True Colours Read online

  But somehow she couldn’t. Somehow, transfixed, Alex felt like the painting was pulling her in with a peculiar, powerful magnetism.

  It was beautiful; the subject seemed to jump off the canvas, had a life, a movement that left her almost as breathless as the model, who most definitely appeared to be on the brink of something earth-shattering. There was no one else in the painting, the girl’s naked body filling the entire canvass, but somehow you could tell that she wasn’t alone. Perhaps it was the tiny shadow in the corner that suggested that someone was watching her, perhaps it was something about the way she was lying. One way or another, the implication gave the subject an electric charge that would have blown the fuses if it was plugged in.

  Alex glanced sideways at Sebastian. He was watching her, his head on one side like he was looking for her approval. Why on earth? Panic fluttered in her chest, perhaps this was some sort of bizarre test…perhaps it was by some incredibly famous artist whose work she should recognise instantly…?

  Pinpricks of sweat breaking out down her spine, embarrassed beyond belief at being trapped here looking at a painting that only fell short of pornography because it was supposed to be art, Alex knew she needed to say something, could feel the silence growing, loaded with innuendo and half-forgotten moments: the feel of his touch, the scent of his body against hers...The CD had finished – she hadn’t noticed until now – and she could feel his eyes on her, watching, waiting for her to comment. Waiting for her to say what? Beyond ‘It’s very nice’ or ‘great brush work’ what could she say? You made me feel like that…

  She felt like she was locked inside a bubble, running out of air.

  Desperate to break the tension, to say something, anything, to break the silence, to get this whole charade back to what it should be – a client consultation – she suddenly had a devilish urge to say something flippant, to ask what his fiancée thought of it, anything to bluff him that whatever he’d been planning by showing her this picture wasn’t working, that she was a professional, could cope with anything. Then she stopped herself.

  And took a major double take.

  Staring hard at the painting her mouth went dry, the hairs on the back of her neck standing rigidly to attention as a shiver paralysed her spine, and her eyes, locked on a small dark mole less than an inch from the model’s navel. Alex’s eyes widened in horror. Disbelieving, she shot a glance at Sebastian and back to the painting again – it was definitely a mole, not a drip or an accidental splash of paint. And there was another on her breast, paler, less obvious…

  ‘Oh my God…’ The blood pounding in her ears, she felt herself hurtling back sixteen years, images of that summer flashing past like she was looking out the window of a high-speed train.

  The drawings.

  Every afternoon for weeks. Him sketching, while she watched the clouds pass overhead, dreaming of the Mill House, about what they could do with it, making plans, castles in the sky. But she’d had her clothes on!

  ‘How could you…?’

  She didn’t finish. Her train crashed, carriages concertinaing, piling up on each other with a force that even she couldn’t control. Then, throwing him a look of pure venom, she turned on her heel and ran for the lift.

  SEVENTEEN

  How could he have done it? How could he have taken those lovely drawings he’d done of her, quick pencil sketches, capturing the moment, practising his life drawing he’d said, and gone off and painted her naked?

  And not only naked but with everything on show, and very obviously in the throws of an orgasm that would affect anyone who looked at it. Leaving nothing to the imagination.

  AND THEN he’d put it up over his BED. Where everyone could see it. Like his girlfriends. Like his fiancée. Making love with her above him, like he was really putting it up to her, like he was getting his own back every time he brought a new woman home.

  Hiding her face in her hands Alex could feel her whole body blushing, cringing with total humiliation. She’d been mortified when she’d seen it, then angry. Angry at his audacity. Angry that he could do something like that, that he could take those moments and exploit them, exploit her. But now she just felt sick. Exposed. Violated. He might as well have asked her to stand on the boardroom table and strip.

  Above her, the rain hammered on the roof of the car, drowning out her CD player, the fan struggling to clear the windscreen. Normally, the sound of the rain would have been comforting, would have made her feel cosy and safe, but now the constant drumming was starting to get on her nerves. She’d been sitting here for almost an hour, trying to work out how, when he’d done it. Trying to imagine why.

  She had been amazed when she’d first seen his sketchbook tossed into the jumble of pencils and folders on the desk in his bedroom, the old nursery in the east wing. The page had been open at a charcoal drawing – one of the dogs, a pedigree Clumber Spaniel puppy whose Irish Kennel Club name was so long and ridiculous that they just called her Doris, Dodo for short. In just a few deft strokes he’d captured her melting brown eyes, her hound-like expression, the nobility of her deep muzzle, the texture of her silky ears, captured her whole being better than any photograph.

  ‘Did you do that?’ turning, her eyes alight with amazement; Alex had caught Sebastian’s blush as he realised what she meant.

  ‘It’s nothing, just Dodo. She’s a devil; she was watching the cat on the kitchen garden wall, waiting for it to move so she could chase it – it nearly killed her when it went over the back and she couldn’t get it.’

  ‘But it’s brilliant. You should frame it. Are there any more?’

  Alex had the book in her hand, was flicking through the thick paper leaves before he could stop her. His grandfather, a quick sketch, scowling, as if he hadn’t known he was being captured; Cook laughing, her cheeks ruddy from the heat of the oven, sleeves pulled up; his mother in her huge floppy straw gardening hat; her own father – from a distance – striding through the heather beside the lake. And a stag, antlers stark against the sky, its strength and power captured in the ripple of its coat as it stood in silhouette on the Long Ridge, head held high, declaring its kingship. ‘They’re amazing. You’ll be wasted as an architect, you should do art.’

  Sebastian had laughed, but it was hollow, ‘Yeah, I can really see grandfather going for that. He thinks architecture is a waste of time as it is, reckons I should switch to business.’

  Their eyes had met, her grimace mirroring his. His grandfather was a force to be reckoned with on a good day.

  ‘Here, let me do one of you. Sit down by the window.’

  It had only taken him a couple of minutes, a portrait in midnight blue pencil, the first thing that had come to hand, her curls like a halo with the light behind her, eyes creased with laughter.

  That had been the first. From then on Sebastian had carried his sketch pad everywhere with him, and pencils, 2B and 4B, meticulously sharpened with his penknife, catching the moments like the shutter of a camera. In the barn, the straw sticking into her back through her t-shirt as she’d posed, peeping out from behind the bales, the smell of the hay clinging to her hair, the scent of their lovemaking clinging to her skin; in the woods, stretched out in the long grass, bees buzzing, an orchestra of birds above them; in the back row of the cinema, her face lit by the moving images on the screen, completely absorbed.

  And then…and then he’d taken all the sketches and put them together in one huge painting.

  As Alex thought about it, it wasn’t so much the fact that he’d painted her that bothered her, but the way he’d painted her…and then…she drew in a sharp breath as it hit her all over again, it was where he’d put it.

  Alex yanked her hair behind her ear; the rain had turned it into a mass of wreathing corkscrews that danced around her face with every movement, driving her nuts. The CD player switched track, Bonnie Tyler’s gravelly voice mournful, Cry me a River. And like the replay button stuck in the ‘on’ position in her head, the whole episode started to roll again: t
he look on his face as he’d led her into the bedroom, that frown with a hint of sheepishness; or was she imagining that? Then, watching her as she admired it, realisation unfurling in her chest like the petals of a lily. How quickly had she spotted that mole beside the model’s navel, the other on her breast, close to her nipple, flushed and inviting, her hand cupping its weight, fingers stretched in ecstasy, her back arched. It had felt like a lifetime, but must only have been a few seconds when it had dawned, beyond a doubt, that the subject of the painting was her.

  Oh my God. A toe-curling cringe hit Alex all over again. And when she’d turned to him, stuttering, had there been a hint of triumph in his eye, a flicker of a smile? Bastard.

  Was running out of the apartment the right thing to have done? Anger flared again – perhaps she should have had it out with him there and then, told him exactly why she left, exactly what had happened, opened the wound and salted it liberally with the truth.

  No. It came like a door slamming in her head. She’d done the right thing. There was still too much at stake to just blurt it all out, more than just the two of them involved.

  She’d done the right thing.

  Pulling out of the Eaton Square complex as fast as she could, driving blindly along the seafront towards the city, she’d found herself almost at the hospital before she’d come to her senses. But she definitely wasn’t in the mood to see her dad, had instead veered off towards the sea, pulling up in the huge anonymous car park that ran along the seafront in Sandymount where she now sat. She sighed, her hands gripping the top of the steering wheel. The tide was out, in front of her, huge bare stretches of sand were exposed to the elements, deeply scored by the movement of the waves. Framing the view, the twin chimneys of the Pigeon House power station thrusting for the sky, the Wicklow Mountains rising across the bay, their dark shapes haunting and melancholic. This was the view from Sebastian’s apartment…from the balcony, from every aspect of the living room, even from the…kitchen.

  Realisation hit her like an arrow, its tip gleaming as it flew from his kitchen counter right into the side of her car.

  Her briefcase. Her bloody briefcase! She’d left it in the kitchen, her laptop neatly zipped inside. On the kitchen counter. Right in the middle of the kitchen counter.

  Feck. How the hell could she have been so stupid?

  AND HOW THE HELL WAS SHE GOING TO GET IT BACK?

  To add a further great dollop of humiliation to the whole damn farce, now she was going have to go crawling back in there and get it. Well, she wasn’t about to do that, to go back so he could smirk at her all over again. He could get well and truly stuffed on that front. So how could she get it back? It only took a moment for Alex to decide. She reached for her phone, which, thankfully she’d left in the car when she went up to the apartment.

  ‘Hi Jocelyn, how are you? This is Alex Ryan.’ Alex cradled her mobile on her shoulder as she spoke, turning the CD player down, stilling the fan heater.

  ‘Alex? Lovely to hear from you. How did you get on?’

  Alex put on her ‘everything went great’ voice, light and airy and unconcerned. Only her last words were spelled out tentatively.

  ‘Super, I have everything I need to get going on some ideas. I just had one slight technical hitch.’

  ‘What was it my dear, what can I help you with?’

  ‘Oh Jocelyn, would you believe it, I was so caught up in the ideas for the apartment I managed to leave my laptop behind. I feel such a twit.’

  Jocelyn laughed sympathetically, as if she had done exactly the same type of thing herself,

  ‘That’s not a problem AT ALL my dear. But I guess you don’t want to pop back and knock on the door and ask for it?’

  Alex laughed, focusing on keeping her voice confident, ‘Exactly. I’d feel like I was asking for my ball back. Not terribly professional is it?’

  ‘Don’t you worry…’ Alex could hear Jocelyn flicking through a diary, ‘Sebastian has a meeting in London this afternoon, he’s probably already left…He’s staying there tonight and planning to come straight in to the office tomorrow morning. And I don’t have a key but,’ Alex could hear her voice brighten as she arrived at a solution, ‘the cleaners will be there at 9 a.m. I’ll let the company know you’ll be calling over. How’s that?’

  Alex’s sigh of relief was louder than she intended,

  ‘Marvellous Jocelyn, thanks so much.’

  ‘No problem my dear, us girls have to stick together don’t we, or nothing would get done!’

  Alex clicked off her phone, and let go of all the fake enthusiasm and bonhomie, deflated, resting her head on the steering wheel. Thank God. Now, she could nip over in the morning and grab it while he was away, which meant that today, she only had to pop in and see her dad and then she could go home and open a very cold bottle of white wine and get totally and utterly pissed.

  Anyone passing might have been concerned for her sanity, as sealed from the rain and the mess her life was in, she shuddered, a tear creeping down her cheek, falling onto the lapel of her jacket, rapidly followed by another.

  EIGHTEEN

  Grafton Street was busier than Peter had expected, the broad pedestrianised area crowded with people ebbing and flowing along its length, occasionally clustering around street performers, craning to get a better look. A man modelling a sleeping dog from damp sand, a grass green woolly hat lying in front of the sculpture for coins; a puppeteer, his puppet rushing into the crowd producing screams of delight from a gang of foreign students.

  At the entrance to one of the side streets a flower seller was busy tidying her pitch, organising buckets of brilliantly coloured flowers. A woman in a velvet coat was keeping the assistant occupied choosing a huge bunch. So much for the recession. Peter paused for a second, the heavy scents from the flowers crowding his mind as his eyes ran over lilies and great spiked bunches of he wasn’t sure what. Would he buy Caroline flowers? Maybe not this time. She might not be on her own when he found her and he didn’t want to create any trouble, not just yet anyhow.

  Dodging a woman trailing two small children dressed in berets and button-up coats who looked like they’d fallen out of a TV commercial, Peter slipped through the plate glass doors of Brown Thomas and weaved his way through the designer cosmetics counters to the escalator.

  Heading up the scents of perfume and leather jostling for attention, Peter stepped off in The Designer Rooms. He paused for a moment, scanning the sparsely-hung perspex rails to his left, bright overhead lights magnified by hundreds of mirrors. The place was a maze of pillars and subsections, appeared to have no logical layout Ahead of him was a shoe display area. He checked briefly, then in one of the mirrors caught a flash of pink and a dark-haired women heading somewhere to his right. Was that her? His footsteps hollow on the peculiar white lino-like flooring, Peter followed her.

  A second later he spotted her in a side annexe. Gucci. He should have guessed.

  ‘Hello beautiful.’

  Sliding up behind Caroline as she inspected a rail of impossibly delicate silk organza dresses, Peter slipped his hand around her and inside the bright pink boxy faux fur coat she was wearing, burying his face in the back of her neck as he spoke.

  ‘Oh my!’ Almost dropping the thick paper carrier bags dangling from the crook of her arm, Caroline spun around to see who was behind her. Peter let her go long enough for her to turn to face him, then slipped both hands inside her coat, pulling her lithe body towards his.

  ‘Christ you smell good.’ He kept his voice was low.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ Then, her surprise giving way to common sense, Caroline tried to push him away. ‘Let go! Not here.’ Glancing anxiously from side to side she fought hard not to laugh. Even through the denim of her skin- tight jeans she could feel he was hard. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Oh I can. I want you right now, right here and I don’t care who knows it.’

  His voice was husky in her ear, made her wilt against him; he smelled of something
woody with a hint of amber, something overwhelmingly sexy, ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ it was said with more control than she felt, ‘Not here. Anyone could see us.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  He tried to slip one hand down the back of her jeans, but they were too tight, his hand too big. Instead he ran his palm up her back, cold against her hot skin, pressing her to him as the other hand worked its way up under her silver All Saints t-shirt, into her bra. Before she realised what was happening, he was massaging her nipple with his thumb, creating powerful waves that radiated straight down to her groin, making her wet, making her weak at the knees. Thank God they were hidden in a corner.

  ‘Let go!’ It came out breathy, was almost lost in a wave of pleasure that made her slump into his shoulder.

  ‘Only if you promise to have lunch with me. In my hotel room.’ He slipped his hand out from behind her back, and a moment later she felt something slide into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘My key, 372, ten minutes. You haven’t any other plans for the afternoon have you?’

  NINETEEN

  It had sounded like a great idea yesterday. To go home and get pissed. But this morning as Alex turned over in bed, spring sunlight flooding in through her window, finally vanquishing the previous days of gloom, she wondered if she should have just jumped off the nearest tall building instead. Or into the sea. Anything was better than the pain in her head right now, splitting her forehead in two, better than fighting through a heavy blanket of cotton wool just to open her eyes.

  Alex had only ever been really drunk once in her life before: the night she had arrived in Barcelona, a night very like last night when she had just needed something to dull the pain. And, as she lay in bed now, she knew why she had never bothered going out with her pals from college to get slaughtered on cheap Spanish beer. This wasn’t fun. Worse than that, it ranked pretty closely with finding yourself plastered naked across your ex-boyfriend’s bedroom wall.