Jessie Burton - The Muse

I broke away. ‘You’ll get me sacked.’

‘All right. Can’t have that.’

He moved back to his chair, grinning like an idiot. The rain was thrumming heavily now, but this was English rain, not Trini rain. Back home, aerial waterfalls fell from the breaking sky, week on week of tropical downpour, forests doused so green they were almost black, the neon signs out, escarpments churned to mud, torch ginger flowers so red, like a man’s blood had coloured the petals — and all of us, standing under awnings or hiding in houses till it was safe once more to walk the shining asphalt road. We used to say ‘it rainin’’ as an excuse for being late, and everyone would always understand.

‘What?’ Lawrie said. ‘Why are you smiling?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’

There was a rapping on the door. Quick was peering through the glass, under the brim of a wide black umbrella. ‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘She early.’

I ran to the door and unlocked it, thanking God she hadn’t seen us kissing. Quick stepped inside, and I thought her face looked thinner. She removed her coat and brushed off her umbrella. ‘August,’ she muttered.

She looked up and saw Lawrie. ‘Who are you?’ she said, wary as a cat.

‘This is — Mr Scott,’ I said, surprised at her bluntness. ‘He’d like to speak to someone about his painting. Mr Scott, this is Miss Quick.’

‘Mr Scott?’ she repeated. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

‘Hullo,’ Lawrie said, jumping to his feet. ‘Wondered if I’ve got an heirloom or a piece of junk.’ He put out his hand and Quick, as if resisting a great magnet, lifted her own to meet it. I saw her flinch, though Lawrie noticed nothing.

She smiled faintly. ‘I hope, for your sake, Mr Scott, it’s the former.’

‘Me too.’

‘May I see it?’

Lawrie went to the counter and began unwrapping the paper. Quick stayed where she was by the door, fingers gripping the top of her umbrella. She kept staring at him. Rain had soaked her coat but she didn’t take it off. Lawrie swung the painting up, holding it against his body for me and Quick to see. ‘Here it is,’ he said.

Quick stood for four or five seconds, eyes transfixed on the golden lion, the girls, the landscape spiralling out behind them. The umbrella slid out of her grasp and bumped to the floor. ‘Quick?’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

She looked at me, abruptly turned on her heel and walked out of the front door. ‘It’s not that bad,’ said Lawrie, peering over the top of the painting.

Quick was hurrying away along the square, her head bowed, oblivious to the rain soaking her. As I reached for my own coat, Edmund Reede appeared and removed his dripping trilby.

He looked down at me. ‘Miss — Baston, is it?’

‘Bastien.’

‘Where are you running off to?’

‘To see Miss Quick. She’s — forgotten her umbrella.’

‘We were supposed to be having a meeting.’ He turned to where Lawrie was now sitting again, the painting on his knees, hastily covered in the brown paper. ‘And who’s this?’

‘Mr Scott has a painting,’ I said.

‘I can see that. Isn’t this all rather a flurry for eight fifteen in the morning? Where’s Miss Rudge?’

‘I’m on the early shift, Mr Reede. Mr Scott came today because he was hoping someone would take a look at his painting. It was his mother’s — her favourite. .’ I trailed off, desperate to follow Quick and see if she was all right.

Reede removed his wet overcoat with slow deliberation, as if I had placed the burden of the world on his shoulders. He was a tall, broad man and he filled the space with his fine tailoring and thatch of white hair, his woody aftershave. ‘Have you made an appointment?’ he asked Lawrie, his small blue eyes glinting with impatience.

‘No, sir.’

‘We’re not a drop-in centre, you know. This isn’t really how it’s done.’

Lawrie stiffened, the brown paper rustling over his painting. ‘I know that.’

‘Well, perhaps you don’t. Have Miss Bastien make an appointment for you some time next week. I have no time today.’ He turned to look back through the door where Quick had fled. ‘Why the hell did Marjorie just run off like that?’ he said. I’d never seen Reede look worried before. As he turned back, Lawrie stood up, half the brown paper falling to the floor. Reede stopped in his tracks, his gaze on the revealed half of the painting, the golden lion.

‘Is that yours?’ he asked Lawrie.

Lawrie lowered his eyes and gathered up the paper. ‘Yes,’ he said defensively. ‘Well — my mother’s. Now it’s mine.’ Reede stepped towards it, but Lawrie moved away, putting his hand out. ‘Hold on. You said you didn’t have time. You said next week. Although by then,’ he added, ‘I may have taken it elsewhere.’

‘Ah,’ said Reede. He put his hands up. ‘I just want to take a closer look. Please,’ he added, which seemed to cost him a great effort.

‘Why? A minute ago you couldn’t give a damn.’

Reede laughed; a twitchy joviality. ‘Look, old chap, I’m sorry if I was blunt. We get a damned lot of people coming in here with Auntie Edna’s heirlooms or something they bought for three bob off a bloke in Brick Lane, and you get a bit sick of it. But what you’ve got there looks interesting. If you let me take a look, I might be able to tell you why.’

Lawrie hesitated, before placing the painting back on the counter. He unwrapped the rest of the paper. Reede stepped towards it, drinking in the image, his fingers hovering over the paint, the second girl’s floating head, her snaking plait, the lion’s passive stare. ‘My goodness,’ he breathed. ‘Where did your mother get this?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you ask her?’

Lawrie glanced at me. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Ah.’ Reede hesitated. ‘So — have you any idea where she might have got it from?’

‘She bought most of her things from junk shops or flea markets, sometimes at auctions, but this one has been around since I was a little boy. It was always hanging on her wall, whatever house we moved to.’

‘Where was it hanging last?’

‘Her house in Surrey.’

‘Did she ever talk about it to you?’

‘Why would she do that?’

Reede gently picked up the painting and looked on the back. ‘No frame, just a hook,’ he murmured. ‘Well,’ he said, addressing Lawrie. ‘If she always had it hanging up, it might have had particular meaning to her.’

‘I think she just thought it was pretty,’ Lawrie said.

‘Pretty is not the word I would use.’

‘What word would you use, sir?’

Reede blinked away Lawrie’s tone. ‘On first impressions, “brave”. And provenance matters, Mr Scott, if you choose to exhibit things, or put things on the market. I assume that’s why you brought it to us.’

‘So it’s worth something?’

There was a pause. Reede breathed deeply, his eyes pinned to the picture. ‘Mr Scott, may I take you to my office so I can have a closer look at this?’

‘All right.’

‘Miss Bastien, bring coffee.’

Reede picked up the painting and gestured for Lawrie to follow him. I watched them walk up the spiral staircase, Lawrie looking back over his shoulder, his eyes wide with excitement, giving me a thumbs up.

Outside, the rain was becoming a torrent. I scoured the square for Quick, but of course, by now, she had gone. With her rolled-up umbrella in my hand like a lance, I ran along the left side of the square and turned up towards Piccadilly, blindly hoping I would see her. I took another right, unconsciously heading towards the Tube station, and then I saw her, a block ahead. The traffic honked and screeched, and the statue of Eros loomed.