The Girl Behind The Fan (Hidden Women) by Stella Knightley Page B

goings-on these past few weeks. You have been distracted from your work by this ignorant ruffian. I know you have been feeding him from my kitchen and doubtless he has been drinking from my wine cellar too. He has taken advantage of you and you in turn have taken advantage of me. Now it is time for you to choose. Are you loyal to me or to him?’
    ‘Arlette, please don’t make me choose between you. I love you both. You are my family. No one has ever shown me such kindness . . .’
    ‘And how little gratitude you show for it. Me or him?’
    Remi was already covering up the portrait, ready to take it away.
    ‘Come on, Augustine,’ he said. ‘If she can’t appreciate great art when she sees it, then it’s highly unlikely she appreciates you properly either. Come on. You’ve worked like a slave here. You don’t owe her anything.’
    At one time, I had felt I owed Arlette everything. But right then she seemed childish and surly, insisting that I choose between her and my true love all because she didn’t like the way he’d painted her. I decided I would go with Remi. I never thought for a moment that I might not have the chance to come back to Arlette’s household later.
     
    That night, I stayed with Remi in a little hotel in Saint Germain. He told the man on the desk that we were married but I had lost my wedding ring when we encountered robbers on our first day in the city. They’d taken our papers at the same time. The hotelier did not look convinced but neither did he seem to particularly care about our marital status. He handed Remi a key and wished us a good night with a horrible wink.
    ‘This is much better than the chambre de bonne ,’ said Remi. ‘At last a bed we can stretch out in.’
    I agreed, though the chambre de bonne had been dry and warm and this hotel room smelled distinctly of mildew. It was a smell that took me back to the room I had shared with my mother. How I had longed to be able to take her to a better place, so that she might be cured of the consumption. The memory made me tearful. Remi misinterpreted my weeping.
    ‘Arlette is a silly woman. She is vain and stupid. To think she believes anyone could have painted a better portrait! Of course, I could have made the picture more flattering but I am a true artist. I don’t just paint what I see. I paint my subject’s inner life as well.’
    Remi was completely absorbed in his own justifications. I didn’t dare tell him that I had liked it better when his pictures were less realistic but kind. Instead, I snuggled close to him and let him talk until he decided he wanted to make love to me.
    Then I let him undress me and touch every inch of my body.
    ‘Here,’ he said, ‘is a vision worth wasting paint to capture.’
    Perhaps realising that I was as upset by the evening’s events as he had been angered, Remi showed extra-special attention to my happiness for once. He had me lie back on the bed and think of nothing but pleasure as he got to his knees between my legs and buried his face in my mound. I relaxed just a little as I felt his tongue on my clitoris, but the thought of Arlette’s angry tears soon distracted me again and Remi grew impatient for my climax.
    Not wanting to disappoint him, I gave a reasonable impression of a woman satisfied. Then he climbed on top of me to take his own pleasure. I sighed as he pushed into me and wrapped my arms round him, holding his face against my neck so that he would not see my own wet eyes.
    For a moment, while he was inside me, I forgot about my worries and focused instead on the good that had come from the argument. I was spending a night away from home in a big bed. A proper marital bed. At least I would not wake up with a crick in my neck. And we did not have to worry about keeping anyone awake.
     
    However, in the morning, while Remi went to Le Petit Ami to see if he could find a tourist willing to sit for one of his sketches, I went straight back to Arlette’s house. It was wash day