The Art of Love. Elizabeth Edmondson
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forgot I asked you to bring those prints round, Polly.’
Bertram, his face scarlet, came out of the bedroom tucking his shirt into his trousers. ‘For Christ’s sake, Oliver.’
‘Polly, this is Bertram. An old, and as you can see, a very close friend. We were at school together. A long time ago, but affections can linger. Now, don’t get worked up, Bertram. One thing about Polly here is that she is utterly discreet and completely trustworthy. There are few people I would trust not to spread this delicious piece of scandal around London, and lucky for us, Polly is one of them.’
Polly sat down on Oliver’s elegant sofa with a thump. ‘I’m so sorry. What an awful thing to do. I didn’t realize…’
‘Is it so much worse than finding me in bed with a woman? Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘You do understand, don’t you?’ Bertram said, sitting down on the matching sofa opposite and gazing solemnly at Polly. ‘You do understand that if this ever got out — well, it mustn’t for both our sakes. Oliver simply can’t take any risks, not after—’
A warning look from Oliver silenced him for a moment. ‘Well, I won’t go into the reasons. And as for me, no one has any idea. That I — that I’m…You do see, don’t you?’
Polly did. Some queers weren’t bothered one way or the other, such as Sam, who was quite open about his inclinations. That worried her, because you read in the papers about people, even famous people, being had up for accosting other men.
‘It’s a private affair,’ said Oliver, watching her. ‘Not like picking up guardsmen or boys in the park, you know. Think of us as a couple, but a couple who have to keep their relationship secret.’
‘If my family ever knew…’ said Bertram. He took out a silk handkerchief and passed it across his brow. He was a good-looking man, with light brown wavy hair and deep, dark blue eyes. He smiled at her, his face relaxing for the first time, and she smiled back.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world, but your secret’s perfectly safe with me. Truly it is.’
She rose, wanting to get away.
There had been a time, when she first met Oliver, when she might well have fallen in love with him. She had never felt such a rapport with a man; she felt utterly at ease in his company, even when she barely knew him.
And now Oliver had lost Bertram? ‘That’s dreadful, Oliver.’
His mouth trembled, and he bit his lip to control it. ‘It is, rather. When you love someone as much as I do Bertram, one can’t imagine life without him.’
‘But why? Has he found someone else?’
‘He’s getting married,’ Oliver said flatly. ‘He’s decided to put what he calls “all this” behind him, and he’s marrying a nice girl. A friend of his family. Suitable in every way. His family are thrilled. He wants me to be best man.’
‘He wants you — oh, Oliver, no! He can’t ask that of you.’
‘It seems he can. However, since he’s getting married next month, and I plan to be in France for the whole of January, he will have to look elsewhere for a best man.’
‘You sound bitter. I’m not surprised.’
‘No, I’m not bitter. In a way, I always knew it would end like this. Bertram has never liked the cloak and dagger side of such a friendship, the secrecy, the effort to keep it all hidden. Some of us thrive on it, he doesn’t. He yearns to be respectable, like everyone else. Sad to say, he has an essentially bourgeois nature.’
‘But if — if he’s the way he is, how can he marry? The poor girl, she doesn’t know about you and him?’
‘Good heavens, no. I don’t suppose she even knows that such relationships exist. No, she doesn’t know, and Bertram is definitely not going to tell her. He’s going to walk down the aisle with his radiant bride on his arm, and from then on, he’ll be a normal man. He wants children, of course. That’s a strong pull. That’s one thing we can’t give each other. Oh, hell, Polly, why is love so beastly? You’re so fortunate, with your staid Roger and the whole world beaming approval, you don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘I thought so, but I’m not so sure.’
‘Lovers’ tiff?’
Polly pulled a face. ‘Can you imagine having a lovers’ tiff with Roger? Arguing with him is like disagreeing with a brick. No, it’s just that I saw a side of him today that I didn’t know about, and I didn’t care for it much. He’s going to America, sailing at the weekend. To spend time with American doctors in Boston.’
‘Is he? How long for? I thought you were all lined up for a wedding in the new year.’
‘Not any more. It has to be postponed until he gets back, sometime in February.’
‘And you aren’t upset?’
‘No, not at all. I don’t mind being engaged, there’s a comfort in it, and I’m happy enough when I’m with Roger. But marriage is a bit of a step.’ Polly twisted her glass round in her hands. ‘He maintains I can’t go on working once we’re married. In fact, I think he expects me to give up my painting altogether. Which is all a bit of a wrench, I like what I do at the workshop.’
‘I saw that coming, even if you didn’t,’ said Oliver. ‘You do sound dreary, ducks. All this and the art not going too well.’
‘Don’t say that!’ said Polly, roused out of her glumness by his unexpected attack.
‘My dear Polly, your paintings are getting smaller and dingier by the week. Whoever is going to buy them? They’re technically very good, but if you go on the way you are, you’ll end up painting miniatures.’
‘Canvases of a decent size cost money.’
‘Come on, that’s not the reason, and you know it. Life’s boxing you in, that’s what’s happening to you. Time to burst out, Polly my dear.’
‘Do you think one can do that? Change one’s life? Leave the old one behind like a snake shedding its skin? I don’t. I think however hard you tried, you’d still be the same old snake, hissing and coiling in the same old way. Even if you did have a shiny new shape, all green and gold and glistening…’ The snake was there, in her mind’s eye, or perhaps green and gold was more appropriate for a dragon. The creature morphed instantly into a beast with snorting, fiery breath and huge wings, and Polly laughed.
‘That’s better,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ve an idea. Come and spend a few weeks at my father’s house in Cap Rodoard, in the south of France, where the light will dazzle your eyes, even in the depths of winter. It’s a strange place, my father’s house, but there’s quite a community of artists in the village, plenty of kindred spirits for you. I think the dim dreariness of a bad London winter is seeping into your soul. Over there you can throw open the shutters in the morning, and there’s the sun pouring in to lighten your life. Palm trees outside the window, colour everywhere to lighten your darkness.’
His father’s house. Oliver never spoke about his family, he might have been an orphan or one of ten children for all Polly knew. ‘Does your father spend much time in France?’
‘He lives there.’
‘Why? Doesn’t he like England? Or is he French?’
Oliver looked amused. ‘Good Lord, no. As English as they come, bad barons going back through the centuries.’
‘So why France?’
Oliver went quiet, then lifted his glass and finished his whisky. ‘He prefers it,’ he said.
‘Do you have other family over there? Is your mother…?’
‘My sister might be out there for the winter, with or without her husband,