“It likes you.”
For a while he worked in silence.
Her eyes flicked around the room, searching the shelves and dark places.
At length she said, “The girl in the shop…”
“Laura?”
“She works for you?”
“I wouldn’t call it work, exactly. There must be a better word. Through bad luck, really, nothing more than a mother-daughter’s menstrual cycle coinciding, she’s found herself homeless. Homeless, just like Paul. I’m putting her up for a few days and just occasionally, when the mood takes her and, that isn’t often, she helps out in the shop. In truth, she frightens off more customers than she attracts and those she attracts are not really interested in art.”
“You seem to attract the waifs and strays.”
“They’re good kids, really. They just need a little help, a point in the right direction.”
“Her skirts are very short.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that. But she does have nice legs.”
“Has she modelled for you?”
“No. Landscapes are my thing. I mentioned it before. You must have forgotten.”
“What is it about landscapes?”
“They’re natural. You don’t have to search for honesty.”
“Is that important?”
“It is for an artist. But that’s something you must answer for yourself.”
Her eyes darkened at the veiled criticism.
“Are you a religious man, Mr Lawrence?”
He recalled Laura bringing up the same subject and wondered what it was about him that led people to it. He said, “That’s a very personal question.”
“Yes, but we have become personal.”
“Have we?”
“You are painting me. What can be more personal than that?” “Not too personal, I hope. But to answer your question, I’m not an American bible-belter. I don’t believe the earth was created shortly before the American civil war or that Noah navigated the Mississippi.” “You read the Bible?”
“I have done but not lately. I always thought it needed a good editor. Far too much begetting for my liking. But, my goodness, I hope there is not a God and an afterlife. I wouldn’t like to think that all the people who have gone before and all those who are coming after will know my business.”
“I imagine they’ll be too worried about their own business to worry about yours.”
“Yes, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. But think of this: if the people who died can see how the people who live carry on, they must spend eternity regretting their own propriety or spend it horrified at what they see. Either way, it doesn’t lend itself to a contented hereafter.”
“The painting you did of Helen…?”
“Mrs Harrison.”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Not Helen, in that pose. And she was pregnant. Did you know she was pregnant?”
“Yes. That was the urgency. Getting it finished before she started to…show. It was nonsense, really. I mean, how long did she think it would take?”
“I couldn’t pose like that.”
“Shyness is all about lacking self-confidence and it is only for the moment. If you see your doctor, for instance, you might die of embarrassment the first time, but afterwards it is of no consequence. And in any case, Mrs Harrison was proud of her body. Self-confidence was never an issue. She was posing for herself, I think.”
“How did it happen? Did she just say paint me like this?” “Yes, she told me from the start what she wanted.”
“You must have been shocked.”
“It was an unusual request and I imagine photographers are used to it, but…shocked is not the word I’d use. My only concern was whether I could do it justice. You might not believe it but I have a reputation to consider.”
“What do you suppose happened to her?”
“The police asked me that very question but in such matters I’m no expert. If it were just Mrs Harrison my guess would be that she’d gone off with the devil who’d led her to the club but now these other women have gone missing, it does make you wonder. Perhaps the police should get someone to retrace her steps. I think they call it a reconstruction, to jog the public memory. They can give out one of those special numbers for the public to call. That might do the trick. Of course, whoever took her place would have to dress in the same clothes. They could get an idea of what she looked like from the painting.”
“She wasn’t wearing many clothes in that.”
“I admit the dress didn’t cover much but you could still get an idea of the style and colour.”
“They might have difficulty getting someone to dress quite like that and, the BBC might have a problem in filming it.”
“The watershed. I understand that anything can go out after the nine o’clock news.”
“The nine o’clock finished some time ago.”
“Well, I never. No wonder the country has gone to the dogs.” A little later he said, “One more sitting will do it.”
“Is that all?” There was anxiety in her voice.
Before she left, her mood still subdued, she said, “I’m sorry I’ve been a pain today. I’m afraid I have a lot in common with Helen. You see, this morning my test proved positive too!”
She was clutching at straws, watching his reaction or lack of it. But it was a good move. And devious too.
From Paul’s spyhole in the cracked wall there was a flicker of movement. He was back from the shops, errands complete. He was crouching beneath the stairs again, spying, watching and listening to every word.
Chapter 27
They needed the mannequin’s clothes.
Laura squealed, “Look! Mr Lawrence, he’s stuck hair on the dummy. He’s given her a hairy fanny!”
Mr Lawrence glanced down at the offending fleece. The barber’s missing hair came to mind. Funny how, if you waited long enough, things fell into place.
Paul looked a treat, although at the moment, because of the hair, a little embarrassed. Laura had been to work with her make-up and turned him into the model in the window. His skin was lightened and his cheeks glowed with blusher, his blue-grey eyes defined by mascara and blue shadow and his lips were bright cherry-red. Full at the best of times they were now rather kissable. He wore the model’s auburn wig of short bobbed hair. The striking thing was his body. In the matching set he was almost perfect. Only his chest let him down and that needed filling with cotton wool. But they needed that for Mr Lawrence’s padding so they used tissues. He hobbled in and turned over his right high heel.
For Luscious Laura and Mr Lawrence, keeping a straight face was difficult.
Holding his sides and whimpering, Mr Lawrence suggested, “You’ll be all right so long as you keep still.”
“I’ve shaved his legs,” Laura said enthusiastically. “What do you think?”
Mr Lawrence squeaked, “I think he’s beautiful.” And then he could hold it no longer. He coughed a dozen times to hide his laughter and that started a coughing fit.
“I don’t feel very beautiful. I feel like a dickhead. This isn’t going to work, Mr Lawrence.”
