Jessie Burton - The Muse

He ran a hand over his face. ‘Did you know this would happen, Olive?’

‘No.’

‘Did you suppose it would happen?’

‘I didn’t think about it.’

‘You didn’t think about it.’

‘I — just knew I couldn’t tell my father that it was mine.’

‘But why not?’ He pressed his finger on the letter and she watched the skin turn white. ‘Would it not be easier than all this?’

‘Teresa put me on the spot. She interfered—’

‘Mr Robles does not have any more paintings,’ Isaac said, folding his arms. ‘That was the one painting he had. And now it’s sold. And now there are no more.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘So I am going to tell your father, the dealer , that I do not have time to paint. My work in Malaga does not give me the time for it.’

‘Peggy Guggenheim bought you, Isaac. Her uncle—’

He made a sound of disgust. ‘Listen to yourself. Peggy bought you .’

‘Peggy bought us . Don’t you see? We’re together in this. Your name, your face: my work.’

‘Olive. This is very serious. There is no balance.’

‘Just one more painting. One more.’

‘I have not enjoyed this. I said yes, like a fool. I was tired, I was stupid. And now you are like a drunk, searching for the hidden bottle.’

‘Blame your sister, not me. I never wanted this situation, but here it is.’

‘You could have stopped it. You didn’t want to.’

‘Did you give the money to the workers?’

‘I did.’

‘And didn’t that feel like you were doing something? Aren’t we all supposed to make sacrifices — isn’t that half your credo that you’ve been telling me since the day we met?’

‘And what sacrifice are you making, Olive? As far as I can see, for you this is a big joke.’

‘It’s not a joke,’ Olive snapped, pushing her chair back and facing him square-on.

‘You have been behaving as if it is.’

‘Why do you and your sister think I’m so stupid? Do you know how many artists my father sells? Twenty-six, last time I counted. Do you know how many of them are women, Isaac? None. Not one. Women can’t do it, you see. They haven’t got the vision , although last time I checked they had eyes, and hands, and hearts and souls. I’d have lost before I’d even had a chance.’

‘But you made that painting—’

‘So what? My father would never have got on a plane to Paris with a painting he thought was mine. I’ve lived with that realization for years, Isaac. Years and years, before you and I met. When I came down here, I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life; I was lost. And then I met you. And then your sister — your interfering little sister, who perhaps did me the greatest favour anyone’s ever done, even though the truth of it is killing her — came along and changed everything. And I like it, Isaac, and I don’t want it to stop. One day I might tell him — just to see the look on his face. Maybe that will be a joke. But not now. It’s too late.’

‘Too late — for what? And please do not say it is because you want to carry on helping the Spanish working man. I do not think I can tolerate it.’

‘You were happy enough to take my money.’

‘Peggy Guggenheim’s money—’

‘Which was probably double your annual salary. Do you think I truly don’t care about what’s happening down here?’

‘You may care. But it is superficial. You do not understand it at the heart.’

‘But I’m the one who can actually pump proper money into it, not you. And who says you’re the expert?’ She threw up her hands. ‘All right, Isaac, I’ll tell you why I want to carry on — it is for me. But I can help some people along the way, at least. I want my paintings to be so valuable and so important that no one can pull them off the market and hide them away because — heaven forfend — they were painted by a woman . And it’s not just that. I’ve seen what success does to people, Isaac — how it separates them from their creative impulse, how it paralyses them. They can’t make anything that isn’t a horrible replica of what came before, because everybody has opinions on who they are and how they should be.’

‘I am glad you are being honest. But it would still have been the same painting if your name was on it,’ Isaac said. ‘You could have changed things.’

‘Oh, God, I could wring your neck. You’re so naive — it wouldn’t have worked out the same way at all. There’d be no flirty letter from Peggy Guggenheim, no exhibition in her new gallery on the basis of one painting, nothing like it. And it would take all my energy “changing things” as you put it, with none left over to paint — which is the whole bloody point of everything. The energy a man might use on — oh, I don’t know, making good work — you want me to use on “changing things”. You don’t understand, because you’ve lived your life as an individual, Isaac. And yet everything you do as a man is universal. So enjoy the glory, enjoy the money, and do it for me, because I certainly wouldn’t have been allowed.’

‘A cheque from Peggy Guggenheim isn’t going to change the political situation round here,’ he said. ‘You are the naive one.’

‘Well I’d rather be naive than boring. What’s wrong with the pair of you? I’ve given you this! You and Teresa are as bad as each other.’

‘My sister is angry with me,’ he said. ‘She’s right.’

‘Well she’s angry with me too. We’re hardly friends. It’s a mess. But let’s face it, when is Teresa not angry?’

This was a brief moment of unity, of levity, as they thought of Teresa and her scowling, her defiance, her sense of what was right, and her unorthodox ways of going about it. ‘I don’t think she considered any of this when she put my painting on the easel,’ Olive said. ‘She doesn’t know me at all.’

Isaac leant back in his chair and exhaled the moment of truce. ‘No. It did not go according to her plan. But she still idolizes you. And I think she knows you better than you know yourself.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘That maybe, Olive, you didn’t want your painting to be so secret after all.’

She stared at him. ‘ What? ’

‘You let her into your bedroom. You showed her your paintings. Did you never wonder that my sister might skip ahead of you a few steps?’

‘I showed her my paintings as a friend .’

‘Teresa did not do this to you maliciously. Stop pretending that she has done you a harm.’

Olive slumped onto the table. ‘If you’re so worried about your sister’s feelings you should never have touched me in the first place. That’s what’s really bothering her. I don’t know why.’

‘Olive, you came to me — you wanted. . All right. How about we stop this, now?’

‘Olive lifted her head. ‘What do you want to stop?’

‘This. . lie . I feel I am deceiving your father—’

‘It doesn’t matter about him. He’s happy. He’s delighted. He’s sold a piece of art and he’s cultivating the reputation of a very promising artist—’

‘Who doesn’t exist.’

‘But the Isaac Robles we created — he exists.’

‘We are going round in circles.’

‘Just one more painting. One more.’

‘You are so bossy, Olive. So careless with other people’s feelings.’

‘Am I? What about you? You didn’t even want to kiss me when I turned up.’ They faced each other in silence. ‘Please, Isa. I know it’s a lot. But I’ve got a painting called The Orchard . We could give Peggy Guggenheim that.’

‘The more we play, the more dangerous this gets.’