Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

I awoke with a start. The alarm clock was clamouring next to my head. I reached across and turned it off, then lay back to gather myself. I felt disorientated and confused. The dream was still vividly with me. I could remember every detail, but now the glow of contentment it had given previously had gone. In its place I felt only a vague sense of unease.

It had lifted a little by the time I sat down to breakfast, but still not disappeared completely. I put it down to having a lot on my mind, and tried to ignore it. I had enough to think about in the real world without worrying about any dream. Dismissing it, I set off for the gallery, and more immediate concerns. Namely, that Anna was due to telephone sometime that morning. Her first auction was at ten o’clock.

She rang shortly after eleven.

“Donald, I’ve got it!”

Her excitement cut through the bad connection. “You’ve got it?” For a moment I had no idea what she meant.

“The Hopper! I’ve just come straight out to tell you! God, it was great! And I got it for five hundred less than you said!”

I put all the enthusiasm I could muster into my voice. “That’s fantastic! How on earth did you manage it?”

“I just kept bidding. I thought one man was going to keep on going. He kept up with me right up to the end, but then he dropped out! Oh, I can’t believe it!”

Neither could I. I had selected a painting from both auctions, and authorised Anna to stop bidding at a figure well below what I imagined each would go for. Clearly, I had miscalculated. Now I was several thousand pounds poorer, and the proud owner of a painting I did not want. “You’ve done marvellously well!” I said.

She laughed. “Well, all I did was keep sticking my hand in the air like you said.”

“You outbluffed another bidder, and got it for five hundred pounds less than your limit. That’s no mean feat. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks. God, I’m still out of breath! I think the adrenalin must still be pumping.”

“In that case I recommend you buy a bottle of champagne to calm your nerves. Put it on expenses.”

“I can’t drink a full bottle by myself!”

“Nonsense. And if not, you can always save some for after the next auction.” At which I sincerely hoped she would be less successful.

“I’m tempted, I must admit. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Marty!”

I felt a hard knot of bitterness. Marty again. Always Marty, “Are you going to call him now?” I asked.

“No, I can’t. He’ll be at the university, and I don’t want to disturb him. I’ll have to wait until tonight.”

“No doubt he’ll be waiting by the telephone.”

Anna laughed again. “He better be. I’m bursting to tell him. Oh, I’m going to be cut off,” she said, suddenly.

“I’ll talk to you the day after tomorrow. Well done, again.”

“Okay, I’ll phone after the—” The line went dead. I held the receiver to my ear for a moment longer, reluctant to relinquish the link between myself and Anna, before setting it back in its cradle. In spite of the news of my unwanted acquisition, it had been good to hear from her. If this was what it was like when she was away for a matter of days, I dared not imagine how I would feel if she went to America.

A mood of restlessness settled on me. In the past I had never lacked for anything to do. But now, with two days to go before Anna returned, and a day and night before I learned how successful Zeppo had been with Marty, the hours stretched endlessly in front of me.

Boredom made me eat an ill-advised lunch, after which my stomach steadily deteriorated. Acid seared my chest, and by early evening my fears of an ulcer had given way to something more sinister. I contemplated calling for a doctor, half convinced I was having a heart attack. For a while I allowed the thought to occupy me, losing myself in fantasies of hospitals and death-beds, and as my thoughts became more morbid, so they were taken from the subject that had prompted them. Either that or the indigestion tablets finally did the trick: it was almost with surprise that I realised the pain had finally eased.

I felt better still when I realised my maudlin self-indulgence had occupied a considerable portion of the evening. Suddenly, the morning no longer seemed a lifetime away. Almost cheerful now, I made a light, bland snack and considered how to pass the rest of the time. The anodyne of television has never appealed to me. I refuse to have one in the house, preferring instead to read or listen to music. Or retreat into an even more private world. It was this last I chose now.

My private gallery is in a windowless room on the first floor. Inside are the pieces that comprise my secret collection, started when I bought that first snuffbox. I let myself in and turned on the lights. The atmosphere was cathedral quiet; restful. The anxieties of the day sloughed off as soon as I closed the door, and I paused for a moment to savour the feeling.

In my preoccupation with Anna, I had not been in the room for weeks. Now it was like a homecoming. I knew every painting, every line-drawing intimately, but their attraction had never palled. Each was erotic in its own way, some strikingly so, others more subtle in their appeal. There was an eighteenth-century pastoral scene, typical in every way but for the shepherdess’ bare breasts, and the shepherd’s hand beneath her petticoats. Next to it, an engraving of Leda embracing the swan, burying her face in its feathers as its neck twined around her back. Further along was a scene of two naked girls supine on a bed, sensual and languorous after their passion.

I lost myself amongst them, sometimes lingering over a particular piece, sometimes only pausing briefly before moving on to the next. One, however, drew me back time and time again. It showed a couple making love in front of a fire, while from behind a screen a man watched unseen. Gradually, I forgot about the other pictures. After a while I moved a chair closer and sat down to study it more comfortably.

The watcher’s face was rapt as he crouched behind the screen, only feet from where the couple lay. They appeared oblivious to him. The man’s head was thrown back in the extremity of his passion, the girl’s eyes closed in ecstasy. One arm curled around her lover’s neck, the other lay flung out, apparently in abandon. Or was it? Palm upwards, stretched out towards the screen, it could just as easily have been extended in invitation. It was that ambiguity that fascinated me. That outstretched arm transformed the entire picture, implicating the watcher in the lover’s union, elevating him from mere voyeur to an actual participant.

I gazed at the scene, hypnotised. The girl became Anna, the man Zeppo. The fantasy took form, began to move. I crouched behind the screen, invisible. I moved closer, lingered on the edge of Anna’s outstretched hand. On a level with them, I looked directly into Anna’s face as her head turned, her eyes opened, and she smiled at me...

I woke with a start. I was still in the chair, facing the now flat, two-dimensional picture. My neck ached. I rubbed it gingerly, my thoughts still sleep-muddied. I had a vague impression that something had woken me, and then I heard the noise again. Muffled and distant, a faint chiming noise, followed by a dull but violent banging. The last wisps of sleep disappeared, and I stood up.

Someone was at the door.

I looked at my watch as I hurried downstairs. It was two o’clock. Uncaring of the time, the banging grew louder as I neared the front door. I unlocked it without thinking. I suppose I already knew who it had to be.

As soon as I opened it, Zeppo pushed inside. He was soaking wet.

“Have you any idea what the time is?” I said, closing the door on the rain. His hair was flat to his head, trickling water over his face. It was already pooling around him. “Look at the mess you’re making on the carpet!” I was aware of how inane I sounded even as I spoke.