Lynda La Plante: Twisted

She got up and went to the big bag she had put their paintings in ready for them to take when they left. She began to sort through various canvases, and then opened a big artist’s sketch-pad and flicked through it.

She turned as she heard him snoring, and went to pick up an embroidered Mexican rug to lay over him; he was out for the count. She carried the sketchbook into the bedroom, closing the door and opening the shutters. She intended finding the particular drawing she wanted to show him, but resting back on the pillows she couldn’t keep awake.

Reid woke a few hours later. Disorientated, he sat up and then flopped back, hardly able to believe he had fallen asleep. He took a few deep breaths and got to his feet, and then wondered in panic if Jo Polka had taken off. He pushed open the shutters, but the Land Rover was still there, the hens were clucking frantically and as he opened the door to look out he discovered the sun was already blistering hot. He walked round to the hosepipe and stripped off to shower again, but paused to look into the window of the bedroom. She was fast asleep. He turned on the hose, making the most of the relative privacy.

Feeling more refreshed, but his body still aching, he went to his camper van to take out his washbag, then used the small cracked mirror in the kitchen while he shaved. He had lit the gas ring to heat up the remains of the coffee in the pot. There was no fridge, only an ancient cold box as there was no electricity. He opened the back door and noticed potted geranium plants with brilliant red flowers and, beyond, rows of fig trees and cactus plants.

Shaved and showered, he still did not attempt to wake her, but went to the hen hutch and found three freshly laid eggs. He returned to the kitchen and searched for the frying pan to make breakfast. She had left it in a bucket of water, and he wiped it dry and placed it on the Calor gas stove. The coffee was soon hot and he dried off the plates from the same bucket of water and wanted to fry the eggs, but couldn’t find oil or butter. He opened a green-painted cupboard with a worn mesh door and found a small jar of honey and the remains of the loaf of bread.

He knocked on the bedroom door and, getting no response, pushed it open, but the room was empty. In panic he ran to the front door and opening it he saw her standing naked under the makeshift shower. She had the most perfect body, an all-over tan, a neat muscular frame and pert breasts with heavy dark large nipples, and he had to catch his breath because he was so aroused. He stepped back into the cottage and with embarrassment called out to her that he had made breakfast.

She came in with just a cheap threadbare towel wrapped around her body, her hair wet and her shoulders glistening as she had not bothered to dry herself.

‘Well, isn’t this a treat?’ she said and smiled, and did her little dance steps around the table before she went into the bedroom. She re-emerged after only a few moments wearing a white cotton shift dress with embroidered flowers around the neck, barefoot and her hair still damp. She carried a large sketchpad, and placed it down on the table.

‘I was looking through this last night and must have fallen asleep, but I wanted to show you something – they’re some of Amy’s sketches, she is becoming very adept, really quite talented.’

She hesitated and bit down on her lip, then shook her head, not wanting to cry. Instead she smiled and poured herself the very stewed coffee, and prodded the rather over-cooked egg. He found her utterly endearing as she complimented him on his culinary endeavours.

‘I went into the hen house,’ he said boyishly.

‘Well clever you, and perhaps you’d like to feed them as I didn’t get around to it yesterday.’

She was trying so hard not to show how deeply unhappy she was, and he couldn’t think of anything to say that would make it any easier. She constantly made him feel awkward and inadequate at small talk, so he ate his eggs and reached for the sketchpad.

‘I remembered something last night,’ Jo said, ‘something Amy told me about a holiday she had been on with her parents to Antigua. She said that Simon Boatly had turned up in a speedboat and wanted her to go water-skiing. Her mother had got into a terrible rage and it was hideous as she had spoiled the entire holiday. Amy had overheard her parents arguing. I am not sure if she knew then about her father’s relationship with Boatly, but she was forbidden to ever see him again, or go to his home in Henley, although her father used to take her sometimes on the condition she never told her mother.’

He wiped the remainder of his eggs with the bread, which was now somewhat stale.

‘I saw some pictures and video of the Antigua holiday.’

Jo began to flick through the sketchpad; he leaned over and put his hand out to stop her.

‘What’s that one?’

‘Oh that’s one of mine, a sketch from the amazing desert in Sonora – it’s always desolate and the sky and sand make it feel as if you are on the edge of the world. Sonora was used as a location for the movie Catch-22 .’

He looked at a couple more of the same sketches; they were as she described, as if depicting the edge of the world.

‘You get the most indescribable feeling of peace,’ she went on. ‘I went there when my first partner left me; it felt as if I was on the brink of despair, but then after walking mile upon mile on the incredible soft sand, and with the brilliant blue sky touching the horizon, I knew I would be able to forgive, not forget… just forgive.’

Again he wanted to say something, but was silenced by the same inadequacy, as if his brain would not function or allow him to say what he felt.

‘I loved her as I love Amy, and I still can’t believe she won’t be a part of my life. Have you ever loved…?’ She stopped and laughed and leaned forward. ‘I don’t even know your Christian name.’

He flushed and said that his name was Victor, although no one ever really called him that, but mostly Vic for short.

‘Victor, have you ever loved someone with a wild unexplainable passion?’ she said softly and gave him the sweetest of smiles.

He had never loved anyone in the way she had described, but not wanting to answer her question, he said he would like to go to the desert while he was in Mexico.

‘You should, it will open your heart.’

She sifted through the many sketches and then withdrew two and placed them side by side in front of him.

‘I never met him, but that is Simon Boatly.’ She tapped with her index finger.

Reid nodded and remembered meeting him, being aware of his handsomeness, his suntan, his blond bleached hair, and even recalled his ankles and feet with the soft Moroccan slippers.

‘Yes, it’s a very good likeness.’

She nodded and tapped the second sketch. It was a self-portrait of Amy, with a sad expression and downcast eyes. He cocked his head to one side.

‘Keep looking at it, and you tell me if what I think is true.’

He looked from one sketch to the other, and then moved them closer together.

‘Her mother hated him, was incandescent with rage when he turned up in Antigua, she forbade her to see him, and counted him as an enemy. I think he was Amy’s father, and if she can prove she is Simon Boatly’s illegitimate daughter, surely she would also be his heir. How much did you say he was worth?’

Reid was curious about the manner and tone in which she asked about Boatly’s wealth. ‘I don’t recall mentioning an exact amount. Why do you ask, is it important?’

‘Oh I see, we are back to being the detective now, are we? But what if I am right?’

He stood up and went to pick up his shoes, the good feelings he had had towards Jo now spoiled by her interest in the inheritance. She was becoming angry as she held up the sketch.