Imogen

"Can I come in for a minute?" Charlie said. Imogen hesitated, taken by surprise. "Only for a minute, I promise. I don't want coffee or nightcaps or to check if you've nicked any spoons." "Alright. It's not very tidy, I'm afraid." "I'm not making a spot check of your housekeeping, either." She looked at him before she unlocked the house door. She wanted to ask what it was he did want but could think of no way of phrasing the question without sounding belligerent or aggrieved. As if he had read her mind, he gave a small embarrassed smile and walked past her into the hall. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and when they reached her front door, he put out a hand to check her before she could insert the key in the lock. "I wanted to see where you live," he said, "not to snoop but just to know what your surroundings are like, so I can imagine you here with all your things around you. I like knowing how my friends live, what colours they choose, what books they have on the shelves and so on. It brings them closer somehow." "Am I a friend?" "I hope you will be." "I suppose it's only fair, she said, and he dropped his hand. "After all, I know your domestic details." The first thing to catch Charlie's eye as he stepped into the hall was a poster for a series of concerts and recitals given by Orlando Lawless in New York a few years ago. The great musician smiled out at them like an amiable version of Igor, the mad scientist's henchman. His hair stood out from his head in a Beethovenesque mane as though charged with the man's vitality. Prominently displayed were the powerful, enormous, magical hands. "If I hadn't been a pianist," he was wont to say, cheerfully, "I'd have made a jolly efficient strangler." "My hero!" exclaimed Charlie, turning to Imogen, delighted. "You obviously like him, too." "Yes, I do, very much," she said, and ushered him into her sitting room where he wandered round, examining the contents of her bookshelves, hunkering down to peer at her collection of CD's, cassettes and records, looking at the framed reproductions of Impressionists and Pre Raphaelites and her own watercolours and pencil sketches which were mainly of the boys and various horses and dogs. "Nice," he commented. "Very nice, in fact. All of them." He indicated a picture hung slightly apart from the others. "But that one's amazing. You're very talented." It was Con, sprawled naked like an exhausted faun, curly head pillowed on an out-flung arm, lips softly parted, long eyelashes fanned on freckled cheeks; each bone and muscle beautifully defined beneath the taut skin. "It's nothing. I copied it," she lied. "It's just a copy of a photograph." "Really?" Charlie sounded dubious. "It's nothing," she repeated, and the sudden shrillness in her voice made him turn and look at her. She had gone very pale, the lipstick and blusher stood out on her skin like paint on a white mask and her hands were shaking; aware of his concerned regard, she thrust them into the pockets of her coat. "This wasn't such a great idea, was it?" he said. "You're obviously shattered. I'll go now and let you get to bed." Her throat was too dry for her to be able to answer him, but she managed a small uncertain smile. "Thank you again for a great meal and for everything you've done in the flat. You've made a fantastic improvement." "You're paying me a very handsome wage for what I do." She had herself more or less under control again. "You've given me a great deal more than I pay you for," he said. Suddenly he bent and kissed her awkwardly on the cheek. " Good night, Imogen. Sleep well. " He was gone, pulling the front door quietly shut behind him and running down the stairs. She moved to the window and as she looked into the street, Charlie glanced up and waved to her. With her own hand still lifted, she watched the Range Rover draw away from the kerb and disappear into the night. He must think I'm mad. Perhaps I am, at that. Slowly, she took the few steps necessary to come back to the picture of Con. How strange, she thought, I must look at it a hundred times a day without even the vestige of a twinge; now Charlie's interest in it has made me see it as if it's the first time. No, as if I'm there again in that little room above the stables, crouching naked with my sketchpad at the foot of Con's bed. I have to work fast because when he wakes, there'll be no more drawing. As soon as he stirs, as soon as those tawny eyes open and see me, he'll want me. His mouth and his hands will be all over me and that thin hot body will be pressed against mine and he'll be wanting me as urgently as if it had been three months since he'd had me instead of a scant half hour. Anguish struck her like a physical blow; her legs crumpled under her and she sank to the floor, clutching herself against the pain of remembering. He had been so beautiful, so tender, so passionate, and so heartbreakingly young that she had been his first woman. Lying with his head on her chest, his soft Irish voice had flowed over her like music, telling her his hopes and dreams; telling her, ah Christ! how much he loved her. She had loved him too, but her love had not saved him from the brutal ending of all his bright promise. "Oh Con," she whispered, "forgive me." And like a wounded animal, Imogen crawled to her bed and wept another night away.