sound of my name, terrified Reede would discover me hiding here, but I was unable to drag myself away. ‘I’m convinced that photo’s an original, Mr Scott,’ Reede said, ‘and I can’t let it go. Marjorie – are you all right?’
Quick jumped. ‘What?’
‘I said, will you get one of the girls to make Mr Scott a Xerox copy of this photograph.’
Quick gathered herself and took the photograph from Lawrie. She carried it by the tips of her fingers, not even looking at it. I backed away from the keyhole and moved as fast as I could down the corridor.
I wasn’t fast enough.
‘Odelle?’ Quick’s voice was low and quiet. I stopped and turned, relieved to see she had closed the door behind her. ‘Come here,’ she said.
I walked towards her, shamefaced. ‘You were listening,’ she said. Given the faint glint of amusement in her eyes, I saw no point in lying; I’d been caught creeping down an otherwise empty corridor.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Please, don’t—’
‘Apparently, we’re not supposed to look through keyholes.’
‘I know.’
She looked down at the photograph in her hands and went still. ‘Think he’s got a talent?’ she said.
‘I do. Do you believe that’s a genuine Isaac Robles in there?’
She pushed the photograph into my hands. ‘If Reede says so. He’s the one that knows. And it looks like it matches the one in this image. But what do you make of it?’
‘I’m not an expert.’
‘I don’t want a bloody expert, Odelle. I just want to know if you like it. It’s not a test.’ She looked exhausted, and I noticed her hands were trembling slightly.
‘It unnerves me.’
She leaned against the wall. ‘Me too.’
‘But it’s very beautiful.’
‘The subject matter is insidious.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s as if there’s an extra layer to the painting we’re not privy to. You can’t get at it, but it’s there.’
I looked closely at the photograph. It was bent, splodged, with a liquid stain in the bottom left corner. It was in black and white, and looked as if it had been through the wars. And yet the image was clear enough – a man and a woman, standing in front of a large, half-finished canvas. They were in a workshop of some sort. The man alleged to be Robles was without a jacket, his sleeves rolled up, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was unsmiling, staring straight at the photographer. He had thick, slightly wavy hair, and dark brows, a slender face, nice cheekbones, compact body – and even in this locked-away moment in time, his eyes were attractive, his glance determined. He was holding a large palette covered in many paints, and his body was turned all the way to the camera. He seemed defiant.
The woman on his right looked happy. She had an open face – she couldn’t have been much more than a teenager really, but in those old photos, girls always look like women before their time. She was really laughing; her eyes were almost invisible, they were so creased. She had that cheery unselfconsciousness that always makes a person beautiful, however unremarkable their face. Her hairstyle was half-crimped, close to her head in the thirties style, but flyaway, as if she didn’t care. She was pointing to the painting, and in her hand she held a brush.
‘Who’s the woman?’ I said.
Quick closed her eyes. ‘His muse, probably. Or just a model.’
‘He’s an Italian Paul Newman,’ I said, and Quick laughed.
The photo jarred something in me. It was so potent, so full of a story. I flipped it over, and amidst the marks of time, at the bottom left, I read the handwritten caption, O and I..
‘Did you see this, Quick – who are O and I?’ I asked. ‘Is it I for Isaac?’
But Quick was no longer in the mood for speculation. ‘Don’t stand there gawping, Miss Bastien,’ she said. ‘We haven’t much time. Go and copy that for Mr Scott, will you? Off you go.’
8
Three days later, Quick invited me to her house. I had mentioned in passing that my birthday was coming up, and I found a small card, left on my desk, asking me to lunch on the Saturday. I was thrilled. It was not normal for employers and employees to mix like this, but my curiosity overrode any reservations I might have had. I told no one I was going.
My shoes clipped the pavement and my sense of adventure rose. It was the very last of summer; London was a motor-car fume, a cigarette