Anne Mather - Master Of Falcon's Head

Why then did she keep the painting? Why did she cling to it, persisting in tormenting herself this way? If she was as sophisticated and mature as she imagined herself to be, why did she not cast the painting aside?

Because, she told herself fiercely, so long as I have that painting, I will not forget that once I made a terrible mistake, and only my talent, my painting, saved me from utter humiliation!

‘Penny for them!’

She almost jumped out of her skin, so absorbed with her thoughts had she been.

‘Oh, Ben!’ she exclaimed, regaining her composure. ‘You startled me!’

‘Obviously.’ He smiled warmly down at her, then transferred his gaze to the painting. ‘What is it, Tamar? What is it about this old oils that disturbs you so?’

Tamar turned her back on the painting deliberately. ‘There’s nothing about it, Ben,’ she denied smoothly. ‘I was merely comparing my work now with my earlier attempts. Terrible, isn’t it?’ She infused just the right amount of careless amusement into her voice, and Ben was distracted from his trend of questions. Even so, he said:

‘Well, why do you keep it, then?’

Tamar shrugged. ‘Maybe to remind myself of my humble beginnings,’ she replied lightly. ‘What were you and Mr. Bernstein talking about?’

Ben gave up his questions altogether, and fell into step beside her as they walked towards the office.

‘He’s enormously pleased with your success, of course,’ he said, grinning. ‘And incidentally his own, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ said Tamar dryly, looking up at Ben with wide interested eyes.

‘He wants to give another exhibition for you in the autumn,’ went on Ben. ‘Do you think you could be ready by then?’

Now Tamar hesitated. Things seemed to be moving too fast suddenly. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Ben,’ she began. ‘I – I need a rest.’

‘What! At your age?’ Ben laughed.

‘Seriously though, I had thought of taking a holiday.’

‘Good, good. I’ll come with you. We’ll take your equipment, and all summer long you can paint to your heart’s content.’

‘No!’ Tamar’s voice was just slightly sharp. Then she squeezed his arm. ‘Please, Ben, don’t rush me. I need time to think. I don’t seem to have had a minute to myself for the last three weeks. You’re going much too fast for me. Slow down!’

Ben sighed. ‘With this game you have to strike while the iron is hot. Just now the public are going for Tamar Sheridan’s work. Do you want some other would-be artist to steal your thunder?’

Tamar shrugged. ‘Is that possible?’

‘Honey, in this game everything is possible!’ muttered Ben darkly. ‘Anyway, don’t give old Joseph heart failure. Tell him you’ll think about his proposition – for my sake!’

Tamar looked at him. ‘All right, Ben,’ she said resignedly, and preceded him into the cigar-laden atmosphere of the cubicle.

Joseph Bernstein was in his late fifties, and well known for his active assistance to young artists. Not that his motives were purely altruistic, but Tamar liked him, and trusted his judgment. Of course, he was a friend of Ben’s, and it was to Ben that she owed everything.

‘Well, Tamar,’ said Bernstein, smiling. ‘Has Ben told you our little proposition?’

‘Yes, Mr. Bernstein, he’s told me,’ Tamar nodded.

‘Good, good. I want you to keep on the ball while it is rolling, yes? You have had a very successful exhibition, Tamar. This is not always usual for a first attempt. But I think the public are going more for the straight approach again, and your paintings have a certain – how shall I put it? – charm, earthiness? No – a simplicity of line that is wholly appealing. For a girl of your age you are remarkably talented. You have experience in your paintings, as though, like the famous painters of the past, you had suffered.’

Tamar felt a faint colour invade her cheeks. Mr. Bernstein was astute as well as trustworthy.

‘I’m grateful for your help, of course,’ she began, only to find Ben’s eyes upon her, pleading with her. ‘I – I want to do what you ask – I can try – but I—’

Thankfully she had to go no further. Bernstein interrupted her. ‘Of course, of course, Tamar. We’re rushing you. The true artist does not care to be rushed. I can see this – I can feel it. You’re tired – I understand this. You need time – time to assimilate your position, to discover your real desires. It is Ben. He is the instigator of my thoughtlessness. Forgive me!’

Tamar glanced helplessly at Ben, who half-smiled. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I know – I’m neither artist nor patron. Come on, Tamar, we’ll go find a bar and have a drink. Will you join us, Joe?’

Bernstein shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Ben. Your discovery is sick of the talk. Talk to her of more interesting things. Surely you don’t need me to tell you what these things might be.’

Ben grinned. ‘No, indeed. Coming, Tamar?’

Outside, a light drizzle was falling, and the lights from the street lamps cast pools of water in strange shapes and colours. London by night, thought Tamar. How many artists had attempted that particular subject? Then she thrust all thoughts of art out of her mind, concentrating on avoiding the pools of water, and keeping up with Ben’s giant strides, as he made his way to where his car was parked.

Inside the huge Aston-Martin, he turned to her, sliding his arm along the back of her seat possessively. ‘Oh, Tamar,’ he murmured softly, ‘I love you.’

His lips sought hers, gently and swiftly, and then he started the powerful automobile. He expected no answer and got none. Tamar shivered a little. Ben’s emotions disturbed her. Why did she not respond to them? Was she abnormally frigid or something, or had that earlier experience destroyed any natural emotions she might feel? At times thoughts like these were frightening, and tonight she felt intensely sensitive.

They drove to their favourite bar, a cellar below a hotel off Piccadilly, and there, in the discreetly-lit atmosphere of rich wines and expensive cigars, Ben said:

‘What is it with you tonight, Tamar? You seem different somehow. Introspective, almost.’

Tamar studied the amber liquid in her glass. ‘I don’t know, Ben, I just don’t know. Somehow, tonight, the exhibition, everything just suddenly seems empty!’

‘Empty?’ Ben looked horrified and summoned the bartender again. ‘Another scotch,’ he said bleakly, and then turned back to Tamar. ‘Why? Is it us? Me! ’

‘Oh no!’ Tamar shook her head, and ran a hand over the smooth material of the sleeve of his jacket. ‘How could it be you, Ben? Without you, I’d be nothing.’

‘I doubt that. I doubt that intensely,’ retorted Ben hotly. ‘Sooner or later you were bound to succeed. I merely hastened the process, that’s all.’

Tamar shrugged. ‘Thank you, Ben. You’re very sweet.’

Ben lit another cigar. ‘I don’t want to be “very sweet”,’ he muttered impatiently. ‘You know what I want? I want to marry you.’

Tamar bent her head. ‘Oh, Ben, I wish I could believe we could make a success of that.’ She looked up. ‘But why me? I mean – you’re Benjamin Hastings. Your father is Allen Hastings, chairman of the Hastings Combine. I’m sure he’d have something to say if he thought you were serious.’ She smiled mockingly. ‘Me! Tamar Sheridan. A nobody, with no connections at all.’

‘That’s not fair!’ exclaimed Ben reproachfully. ‘You know my father is a great admirer of yours.’

‘An admirer of my work,’ said Tamar thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know whether he would welcome me as a daughter-in-law.’

‘Of course he would. Besides—’ there was a trace of arrogance in Ben’s tone, ‘—besides, I intend to choose my own wife, and you are that choice.’