The Invitation(49)

‘What do you think happened?’ Hal asks.

‘What?’

‘About—’ He finds that he is about to say Stella, and stops himself. ‘About Mrs Truss.’

‘Well,’ Aubrey says. ‘It looked as though she had got a little further out than was perhaps safe. And Mr Truss, I presume, was concerned for her safety—’

Hal interrupts, losing his struggle with himself. ‘Did it honestly look like that to you?’

Aubrey looks flustered. ‘Well, I don’t know …’

‘I thought,’ says Hal, in an undertone, ‘that she looked like she was fine, and that he decided, for whatever reason of his own, that he wanted her back on the beach.’

‘I say,’ Aubrey says, ‘I don’t—’ And he stops abruptly, looking beyond Hal, his face frozen.

‘Hello, chaps,’ Truss says. ‘Can I get either of you a drink?’ He indicates the bar. His smile is broad.

They accept, dumbly, and watch as he makes them – shooing away the offer of one of the staff to help. They sit in uneasy silence until he carries the drinks over, placing each down with a deft flourish.

‘Would you like to join us?’ Aubrey asks, in a strangled voice.

‘Ah.’ Truss shakes his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I shall go back and see to my wife.’ He smiles at each of them in turn, meeting Hal’s gaze last. ‘Good evening.’

‘Oh,’ says Aubrey, sitting back in his chair. His hand, as he lifts the drink to his lips, is trembling so violently that a little of it spills on to his sleeve. ‘My nerves … I can’t bear it.’

‘Sorry,’ Hal says. Did Truss hear him? Impossible to say. He must have approached them as silently as a cat. He sees now how pale Aubrey has gone, and thinks quickly of a way to placate him. ‘Tell me about your work. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t seen it before.’

‘Oh.’ Aubrey makes a dismissive motion with his hand, but seems rather pleased. He sits up a little in his chair, appears to recover some of his poise. He reaches for his drink again and gives it a stir with the silver stick, his tremor noticeably better.

‘Do you have anything with you?’

‘Well,’ Aubrey says, hesitantly pleased, ‘as a matter of fact I do.’

‘Will you show me?’

Aubrey disappears, and returns to the desk with a large, leather-bound portfolio. Hal takes it from him. He had been prepared to be underwhelmed. Photography of Aubrey’s speciality – personages and fashion models – has never interested him. And yet, sifting through the pages, he finds images of great beauty. More than this, he discovers images that disturb and move him. There is a dark-haired woman standing on a station platform, her arm raised toward the train in greeting or, possibly, farewell. No doubt her pose and the setting are intended to display the silver fur coat to its best advantage, but nevertheless it speaks to Hal. The next image shows another brunette woman, her face framed by the shoulder of the man with whom she is dancing. Her eyes are cast down. The image makes a convenient frame for the jewels at her ears, the rings that glitter on the hand that grips her partner’s back – but Hal sees in it something more than that. It is a melancholy image. To him she appears trapped. Impossible to tell whether that is the intention, or his own projection. All the women have a particular look: pale skin, dark hair, fine bones. They are not the same model – though at a glance they could be mistaken as such.

‘Aubrey,’ he says, and looks up to find the photographer watching him intently.

‘Yes?’

‘These are wonderful. They’re … they’re really something.’ It feels inadequate, but it seems to be enough. There is something rather touching about Aubrey’s expression of delight. He is a celebrated artist, and must be used to receiving his fair share of compliments. And yet Hal’s clumsy praise has evidently found its mark.

‘And,’ Hal says, ‘I wanted you to ask you something. The subjects … they all share similar features. I thought they were the same woman, at first. I suppose I was wondering if there was some reason for it.’

‘My sister,’ Aubrey says.

‘Ophelia?’

Aubrey nods. ‘They all look like her. I don’t always manage to pick my model, of course – and sometimes a brunette is not right for the image. Take Mrs Truss, her blondness so perfect next to your darkness in that image with the yacht. But I only keep the images like this in my portfolio.’

‘Your sister must be a beautiful woman.’

‘She was, yes.’

‘Oh,’ Hal says, wrong-footed. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘She’s alive,’ Aubrey says. He sighs. ‘It’s a rather strange, sad story, I’m afraid.’ He grimaces.

‘And you don’t have to tell it to me, if you don’t wish to.’

‘No. Perhaps I had better not.’ He sips his drink. ‘To the very journalist writing an article about us all.’

‘It’s not that sort of article – as I’m sure you know.’ He recalls the Tempo editor’s words. ‘It’s about what Giulietta has for breakfast – what Earl Morgan has for a nightcap. Though’ – lowering his voice – ‘that will involve some artistic licence. More importantly, I’m not that sort of journalist.’