‘I hope I can help. How far along are you with the portrait?’
‘I’ll be painting soon.’ He pulled his mug closer and looked at the raised pattern in the china. ‘I’ve done a lot of the preparatory work, the drawing. Marianne was working hard herself, for her show, so she didn’t have as much time as I would have liked but, you know, that was fine. If you want to paint interesting people, you have to expect them to be busy.’
How reasonable of you, Rowan was tempted to say.
‘My method, what I try to do, is build up as complete a picture of a subject as possible. The intersection of personality, personal history and appearance, how the former influence the latter – that’s what interests me.’ He took a sip of coffee then set the mug deliberately back down. The nail on his right thumb was longer than the others, purposefully so, she guessed; by the look of the moon of gunmetal-grey paint trapped underneath, he used it as a tool.
‘Marianne intrigued me,’ he said, ‘more than anyone I’ve painted before.’
‘Really?’
‘She was so . . . complex. We talked a lot, hours and hours, but the better I got to know her, the more convinced I was there was something else there, another layer, something that was key to getting her, you know?’
Rowan’s stomach turned over. ‘What sort of thing?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to figure out.’
She put her coffee down. ‘Excuse me if this sounds rude but are you sure you should be painting her portrait? Now, I mean.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’m far from an expert but it’s hard not to know your reputation.’
‘Hanna Ferrara.’
‘Yes, but, from what I’ve heard, some of your other work, too. Marianne’s family are grieving; they . . .’
‘Marianne wanted me to do it.’
‘Have you talked to her mother about this?’
‘We met at the funeral – James introduced us. She knows.’
‘Are you going to talk to her about Marianne?’
‘I hope so. I want to talk to everyone who knew her well.’ Cory looked Rowan straight in the eye and at this range, across the narrow table, she saw that his pupils were ringed with a blue so dark it was almost navy. Tiny tendrils snaked out into his irises. The day of the funeral she’d thought he wasn’t attractive but she could see now why some people might go for him. There was something purely masculine about the width of his face and the size of his nose, which was slightly longer at the tip, giving it an arrowhead shape when seen straight on. If anything, it was hooked rather than Roman but in combination with the shaved head and broad shoulders, it made her think of Romans – ancient ones. He looked gladiatorial. And beneath that nose, his soft, full mouth seemed particularly sensual. Strength and sensitivity – potent combination. Would Marianne have thought so? Yes, Rowan knew she would.
‘Why did you two fall out?’ he said abruptly.
‘Because I was a moron.’
‘Frank.’
‘There’s no point being anything else now. Did she tell you about it?’
He shook his head.
‘It was just after her father died. She needed space and I didn’t give it to her. It was stupid, she was so raw and I was too selfish to leave her alone.’ Rowan felt her cheeks go red.
‘It’s a shame. James said Jacqueline told him you’d been pretty much part of the family. Hence your being here now, presumably?’
She held the eye contact. ‘If I can help her feel easier about the house, Marianne’s work being safe here, it’s one thing she doesn’t have to worry about. And I can work anywhere.’ She gestured towards the pile of papers. ‘Should I ever feel motivated to work again at any point. I’m supposed to be researching a couple of archives at the Bodleian but I haven’t got there yet.’
She’d barely touched her coffee but Cory’s mug was empty. ‘You’ve seen her new work,’ he said, and again she wasn’t sure if he was asking or merely stating a fact. ‘What do you think?’
Self-conscious about offering her half-baked amateur opinion, Rowan paused. ‘I think they’re incredibly powerful,’ she said. ‘The first time I saw them, especially the later ones, I felt . . . unsettled. Unnerved. They’re angry, they’re political. As I said, I’m no expert but I think they’re brilliant.’
She waited for him to respond, to agree or disagree, but instead he pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Let’s go look at them. They’re still in the studio, right?’
She hung back to see if he would take the lead but at the foot of the stairs, he gestured for her to go first. Manners or had he second-guessed her? It was impossible to tell; he was so difficult to read. She felt his eyes on her again as she reached the first-floor landing but when she turned, he smiled, unembarrassed.
‘Where did you do your work with her?’ she asked.