THE TRYSTING TREE Read Online Free PDF Page A

self-portrait of Phoebe at work in her studio, an almost geometric study of squares and oblongs, lozenges of light and shadow. It made me think of Vermeer and I admired it very much.
    When I sat for Phoebe in the studio, I took the risk of telling her so.
     
    ~
     
    ‘You know, that unfinished self-portrait is very good.’
    ‘Sit still.’
    ‘Sorry… Why don’t you finish it?’
    ‘I got bored with it. Bored with me as a subject. And irritated. I kept moving .’
    I suppressed a smile. ‘I suppose that’s the trouble with self-portraits.’
    ‘You said that without moving your lips. No, don’t smile. This is a study for a series I’m planning and there’ll be nothing pretty about it. I want it to be forensic ,’ she added with relish.
    ‘Oh dear, that doesn’t sound at all flattering.’
    ‘I had the idea of doing a series of portraits. The Seven Ages of Woman . I thought it might make a good come-back show. The journey from untouched adolescent girl into raddled old age. That one of me would be the last in the series. The one of you hanging in the sitting room would be the first.’
    ‘The one with the flowers?’
    ‘Yes. You were twelve. It would be a good place to start. Dagmar’s had her eye on that one for years, but I said I’d never part with it. It’s some of my best work,’ she hastened to explain.
    I wasn’t hurt because I knew Phoebe hadn’t meant to hurt, probably didn’t even understand that I could be hurt. She was just an artist at work. Observant. Impersonal. I was no more to her than an inanimate object in a still life arrangement.
    Altering my position minutely to relieve tension, I said, ‘It’s a great idea for a series.’
    ‘Stop fidgeting! You were much better at this when you were a child. You’d sit for hours. A model model, in fact.’
    ‘Tell me more about your portrait series.’
    Phoebe didn’t reply. I thought she’d decided to drop the subject when she suddenly said, ‘I wanted to show how women have lived, what they’ve experienced, just by showing their faces. I see it and I think I can make other people see it. Well, I could have done once. Not sure now. Not sure about anything any more. Bloody cancer,’ she muttered. Her charcoal stick snapped and she tossed the remainder aside, saying, ‘That’s enough for today. I’m tired… Is it gin o’clock yet?’
     
    ~
     
    I knew better than to ask Phoebe if I could see the sketch, but I could tell she was happy with it. Later, when she was taking a nap, I went back over to the studio and examined her work.
    My first reaction was to look away, shocked, as one might turn away from the sight of an open wound. I steeled myself to look again and the second time wasn’t so bad. I was prepared for the thin face with its sharp chin. The lines on my face weren’t deep yet, but they were there. Life had already sketched them in and so had Phoebe. My eyes looked good – large, challenging – but she couldn’t catch their pale blue in monochrome.
    It was a good likeness and it wasn’t just a likeness. Phoebe’s sketch showed me a quality I never see when I’m putting on my make-up, or when I’m in front of the mirror at the hairdresser’s, but which I know is there.
    Emptiness.
    An emptiness that longs to be filled.
     
    ~
     
    Phoebe and I rubbed along. She was both grateful for and resentful of my presence, but there were few sulks and no rows. We both knew we were avoiding a discussion of the big issue: putting Garden Lodge up for sale. I waited for her to raise the topic and she waited for me. It was emotional stalemate. Every day I promised myself I would tackle the subject of Phoebe’s future, but the longer I was there, the harder it became.
    Matters were finally brought to a head when she fell again, slipping on frosty paving stones. It could have happened to anyone, including me, but I took it as a sign and decided to broach the painful subject of selling the home she’d loved, lived and worked in