In the Shadow of the Trees Read Online Free PDF

recognise his name, I realised I was already familiar with his work from the pages of the more upmarket magazines.
    Suddenly he said he had to go. I had somehow imagined we would stay talking forever and I could feel the disappointment running down my face but was powerless to control it. I franticallydredged around for something astounding to say that would keep him there. All that came out was, ‘Oh—oh, OK.’
    Then he said, ‘You do like peppers, don’t you?’
    ‘Peppers?’
    ‘Yes, I thought we’d have stuffed peppers for dinner tonight. I know you don’t eat meat. Your place at seven. I’ll bring the food and cook. You sort the wine.’
    And then he was gone.
    He turned up at seven-thirty, just late enough for me to think he wasn’t coming. He was a good cook, much better than me. We drank a lot of wine, watched an old movie on TV and fell asleep on the sofa. I woke next morning to find him still there. And he was still there three months later.
    I can remember the fairground that used to come to our town in the summer. Us girls, there were four or five of us, would hang around most evenings and giggle and squeal at the flashing lights and the raucous music in the hope of attracting the attention of the young men who worked the sideshows. But I think it was the rides that did it for me; the Loop-De-Loop that turned the Earth on its head and the Round-Up where only the scream jammed in your throat saved you from certain death. I got hooked on the head-sickening, blood-draining terror. All that addictive adrenaline pumping through my adolescent veins.
    I suppose that’s how it was with Jason. He would disappear for days on end. Then suddenly he was back and I was the centre of his universe as if what I thought, or felt, or did, was his whole life. His mood swings were infuriating. When he was cold and dismissive it was as if a cloud obliterated the sun. Then, just as inexplicably, the black moods would melt and he would be the blue-eyed little boy looking for friends to play with. Not my friends, of course. They lived in grungy bed-sits and shared one bicycle between three of them. The people he knew owned boatsand private planes; they could party till three in the morning, and then get up at six to go water-skiing.
    Sometimes he scared me. He could be so sweet and gentle, then the slightest thing would make him erupt with anger. I never knew what was happening and it was exhausting. Not that he was ever violent. No, that was me. He had me spitting and scratching like a wild cat while he calmly held me at arm’s length. Then I’d dissolve in floods of tears and he’d be so sweet and gentle. He had a way of stroking my arms and shoulders that made every nerve in my body sing out loud.
    Yet I don’t know how I would have got through those three months without him. He even came to Europe with me. Two of the pieces that sold at the Remborne exhibition went to a French industrialist who gifted them to a new research centre near Paris. They offered to pay my fare and expenses if I would attend the presentation. Probably all a big tax write-off for them, but I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Besides, the buyer did seem to know something about art and was talking about further commissions. While I was there I crossed over to London to visit the Barbican. Winston Remborne had arranged a small opening of my works there for the following year. But the thought of dealing with those high-flyers scared the hell out of me. Jason just dropped everything and came along. He fended off unwanted attention, gave orders to the hotel staff and renegotiated the new commissions in my favour. I wouldn’t have survived without him.
    So what went wrong?
    Funny, that’s what Sally asked the last time I saw her. Well, almost the last time. Sally and I had known each other since art school. Both away from home for the first time and trying desperately to appear cool and contemptuous while trembling in our boots, we gravitated towards