When You Are Mine(55)

I’m embarrassed by her tears. ‘Please stop crying.’

‘Sorry. I’m being silly.’

‘Don’t apologise.’

She squeezes my hand. ‘If anything ever happens to me …’

‘Nothing is going to happen.’

‘But if it does. I want you to know that I love you.’

I’m embarrassed by the depths of her feelings and look for a way to change the subject. I want to ask her about her mother in Belfast, and see if she openly lies to me again about her three sisters and her soldier father. I know she makes up stories, but I thought it was different with me. She didn’t need to exaggerate, or to fabricate to win my friendship.

We all tell little white lies. When Sara asks me whether I like her new boyfriend, I always say he’s lovely. Every new dress, or hairstyle, is ‘really nice’ even when it’s not. I wouldn’t let a friend make a complete fashion faux pas, but I can accept that our tastes are different.

Henry lies to me all the time. He says he only had the one beer, or that he’s just leaving the pub, or that training ran late. And I tell him that I bought a dress in the sales, and that my occasional let’s-get-this-over-with orgasms are real. What does it matter if Tempe makes up stories? I’m sure she has a reason.

‘We should talk about the graffiti,’ I say. ‘You can’t ignore it.’

‘I’m not ignoring it. I’m surviving it.’

The flat has more furniture now, but she still seems to haunt the place like an anxious ghost. She has a squishy sofa that people struggle to get out of; and a mismatched armchair; and a mosaic-tiled coffee table. Apart from her sketches, she doesn’t surround herself with mementos or souvenirs that might give clues about her past. No photographs or books or postcards. She hasn’t even bothered getting a television.

‘What do you do of an evening?’ I ask.

‘I draw.’

‘Can I see some more of them?’

‘I’m still working on your wedding present.’

‘You must have others.’

‘You’re my muse. Don’t laugh. You are.’

‘Please, show me some other drawings.’

Reluctantly, she goes to the bedroom and retrieves her small wheel-on suitcase. Thumbing the latches, she opens the lid. Inside there are dozens of sketchbooks. She chooses one. I sit on the edge of the bed and open it. The drawings are similar to others she’s done, but this time her ‘model’ is a teenage girl with large luminous eyes and long straight hair that falls to the small of her back.

‘Who is she?’ I ask.

‘A friend.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Mallory.’

I remember Mrs Brown mentioning Mallory Hopper and asking if Tempe had ever spoken about her.

‘Where did you meet?’

‘At school in Belfast.’

I am turning the pages. There are dozens of drawings of Mallory, some half done, or revealing small parts of her, such as hands, or her feet, or her ears or her eyes. As with her sketches of me, Tempe seems to have practised drawing particular features, before putting the pieces together.

‘These are beautiful,’ I say.

‘They’re rubbish,’ Tempe replies. ‘I could never get her eyes right. I tried so hard, but something was always missing.’

I turn another page, and this time come across a series of nudes with Mallory as the model. She isn’t sexualised, or idealised. There is nothing salacious, or erotic about the sketches. Mallory has been captured in a series of casual poses, drying herself with a towel, painting her toenails, and pulling a dress over her head.

‘Did she pose for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘How old was she?’

‘Eighteen.’

The answer is quick and defensive. Tempe tries to explain. ‘Some people think a nude drawing has a sexual message, but that’s not true, not in this case. When you take away clothes, you take away the context. It could be the past or the present. Anywhere in the world.’

‘They’re beautiful.’

‘Exactly. There’s nothing bad, or dirty about them.’

‘Did someone think that?’

Tempe doesn’t answer, but I sense that I’m right.

‘Tell me about Mallory.’

Tempe sits next to me on the bed. The sketchbook is open across our thighs.

‘She wasn’t the prettiest, or the most popular girl at our school, but she was definitely the saddest.’

‘Why was she sad?’

‘Her twin brothers both drowned on a holiday to Ballycastle. One of them got into trouble and the other tried to save him. In one terrible afternoon, Mallory became an only child.’

‘Did that really happen?’ I ask, concerned that she might be lying to me again.

‘You can look it up. There were stories in the newspapers. Her parents were devastated. They turned the house into a shrine to the twins. Masses were said for them. Scholarships were named after them. Fundraisers were held for them. Our parish priest said that Conner and Davie were not dead because they lived in our hearts. I remember looking at Mallory as he said this and wondering how she felt.

‘I followed her home from the church on the day of the funerals. Hundreds of people came back for the reception, but Mallory seemed to be invisible. She was sitting alone in the garden. I sat down next to her. We talked about our recent English exam. I liked the way she tied her hair, pulling the sides up and keeping the back long and straight.