CHAPTER
TWELVE
It had just gone
"Have Philip and Pauline left the table already?" he
grumblingly asked his wife, no sooner than he had sat down and sampled a little
of the mild tea she had just poured him.
"Gone over to call on Edwin," replied Mrs Grace
nonchalantly, while regaining her seat on the opposite side of the small round
table. "They're all going down to
"Ah yes!" Mr Grace affirmed. "Some pop concert in
Mrs Grace nodded in tacit confirmation while pouring herself a
second cup of tea. "Let's hope the
weather stays relatively fine for them anyway," she commented. "It would be a pity if they all got wet
this afternoon."
Mr Grace looked meditative as he helped himself to some shredded
wheat. Then, glancing through the
kitchen window at a fairly ambivalent sky - half-blue and half-grey - he asked:
"Did the weather forecast predict rain later on, then?"
"Yes, unfortunately it did," his wife replied in a
tone of voice designed to impress upon him the fact that she would never have
raised the possibility of bad weather had it not done so! There then ensued a sullen silence between
them, during which only the cultured sipping of tea and the methodical munching
of shredded wheat could be heard.
Eventually, growing bored by it, Mrs Grace asked her husband whether he
hadn't noticed a change in Pauline recently?
"Not unless you mean her greater interest in Edwin Ford
than previously," he responded, briefly scanning his wife's face as though
for a clue. "It's about the third
time this week she's gone across to Edwin's, isn't it?"
"Fourth actually," Patricia corrected. "Three times with Philip and once on her
own. It scarcely makes any sense to
me."
Mr Grace meditatively chewed some more shredded wheat, before
saying: "Could be she's taken a fancy to him. After all, she's not a young girl any more,
is she?"
"No, but she could have taken a fancy to him before
now," Mrs Grace averred. "He
was always fond of her."
Mr Grace nodded his balding head. "Too damn fond of her, the way I saw
it," he opined. "Had his eyes
on her more often than a gentleman ought, even if he is a young one. But she was never particularly interested in
him, was she? Probably more through
shyness than anything else. Perhaps
afraid of what she might get herself into?"
"Well, if that was the case, she's certainly not afraid of it
now," Mrs Grace declared.
"Quite the opposite! One
feels he has become quite indispensable to her."
Pushing his cereal bowl to one side and then helping himself to
a slice of plain toast, the critic murmured: "Maybe he has. Could be he can offer her something we
can't."
Mrs Grace sighed knowingly at this palpable understatement,
before saying: "It's curious how this change-of-heart appears to have come
over her since Robert and his friends paid us that visit last month, as though
their presence here had something to do with it, especially Mr Doyle, who
appeared to be a great source of interest to her. Strange, but I couldn't help noticing the way
she was looking at him during breakfast that Sunday - like they had something
between them."
"He did seem to spend more time with her the day before
than anyone else," Mr Grace admitted, while chewing. "Particularly during the afternoon, when
we went for a stroll. I don't really
know what they got up to in the evening, but he just might have said something
to her which has a bearing on her current enthusiasm for Edwin. The fact of his being a professional writer
undoubtedly contributed to Pauline's interest in him. However, I don't think we need assume the
worst. I mean, he couldn't have seduced
her, could he?" The critic stared
fairly confidently at his wife, as though the thought of seduction was too
preposterous to entertain.
Making an effort to respond to her husband's confidence with
equal assurance, Mrs Grace replied: "No, I guess not. Though my intuition on the morning in
question indicated that a change had come over her and that they had something
between them."
"Perhaps it was leading you to imagine things, my
dear?" Mr Grace suggested.
"Besides, I rather doubt that Pauline would have permitted him to
seduce her, even if he'd been boorish or audacious enough to attempt it. She has more sense and self-respect, as you
well know. A young woman who's been as
well brought-up as she has, educated at the best schools and all the rest of
it, couldn't possibly allow herself to be seduced by a complete stranger in her
own home in close proximity to us!
Anyway, she was in Philip and Edwin's company throughout the greater
part of the previous evening, wasn't she?"
"So I presume," Mrs Grace replied without any great
confidence.
"A pity I wasn't there to keep an eye on them all," Mr
Grace remarked on a regretful note.
"Something could have happened while they were down at 'The Burning
Bush' - something between Edwin and her, I mean."
"Or between Mr Doyle and her," Patricia Grace
conjectured, recalling their visit to the local pub.
"Well, I should sincerely hope she would have more sense
than to get involved with him!" Mr Grace strongly objected, snorting
superciliously. "His behaviour
here, particularly during the Saturday afternoon, was anything but
commendable! His insolence was enough to
make me lose my temper at one point. I
could have thrown him out of the bloody house there and then. Indeed, had I not been so determined to
maintain the best possible relations with young Mr Harding, I would almost
certainly have ordered him to leave. As
it was, I had no option but to tolerate his presence in my home for the rest of
the weekend - the presence of a Socialistic Transcendentalist, as I think he
called himself! And a champion of
abstract art, to boot! Really, I'm most
disappointed with Harding for having brought such a bloody scoundrel along with
him! He could have spared me that
ordeal, surely?"
Mrs Grace did her best, in spite of a feeling of revulsion
concerning her husband's ulterior motives for befriending the painter, to
appear sympathetic. "I expect he
was as much upset by the man's behaviour as you were, not being a Socialistic
Transcendentalist, or whatever it was, either," she said. "But really, Henry, if it wasn't your
policy to be so discreet, where the seduction of such potential victims of your
sexual appetites as Harding is concerned, he could have come up here on his
own. After all, you did invite him to
bring one or two friends, didn't you?"
"Yes, I'm perfectly well aware of the fact!" Mr Grace
sternly replied, betraying signs of impatience with his wife's irony. "But not such bloody friends as
them! I can assure you that I wasn't
particularly impressed by his girlfriend either, and not only for the obvious
reasons! D'you know, she had the nerve
to side with Mr Doyle against me in the presence of Robert while we were out in
the garden after tea that evening!
Defending his transcendental nonsense after the painter had tactfully
apologized to me about it. And the poor
slob was further put out by that - as, of course, was I, though I did my best
to conceal the fact, retaining as calm a demeanour as possible for fear that a
show of ill-humour would only have alienated him from me. But that young woman secretly made my blood
boil! She was almost as obnoxious as the
writer, what with her arrogant sexuality.
I wonder what Harding could have seen in her, apart from the
obvious? Bad enough that he should have
had a girlfriend at all, of course. Yet
I couldn't very well tell him so, could I?"
With a wry smile, Mrs Grace said: "Maybe you will in due
course, since you usually get your way, don't you? Still, now that you remind me about the girl,
I do recall seeing her with Mr Doyle on the Sunday morning. They were down by the goldfish pond, sitting
there and talking to each other, or so it appeared; though, for all I know,
Miss Jackson may well have had the writer's hand up her short skirt, considering
the considerable expanse of leg she was showing off at the time! However, she got up and returned to the house
as soon as she saw me with the washing.
Rather curious really, like she had a guilty conscience about
something. To be honest, I didn't think
all that much of it at the time. Yet the
fact that they were together in such a remote spot can't be without some sexual
significance, can it? One wonders what
they could have been discussing."
"Nothing that we should care to hear, I expect," Mr Grace
declared testily, while helping himself to another slice of plain toast. "Probably something to do with the
hypothetical future transmutation of men into fairies, or some such bloody
nonsense! They might even have been
holding an outdoor séance, for all we know.
Or meditating even - assuming you can talk and meditate
simultaneously.... That's the trouble with our Philip, you know. Much too susceptible to the latest silly
crazes in religion and the like! Not a
typical Grace by any means! Only too
ready to lend an ear to the likes of that writer. A shame really, since I had high hopes for
the lad. Still have, to some extent,
though I fear he'll continue to turn a deaf ear to my advice, wasting his time
with pseudo-beliefs and false prophets!
Not that I'd particularly approve of his becoming more like young Edwin
Ford and turning away from religion altogether.
Oh, no! One extreme would be no
better than another, so far as I'm concerned.
Fortunately, however, Edwin doesn't seem to have all that much influence
on him, so I don't think we need fear anything there. We don't want a Red son in the family, do
we? Not after all we've done for him
over the years. He has little reason to
consider himself a proletarian anyway.
No more, for that matter, than Edwin, who, despite his considerable
arrogance, comes from a perfectly respectable upper-middle-class family. How it is that Ford's boy has turned out the way he
appears to have done, I don't pretend to know; though I suspect he's in
youthful rebellion against his father, who, as you well know, was always a good
Tory - at times a little too sodding good, if his sexual predilections were
anything to judge by! But that's as it
should be. In all probability, his son
will come to his political senses in due course, once he completes his studies
at
"No, I suppose not," Mrs Grace reluctantly conceded,
wondering exactly what he meant by the phrase 'got on'. "You certainly wouldn't have made a
reputation for yourself by attacking modern art, that's for sure! But let's hope, anyway, that our daughter
won't become too influenced by Edwin's revolutionary ideas in Philip's
stead. It wouldn't do to have a Red
daughter in the family either, would it?"
"Of course not!" bellowed Mr Grace in
exasperation. "But, frankly, I
don't think she's any more susceptible to that kind of thing than Philip. If anything, she's more likely to become an
airy-fairy transcendentalist and take-up with meditation instead, like her
brother. I needn't remind you of how
much time she spent listening to Harding's damn neighbour delivering his
impromptu sermon that Saturday! And if
he had any effect on Edwin as well, then it could be that young Ford has
modified his views in the meantime, and so become more ideologically acceptable
to her in consequence. Who knows, but
maybe we should ask her personally - assuming we get an opportunity to, that
is?" He helped himself to a third
slice of toast and requested another cup of tea, which his wife dutifully
procured him. He wasn't particularly
interested in discussing Pauline's doings.
God knows, she was old enough to look after herself, wasn't she? If she had discovered something new in Edwin,
good fucking luck to her! Let her make
the most of it before he went back to Cambridge in a few weeks' time and she
went down to London in order, presumably, to begin her literary studies in the
big bad metropolis. They needn't fear
that he would remould her beliefs or personality in that short space of
time! She had a mind of her own
anyway. Marxist sentiments wouldn't have
becomed her, and so on. Mr Grace wasn't
for spoiling his breakfast over any change of heart which had come over his
daughter in recent weeks. There were
more important things to consider - like, for instance, Robert Harding. "By the way," he continued,
determined to shift the conversation onto that track, "I take it you're
prepared to visit Harding's studio next week to sit for the portrait of you
that I've commissioned from him. Now
that the one of Pauline is completed and hanging gracefully - no pun intended!
- beside the others in our new family portrait gallery, he'll be anxious to see
you and continue with his work."
Mrs Grace frowned slightly and sighed her dissatisfaction at the
prospect of having to spend a week or more in the painter's dubious company,
doing nothing but sitting still.
"Oh, Henry, is it really necessary for me to go?" she
protested. "Aren't the three
portraits already completed by him quite sufficient?"
"No, I promised him work on a portrait of you and I intend
to keep my promise!" Mr Grace spat back.
"If you don't go, he'll be sorely disappointed. It would amount to a breach of
contract."
His wife was still far from convinced. "But think of all the expense this is
amounting to, Henry," she objected.
"Another £600 for the sake of gaining further power over him,
making him more indebted to you? Really,
it's quite reckless!"
"You know perfectly well I can afford it," Mr Grace
asseverated, visibly unmoved by his wife's misgivings. "I could afford ten such portraits if
necessary. But it won't be necessary, my
dear. After the one of you is completed,
I shall visit him in
person the following week, and during that time - a time when the pair of us
will be quite alone together - I'll seduce him into giving me what I really
want from him. And I shall do so partly
on the strength of my previous commissions and partly on the strength of the
family portrait I should like him to execute in due course. Such a tempting carrot as that, valued at
around £2,000, can hardly fail to lure the donkey after it. If he refuses me my personal satisfaction in
the matter, he'll be deprived of this further commission and threatened with
the harshest public criticism his work has ever received! Rather than promising to make his reputation
as a great painter, a champion of genuine art, or whatever it is he considers
himself to be, I shall set about undermining what little reputation he already
has and thereby completely ruin his career, branding him with hidebound
conservatism!"
Mrs Grace winced and shook her bushy head. "Really, Henry, you're too cruel!"
she exclaimed.
"Cruel?" Mr Grace echoed incredulously. "Not at all! Kind to myself would be closer the mark, my
dear. And whether he appreciates it or
not, kind to him as well! The deal seems
to me a very good one so far as he is concerned, much better than I'd be
prepared to enter into with anyone else.... You don't realize how important
he's become to me, Patricia, I who may never have the good fortune to fall in
love with anyone like him again. Ever
since I first clapped eyes on his photograph in one of those
"Henry!"
Mr Grace was unmoved by his wife's manifest hurt. "It's my last gamble, my final
opportunity to reap the dividends of my bent," he ironically
explained. "Surely you can't refuse
me your co-operation at this critical juncture, Patricia, now that I've almost
achieved my objectives?"
There were tears of anguish in Mrs Grace's eyes as she responded
with: "But, Henry, the prospect of sitting there for as long as it takes
him to do my portrait and keeping absolutely quiet about your sexual designs,
not speaking a word about your plan of seduction - really, it's too terrible,
too ... nerve-racking! I don't think I
can do it."
"Of course you can do it," Mr Grace assured her in his
most persuasively encouraging tone. He
was almost on the point of holding her hand.
"You've helped me before now, so why shouldn't you continue to be
of service? After all, you're not
entirely without your own little ... foibles in such matters. Come now, be realistic! You wouldn't want us to part company after all
these years, would you? Not, surely,
when you haven't got anywhere better to go?"
These inherently rhetorical questions, threatening and sinister,
seemed to have the desired effect on Patricia Grace. For she suddenly snapped awake, as it were,
from her self-pity, wiped the remaining tears from her eyes, and gently shook
her head. Reality had brutally returned
to her, its disagreeable face reminding her of her limitations in defying
it. In truth, she lacked the courage to
start a new life now, to completely sever connections with her husband and
begin the half-life of a spinsterish divorcee - poor and alone. She had no near or living relatives to fall
back on, no real resources of her own, and the one man who might have provided
a romantic solution to her problems was ... well, she had no way of telling
where he was or what he was doing, so long was it since she had heard anything
from him. Willy-nilly, she was a kind of
slave to her husband whether or not she liked the fact, and he never lost an
opportunity in reminding her when circumstances required. Accordingly, she had no alternative but to
comply with his demands.
"So you're agreed to the sitting, then?" he concluded.
"Yes, if it helps to make things any easier for you,"
she dutifully replied.
"Oh, I'm sure it will!" Mr Grace declared
excitedly. "For I have great
confidence in my little strategy. What
with the carrot of this further commission and the promise of good reviews
to-come, I'm quite convinced that the donkey will do as required. After all, what alternative does he
bloody-well have, eh?" There was a
broad smile of satisfaction on the critic's narrow face - a smile fostered as
much on happy expectations as on shrewd manoeuvrings. He was experienced at this kind of game and
usually succeeded in getting his way.
"Not that this particular donkey is an especially good
painter," he continued, having washed down his last mouthful of chewed toast
with the remaining by-now lukewarm tea in his cup. "I've known many better, I can tell
you! Some worse too, of course, though
not a great deal so. At best, Harding is
competent and tasteful, but totally without distinction! There are plenty of others who would be just
as capable of doing what he does. Unlike
him, however, they'd be quite incapable of arousing my interest on other than
strictly aesthetic grounds. And that,
precisely, is his chief advantage - namely his sexual appeal to me. As an artist, no, I cannot claim to admire
him, much as I may feign something approximating to admiration when in his
company. His work is fundamentally
soulless, if you know what I mean. Too
tediously academic. It lacks fire,
passion, individuality, technical inventiveness, and conceptual integrity - all
the things, in short, which make for great art.
We are painted as cadavers instead of human beings, social automatons
instead of self-willed individuals. His
brush is tarnished by all the worst hallmarks of modernity. He'll never achieve anything great, not even
if he eventually transfers from the canvas to the mural, which seems rather
unlikely if you ask me, given his fear of decadence."
"But, presumably, you'll still continue to befriend
him?" Mrs Grace conjectured.
"Provided he gives me what I'm really after," Mr Grace
responded. "Just as you'll continue
to befriend me, won't you, Patricia?"
"If you insist, Henry."
The critic sighed his relief and smiled a modest gratitude. "Good, that's as it should be," he
concluded.
There then ensued a resentful silence on Mrs Grace's part,
during which time she began to clear away the breakfast things.
"By the way, was there any post for me this morning?"
her husband wanted to know.
"Just this."
She handed him a large brown envelope with a typed address on the
front. It had been resting on the
sideboard to his right.
"Ah, so someone has been thinking of me recently!" he
mused, opening it with the aid of a large bread knife. "Another tedious set of proofs to read,
I expect. Either that or a boring
account of ...” His voice abruptly ceased, and it was several seconds later
before he resumed with: "Good God, just take a look at this!"
Mrs Grace went across to where he was sitting and stared down
over his shoulder at the contents of the envelope, now spread out on the table
before him. She could scarcely believe
her eyes. "Why, it's Pauline!"
she cried.
"Yes, so it is," Mr Grace nervously confirmed. "I don't understand."
His wife bent closer.
"But what's she doing there like that?" she exclaimed.
It wasn't a question Henry Grace could be expected to
answer. For there, right before his
startled eyes, Pauline was exhibited in all manner of erotic nude or semi-nude
poses on at least thirty colour photographs.
There wasn't a photograph on the table in which she wasn't showing off
some private part of her anatomy, and doing so, in no less than twelve of them,
in the company of an equally pornographic Carol Jackson! Really, it was too disgraceful to behold,
especially since Pauline had the look of a person enjoying every damn moment of
being photographed in such palpably erotic postures! It gave her parents something like the shock
of their lives - Mr Grace turning bright red with embarrassment, his wife
becoming deathly pale with revulsion.
What-on-earth could it all mean?
For Pauline had made no mention of having been photographed to them....
Not that that seemed particularly surprising when one considered the scandalous
nature of the photographs in question!
And Miss Jackson, what could she be doing there, apart, that is, from
showing off everything she naturally possessed?
It was Mrs Grace who first recovered from the shock of such a
spectacle and thereupon pointed out a large typed letter which lay partially
buried beneath the mass of enigmatic photos.
Obediently, her husband extricated it from its hiding place and, briefly
scanning the address and telephone number of its sender, proceeded to read:-
Dear Henry,
Enclosed for your careful
consideration is a selection of photos from a modelling session I recently had
the pleasure of conducting with your daughter, in the company of one of my best
models, Miss Carol Jackson. I rather
doubt they will make a particularly favourable impression on you, since that is
not, of course, my principal concern. If
you haven't already guessed by now, it is to prevent you from making a fool of
Robert Harding by exploiting him to your own ends, which, as I am only too well
aware from personal experience, are purely carnal. Also aware of this are Miss Jackson and Mr Doyle,
both of whom made your acquaintance last month and, I regret to say, became
mutually suspicious of your motives for befriending the painter, who, so I am
informed, is neither homosexual nor bisexual but conventionally heterosexual. It is therefore extremely unlikely that he
would take kindly to your sexual designs.
Neither of course did I - an old acquaintance of yours who, as you'll
probably recall, was unable to reconcile himself to your desires when, much admired
for the wrong reasons, he was requested, nay, instructed to do so!
That, believe it or not, was
several years ago, when the said-acquaintance had just begun to establish
himself in his chosen profession and had yet to acquire the fame and prestige
to which he has since grown so painfully accustomed. It was at that time, if you remember, that
you sent me a series of threatening letters in order, as you facetiously put
it, 'to make (me) see sense and become more reasonable'. You could not, according to this same letter,
avoid the consequences of having 'fallen in love' with me (you had a marked
talent for hyperbole, probably still have, for all I know), and would not be
able to tolerate living unless I satisfied your desires, which then, as now,
were unequivocally anal.
I have the letter in question
before me as I write, and could quote quite copiously from it if I really
wanted to, that's to say, if it were necessary in order to convince you that I
am not imagining things. And, of course,
I have the others to-hand as well - some seven in all, which more or less
reiterate your plea for clemency, each one a little more forcefully and even
shamelessly than its immediate precursor.
No, it won't be necessary for me to quote from any of these either, as I
am sure you will agree. Better to let sleeping
dogs lie, as they say. And so I will,
provided you comply with my request, which is this: to leave Robert Harding
alone - absolutely alone!
If you are planning any
further commissions for him, you must cancel them immediately. Otherwise I shall be obliged to have examples
of these photographs - which are merely a selection of the ones in my
possession - circulated to various magazines with which I have commercial
contacts, and published in due course - with the consent, needless to say, of
the young women involved. Now when these
photographs appear in public, i.e. are published, I shall draw them to the
attention of certain persons with whom you are or were associated, sending
copies of the relevant magazines to individuals who could only be scandalized
by knowledge of the fact that your daughter has turned to pornographic
modelling, and who would almost certainly not wish to associate with you
again. There are, I realize, quite a
number of persons for whom the spectacle of Pauline Grace, nude and alluring in
one or another of the more exotic men's magazines, would excite scepticism
concerning the probity of her upbringing and the genuineness of her
modesty. Your old colleague Martin
Howard would certainly be surprised, unable, one feels, to reconcile the
daughter of the renowned art critic, Henry Grace, with the ostensible
righteousness of the critic himself. He
would surely wonder how you had allowed or encouraged such a thing to happen! No doubt, you would feel acutely embarrassed
the next time your paths crossed - assuming they ever did! And the same, of course, applies to so many
eminent, respectable, God-fearing persons known to you, who have no sympathy
for pornography.
But don't think I would stop
there! I would also make the letters from
you at the height of your infatuation with me known to the world at large,
revealing you as the two-faced, double-dealing hypocrite you really are, and
thus exposing your private life to public scrutiny - the lie of your marriage
to Patricia and the sordid motives behind your current enthusiasm for Harding's
work duly accompanying my in-depth exposé, thereby bringing further infamy upon
your name.
Last, but by no means least,
I would ensure that Robert Harding received copies of your letters to me, so
that he could be left in absolutely no doubt as to the truth of your
relationship with him as well. Thus, one
way or another, Henry, your life would never be quite the same again, neither
personally nor professionally.
So either you immediately
break off relations with the painter, whose naiveté even I find quite touching,
or I shall be obliged to carry out these threats. The decision is entirely yours - one which I
trust you will inform me about in due course.
If, however, you do decide to
comply, then rest assured that none of these erotic photos and none of your
sordid letters to me will ever get into public hands.
Yours sincerely
Donald J. Prescott.
By the time he had got to the end of this harrowing letter, Henry
Grace was trembling like a battered leaf in a mid-October gale and was almost
on the verge of tears. Never had he been
threatened in so frank a manner in his entire life, and it was as much as he
could do to take the threat seriously.
It was more like a bad dream. He
wasn't sure that he was really awake, sitting in his familiar kitchen with his
wife standing behind him and the smell of burnt toast in the air. But there, in front of his scandalized eyes,
lay the torn envelope, the letter, and the pile of colour photographs, and they
could not be wished away, like a bad dream sometimes could. There they stayed, staring back at him, it
seemed, with a consciousness of their own, peculiarly defiant and sinister. They had to be taken seriously.
"Damn the bastard!" exclaimed Mr Grace, as the tension
created by the shocked silence became too much for him. "Why does he have to interfere in my
affairs like this? What right has he to
stir up the past? It's positively
vile!"
"It would be viler still if he felt obliged to carry out
his threats," Mrs Grace solemnly averred.
"But how in God's name did Pauline fall into the clutches
of that frigging wanker in the first place?" Mr Grace shouted, beside
himself with exasperation.
"Evidently whilst at
Mr Grace reflected a moment, then shook his head. "But I still don't understand," he
confessed. "I mean, a sensible
well-bred young woman like her - it's scandalous! Just think what would happen if all this got
into the wrong hands! Can you imagine
how I'd feel if the local vicar was sent a copy of one of those foul sex
magazines with pictures of my daughter spread-eagled all over the place? I mean, that could be what the bastard was
intimating at, couldn't it? One isn't to
know what he'd do. No, I can't risk
it. I shall have to break off ties with
Harding immediately, tell him I've changed my mind about the remaining
commissions.... Or perhaps you would?
Yes, you could phone him in my stead and cancel your sitting next week. I don't think I could face-up to it, not even
on the phone. Oh God, why did he have to
bring that Andrew Doyle cad here? It's
all his
fault,
I'm convinced of it. It's because of him that Pauline has
allowed herself to be demeaned like this.
Now I begin to understand the change which has come over her recently, I
begin to understand it all too clearly!
He must have seduced her, the rotter! Seduced her while she was out of
our sight, either here or in Richmond.
Now you can see why Edwin has become more important to her. She has lost her innocence. Ah, Christ, what a tragedy! Why-the-devil did I ever get involved with
Harding in the first place?
Why-the-devil did I allow all this to happen?"
Mrs Grace was still standing behind her husband, silent and
still, her feelings torn between pity and contempt - contempt, above all, for
his perverse self-pity, pity for herself for being married to such a man. It was difficult not to tell him it served
him bloody-well right for the vile thing he had intended to do to Mr Harding -
exploiting the young man's professional vanity in the interests of his own
sexual gratification. Very difficult
indeed! Yet as she walked towards the telephone
in the adjoining room to let the painter know of her husband's decision, this
difficulty was offset by the sudden realization that she would not now have to
go to Richmond, the following week, after all, and would therefore be spared
the ordeal she had so painfully anticipated at breakfast. It was almost as difficult not to express her
sudden relief of the fact, and thereby risk inciting her husband's wrath. At least there was something in it for her!
"His number's by the phone," Mr Grace called after her
as she approached the receiver.
"And don't tell him I told you to ring. If he asks for me, say I'm out." He sat, pale and trembling, slouched across
the table like a man suffering from some terribly enervating illness, possibly
glandular fever. The life-force had
withered away and he felt as though twenty years older - nearer eighty than
sixty. The bitter disappointment of
having to comply with Prescott's demands had drained him of pride, reduced him
to despair. He could still hardly believe
it, believe that the photographer had the power to carry out his threats, even
though all the evidence to the contrary was right there in front of him and
refused, like his bitter feelings, to disappear. Instinctively, he reached for the bread
knife, but ...
"Hello, is Mr Harding there, please?"
"Speaking."
"Ah, good morning, Robert!
It's Patricia Grace here ..."
"Oh, good morning, Mrs Grace! How nice of you to ring."
There was a moment's embarrassing silence before she could pluck
up the courage to say, albeit in a slightly nervous tone-of-voice: "Er,
with reference to the impending portrait of me, Robert, my husband and I have
regretfully come to the decision that we shall not now be requiring it. We are of course extremely grateful to you
for the three excellent portraits already completed, which we feel will be
quite sufficient. Accordingly, I must
therefore cancel our studio arrangements for next week."
After a stunned silence, Harding responded with a faint:
"Oh, I see." He could scarcely
believe his ears. He had been so looking
forward to seeing Mrs Grace and perhaps inducing her to take off her clothes
for him and transfer her sitting into a lying which would perhaps enable him to
explore her flesh in more concrete terms - terms such that would benefit him in
more than a financial sense. "Does
this mean I won't be seeing either of you again?" he asked, almost
pathetically.
"Well, possibly not," she replied, mustering all the
diplomatic tact at her disposal at this moment.
"It will depend on whether or not my husband wishes to commission
any additional portraits from you in future.
But at present, he is quite satisfied with the ones he has. If he changes his mind over the coming weeks,
he'll doubtless get in touch with you.
For the time being, however, I think you can rest on your laurels, as it
were, and dedicate your talents to someone or something else. We are, however, most grateful to you for
having spent so much time and care on us, and wish you every success in the
future."
Harding offered her a muted wail of thanks, despite his manifest
disappointment. All his fondest hopes
had been dashed. He would probably never
see her again.
"Well, goodbye, Robert!"
"Yes, goodbye, Patricia!
I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed being associated with you."
She replaced the receiver with a heartfelt sigh and slowly
headed back towards the kitchen.
"Now you had better destroy Prescott's letter and all those dirty
photos, Henry, before anyone else sees them," she suggested, as she
stepped across the threshold into the larger of the two rooms with a look of
determination on her pallid face. But,
to her surprise, she found that he had already done so. For all but a few of them were torn into tiny
pieces and lying at the bottom of the wastepaper bin, while the letter itself
lay in a crumpled mess of partially torn paper by his feet.
A split second later Henry Grace was himself lying under the
table with the bread knife through his neck and a severed juggler spurting
bright-red blood across the kitchen floor.
He seemed to be staring emptily or perhaps even reproachfully at
Patricia Grace, as she backed away from him with a sharp look of revulsion on
her face. But his eyes didn't follow her
and she realized, soon enough, that he was losing consciousness and on the
threshold of death, if not already across it.
With a cry of triumph, she picked up what remained of the
letter, turned on her heels and rushed back into the adjoining room again in
order to make another call. But it
wasn't the ambulance service, or even the police, whom she immediately
dialled. It was Donald Prescott, and it
was with a view to not only telling him what had happened but actually visiting
him in person, the following week, that she held the purring receiver up close
to her ear.
This time there could be no regrets, only tears of joy!
LONDON
1980 (Revised 2011)
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