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 sat, facing 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.’
‘Nothing bad is going to happen.’ Olive knelt down by Isaac’s side, her fists locked together in supplication, resting on his knee. ‘No one will ever know. Please, Isa. Please.’
He ran his hands nervously over his head. ‘What if Peggy Guggenheim wants to meet me?’
‘She’s not going to want to come down here.’
‘What if she invites me to Paris? She has already mentioned London.’
‘Then say no. Play the elusive artist.’
Isaac narrowed his eyes. ‘Now is not the time for English irony.’
‘No, I mean it. Isaac, please.’
‘What will you do for me?’
‘Anything you want.’
Isaac closed his eyes and ran his hand down his face again, as if he was washing away his thoughts. He lifted her from the floor and rose from the table, leading her through across the kitchen towards his bedroom door. ‘One painting, Olive,’ he said. ‘And then – no more.’
14
Isaac demanded to see The Orchard before it was shipped to Harold’s office in Paris, ‘so at least I know what I am putting my name to.’ Teresa suggested that perhaps Sarah should view it too, because it would be useful for her to see Isaac with The Orchard. This would reinforce the general belief that the painting was his, should Sarah ever mention seeing it to her husband.
Olive was surprised at Teresa’s suggestion. ‘I suppose it’s a good idea,’ she said to her. ‘But I thought you didn’t want anything to do with this?’
Teresa merely shrugged.
‘OH, IT’S WONDERFUL,’ SAID SARAH, standing in front of the painting that afternoon in the front east room. Olive scuttled away from it – rather like a crab, it seemed to Teresa – running from a great wave, unable to put her head out of her shell. Her confident attitude had evaporated, and she sat herself in her father’s armchair to watch her mother. Teresa took in the vision of Sarah’s red woollen trousers, the deep blood shade against her creamy skin; Sarah had clearly rallied herself. ‘It’s so like our orchard,’ she said. ‘But . . . different.’
‘Thank you, se?ora,’ said Isaac, in visible discomfort.
‘Isn’t it good, Liv?’
‘Yes,’ said Olive, unable to meet Isaac’s eye.
Sarah insisted that Teresa fetch Isaac tea and polvorones. ‘We’re so glad to have Teresa,’ she said. ‘It would all be such a palaver without her. And I’m so proud of finding you, Mr Robles,’ she said to him, leaning against the back of the sofa where he was sitting. She was warm, conciliatory. ‘How does it feel, to be the toast of Paris? she asked.
‘What is toast?’
‘It means you’re everyone’s new favourite. He’ll be champing at the bit when he sees this.’ She waved her hand in the direction of The Orchard. ‘Honestly, Mr Robles, I’m just so glad I commissioned you in the first place, although it’s hard to share you. It’s just such a shame my painting is hanging on another woman’s wall.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Well,’ she sighed, and it sounded like twenty words in one. ‘My husband will be home soon.’ The marital noun made it sound as if Isaac would have no idea who Harold was.
‘It will be good to see him,’ said Isaac.
Sarah smiled and left the room, and Teresa felt as if the wattage of the day had dimmed as they listened to her moving back up the main staircase. Olive stepped quickly to the door and shut it. ‘Well, Isa?’ she asked, whirling round. ‘Do you like it?’
They all stared at the painting, the undulating patchwork of fields, the surreal intensity of colour, the white house which once was his to roam and now the home of someone else. ‘Does it matter whether I like it?’ he asked.
Olive looked uncomfortable. ‘You don’t like it.’
‘I can see its merit, but it is not what I myself would paint,’ he said.
‘He doesn’t like it,’ said Teresa.
‘It is not that simple,’ Isaac snapped.
Olive stood before the painting. ‘I think it is that simple, really. What don’t you like about it?’
‘My God!’ he cried. ‘Why do I have to like it? Is it not bad enough I am pretending I have made it?’
‘Do keep your voice down,’ she said.
‘You have even painted my initials on it.’
‘A necessary touch.’
He stood up. ‘I hate it,’ he said, savagely. ‘I hope your father does too.’
‘Isaac—-’
‘Good day, se?oritas.’
Olive looked as if he had slapped her in the face. When he left the room and the two girls were left alone, Olive ran to the window, watching Isaac’s figure disappearing down the slope to the rusting gates. He pushed them open roughly, not looking back once.
‘Do not be upset,’ said Teresa, stepping forward. ‘What does it matter if he likes it?’
Olive made a sound of frustration. ‘I don’t care about that. You have no idea what you’re saying. He can hate what I create, but I can’t create if he’s angry with me. I just can’t.’
‘But why not? You painted before you knew him.’