Isaac, flannel on face, lying in the dark of his bedroom, lifted it once, peered at her and said, ‘Fine. I’m glad it’s done. But wait until I get there before you show them.’
TERESA HAD CHILLED ONE OF the remaining bottles of Clicquot, leaving it out on the veranda overnight. All the windows had been thrown open to let fresh air into the corners where cigarette smoke clung. Stubborn patches of spilled sherry attracted columns of ants. Teresa crushed them with her foot, arranged the sofa and the other chairs in a semicircle around the easel, and draped a white sheet over the artwork. She put the champagne in a metal cooler and went to the kitchen. She had never felt so clear--headed, nor had she ever felt a greater sense of purpose than today. The excitement for it almost made her feel sick.
Thirty minutes later, everyone was gathered. Harold, the best recovered of the family, was in an impeccable suit. Sarah looked frail, a tremor in her fingers as she passed a champagne flute to her daughter, who looked green at the sight of it. Isaac was perched on the edge of the threadbare sofa, dragging deep on a cigarette, his foot jigging. This was his moment to shine – here, in the presence of the great dealer, Harold Schloss. Teresa saw his eyes meet Olive’s, and the girl’s smile was an open beam of pleasure. Harold was looking in puzzlement at his wife as to what this was all about.
Teresa wondered whether he had answered the telephone this morning, for she had vowed never to pick it up again.
Sarah rose to her feet. ‘Darling Harold,’ she said. ‘Well done from all of us, for such a wonderful party. It seems, even down here at the end of civilization, you haven’t lost your touch.’
Everyone laughed, and Harold raised his glass. ‘Now, as you know, things have been a little up and down of late,’ Sarah said. ‘But we like it here, don’t we, darling? And we’re doing well. And I – well, we – wanted to give you a little present to say thank you. It’s Liv and me, darling,’ she said, pulling the sheet off the painting. ‘Mr Robles painted us – for you.’
Teresa swallowed the champagne she’d been offered, and a sick, irresistible tide of fear flushed through her, the bubbles filling her mouth, the metallic fizz agitating her blood. Isaac ran his fingers through his hair. As the sheet cascaded to the tiles, Olive’s knuckles turned white on the arms of her chair. There was a small collective gasp.
OLIVE WAS IN DEEP DISLOCATION. She couldn’t understand what she was seeing. The painting was two--thirds drenched in indigo blue, there was a glint of golden wheat, and two women, one holding her pot aloft in a shining field, and the other, curled in semi--defeat, surrounded by her broken shards.
It was her painting. It was Santa Justa in the Well. She turned to Isaac; he, too, was staring in confusion. What was it doing down here – why wasn’t it upstairs, hidden in her room? Olive looked at Teresa; the grim triumph on her face.
There was a sound of clapping. Her father was looking at her painting. Her father was applauding. ‘Bravo, Isaac,’ he was saying. ‘Bravo. What you’ve done!’
Sarah frowned, hands on hips. ‘Well, it isn’t quite – what I was expecting. But I like it. Which of us is which, Mr Robles? Do you like it, Harold?’
‘I’ve not seen something like this in a very long time. Liv, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ her father said. ‘You’re not upset that Mr Robles hasn’t done you a society turn?’
Olive couldn’t speak. All she could do was look at her own painting, her father pacing around it. ‘This is wonderful,’ he went on. ‘I knew you had something in you, Robles. Lithography, my eye.’
Harold’s voice was intense and warm; it was like this whenever a new painting was speaking to him. It was a silent conversation; the painting slowly heating him up, running round his mind – and Harold was working on it like a child might a boiled sweet, sampling its flavours, softening its corners, edging inexorably towards its core.
Olive felt as if she too was being honed away, soon to snap and disappear. ‘This is real. Oh, this is good,’ her father was saying, and it felt like she was hearing him from the bottom of a well. ‘Look at the pot – and the deer. Oh, this is good! This is excellent.’
Isaac was staring at the painting. His eyes began to dart around it, as if the colours, the composition, the line might speak to him too. Was he angry? Olive couldn’t tell. Like her, he wasn’t saying a thing. She wondered where Isaac’s painting was, whether he was going to speak up. She turned to see Teresa staring at her, her look of triumph now replaced with one of urgency.
‘Mr Robles, you’re a star,’ said Sarah, placing her hand on his arm. ‘Well done.’
Teresa nodded at Olive, her eyes wide – and in that moment, Olive understood. She knew, then, what Teresa wanted her to say – That’s mine. I did that. There’s been a mistake – although she could not understand Teresa’s desire. She felt her mouth open, the words almost there, but then her father spoke.
‘We should take this to Paris,’ Harold said. ‘I think this might be something a few collectors over there would be interested in. I’d like to act for you, Isaac. I’ll get you a better fee.’
‘Paris?’ said Olive, and then she closed her mouth.
‘What’s it called?’ Harold asked.
‘It has no title,’ said Isaac.
Harold stared at the painting. ‘I think we should avoid any mention of Liv and Sarah in it, given that I might be selling it. How about Girls in the Wheatfield?’
‘Harold,’ said Sarah. ‘This was a present for you. You can’t just sell it.’
But Harold wasn’t listening. ‘Perhaps Women in the Wheatfield is better.’
‘Poor Liv, painted curled in a ball like that,’ said Sarah, draining her glass of champagne, and pouring herself another. ‘Mr Robles, you really are terrible.’