I'll Be There Page 12

  ‘Jane Renfrew,’ Tim said pleasantly. ‘Actually, I rather fancied those two myself.’

  ‘Piss off,’ she said frostily, and then turning to her companion said as decisively as an Alsatian about to attack. ‘Both, I think, Bobby. See to it, would you.’

  ‘Hey, Dion,’ Bobby shouted down the stairs. ‘Cynthia wants 2 and 7.’

  ‘Sorry Luvvy. Devlin wants Thames by Night.’

  Tim peered at Cynthia’s upper lip and detected a line of straggly black hairs. If she was partial to sailors, it was undetectable in the glare she gave him.

  Bobby’s eyes were bland as he turned back to her. ‘If Devlin wants it, it must be good.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll pay double what she’s asking.’

  Bobby caught Tim’s eye over Cynthia’s head and winked.

  Tim grinned, unable to believe what his eyes were telling him as he knocked at the door. What had happened to mousy Janey Renfrew?

  She was still there, tucked behind a stout door flaking green paint. An anxious whisper came to his ears. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Blackbeard, the pirate.’

  The door opened a chink and one blue eye peered out at him.

  Then he was inside, and they stood grinning awkwardly at each other.

  ‘You look great,’ he said.

  Her fingers fluttered nervously to her hair in an unconscious feminine gesture, then she laughed as she indicated her paint-spattered jeans, and a faded black tee shirt sporting a CND sign. ‘Don’t lie. I look a mess.’

  Not so, Tim thought. Here was a girl of unusual beauty. That she seemed unaware of it was endearing in this age of female sexual flaunting. There was nothing artificial about her. Fine high cheekbones cradled huge blue eyes that were fringed with pale brown lashes. Her mouth had lost its pinched look and was a wide soft curve. Her hair was caught into tie-dyed scarf at the nape of her neck.

  Tim stared at her, entranced. She was taller than he remembered. Slim hips tapered down to long legs encased in a pair of scruffy flat black pumps. Her firmly rounded breasts jutted against the fabric of her shirt. Janey Renfrew had grown up with a vengeance.

  When a blush of color tinted the creamy skin of her cheeks he realized that the girl he’d always known was still inside.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said softly. ‘You’re stunning.’

  She turned away, embarrassed. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘I was hoping to take you out to dinner.’

  ‘That would be nice.’ Her face was one big smile as she turned back again. ‘There’s an Italian restaurant up the road that opens on Sundays. They do a good meal for next to nothing. I’ll get changed.’

  She disappeared behind a bamboo screen draped in a flowered curtain. Whilst drawers opened and shut, he studied the painting on the easel by the window.

  It was nothing like those on the wall outside. There was a swirl of different shades of color merging from black to dark green. In the middle, and taking up most of the canvas was one creamy Lily. It unfurled from the background with stark simplicity, and had immediate impact.

  ‘It’s not finished yet. What do you think of it?’

  ‘It’s sensational. I can almost smell the perfume.’

  ‘It’s the best I’ve done so far.’

  She’d changed into a pair of clean jeans and a blue ribbed sweater. With a twinge of guilt, Tim noticed she carried over her arm the blue duffel coat that had been the cause of her leaving home.

  He tugged the scarf from her hair when he helped her into it, and watched it drift over her shoulders.

  ‘What about your guests?’

  Her spontaneous giggle made him smile.

  ‘They’re not really my guests. Dion and Stephen had this stupid idea to show my paintings. Nothing will sell, and I shall feel an utter fool.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it. There was some brisk horse trading going on when I came up.’

  Anxiety came into her eyes. ‘If Dion wants me to say anything on the way down, I’ll die.’

  He tucked a hand under her elbow and steered her towards the door. ‘No you won’t. Just drift down the stairs, smiling graciously at everyone.’

  ‘Here she is!’ Stephen’s squeal brought an instant hush. ‘Stand back everyone. Let her pass.’

  Janey died a thousand deaths when a sea of faces gazed up at her, then they melted against the wall at either side as if Moses had appeared to part the waters of the Red Sea.

  Dion minced up the stairs to take her hand, and kissed it in a flamboyant gesture. ‘Everyone! This is the artist, Jane Renfrew. Isn’t she a daahling? Smile,’ he hissed from the corner of his mouth.

  She pasted a smile on her face, and the staircase seemed twice as long as she regally descended it. When she turned to see where Tim was, everyone clapped.

  ‘For pity’s sake, say something, daaahling,’ Dion implored.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her face beginning to resemble a neon sign. ‘So nice of you all to come.’

  ‘I could kill you,’ Stephen said sulkily to Dion. ‘Janey’s grand entrance was my idea.’

  ‘Honestly. You’re such a Prima Donna at times, Stephen.’

  Then Tim was by her side, laughing. They escaped through the front door into the cold fresh air. Feeling ridiculously exhilarated, she began to run along the pavement, and then leapt into the air.

  Catching her by the waist Tim swung her round and set her on her feet, his eyes reflecting his amusement.

  ‘They applauded,’ she said unbelievingly. ‘They applauded Miss Jane Nobody from nowhere.’

  ‘You’re selling yourself short. The applause was for a very talented artist.’ He kissed her cheek and tucked her hand in his. ‘And a girl I happen to be very fond of. Tell me, Janey, is there a man in your life.’

  ‘No ... yes ...’ Drifter came into her mind, Drifter who often came round to visit and talk, but never asked her out, or indicated if he felt anything other than friendship for her. ‘I ... I don’t know.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re gone on someone.’

  ‘Yes ... I guess so.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘No,’ She gazed shyly up at him. ‘He’s an American.’

  Worse! Tim had met American sailors, and knew how they operated. Loaded with charm and money they could worm their way into any woman’s heart – or bed come to that.

  He wondered if ...? He shook his head, experiencing a sad, impotent rage when he remembered what had happened to her when she was a child. It had kept village tongues wagging for ages.

  He recalled Mrs. Sutton saying to his mother in the shop. ‘It’s likely she’ll grow up promiscuous now. I’m keeping my Annie away from her, just in case.’

  His jaw suddenly tightened. To all intents and purposes it had been the best kept secret in the world, for Janey had never recalled what had happened to her, and no-one had ever seen fit to inform her. Yet it had set her apart.

  ‘Is something wrong, Tim?’

  His arms came round her in a brief hug. ‘Nothing. Promise you’ll write. Any sailor worth his salt has a girl in every port. I don’t want to let the navy down.’

  ‘Try and stop me,’ she said, lightly kissing his cheek.

  It had been nice seeing Tim, Janey thought a little later as she sat in the armchair in front of the spluttering gas fire. He’d looked handsome in his uniform, though he’d argued when she’d tried to pay him back the money she owed him.

  ‘Send it to Linda,’ he’d said offhandedly. ‘She gave me hell over that, so tell her I hope it chokes her.’

  She’d arrived back at the flat to find the hall empty of guests and paintings, but littered with dirty glasses and cigarette ends. An envelope containing cash and checks had been shoved under her door.

  Gone out. See you tomorrow, luvvy, was written on the front.

  She had counted it after she’d cleaned up the mess. It was more money than she’d ever seen in her life.

  On impulse, she extracted sever
al twenty pound notes from the pile, then wrote Pamela a letter explaining where it had come from. She also scribbled a short note to Linda, enclosing the money owed to Tim, but omitting his message to her.

  Nervous, in case someone thought she’d stolen the money and called the police, she deposited it into a proper bank account the next day. She couldn’t believe the total! At long last, she was an artist!

  * * * *

  Drifter gazed at the girl from under hooded lids as she padded naked across the floor. Nice bouncy tits, he thought as she slid on to the bed beside him.

  She did what she was paid to do with an efficient ease, grinding against him with a few practiced grunts and moans, whilst he - brains suddenly concentrated on one spot - was helpless to stop his involuntary thrusts.

  Afterwards, she used the bathroom, then left, smelling of vinegar douche.

  Relaxed now, he picked up the paper and read the latest news on Vietnam. ‘What a stupid bloody waste of life,’ he muttered.

  Disgusted, he threw the paper to the floor, got out of bed and strode to the window. The flat he was living in belonged to a titled gentleman, a friend he’d made at Oxford. Fully serviced, not only was it a place of elegant beauty, he didn’t have to lift a finger to help himself.

  He ate out, and didn’t bother to answer the phone in case one of his grandfathers called him. By now, they’d know he’d been sent down from Oxford, and would have a private detective on his track. Once they found him, he’d be hauled back home and made to learn the publishing business from the ground up. He wasn’t ready for it, yet. He wanted to live a little.

  He grinned suddenly. He wouldn’t mind having go at something like the new Oz magazine that had hit the streets the previous day. Man, that was really something. The sharp, witty satire would have his grandfathers’ pissing their pants.

  The publisher had hit on a novel way of advertising. The name of the magazine was daubed all over town, on bridges, buildings and the steps of the underground. They were out to shake up the establishment. Yeah, he really dug that!

  He should move on again. Join a commune, perhaps. There was safety in numbers. Better still, he could start one of his own. ‘Perhaps Janey would move in with him.’

  Now that was a chick he couldn’t figure out. She didn’t fuss about her appearance or discriminate against people. Quiet and shy, she had a natural fresh innocence that was wholly likeable. He wondered how she’d respond if he made a move on her.

  Suddenly, he remembered it was her nineteenth birthday. He’d buy her some flowers and champagne, then when she was nice and relaxed ...?

  ‘Yeah baby,’ he said softly, imagining her long shapely legs wrapped around him.

  * * * *

  Devlin Cox gazed at the painting of the Lily. It was a gem. By comparison, the paintings in the hall had been ordinary. They’d showed promise, nonetheless. She had a good eye for form and color, but this went beyond that. It had soul.

  ‘Have you any more I can look at?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long have you been studying art?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’ve been going to evening classes once a week for two years.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that all?’

  She shrugged, pressing her fingers against her temple, where a headache had begun to throb. ‘When I was young I was taught by a man who lived in the village where I grew up. He painted airplanes. He had one on his wall and it looked real.’

  Draughtsman’s stuff wasn’t to Devlin’s taste.

  She steered the subject away from John Gregory and lost the headache with it. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or something, Mister Cox?’ Scrabbling around in a cupboard she came out with a tin. ‘I think I’ve got some biscuits left.’

  ‘No thanks. I’d like to hang the painting in my gallery. If it sells I’ll take a commission and show more of your work.’

  ‘I couldn’t allow you to do that?’

  ‘Couldn’t allow me to do it?’ Devlin spluttered in astonishment. ‘Why the hell not? Most artists would sell their grandmother for the chance I’m offering you.’

  ‘It’s a wedding present for someone.’ Her eyes became dreamy as she gazed at the painting. ‘Those Lilies grow along the banks of the stream where I grew up, and perfume the air in early summer.’

  ‘Spare me the rustic scenery,’ he growled, and then felt guilty when the rebuke made her flush.

  ‘Look. I’ll buy the painting outright.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Please yourself.’ He ambled towards the door, giving her a chance to change her mind.

  ‘Thank you for showing an interest in me, Mister Cox.’

  He turned, knowing he was being stupid. ‘Let’s do a deal. You allow me to hang the painting and I’ll give you space for five more in a showing of up and coming artists in June. If the painting attracts interest, it will bring people in to the gallery to see the rest of your work.’

  That made sense to Janey. ‘You won’t sell it?’

  Devlin sighed. ‘I won’t sell it. I promise.’

  ‘And you’ll bring it back in April?’

  He should walk out of here right now! ‘I promise, and it will be professionally framed.’

  The brilliance of her smile made him blink. ‘Thank you Mister Cox.’

  ‘Call me Devlin.’ He sank on to the ancient couch and wondered what the hell had happened to him to allow this young woman to dictate her own terms. ‘I’ll have that cup of tea now, Janey, whilst I give you some free advice. Never look a gift horse in the mouth ...’

  When he left, he passed a tall, hairy young man with a bottle of champagne under one arm and a bunch of flowers in his hand.

  Green eyes met grey, assessing and unfriendly. Neither spoke.

  ‘Who was the fancy looking dude going out,’ Drifter said, experiencing a small, annoying thrust of jealousy when she admitted him.

  ‘Devlin Cox. He’s going to be my agent.’ Her eyes lit on the flowers. Immediately, she became an endearing mixture of shyness and excitement. ‘Are those for me?’

  ‘Happy birthday.’ He placed the champagne on the table and drew her into his arms.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she sighed after he gently kissed her. He kissed her again, longer and more lingering. ‘I think I love you,’ she blurted out afterwards.

  Shaken, Drifter opened the champagne. He needed it. He gazed at her over the glass, at her soft eyes and vulnerable, trembling mouth. She was some chick.

  ‘Hey, that’s nice babe,’ he said, and wondered why she giggled.

  Later, when the champagne was finished, the petting over, he took her to bed and made love to her.

  She was inexperienced, and stiffened in his arms, but she didn’t make a sound. When it was all over he gazed down at her face. Tears glistened in her eyes.

  He felt like a heel. ‘I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘It’s all right, Drifter. It’s just ... well, I’ve never made love before. I don’t know exactly what’s expected of me.’

  Good God! She’d been a virgin. There was something touching about the thought. He grinned as he ran his fingers through the pale hair spread across the pillow.

  Its perfume triggered a memory of a holiday in France, of a cool breeze that had whipped a woman’s long hair into strands about her face. He’d stood in the mistral wind with his nanny, waiting for his parents yacht to return. It hadn’t.

  Janey’s hair reminded him of his mother’s. Moonbeams on water ... mistral hair. He breathed it in, allowing it pervade his senses. He could fall for this chick big time. ‘Mistral,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘My own darling, Mistral. Next time I’ll make it better for you, I promise.’

  Janey hoped so. She’d felt nothing but a pervading emptiness, as if her body had belonged to someone else.

  * * * *

  A month later Drifter found the perfect place for his commune, a large empty residence in Finsbury Park.

  He took a year’s
lease on the place, paying in advance by cash, and using another name. The estate agent didn’t question it when he saw the color of his money.

  At Drifter’s urging, Janey resigned from her job to paint full time. They moved into the self-contained flat on the top floor, where she was ecstatic to discover a large airy studio to paint in. Drifter had furnished it with enough paints, brushes and equipment to last her a lifetime.

  Stephen and Dion took the basement flat, and another couple moved into the ground floor. Felicity was an upper middle-class type. She talked with a nasal whine, and was slumming it with her unattractive, poet and songwriter boyfriend, Connor – who managed a passable imitation of Donovan.

  As the five paintings she was working on took shape, Janey had never been happier. She’d used a flower theme, as Devlin had suggested.

  She put the finishing touch to some poppies and stood back to inspect them, a smile playing around her mouth. Blood red, they scattered over a polished table dusted with grains of pollen.

  The beauty of it made her ache inside.

  Lined up against the wall were various canvases. She’d experimented, using fast drying acrylics and long swift strokes to paint a series of work that was dark and different. All were fantasies based on Connor’s poetry. She didn’t like his verse, but it reflected a part of his personality, and that was what she’d attempted to capture. She signed them Mistral, Drifter’s pet name for her.

  Every day she fell in love with Drifter a little bit more. He was gentle and kind, and made her laugh. Beneath his casual poise she’d discovered a quick and intelligent mind.

  They made love often, and because she loved him, she learned to please him. She found pleasure in his gentle touch, but she never experienced fulfillment in the heights of passion as he did.

  She wondered if there was something wrong with her. Always, a sense of detachment stole over her, as if she were watching him make love to another woman, someone with no feeling, Though it pained her to deceive him, she learned to act, convincing herself she did it for him.

  By April, her flower series was finished.