It was David Tilling. He was clearly worse for wear from a few pints at the pub and looking for some kind of retaliation. Since he returned from Dunkirk, he’s been bragging about how he’d made it back as if he were some kind of hero, which of course he’s not when you think about Henry shooting down three Nazi planes in a single day. David has an embryo RAF mustache, which looks ridiculous, and he’s taken up smoking. It’s too hilarious.
He found out about my affair with Alastair after following me around; Alastair and I spend all our free time together, such is our newfound love! Since then, David’s been making these snide little comments, such as “Slater’s not good enough for you, Venetia. What are you doing with a coward?” Or the rather damning: “You’re letting yourself down, Venetia.” I can only conclude that he’s learned a lot more in the army than just fighting; he’d never have come out with something like that before he left.
Back to last night, when he was banging on the door. Alastair put his brush down and went leisurely into the hallway, pulling the living room door closed behind him. I slipped my dress back on without putting any underwear on first, which was rather naughty, don’t you think?
“Ah, good evening, David,” Alastair announced as I heard the door opening. “What brings you here?”
“I wanna word with you, Slater,” David slurred loudly, sounding so young and foolish next to Alastair’s poise.
After this there were a few loud bangs, as if someone had been hit, and the clank of something hitting the ground. I was worried, as David is tall and just back from army training. He must have thrown a few punches at Alastair.
I peeked into the hallway.
But there was Alastair, not a hair out of place, holding David in a kind of vise grip, a broken beer bottle lying on the floor, which I can only assume was David’s.
I found myself looking at Alastair with renewed awe. Where did he learn those combat skills?
“I’m not entirely sure what it is that you want, David,” Alastair said lightly. “But trying to bottle me is not a good means of communication.”
“I know she’s in here, Slater.” David’s voice was getting louder. “Get out of my way.”
Next thing I knew he had bombarded past Alastair and was bursting into the living room, where I now sat, good as gold, perched on the settee, my hands together in my lap, my green floral dress delicately creased, and a small smile on my lips. “Hello, David.”
“Venetia,” he said, dismayed, his big floppy mouth gaping open. I can only wonder how dazzled he’d have been if he caught me with no clothes on.
He came up to me and sat beside me, taking my hands in his. “Venetia, I need to see you. I’m leaving tomorrow.” He was drunker than I thought, his hands moist and clammy, his breath virtually toxic. “I wanted one last kiss, since you’re giving yourself to every man in the village.”
I slapped him, although not hard. I knew it was just another line he was trotting out. “David, I can be with who I want. You need to learn that no one owns me, especially with this war going on. We all need to be ourselves, free.”
I laughed as I said it; I’m no more free than he is. Alastair has me completely smitten.
Suddenly David lunged for me, trying to kiss me, his flabby lips like a cold fish slurping me up.
“David, please, stop!” I cried.
Alastair pried him away from me, and David stood and turned to punch him, but Alastair ducked, sending David flying over to the other side of the room, completely off balance, crashing on the floor in the corner.
Then he turned and saw the picture.
“My God, Venetia,” he gasped, gazing up at it flabbergasted.
I remained perched on the settee as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, as Alastair dashed over and covered the easel with a large black sheet.
“Done from imagination, I hope you understand,” Alastair said lightly, trying to hide a compulsion to laugh.
“Venetia, you were posing nude for this scoundrel?” He got up and whisked the black sheet away, taking it all in, the curves, the—well, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination, Angie. Suffice to say, he saw it all.
“It’s art, David,” I said simply, shaking my hair back in a nonchalant fashion. “It’s what artists do.”
“You took your clothes off for this bastard,” he snarled, his face set in a reddening grimace. “You let him paint you. You let him touch you, didn’t you?”
“David, I’m a grown woman.”
“And I’m a grown man.” He stood looking from me to the portrait in seething silence.
“David, I know you’re leaving tomorrow, but you need to go now. This is Mr. Slater’s house. You can’t just go around barging into people’s houses like this—”
“I’ll tell your father.” He broke in decisively. “He’ll have Slater’s guts for garters.” His strangled laugh came out somewhat awkwardly. “He’ll put a stop to him.”
“Don’t tell him, David.” This was getting out of hand. Daddy would kill Alastair, and probably me, too. “I know you won’t betray me like this.”