Cory’s entry was seven pages, and the introduction took up most of the first. Clearly, he’d been a difficult subject. Other artists were keen to talk about their craft; their answers often ran for a page or more, taking the question as a starting point for broader discussion. Cory, by contrast, gave direct answers but nothing more. None of his responses exceeded a paragraph, and his brevity created an impression of impenetrability. Control. Asked if he would describe how it was different to paint a woman with whom he was in a relationship, his answer was ‘No’.
At other times, impatience shimmered off the page. ‘I work exclusively from life,’ he said. ‘I never use photographs. They’re dangerous, they fix a person in a split second, and emphasise one aspect – the aspect of that second, which may not even be honest – above all others. People shift, change – they’re Protean. When I paint, that is what I want to capture.’
‘Lightning in a bottle?’ Rees-Hamilton suggested.
‘If you want,’ he’d said, and Rowan imagined a dismissive shrug. ‘For me,’ he’d countered, ‘a successful portrait is multi-layered, it reveals its secrets over time, like a person does. As a viewer, you get to know a good painting – you build a relationship with it. The layers of knowing are thin, fine – like paint itself. They are subtle. When I’m painting a portrait, my job is to take that knowledge, my understanding of the person, and express it. I get to know my subject intimately, understand him or her in a way that perhaps he hasn’t been understood, even known, since childhood.’
‘What do you say,’ Rees-Hamilton had asked, ‘to people who accuse you, quite literally, I think, of psychologically deconstructing your subjects, peeling back the “layers” you talk about until they are uncovered, unmasked? Naked.’
‘I say, yes, I have achieved what I set out to do. I have been successful.’
St Mary’s was chiming six as Rowan left Blackwell’s, and the pavement was busy with students returning from their day’s work at the library or the labs on Long Wall Street. As she crossed the road, eyes down, she was almost hit by a man on a mountain bike. ‘Fuck’s sake – watch where you’re going!’ he yelled after her.
Once she’d passed Wadham, the street grew quieter. Through the ornate wrought-iron gates at Trinity, the long lawn stretched away, empty and dark, towards windows whose yellow warmth seemed impossibly remote. Without the sun, the temperature had dropped sharply.
Nevertheless, she was sweating. Greenwood must have known about Cory’s methods, his forensic psychological investigations – hadn’t he been worried? Why had he let her do it?
‘Let?’ Marianne’s voice suddenly, laughing in disbelief. ‘Let? You think I would let my boyfriend – anyone – decide what I could and couldn’t do? Come on.’
‘Yes, why did he let you? He knows about Hanna Ferrara, everyone does. Did he know about Greta Mulraine, too? A breakdown and a suicide, and he still let you do it? With your history?’
‘Maybe he knew it was what I wanted. Have you considered that? That you can love someone enough to let them make their own decisions?’
‘Did he know what you wanted? Really? I spoke to him today, Marianne, and I don’t think he knew you at all. Not the things that mattered.’
When Rowan opened the door, Adam stood spot-lit on the step. He wore jeans and a dark jacket, no overcoat, but as he leaned in to kiss her cheek, he was warm, as if he’d worked up a cosy fug in the car on the way from Birmingham and it still surrounded him. She felt the old buzz again, still there.
‘You didn’t need to ring the bell,’ she said, letting him in. ‘How was the conference?’
‘Windowless room, terrible coffee – pretty standard. How was London?’
‘Oh, fine. Would you like a drink? Beer?’
‘Love one but I’d better not.’
‘Coffee? It’s not Peter Turk-class but it’s good.’
‘No, thanks. It’s terrible, the road to Cambridge, all cross-country, no motorway. I should get going; it’ll probably freeze later on.’ He looked at the table. ‘Any post?’
‘A few bits. They’re in the box.’
‘Great.’ Flicking through, he pocketed the bank letter and bill from Thames Water. ‘I’ll pay this before we get cut off.’ He glanced upstairs. ‘Right, I’ll run up to Dad’s desk then I’ll get going. I’ve got a supervision first thing with a student who actually does the work.’ He glanced at the book in her hand. ‘Catholic Gentry in English Society?’
‘It’s a page-turner.’
He smiled. ‘Well, I won’t keep you from it.’
Squashing herself into a corner of the sofa, she listened as he moved around the study, playing the old floorboards like piano keys in dire need of tuning. Seb used to pace while he talked on the phone, and she’d pictured him as a lion, compact and muscular, measuring that area of carpet as if it were the footprint of a cage from which he might suddenly spring.
After a couple of minutes, the study door shut and there were footsteps on the stairs. Adam appeared in the doorway holding a thick A4-sized manila envelope.
‘You found what you needed?’
He held it up. ‘Deeds. When the dust settles, we’re going to sell the house.’