towards art, or in following his mother into a career in acting. His obsession was botany, and used the painting trips as a means to search for different species of plants and flowers. Once opened up he was extremely fluent on the subject and she wondered why when he displayed such passion that he chose to remain close to home, but didn’t enquire.

Towards midnight Guy got to his feet awkwardly, announcing that he was required to take his medication before turning in and thanked everyone for a wonderful evening. The group assembled in the hallway, waiting on taxi’s booked to return them to the small hotels and guest houses they were staying in. Tawny remained close to Jill and Donna Brook as it was clear they would be travelling together, but her eye was drawn by paintings lining the wall which led towards a lounge they hadn’t entered during the evening.

Inside, she was astonished to discover a high quality sketch of Audrey adorning the wall, but it must have been produced at a later date than when she’d last seen them together because clearly it was an autumn scene with the girl dressed in heavy sweater, boots and jeans.

It was signed and dated for the year following, and scanning the room for other evidence or memorabilia that might provide answers found nothing of significance, emerging to meet Samantha’s unswerving gaze.

“It’s private in there….” Samantha remarked.

“I’m sorry,” Tawny apologised. “I thought I recognised someone that I knew.”

Samantha made no comment, believing it was more a case of nosiness than true enquiry, ushering the party towards their waiting taxis.

“Good night,” she smiled, ever the gracious hostess, turning back towards the house.

Tawny had no way of judging if Guy was a good lover, and following the encounter was left with the chilly feeling he regarded her as little more than a pleasant experience on a summer afternoon. There was never going to be a hope she could expect to come between him and Lizzie – let alone he and Audrey, and it made her angry to believe it would provide no more than mild amusement were she ever to confess her true feelings, particularly as she had entirely initiated the event.

The day started off the way it always did. Mother was tetchy, and father was busy with something sent over by courier from Athens. They were due to take a trip to visit some ruin from antiquity, but first mother refused to go and then after the package arrived father secreted himself away.

Tawny fell into a strange mood, deciding to go sailing; the sea was calm after a storm overnight but there was a stiff breeze blowing inland that allowed for sailing in the shallow water off shore. She was good enough to take the boat alone, and two hours later found him strolling along the tiny beach she’d first encountered him on, and waved. At first she was ignored, but after realising who was hailing him waded out to the boat, gripping the side with a cigarette clamped between his teeth.

“This yours?”

“It belongs to the villa – we can use it.”

He climbed aboard. “Show me how.”

She took him for a tour around the base of an unclimbable cliff face from where he watched birds take off and land on the sheer face with an impertinent disregard for their safety, allowing the breeze to take his hair and laughing whenever spray caught his face. He smiled so much she felt emboldened, feeling the mood lift and suggesting they put in at a deserted beach she’d visited before.

He made no argument, stripping off to dive overboard as they came in sight, dragging the boat up onto the gravel shore.

He flung himself to ground, leaning back to light a cigarette. “Well, now you’ve got me here – what do you want from me?”

It was quite a challenge, and she felt unable to answer, but he pulled her down beside him.

“Don’t think about it,” he told her bluntly, and afterwards lay on the sand staring up into clear blue skies. “I think you did that very nicely,” he remarked with sanguine wit; she wanted to respond but her emotions were torn and didn’t know what to answer.

During the return journey he asked if she was alright, but otherwise ignored the fact she felt so utterly stunned, peering ahead as if he was manning a three masted schooner. She felt dizzy and overwhelmed with emotion, afraid to cry in case he mocked her for displaying such a childish reaction.

Audrey was waiting as they reached the beach, and he jumped ashore without a backward glance slipping into an easy embrace with the American.

Tawny waited, but he gave no parting and instead whispered into Audrey’s ear causing her to smile, marching away up the beach. Audrey immediately took the place vacated in the boat.

“Take me out,” she commanded.

She used a camera to take shots of anything that caught her attention, eventually turning it upon Tawny who shied away angrily when she wouldn’t stop. After a while the camera was put aside as she joined Tawny in the stern, offering a cigarette and lighting both.

“I saw you go out with him,” she mentioned casually. “Spotlight on you – eh?”

Tawny made no answer, but Audrey seemed determined to speak.

“Don’t take him seriously,” she smiled. “He doesn’t do love and commitment.”

“I can see that,” Tawny snapped, tears shining in her eyes.

Audrey gave her a look but said nothing, adding after a couple of minutes.

“He’s with me now – but it won’t last….”

“What about Lizzie?”

“He’s going to tell her….”

Tawny stared at the woman. “I don’t understand why…..”

She smiled. “How old are you?”

Tawny tacked the little boat towards shore, no longer afraid to let her emotion run free. “I’m going home.”

When he looked into her eyes she felt certain there had been a spark, believing he would become her lover and she could take him away from Audrey, but now snatching glances at the woman alongside realised the futility of believing anything good could come from this encounter, needing to find space to breath before she spoke with Guy again, but the following day Lizzie killed herself and everything changed; everything turned bad.

The weather on Jersey started off blustery culminating in a sharp shower that saturated the ground, but the party paid little heed. Today the great man was going to spend all day with them, and they would be privileged to watch him work, and to take advice and have the satisfaction of getting their money’s worth.

Tawny had decided to take greater care with her own work today; yesterday’s effort had been slapdash and ordinarily she would have put it straight into the bin, except that Samantha had been keen to scoop it off the easel the moment it was complete.

She was pleased to find that Samantha was not present when Guy arrived, and he was helped set up by David. He moved awkwardly with the stick, incurring the pain of an arthritic hip she was informed. Her own knee was giving her gyp, not helped by the damp climate. By the look on his face she could tell he endured the discomfort with grim determination, and once settled a wide grin enveloped his features and something of the man she had known emerged.

“Today,” he announced, “I would like you to try your hand at painting directly onto the paper without the use of pencil lines to guide you. This…” He pointed towards a craggy coastline in which a variety of colour blazed and blended. “This is a favourite spot of mine, and I must have painted it two dozen times but it still provides variety, and every time I’m here I’m reminded of past events in my life,” he smiled. “I know we all have our particular foibles, and perhaps this is mine – please indulge me……”

His was a seductive charm, and she thought he’d improved considerably over the rather insolent individual met in Greece, even when it was the style of the time to be obnoxious – a time also when she’d been gauche and perhaps a little too keen to impersonate the antics of women years older – that too was the style.

She watched him at work; in fact everyone did for the first quarter of an hour as he moved slowly, building colour and working from the centre of the page outwards. Everyone attempted to copy what he did, but not everyone had the discipline or the technique to succeed although the method proved enlightening when seen in practise, and Tawny found the inspiration to copy what he did, soon lost in her own creation as the inhibition previously felt began to fall away.

After an hour’s painstaking work Guy moved around the group, going pupil to pupil and leaning on his stick, staring fixedly at each work in turn. Some were adjudged good and others excellent. When her turn came, he smiled at her benevolently before scrutinising the work.

“Does painting come to you naturally?” he asked.

“No,” she was forced to admit, and he grinned.

“Keep up the good work.”

He continued his examination before eventually returning to his chair.

“We’re getting there,” he acknowledged. “A break now, and afterwards I want you to pay careful attention to how I intend to finish my own painting.”

They broke for coffee, supplied by David from a large thermos. There were biscuits set out on a folding table and small dainty cakes to which everyone helped themselves. Guy was handed his and immediately surrounded by ardent admirers keen to get his attention. Tawny stretched her leg, sitting with one of the other women, smoking and talking, mostly taking in the view that fell gently towards a fairly rough sea. Afterwards most made a beeline for the toilet block before restarting, and she found herself alone with Guy as David cleared away the coffee cups.

Guy was smoking a cigar and watching birds wheel across the cliff face.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked, moving nearer.

He gave her a glance and then grinned. “Do you want me to?”

“I just wondered if you would….”

He peered closer. “Is that why you’re here?”

She shook her head. “No. I decided to take up painting after my husband died. I saw the advert and knew how good you were. I’ve still got something you gave me….”

He laughed, lifting his chin. “Did I – when was this?”

She looked away, disappointed he chose not to remember a critical time in her career, rationalising that it was a long time ago and possibly difficult for him to recall.

“I was there when Lizzie died.”

“Oh her…” He exhaled slowly, putting his head back and lifting eyes to heaven. She imagined glimpsing pain in the glance he provided, as memory flooded back. “Christ – a blast from the past. I’d hadn’t exactly forgotten….., but how….?”

He examined her more closely.

“I saw the drawing of Audrey last night, and wondered……”

He stared directly towards her. “You thought I should remember you in the same way as you remember me, but sadly I don’t.” He drew in on the cigar. “Did we…..?”

She nodded, and he allowed his eyes to wander.

“But that was…..”

“Yes, it was.”

She turned away; clearly his memory of events differed to her own, but it had been a traumatic period and after Lizzie’s disappearance her parents forbade her to see anyone at the colony again.

“Listen,” he added, interrupting her thoughts. “I can only apologise – I was extremely arrogant at the time. I thought I could have anything I wanted, and frequently took what I was not entitled to…. If I broke your heart…, forgive me. What happened with Liz shattered most of the illusions I held. We were supposed to be a couple, but she was damaged….”

“By you.”

He paused. “No, not by me – her mother mainly. She was hard to handle, and by then I’d had enough and wanted out. It didn’t mean she should kill herself, but that was so typical of her,” he paused. “She tried before – in London. I managed to save her. I don’t know what really happened – her body was never found. Did you know?”

Tawny nodded.

“I didn’t realise she would react in the way she did. I expected fireworks – the big parade, possibly a fight – but she just drifted away. I was shattered afterwards…., in pieces. If it hadn’t been for Audrey….”

She stared at him. He was an old man, no longer the colossus she had believed, no longer a hero of infinite skill, infinite wisdom. She smiled at the foolishness of trying to believe he was ever infallible.

“It doesn’t matter….. Audrey warned me about you, and I wasn’t hurt.”

He breathed a sigh. “I’m glad to hear that. I just wish I could place you – those years are a blur….., and I try not to think about them a great deal.”

“It doesn’t matter…..”

She returned to her easel, struggling to calm the emotion welling in her breast and in order to disguise the confusion she felt set about correcting something found wrong in the painting. Later as he called the group about him to watch the methods used to complete his own painting she discovered that her mind was altogether too distracted to pay attention to anything said or done.

The following few days developed a similar theme as they were taken to various points on the island where they could watch Guy at work, and afterwards try to develop their own style in a similar way. He didn’t talk to her directly again, except to praise the work she had done or try to explain some technique he felt might improve the methods she chose to employ.

On the final day they assembled inside the house where he took them into his studio and they were shown portfolio’s of completed work, and allowed to examine sketches, drawings and art he had created down the years.

Tawny felt quite odd rifling through the man’s work, wondering if she might come across drawings produced on that Greek island but nothing seemed to predate the early seventies and she wondered why.

Guy remained close to Samantha throughout and it was only as lunch was served that she felt able to get near to him again.

“I noticed there are no drawings from the sixties…?”

“Who needs them?” he smiled. “I was still developing, and I’m not always proud of what I did back then.”

“I was just curious…..”

He glanced at her sharply. “If you really did know me, I think you should realise why – or should be able to guess.”

Samantha returned at that point, leading him towards two ladies who wanted to ask a burning question of their own.

After lunch it was intended that Guy should give a parting talk, emphasising what he hoped they had learned from their brief holiday and could take home with them. Two works produced during the week were on offer at a reasonable price, after which the party was due to disburse.

But he had developed a migraine over lunch and gone up to bed, and it was left to Samantha to take the final session. She had proven a reasonable painter in her own right, and well able to talk about her husbands work and the technique used, fielding questions and finally setting everyone up for a group photograph on the terrace outside.

Tawny felt disappointed not to be able to say goodbye to Guy in person and returned to the hotel to pack, taking quiet glances out the window towards the beach and indistinct outline, said to be the coast of Normandy, beyond the horizon.

It had been a pleasant few days in the company of a man who was utterly incomparable with the one she had met forty odd years previously, but then who was she – she was not the same foolish girl that had thrown herself at him, determined to obtain his approval in exchange for love. It brought into stronger perspective the life she’d since led, her loves and children. Home, friends, what she was and who she’d become. She felt happy in her own quiet way, relieved in review that it never went beyond what it did and certain she would have been unable to cope with the world he subsequently inhabited, and unable to hold onto a man that lived without apparent conscience.

She sat on the bed smoking, trying to put her thoughts into order while waiting for the taxi to arrive. There was a knock at the door.

It was David, and he smiled quietly holding out a folder towards her. She wondered what it was, examining the content curiously.

“Guy sent it – he said you’d know why. I hope you do.”

There were about ten drawings, some faded and faintly smudged, produced in the inimitable style she recognised and saw again images of people she could name, including one of herself and several others sprawled around a table filled with glasses and wine bottles; very decadent and quite enigmatic. There was another of Audrey seated on rocks overlooking the sea and a poignant one of Lizzie looking rather pensive, smoking a cigarette and turned directly towards the onlooker projecting a hostile expression, and Tawny immediately recalled the prickly sensation Lizzie was able to induce whenever she took a dislike to someone.

Holding the drawings in her hands, she finally realised that under the blithe surface Guy was desperate to disguise the fact his relationship with Lizzie was coming apart, and all along it had been the bitter undercurrent of distrust and pain within which Lizzie operated that had driven him away, but did that mean she should take her own life?

She was no psychiatrist, remembering the effect her own mother had had on her life and the way her mother manipulated those about her until they became tangled in the web of a personal anguish.

Staring at these drawings it all seemed so remote and far away from the people they were today, and she now felt better placed to understand, able to comprehend the futility with which Guy valued himself and the relationship he was in with Lizzie. The bravado, put on for others, enabled him to appear cool and disaffected, but beneath the swagger he was constantly troubled and probably in pain, and in Audrey found someone he desperately needed – perhaps becoming his salvation, or refuge, but certainly his means of escape – and Tawny’s involvement meant nothing.

She was no more than a distraction from events, and if there was any saving grace it was probably the fact that Audrey hadn’t attempted to drown her the time they were alone together in the boat, although clearly she was aware what had happened between her and Guy.

Glancing at David with tears in her eyes, she handed the drawings back to him. “Will you tell him thanks from me, but I can’t take these.”

“Can I ask why not – he was insistent I gave them to you before you left?”

She smiled, wiping an eye. “They’re not about me – not my life. My life has been completely different. Will you tell him that?”

“I’ll try, but I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.” She closed the door, sitting heavily as silent tears slid down her face.

Downstairs a taxi blew its horn and there was an immediate clamour of voices with the sound of feet descending the stairs. She continued sitting on the bed, rising only when there was a knock at the door.

“Coming,” she answered, with one last glance towards the window.

Her knee felt sore, but she was going home. Home to Benjie.