and changing into a light summer dress, she puts on an Elvis CD and parks herself in front of the mirror to put on some make-up, avoiding looking too directly into her own eyes for fear of what she might see there.
You’re going to meet him,
whisper the butterflies in her belly, and, excited as a schoolgirl, she grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge and makes her way over to their boat.
The sky is filled with the meaningless light of a setting sun, and Linden is sitting on deck with a glass of wine. No sign of
him
. She stands up and greets Grace with a kiss on both cheeks, which, not being a way of greeting Grace is used to, takes her slightly by surprise. She hands Linden the bottle.
‘Thanks,’ says Linden. ‘Take a seat. I’ll get you a glass.’ And she ducks inside.
Sitting down, Grace spots a couple of neighbours walking by and exchanges greetings. She can almost sense their disapproval of the boat’s mad exterior, probably wondering what she is doing there.
What
is
she doing here?
Linden reappears and hands her a drink. ‘Luke’s not back yet,’ she says. ‘He went for a swim hours ago. There’s real time and then there’s Luke time. They’re very different, you quickly discover.’
‘Never mind,’ Grace says, masking her disappointment. ‘Cheers!’ They clink glasses. She takes a sip of wine.‘I’m sorry about this morning, in the supermarket.’
‘You don’t have to apologise.’
‘I don’t know what came over me. That’s never happened to me before.’
‘As long as you’re all right.’
‘I am.’ She gives a fake smile.
‘I thought…’ Linden pauses, playing with the stem of her glass with both hands. ‘Well, to be honest – when I saw the mark on your face, I thought maybe your husband had hit you.’
‘Oh, God, no,’ she says, not missing the irony, ‘Gordon would never do that. He’s never done that. No, he’s away fishing with a pal. I tripped and fell over.’ She thinks about how often she’d lied about the marks on her face, or the injuries on her body, after Pete’s beatings. In the duration of the thought she decides against expressing it, saying, instead, ‘How are you?’
Linden slumps with a weary sigh and pulls a sullen face. ‘I’m a bit pissed off with myself, to be honest, Grace. I should have been in the studio all day today, but I got totally wasted last night and haven’t been as productive as I should’ve been. I’ve got a show coming up and I’m really fucking behind.’ She takes a sip of wine and then, more calmly, says, ‘I put in a couple of good hours this afternoon, though, so I won’t beat myself up too much.
Fucking superego
!’ She laughs, and Grace pictures something like a comic book hero. She takes in the girl’s beauty – the smoothness of the skin, the immaculate teeth and fine cheekbones – feeling a vampiric rush ofdesire to suck the youth right out of her. Her blonde hair is plaited now, making her look younger. Her features, Grace thinks, are almost doll-like, though there’s a full sensuality in the way she is dressed: tight blue jeans and a skimpy vest-top. She thinks,
It seems so cruel that we have to grow old – like a punishment for having the audacity to stay alive.
‘What is it you do?’
‘I’m an artist. A painter. At the moment I’m working on a series of anamorphic portraits,’ she says, then, seeing the blank look on Grace’s face, ‘It’s easier if I just show you.’ Taking a camera from her bag, she says, ‘I’ve got some images on here that will give you an idea of what they look like.’
She holds out a digital camera and Grace looks at the image displayed: the melting head and shoulders of a blonde-haired woman in a red dress. The face is unrecognisable, the features washed out, eyes halfway down the cheeks, mouth drooping and dripping in a sad red. In contrast, the hair, shoulders and dress – and the patterned wallpaper behind – are all finely rendered, realistic as a
You’re going to meet him,
whisper the butterflies in her belly, and, excited as a schoolgirl, she grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge and makes her way over to their boat.
The sky is filled with the meaningless light of a setting sun, and Linden is sitting on deck with a glass of wine. No sign of
him
. She stands up and greets Grace with a kiss on both cheeks, which, not being a way of greeting Grace is used to, takes her slightly by surprise. She hands Linden the bottle.
‘Thanks,’ says Linden. ‘Take a seat. I’ll get you a glass.’ And she ducks inside.
Sitting down, Grace spots a couple of neighbours walking by and exchanges greetings. She can almost sense their disapproval of the boat’s mad exterior, probably wondering what she is doing there.
What
is
she doing here?
Linden reappears and hands her a drink. ‘Luke’s not back yet,’ she says. ‘He went for a swim hours ago. There’s real time and then there’s Luke time. They’re very different, you quickly discover.’
‘Never mind,’ Grace says, masking her disappointment. ‘Cheers!’ They clink glasses. She takes a sip of wine.‘I’m sorry about this morning, in the supermarket.’
‘You don’t have to apologise.’
‘I don’t know what came over me. That’s never happened to me before.’
‘As long as you’re all right.’
‘I am.’ She gives a fake smile.
‘I thought…’ Linden pauses, playing with the stem of her glass with both hands. ‘Well, to be honest – when I saw the mark on your face, I thought maybe your husband had hit you.’
‘Oh, God, no,’ she says, not missing the irony, ‘Gordon would never do that. He’s never done that. No, he’s away fishing with a pal. I tripped and fell over.’ She thinks about how often she’d lied about the marks on her face, or the injuries on her body, after Pete’s beatings. In the duration of the thought she decides against expressing it, saying, instead, ‘How are you?’
Linden slumps with a weary sigh and pulls a sullen face. ‘I’m a bit pissed off with myself, to be honest, Grace. I should have been in the studio all day today, but I got totally wasted last night and haven’t been as productive as I should’ve been. I’ve got a show coming up and I’m really fucking behind.’ She takes a sip of wine and then, more calmly, says, ‘I put in a couple of good hours this afternoon, though, so I won’t beat myself up too much.
Fucking superego
!’ She laughs, and Grace pictures something like a comic book hero. She takes in the girl’s beauty – the smoothness of the skin, the immaculate teeth and fine cheekbones – feeling a vampiric rush ofdesire to suck the youth right out of her. Her blonde hair is plaited now, making her look younger. Her features, Grace thinks, are almost doll-like, though there’s a full sensuality in the way she is dressed: tight blue jeans and a skimpy vest-top. She thinks,
It seems so cruel that we have to grow old – like a punishment for having the audacity to stay alive.
‘What is it you do?’
‘I’m an artist. A painter. At the moment I’m working on a series of anamorphic portraits,’ she says, then, seeing the blank look on Grace’s face, ‘It’s easier if I just show you.’ Taking a camera from her bag, she says, ‘I’ve got some images on here that will give you an idea of what they look like.’
She holds out a digital camera and Grace looks at the image displayed: the melting head and shoulders of a blonde-haired woman in a red dress. The face is unrecognisable, the features washed out, eyes halfway down the cheeks, mouth drooping and dripping in a sad red. In contrast, the hair, shoulders and dress – and the patterned wallpaper behind – are all finely rendered, realistic as a
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