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Newlyn

Paul shut the radio off.

‘That was interesting.’ I turned it back on, hearing a male voice that made the hair on my arms stand up. Before I could place the voice, Paul turned it off again.

‘She’s simply trying to sell her book.’

‘That’s fair, but you know it’s a subject that’s important to me.’ I could listen to it later. I didn’t need to fight this battle now. My energy was needed for other things.

‘You couldn’t find enough evidence to back it up.’

We’d been around this a thousand times. Paul had pointed out every single flaw in my thesis, and I’d dug deeper and deeper until I gave up and accepted defeat. According to him, I couldn’t construct a strong enough argument, but clearly someone else had.

Rather than go through it all again, I pressed the button for Radio Cornwall.

Secretly I knew this would annoy him, as he hated all local stations.

The song playing took me back to just before I’d met him.

The world had been mine then, unlike now.

However, today the sky was blue and the poetry manuscript had been verified.

But this bothered me. I didn’t think the work could be Forster’s.

If he had written those poems in the first place, why would he produce pale comparisons after the war?

I thought about the pen and paper on the chaise longue. The woman in the portrait was a writer.

Paul put up his window as we neared the harbour.

The smell of fish was strong, and out of the corner of my eye I could see his hand covering his nose.

He sent a pointed look to my open window.

It was easy to ignore him as I manoeuvred through the busy area.

Besides, this was life on the edge of the water – beautiful and at times fragrant.

The road twisted onwards and I swung into Harbour House’s drive.

‘Nice spot. Shame about the garden,’ Paul said as he climbed out.

The garden was a joyous riot of spring colour.

Early bluebells vied with the late daffodils and camellias.

It was glorious but not ordered in any way.

His comment didn’t deserve a reply, so I didn’t look at him as I walked to the open front door.

In the hallway stood Tash, Rory and the handyman. He was holding on to two ladders.

‘I made it in time.’

Tash turned. ‘You did, and from what Frank’s been saying, we might just need all of us to bring her down safely.’ She glared at Paul.

He, however, smiled and held out his hand to Rory. ‘I haven’t seen you since the conference in Manchester, or maybe it was the last time you popped into the art history department.’

Rory took his hand and looked from me to Paul.

‘Yes, Ren is my partner,’ Paul proclaimed. I wanted to deny it, but it was the truth.

‘You’ll be interested in this house and the work it contains,’ Rory said, letting go of Paul’s hand. ‘I’d say it chimes with your work.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Paul cut in, and I was embarrassed at his rudeness. Rory took a step back, then glanced at me.

In that moment, I was certain that was why Paul was here – Rory.

Never had I given him reason to doubt my devotion, but he was acting like a cat trying to mark his territory.

Speaking of cats, Bastard walked in and rubbed against both Rory and Tash, but avoided Paul.

Tash would say the cat had sense and I didn’t.

‘Thanks for coming, Frank,’ I said, nodding at the ladders. ‘I knew you’d be the right person to bring our lady down.’

‘The way you say “our lady” makes me want to bless myself.’ Frank chuckled.

Tash frowned.

‘Years of Catholic school.’ He looked up. ‘She is a beauty.’

‘A bit over the top,’ Paul said. ‘The artist overdid the work, it’s too fawning.’

‘Don’t know about that, but I’d be certain that the painter had a thing for her.’ Frank carried his ladders towards the stairs. He propped one against the base and took the other one to the landing.

Tash turned to Paul, ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful and put the kettle on. You can make everyone some tea.’

Paul appeared to be about to argue, but then disappeared. I imagined he didn’t complain because of his curiosity to see the rest of the house.

Tash was sent to the landing to hold one ladder in place, and I was tasked with holding the other on the ground floor, effectively forming a scaffold-like feature. The two men progressed carefully towards the painting.

‘They didn’t want it falling off the wall, that’s for sure,’ Frank said to no one in particular.

Between them they managed to lift the painting off the many hooks holding it.

‘Been a long time since I’ve handled a frame as heavy as this,’ Frank said.

They brought it safely down and Tash darted to the back of the painting. ‘Nothing. Not a mark of any sort.’

‘The gold leaf on the frame is very fine.’ Frank stroked it carefully before coughing from the dust he’d raised. ‘I imagine it’s worth as much as the painting.’

‘No,’ said Rory, transfixed. ‘She is priceless.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Paul, who was trapped behind the ladder and unable to come through. Of course, I could tell him to venture up the back staircase, but I felt the tiniest of victories at his exclusion. ‘I can tell even from a distance that it is the work of a student at best.’

With care I picked my way upstairs, drawn to the painting. The closer I was to her, the more I knew Paul was wrong. This was a special painting that transcended the ordinary. Silence fell on the four of us as we took in the beauty of the work.

‘Hey, is anyone going to come and drink the tea I made?’

Tash laughed, sending me a glance. ‘We’ll be down in a moment,’ she called, sounding like a mother with an unruly child.

I reached the top step and saw the painting up close.

It was glorious. Whoever the artist was, they had been well trained.

The brushwork, the use of colour and the perspective were faultless.

In fact I struggled to find anything wrong with it.

It had the touch of a Sargent and none of the sweetness of de László.

There was an edge to it that I couldn’t put my finger on.

‘The artist was in love with her,’ Rory said as he turned to me.

I nodded.

‘His brushwork is outstanding.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Why do you say his ?’

‘Sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I fell prey to an easy and sloppy assumption that the artist was a man.’

‘Well, it could be, but I’d say it was a woman.’ Tash stepped closer to the canvas.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Well, look at the way the fabric of her dress falls.’ She pointed to the woman’s stomach. ‘It’s like the . . . what cats have, the . . .’

‘Primordial pouch.’ Rory said, and I was impressed with his knowledge. As if on cue, Bastard sauntered by with her paunch on display.

‘Men either ignore a woman’s stomach or they do a Lucian Freud on her and all you see is the baggy belly and saggy tits. I would argue that this painter knows a woman’s body well because she had one of her own.’ Tash smiled.

‘That’s utter tosh,’ Paul said from below. I had almost forgotten he was there.

‘I know what you mean,’ said Rory, ignoring him. ‘Now that you’ve said it, I can see it.’

‘Well, be it a man or a woman who painted her, I’d swear they’d just had their leg over. That’s my two pence worth.’ Frank began gathering his ladders from the top down. ‘Need anything else shifted, Ren?’

‘No, that’s all, thanks, Frank.’

‘I’ll be off then.’

Tash gave him a hand with the first ladder, leaving Paul stuck behind the other one for another few minutes. Meanwhile Rory helped me in placing the painting securely in the master bedroom.

‘I don’t care who painted it, but it’s clear they were in love with her, and she loved them back.’ His voice was filled with awe.

I stood back from the painting. ‘Yes, you’re right. You know, it reminds me of one of Forster’s poems.’

‘Of course it does.’ Rory paused, then said, ‘ I am unmade / Love has disassembled me / To my parts / Only you / Can make me whole. ’

I swallowed.

Longing like I’d never known filled me.

Our eyes met.

Connection.

Trembling, I looked down. The last thing I needed was for Paul to see my attraction to Rory, or worse, to see the flash of what I thought I had just seen in Rory’s eyes.

It had been so long since anyone had looked at me that way, I could be wrong.

Maybe it was just how he was feeling about the painting.

I turned from him and studied the canvas. The paper and pen on the chaise by her left hand were clear. I crouched to read what was written there. My breath caught. The words of the poem he’d just recited were visible.

‘Look.’ I pointed.

Rory kneeled beside me. He mouthed the words, then turned to me.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ I asked.

He swallowed and nodded. ‘I’m not sure how it can be, but yes.’

For a moment I longed to be someone else. Someone who hadn’t failed, who wasn’t in a relationship, someone who was free to lean in and kiss this man. But I wasn’t any of those things, so I rose and dashed downstairs, to find Tash and Paul in a stand-off.

‘Thank you so much for helping Ren, but you won’t be needed now that I’m here.’

Tash laughed good and loud before she replied. ‘You have never been a help but have done everything in your power to hinder her.’

‘How dare you say that!’ Paul replied. ‘You’re just jealous that she loves me and not you.’

‘The only thing I’m jealous about is the great wallop of cream you have in your hair that she didn’t bother to tell you about. It makes you look . . . not distinguished academic but more circus clown.’ Tash pushed past him towards the kitchen.

Paul’s face was puce and he did look like a clown. I bit my lip as I prepared myself for the tirade that was about to explode.

‘How could you?’ he whispered.

I didn’t say a word, for if I did, there would be hell to pay later.