بخش 2-2

CHAPTER TWELVE

MAX BERENSON’S RECEPTIONIST had a bad cold. She reached for a tissue, blew her nose, and gestured at me to wait.

“He’s on the phone. He’ll be out in a minute.”

I nodded and took a seat in the waiting area. A few uncomfortable upright chairs, a coffee table with a stack of out-of-date magazines. All waiting rooms looked alike, I thought; I could just as easily have been waiting to see a doctor or funeral director as a lawyer.

The door across the hallway opened. Max Berenson appeared and beckoned me over. He disappeared back into his office. I got up and followed him inside.

I expected the worst, given his gruff manner on the phone. But to my surprise, he began with an apology.

“I’m sorry if I was abrupt when we spoke. It’s been a long week and I’m a bit under the weather. Won’t you sit down?” I sat on the chair on the other side of the desk. “Thanks. And thank you for agreeing to see me.” “Well, I wasn’t sure I should at first. I thought you were a journalist, trying to get me to talk about Alicia. But then I called the Grove and checked you worked there.” “I see. Does that happen a lot? Journalists, I mean?”

“Not recently. It used to. I learned to be on my guard—” He was about to say something else, but a sneeze overtook him. He reached for a box of tissues. “Sorry—I have the family cold.” He blew his nose. I glanced at him more closely. Unlike his younger brother, Max Berenson was not attractive. Max was imposing, balding, and his face was speckled with deep acne scars. He was wearing an old-fashioned spicy men’s cologne, the kind my father used to wear. His office was similarly traditional and had the reassuring smell of leather furniture, wood, books. It couldn’t be more different from the world inhabited by Gabriel—a world of color and beauty for beauty’s sake. He and Max were obviously nothing alike.

A framed photograph of Gabriel was on the desk. A candid shot—possibly taken by Max? Gabriel was sitting on a fence in a country field, his hair blowing in the breeze, a camera slung around his neck. He looked more like an actor than a photographer. Or an actor playing a photographer.

Max caught me looking at the picture and nodded as if reading my mind. “My brother got the hair and the looks. I got the brains.” Max laughed. “I’m joking. Actually, I was adopted. We weren’t blood related.” “I didn’t know that. Were you both adopted?”

“No, just me. Our parents thought they couldn’t have children. But after they adopted me, they conceived a child of their own soon after. It’s quite common apparently. Something to do with relieving stress.” “Were you and Gabriel close?”

“Closer than most. Though he took center stage, of course. I was rather overshadowed by him.” “Why was that?”

“Well, it was difficult not to be. Gabriel was special, even as a child.” Max had a habit of playing with his wedding ring. He kept turning it around his finger as he talked. “Gabriel used to carry his camera everywhere, you know, taking pictures. My father thought he was mad. Turns out he was a bit of a genius, my brother. Do you know his work?” I smiled diplomatically. I had no desire to get into a discussion of Gabriel’s merits as a photographer.

Instead I steered the conversation back to Alicia. “You must have known her quite well?” “Alicia? Must I?” Something in Max changed at the mention of her name. His warmth evaporated. His tone was cold. “I don’t know if I can help you. I didn’t represent Alicia in court. I can put you in touch with my colleague Patrick Doherty if you want details about the trial.” “That’s not the kind of information I’m after.”

“No?” Max gave me a curious look. “As a psychotherapist, it can’t be common practice to meet your patient’s lawyer?” “Not if my patient can speak for herself, no.”

Max seemed to mull this over. “I see. Well, as I said, I don’t know how I can help, so—” “I just have a couple of questions.”

“Very well. Fire away.”

“I remember reading in the press at the time that you saw Gabriel and Alicia the night before the murder?” “Yes, we had dinner together.”

“How did they seem?”

Max’s eyes glazed over. Presumably he’d been asked this question hundreds of times, and his response was automatic, without thinking. “Normal. Totally normal.” “And Alicia?”

“Normal.” He shrugged. “Maybe a bit more jumpy than usual, but…” “But?”

“Nothing.”

I sensed there was more. I waited.

And after a moment, Max went on, “I don’t know how much you know about their relationship.” “Only what I read in the papers.”

“And what did you read?”

“That they were happy.”

“Happy?” Max smiled coldly. “Oh, they were happy. Gabriel did everything he could to make her happy.” “I see.” But I didn’t see. I didn’t know where Max was going.

I must have looked puzzled because he shrugged. “I’m not going to elaborate. If it’s gossip you’re after, talk to Jean-Felix, not me.” “Jean-Felix?”

“Jean-Felix Martin. Alicia’s gallerist. They’d known each other for years. As thick as thieves. Never liked him much, if I’m honest.” “I’m not interested in gossip.” I made a mental note to talk to Jean-Felix as soon as possible. “I’m more interested in your personal opinion. May I ask you a direct question?” “I thought you just did.”

“Did you like Alicia?”

Max looked at me expressionlessly as he spoke. “Of course I did.” I didn’t believe him. “I sense you’re wearing two different hats. The lawyer’s hat, which is understandably discreet. And the brother’s hat. It’s the brother I came to see.” There was a pause. I wondered if Max was about to ask me to leave. He seemed about to say something but changed his mind. Then he suddenly left the desk and went to the window. He opened it. There was a blast of cold air. Max breathed in deeply, as if the room had been stifling him.

Finally he said in a low voice, “The truth is … I hated her … I loathed her.” I didn’t say anything. I waited for him to go on.

He kept looking out the window and said slowly, “Gabriel wasn’t just my brother, he was my best friend. He was the kindest man you ever met. Too kind. And all his talent, his goodness, his passion for life—wiped out, because of that bitch. It wasn’t just his life she destroyed—it was mine too. Thank God my parents didn’t live to see it.” Max choked up, suddenly emotional.

It was hard not to sense his pain, and I felt sorry for him. “It must have been extremely difficult for you to organize Alicia’s defense.” Max shut the window and returned to the desk. He had regained control of himself. He was wearing the lawyer’s hat again. Neutral, balanced, emotionless.

He shrugged. “It’s what Gabriel would have wanted. He wanted the best for Alicia, always. He was mad about her. She was just mad.” “You think she was insane?”

“You tell me—you’re her shrink.”

“What do you think?”

“I know what I observed.”

“And what was that?”

“Mood swings. Rages. Violent fits. She’d break things, smash stuff up. Gabriel told me she threatened to murder him on several occasions. I should have listened, done something—after she tried to kill herself, I should have intervened, insisted she got some help. But I didn’t. Gabriel was determined to protect her, and like an idiot, I let him.” Max sighed and checked his watch—a cue for me to wrap up the conversation.

But I just stared at him blankly. “Alicia tried to kill herself? What do you mean? When? You mean after the murder?” Max shook his head. “No, several years before that. You don’t know? I assumed you knew.” “When was this?”

“After her father died. She took an overdose … pills or something. I can’t remember exactly. She had a kind of breakdown.” I was about to press him further when the door opened. The receptionist appeared and spoke in a sniffly voice. “Darling, we should go. We’ll be late.” “Right. Coming, dear.”

The door shut. Max stood up, giving me an apologetic glance. “We have theater tickets.” I must have looked startled, because he laughed. “We—Tanya and I—were married last year.” “Oh. I see.”

“Gabriel’s death brought us together. I couldn’t have gotten through it without her.” Max’s phone rang, distracting him.

I nodded at him to take the call. “Thank you, you’ve been a great help.” I slipped out of the office. I took a closer look at Tanya in reception—she was blond, pretty, rather petite. She blew her nose, and I noticed the large diamond on her wedding finger.

To my surprise, she got up and walked toward me, frowning. She spoke urgently in a low voice. “If you want to know about Alicia, talk to her cousin, Paul—he knows her better than anyone.” “I tried calling her aunt, Lydia Rose. She wasn’t particularly forthcoming.” “Forget Lydia. Go to Cambridge. Talk to Paul. Ask him about Alicia and the night after the accident, and—” The office door opened. Tanya immediately fell silent. Max emerged and she hurried over to him, smiling broadly.

“Ready, darling?” she asked.

Tanya was smiling, but she sounded nervous. She’s afraid of Max, I thought. I wondered why.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Alicia Berenson’s Diary

JULY 22

I hate the fact there’s a gun in the house.

We had another argument about it last night. At least I thought that’s what we were fighting about—I’m not so sure now.

Gabriel said it was my fault we argued. I suppose it was. I hated seeing him so upset, looking at me with hurt eyes. I hate causing him pain—and yet sometimes I desperately want to hurt him, and I don’t know why.

He said I came home in a horrible mood. That I marched upstairs and started screaming at him. Perhaps I did. I suppose I was upset. I’m not altogether sure what happened. I had just gotten back from the park. I don’t remember much of the walk—I was daydreaming, thinking about work, about the Jesus picture. I remember walking past a house on my way home. Two boys were playing with a hose. They couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. The older boy was spraying the younger with a jet of water, a rainbow of color sparkling in the light. A perfect rainbow. The younger boy stretched out his hands, laughing. I walked past and I realized my cheeks were wet with tears.

I dismissed it then, but thinking about it now, it seems obvious. I don’t want to admit the truth to myself—that a huge part of my life is missing. That I’ve denied I want children, pretending I have no interest in them, that all I care about is my art. And it’s not true. It’s just an excuse—the truth is I’m scared to have kids. I am not to be trusted with them.

Not with my mother’s blood running through my veins.

That’s what was on my mind, consciously or unconsciously, when I got home. Gabriel was right, I was in a bad state.

But I never would have exploded if I hadn’t found him cleaning the gun. It upsets me so much that he has it. And it hurts me he won’t get rid of it, no matter how many times I beg him. He always says the same thing—that it was one of his father’s old rifles from their farm and he gave it him when he was sixteen, that it has sentimental value and blah blah blah. I don’t believe him. I think there’s another reason he’s keeping it. I said so. And Gabriel said there was nothing wrong with wanting to be safe—wanting to protect his house and wife. What if someone broke in?

“Then we call the police,” I said. “We don’t fucking shoot them!” I had raised my voice, but he raised his louder, and before I knew it, we were yelling at each other. Maybe I was a bit out of control. But I was only reacting to him—there’s an aggressive side to Gabriel, a part of him I only glimpse occasionally, and when I do, it scares me. For those brief moments it’s like living with a stranger. And that’s terrifying.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the evening. We went to bed in silence.

This morning we had sex and made up. We always seem to resolve our problems in bed. It’s easier, somehow—when you’re naked and half-asleep under the covers—to whisper, “I’m sorry,” and mean it. All defenses and bullshit justifications are discarded, lying in a heap on the floor with our clothes.

“Maybe we should make it a rule to always conduct arguments in bed.” He kissed me. “I love you. I’ll get rid of the rifle, I promise.” “No,” I said. “It doesn’t matter, forget it. It’s okay. Really.” Gabriel kissed me again and pulled me close. I held on to him, laying my naked body on his. I closed my eyes and stretched out on a friendly rock that was molded to my shape. And I felt at peace at last.

JULY 23

I’m writing this in Café de l’Artista. I come here most days now. I keep feeling the need to get out of the house. When I’m around other people, even if it’s only the bored waitress in here, I feel connected to the world somehow, like a human being.

Otherwise I’m in danger of ceasing to exist. Like I might disappear.

Sometimes I wish I could disappear—like tonight. Gabriel has invited his brother over for dinner. He sprung it on me this morning.

“We’ve not seen Max in ages,” he said. “Not since Joel’s housewarming. I’ll do a barbecue.” Gabriel looked at me strangely. “You don’t mind, do you?” “Why would I mind?”

Gabriel laughed. “You’re such a bad liar, you know that? I can read your face like a very short book.” “And what does it say?”

“That you don’t like Max. You never have.”

“That’s not true.” I could feel myself going red. I shrugged and looked away. “Of course I like Max. It’ll be nice to see him. When are you going to sit for me again? I need to finish the picture.” Gabriel smiled. “How about this weekend? And about the painting—do me a favor. Don’t show Max, all right? I don’t want him to see me as Jesus—I’ll never live it down.” “Max won’t see it. It’s not ready yet.”

And even if it were, Max is the last person I want in my studio. I thought that but didn’t say it.

I’m dreading going home now. I want to stay here in this air-conditioned café and hide until Max has left. But the waitress is already making little impatient noises and emphatically checking her watch. I’ll be kicked out soon. And that means short of wandering the streets all night like a mad person, I have no choice but to go home and face the music. And face Max.

JULY 24

I’m back in the café. Someone was sitting at my table, and the waitress gave me a sympathetic look—at least I think that’s what she was communicating, a sense of solidarity, but I could be wrong. I took another table, facing in, not out, by the air-conditioning unit. There’s not much light—it’s cold and dark, which suits my mood.

Last night was awful. Worse than I thought it would be.

I didn’t recognize Max when he arrived—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him out of a suit before. He looked a bit silly in shorts. He was sweating profusely after the walk from the station—his bald head was red and shiny, and dark patches were spreading out from under his armpits. He wouldn’t meet my eye at first. Or was it me, not looking at him?

He made a big thing of the house, saying how different it looked, how long it was since we’d invited him that he was starting to think we’d never ask again. Gabriel kept apologizing, saying how busy we’d been, me with the upcoming exhibition and him with work, and we’d not seen anyone. Gabriel was smiling, but I could tell he felt annoyed that Max had made such a point of it.

I kept up a pretty good front at first. I was waiting for the right moment. And then I found it. Max and Gabriel went into the garden and got the barbecue going. I hung around in the kitchen on the pretext of making a salad. I knew Max would make an excuse to come and find me. And I was right. After about five minutes, I heard his heavy, thudding footsteps. He doesn’t walk at all like Gabriel—Gabriel is so silent, he’s like a cat, I never hear him moving around the house at all.

“Alicia,” Max said.

I realized my hands were shaking as I chopped the tomatoes. I put down the knife. I turned around to face him.

Max held up his empty beer bottle and smiled. He still wouldn’t look at me. “I’ve come for another.” I nodded. I didn’t say anything. He opened the fridge and took out another beer. He looked around for the opener. I pointed at it on the counter.

He gave me a funny smile as he opened the beer, like he was going to say something. But I beat him to it: “I’m going to tell Gabriel what happened. I thought you should know.” Max stopped smiling. He looked at me for the first time, with snakelike eyes. “What?” “I’m telling Gabriel. About what happened at Joel’s.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t remember. I was rather drunk, I’m afraid.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.”

“You don’t remember kissing me? You don’t remember grabbing me?” “Alicia, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Make a big deal out of it? You assaulted me.” I could feel myself getting angry. It was an effort to control my voice and not start shouting. I glanced out the window. Gabriel was at the end of the garden, standing over the barbecue. The smoke and the hot air distorted my view of him, and he was all bent out of shape.

“He looks up to you,” I said. “You’re his older brother. He’s going to be so hurt when I tell him.” “Then don’t. There’s nothing to tell him.”

“He needs to know the truth. He needs know what his brother is really like. You—” Before I could finish, Max grabbed my arm hard and pulled me toward him. I lost my balance and fell onto him. He raised his fist and I thought he was going to punch me. “I love you,” he said, “I love you, I love you, I love—” Before I could react, he kissed me. I tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let me. I felt his rough lips all over mine, and his tongue pushing its way into my mouth. Instinct took over.

I bit his tongue as hard as I could.

Max cried out and shoved me away. When he looked up, his mouth was full of blood.

“Fucking bitch!” His voice was garbled, his teeth red. He glared at me like a wounded animal.

I can’t believe Max is Gabriel’s brother. He has none of Gabriel’s fine qualities, none of his decency, none of his kindness. Max disgusts me—and I said so.

“Alicia, don’t say anything to Gabriel,” he said. “I mean it. I’m warning you.” I didn’t say another word. I could taste his blood on my tongue, so I turned on the tap and rinsed my mouth until it was gone. Then I walked out into the garden.

Occasionally I sensed Max staring at me over dinner. I’d look up and catch his eye and he’d look away. I didn’t eat anything. The thought of eating made me sick. I kept tasting his blood in my mouth.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to lie to Gabriel. Nor do I want to keep it a secret. But if I tell Gabriel, he’ll never speak to Max again. It would devastate him to know he’d misplaced his trust in his brother. Because he does trust Max. He idolizes him. And he shouldn’t.

I don’t believe that Max is in love with me. I believe he hates Gabriel, that’s all. I think he’s madly jealous of him—and he wants to take everything that belongs to Gabriel, which includes me. But now that I’ve stood up to him, I don’t think he’ll bother me again—at least I hope not. Not for a while, anyway.

So, for the moment, I’m going to remain silent.

Of course, Gabriel can read me like a book. Or maybe I’m just not a very good actress. Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, he said I’d been weird the whole time Max was there.

“I was just tired.”

“No, it was more than that. You were so distant. You might have made more of an effort. We barely ever see him. I don’t know why you have such a problem with him.” “I don’t. It was nothing to do with Max. I was distracted, I was thinking about work. I’m behind with the exhibition—it’s all I can think about.” I said this with as much conviction as I could muster.

Gabriel gave me a disbelieving look but he let it go, for the moment. I’ll have to face it again next time we see Max—but something tells me that won’t be for a while.

I feel better for having written this down. I feel safer, somehow, having it on paper. It means I have some evidence—some proof.

If it ever comes to that.

JULY 26

It’s my birthday today. I’m thirty-three years old.

It’s strange—it’s older than I ever saw myself as being; my imagination only ever extended this far. I’ve outlived my mother now—it’s an unsteady feeling, being older than she was. She got to thirty-two, and then she stopped. Now I’ve outlived her, and won’t stop. I will grow older and older—but she won’t.

Gabriel was so sweet this morning—he kissed me awake and presented me with thirty-three red roses. They were beautiful. He pricked his finger on one of the thorns. A bloodred teardrop. It was perfect.

Then he took me for a picnic in the park for breakfast. The sun was barely up, so the heat wasn’t unbearable. A cool breeze was coming off the water and the air smelled of cut grass. We lay by the pond under a weeping willow, on the blue blanket we bought in Mexico. The willow branches formed a canopy over us, and the sun burned hazily through the leaves. We drank champagne and ate small sweet tomatoes with smoked salmon and slivers of bread. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, was a vague feeling of familiarity, a nagging sense of déjà vu I couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was simply a recollection of childhood stories, fairy tales, and magical trees being gateways to other worlds. Perhaps it was something more prosaic. And then the memory came back to me: I saw myself when very young, sitting under the branches of the willow tree in our garden in Cambridge. I’d spend hours hiding there. I may not have been a happy child, but during the time I spent under the willow tree, I felt a similar contentment to lying here with Gabriel. And now it was as if the past and the present were coexisting simultaneously in one perfect moment. I wanted that moment to last forever. Gabriel fell asleep, and I sketched him, trying to capture the dappled sunlight on his face. I did a better job with his eyes this time. It was easier because they were closed—but at least I got their shape right. He looked like a little boy, curled up asleep and breathing gently, crumbs around his mouth.

We finished the picnic, went home, and had sex. And Gabriel held me in his arms and said something astonishing: “Alicia, darling, listen. There’s something on my mind I want to talk to you about.” The way he said it made me instantly nervous. I braced myself, fearing the worst. “Go on.” “I want us to have a baby.”

It took me a moment to speak. I was so taken aback I didn’t know what to say.

“But—you didn’t want any children. You said—”

“Forget that. I changed my mind. I want us to have a child together. Well? What do you say?” Gabriel looked at me hopefully, expectantly, waiting for my response. I felt my eyes welling up with tears. “Yes,” I said, “yes, yes, yes…” We hugged each other and cried and laughed.

He’s in bed now, asleep. I had to sneak away and write all this down—I want to remember this day for the rest of my life. Every single second of it.

I feel joyous. I feel full of hope.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I KEPT THINKING ABOUT what Max Berenson had said—about Alicia’s suicide attempt, following her father’s death. There was no mention of it in her file, and I wondered why.

I rang Max the next day, catching him just as he was leaving the office.

“I just want to ask you a couple more questions if you don’t mind.” “I’m literally walking out of the door.”

“This won’t take long.”

Max sighed and lowered the phone to say something unintelligible to Tanya.

“Five minutes,” he said. “That’s all you get.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. You mentioned Alicia’s suicide attempt. I was wondering, which hospital treated her?” “She wasn’t admitted to hospital.”

“She wasn’t?”

“No. She recovered at home. My brother looked after her.” “But—surely she saw a doctor? It was an overdose, you said?” “Yes. And of course Gabriel got a doctor over. And he … the doctor—agreed to keep it quiet.” “Who was the doctor? Do you remember his name?”

There was a pause as Max thought for a moment. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.… I can’t recall.” “Was it their GP?”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t. My brother and I shared a GP. I remember Gabriel made a point of asking me not to mention it to him.” “And you’re sure you can’t remember a name?”

“I’m sorry. Is that all? I have to go.”

“Just one more thing … I was curious about the terms of Gabriel’s will.” A slight intake of breath, and Max’s tone instantly sharpened. “His will? I really don’t see the relevance—” “Was Alicia the main beneficiary?”

“I must say, I find that rather an odd question.”

“Well, I’m trying to understand—”

“Understand what?” Max went on without waiting for a reply, sounding annoyed. “I was the main beneficiary. Alicia had inherited a great deal of money from her father, so Gabriel felt she was well provided for. And so he left the bulk of his estate to me. Of course, he had no idea his estate would become so valuable after his death. Is that it?” “And what about Alicia’s will? When she dies, who inherits?” “That,” Max said firmly, “is more than I can tell you. And I sincerely hope this will be our last conversation.” There was a click as he hung up. But something in his tone told me this wouldn’t be the last I’d hear from Max Berenson.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Diomedes called me into his office after lunch. He looked up when I walked in but didn’t smile. “What is the matter with you?” “With me?”

“Don’t play the idiot. You know who I had a call from this morning? Max Berenson. He says you contacted him twice and asked a lot of personal questions.” “I asked him for some information about Alicia. He seemed fine with it.” “Well, he’s not fine now. He’s calling it harassment.” “Oh, come on—”

“The last thing we need is a lawyer making a fuss. Everything you do must be within the confines of the unit, and under my supervision. Understood?” I was angry, but I nodded. I stared at the floor like a sullen teenager.

Diomedes responded appropriately, giving me a paternal pat on the shoulder. “Theo. Let me give you some advice. You’re going about this the wrong way. You’re asking questions, searching for clues, like it’s a detective story.” He laughed and shook his head. “You won’t get to it like that.” “Get to what?”

“The truth. Remember Bion: ‘No memory—no desire.’ No agenda—as a therapist, your only goal is to be present and receptive to your feelings as you sit with her. That’s all you need to do. The rest will take care of itself.” “I know. You’re right.”

“Yes, I am. And don’t let me hear you’ve been making any more visits to Alicia’s relations, understood?” “You have my word.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THAT AFTERNOON I WENT TO CAMBRIDGE, to visit Alicia’s cousin, Paul Rose.

As the train approached the station, the landscape flattened out and the fields let in an expanse of cold blue light. I felt glad to be out of London—the sky was less oppressive, and I could breathe more easily.

I left the train along with a trickle of students and tourists, using the map on my phone to guide me. The streets were quiet; I could hear my footsteps on the pavement echoing. Abruptly the road stopped. A wasteland lay ahead, muddy earth and grass leading to the river.

Only one house stood alone by the river. Obstinate and imposing, like a large red brick thrust into the mud. It was ugly, a Victorian monster. The walls were overgrown with ivy, and the garden had been overtaken by plants, weeds mostly. I got the sense of nature encroaching, reclaiming territory that had once been hers. This was the house where Alicia had been born. It was where she spent the first eighteen years of her life. Within these walls her personality had been formed: the roots of her adult life, all causes and subsequent choices, were buried here. Sometimes it’s hard to grasp why the answers to the present lie in the past. A simple analogy might be helpful: a leading psychiatrist in the field of sexual abuse once told me she had, in thirty years of extensive work with pedophiles, never met one who hadn’t himself been abused as a child. This doesn’t mean that all abused children go on to become abusers, but it is impossible for someone who was not abused to become an abuser. No one is born evil. As Winnicott put it, “A baby cannot hate the mother, without the mother first hating the baby.” As babies, we are innocent sponges, blank slates, with only the most basic needs present: to eat, shit, love, and be loved. But something goes wrong, depending on the circumstances into which we are born, and the house in which we grow up. A tormented, abused child can never take revenge in reality, as she is powerless and defenseless, but she can—and must—harbor vengeful fantasies in her imagination. Rage, like fear, is reactive. Something bad happened to Alicia, probably early in her childhood, to provoke the murderous impulses that emerged all those years later. Whatever the provocation, not everyone in this world would have picked up the gun and fired it point-blank into Gabriel’s face—most people could not. That Alicia did so points to something disordered in her internal world. That’s why it was crucial for me to understand what life had been like for her in this house, to find out what happened to shape her, make her into the person she became—a person capable of murder.

I wandered farther into the overgrown garden, through the weeds and waving wildflowers, and made my way along the side of the house. At the back was a large willow tree—a beautiful tree, majestic, with long bare branches sweeping to the ground. I pictured Alicia as a child playing around it and in the secret, magical world beneath its branches. I smiled.

Then I felt uneasy suddenly. I could sense someone’s eyes on me.

I looked up at the house. A face appeared at an upstairs window. An ugly face, an old woman’s face, pressed against the glass—staring straight at me. I felt a strange, inexplicable shiver of fear.

I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until too late. There was a bang—a heavy thud—and a stab of pain at the back of my head.

Everything went black.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I WOKE UP ON THE HARD, cold ground, on my back. My first sensation was pain. My head was throbbing, stabbing, as if my skull had been cracked open. I reached up and gingerly touched the back of my head.

“No blood,” said a voice. “But you’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow. Not to mention a cracking headache.” I looked up and saw Paul Rose for the first time. He was standing above me, holding a baseball bat. He was about my age, but taller, and broad with it. He had a boyish face and a shock of red hair, the same color as Alicia’s. He reeked of whiskey.

I tried to sit up but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Better stay there. Recover for a sec.”

“I think I’ve got concussion.”

“Possibly.”

“What the fuck did you do that for?”

“What did you expect, mate? I thought you were a burglar.” “Well, I’m not.”

“I know that now. I went through your wallet. You’re a psychotherapist.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out my wallet. He tossed it at me. It landed on my chest. I reached for it.

“I saw your ID. You’re at that hospital—the Grove?”

I nodded and the movement made my head throb. “Yes.”

“Then you know who I am.”

“Alicia’s cousin?”

“Paul Rose.” He held out his hand. “Here. Let me help you up.” He pulled me to my feet with surprising ease. He was strong. I was unsteady on my feet. “You could have killed me,” I muttered.

Paul shrugged. “You could have been armed. You were trespassing. What did you expect? Why are you here?” “I came to see you.” I grimaced in pain. “I wish I hadn’t.” “Come in, sit down for a second.”

I was in too much pain to do anything other than go where he led me. My head was throbbing with every step. We went inside the back door.

The inside of the house was just as dilapidated as the outside. The kitchen walls were covered with an orange geometric design that looked forty years out-of-date. The wallpaper was coming away from the wall in patches, curling, twisting, and blackening as if it were catching fire. Mummified insects were hanging suspended from cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. The dust was so thick on the floor, it looked like a dirty carpet. And an underlying odor of cat piss made me feel sick. I counted at least five cats around the kitchen, sleeping on chairs and surfaces. On the floor, open plastic bags overflowed with stinking tins of cat food.

“Sit down. I’ll make some tea.” Paul leaned the baseball bat against the wall, by the door. I kept my eye on it. I didn’t feel safe around him.

Paul handed me a cracked mug full of tea. “Drink this.” “You have any painkillers?”

“I’ve got some aspirin somewhere, I’ll have a look. Here.” He showed me a bottle of whiskey. “This’ll help.” He poured some of the whiskey into the mug. I sipped it. It was hot, sweet, and strong. There was a pause as Paul drank his tea, staring at me—I was reminded of Alicia and that piercing gaze of hers.

“How is she?” he asked eventually. He continued before I could reply, “I’ve not been to see her. It’s not easy getting away.… Mum’s not well—I don’t like to leave her alone.” “I see. When was the last time you saw Alicia?”

“Oh, years. Not for a long while. We lost touch. I was at their wedding, and I saw her a couple of times after that, but … Gabriel was quite possessive, I think. She stopped calling, anyway, once they got married. Stopped visiting. Mum was pretty hurt, to be honest.” I didn’t speak. I could hardly think, with the throbbing in my head. I could feel him watching me.

“So what did you want to see me for?”

“Just some questions … I wanted to ask you about Alicia. About … her childhood.” Paul nodded and poured some whiskey into his mug. He seemed to be relaxing now; the whiskey was having an effect on me too, taking the edge off my pain, and I was thinking better. Stay on track, I told myself. Get some facts. Then get the hell out of here.

“You grew up together?”

Paul nodded. “Mum and I moved in when my dad died. I was about eight or nine. It was only meant to be temporary, I think—but then Alicia’s mother was killed in the accident. So Mum stayed on—to take care of Alicia and Uncle Vernon.” “Vernon Rose—Alicia’s father?”

“Right.”

“And Vernon died here a few years ago?”

“Yes. Several years ago.” Paul frowned. “He killed himself. Hanged himself. Upstairs, in the attic. I found the body.” “That must have been terrible.”

“Yeah, it was tough—on Alicia mostly. Come to think of it, that’s the last time I saw her. Uncle Vernon’s funeral. She was in a bad way.” Paul stood up. “You want another drink?” I tried to refuse but he kept talking as he poured more whiskey. “I never believed it, you know. That she killed Gabriel—it didn’t make any sense to me.” “Why not?”

“Well, she wasn’t like that at all. She wasn’t a violent person.” She is now, I thought. But I didn’t say anything. Paul sipped his whiskey. “She’s still not talking?” “No. She’s still not talking.”

“It doesn’t make sense. None of it. You know, I think she was—” We were interrupted by a thumping, a banging on the floor above. There was a muffled voice, a woman’s voice; her words were unintelligible.

Paul leapt to his feet. “Just a sec.” He walked out. He hurried to the foot of the stairs. He raised his voice. “Everything all right, Mum?” A mumbled response that I couldn’t understand came from upstairs.

“What? Oh, all right. Just—just a minute.” He sounded uneasy.

Paul glanced at me across the hallway, frowning. He nodded at me. “She wants you to go up.” CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

STEADIER ON MY FEET, but still feeling faint, I followed Paul as he thudded up the dusty staircase.

Lydia Rose was waiting at the top. I recognized her scowling face from the window. She had long white hair, spreading across her shoulders like a spider’s web. She was enormously overweight—a swollen neck, fleshy forearms, massive legs like tree trunks. She was leaning heavily on her walking stick, which was buckling under her weight and looked like it might give way at any moment.

“Who is he? Who is he?”

Her shrill question was directed to Paul, even though she was staring at me. She didn’t take her eyes off me. Again, the same intense gaze I recognized from Alicia.

Paul spoke in a low voice. “Mum. Don’t get upset. He’s Alicia’s therapist, that’s all. From the hospital. He’s here to talk to me.” “You? What does he want to talk to you for? What have you done?” “He just wants to find out a bit about Alicia.”

“He’s a journalist, you fucking idiot.” Her voice approached a shriek. “Get him out!” “He’s not a journalist. I’ve seen his ID, all right? Now, come on, Mum, please. Let’s get you back to bed.” Grumbling, she allowed herself to be guided back into her bedroom. Paul nodded at me to follow.

Lydia flopped back with a deep thud. The bed quivered as it absorbed her weight. Paul adjusted her pillows. An ancient cat lay asleep by her feet, the ugliest cat I’d ever seen—battle scarred, bald in places, one ear bitten off. It was growling in its sleep.

I glanced around the room. It was full of junk—stacks of old magazines and yellowing newspapers, piles of old clothes. An oxygen canister stood by the wall, and a cake tin full of medications was on the bedside table.

I could feel Lydia’s hostile eyes on me the whole time. There was madness in her gaze; I felt quite sure of that.

“What does he want?” Her eyes darted up and down feverishly as she sized me up. “Who is he?” “I just told you, Mum. He wants to know some background on Alicia, to help him treat her. He’s her psychotherapist.” Lydia left no doubt about her opinion of psychotherapists. She turned her head, cleared her throat—and spat onto the floor in front of me.

Paul groaned. “Mum, please—”

“Shut up.” Lydia glared at me. “Alicia doesn’t deserve to be in hospital.” “No?” I said. “Where should she be?”

“Where do you think? Prison.” Lydia eyed me scornfully. “You want to hear about Alicia? I’ll tell you about her. She’s a little bitch. She always was, even as a child.” I listened, my head throbbing, as Lydia went on, with mounting anger: “My poor brother, Vernon. He never recovered from Eva’s death. I took care of him. I took care of Alicia. And was she grateful?” Obviously, no response was no required. Not that Lydia waited for one.

“You know how Alicia repaid me? All my kindness? Do you know what she did to me?” “Mum, please—”

“Shut up, Paul!’ Lydia turned to me. I was surprised how much anger was in her voice. “The bitch painted me. She painted me, without my knowledge or permission. I went to her exhibition—and there it was, hanging there. Vile, disgusting—an obscene mockery.” Lydia was trembling with anger, and Paul looked concerned. He gave me an unhappy glance. “Maybe it’s better if you go now, mate. It’s not good for Mum to get upset.” I nodded. Lydia Rose was not well, no doubt about that. I was more than happy to escape.

I left the house and made my way back to the train station, with a swollen head and a splitting headache. What a fucking waste of time. I’d found out nothing—except it was obvious why Alicia had gotten out of that house as soon as she could. It reminded me of my own escape from home at the age of eighteen, fleeing my father. It was all too obvious who Alicia was running away from—Lydia Rose.

I thought about the painting Alicia had done of Lydia. “An obscene mockery,” she called it. Well, time to pay a visit to Alicia’s gallery and find out why the picture had upset her aunt so much.

As I left Cambridge, my last thoughts were of Paul. I felt sorry for him, having to live with that monstrous woman—be her unpaid slave. It was a lonely life—I didn’t imagine he had many friends. Or a girlfriend. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was still a virgin. Something about him remained stunted, despite his size; something thwarted.

I had taken an instant and violent dislike to Lydia—probably because she reminded me of my father. I would have ended up like Paul if I had stayed in that house, if I had stayed with my parents in Surrey, at the beck and call of a madman.

I felt depressed all the way back to London. Sad, tired, close to tears. I couldn’t tell if I was feeling Paul’s sadness—or my own.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

KATHY WAS OUT WHEN I GOT HOME.

I opened her laptop and tried to access her email—but with no luck. She was logged out.

I had to accept that she might never repeat her mistake. Would I keep checking ad nauseam, give in to obsession, driving myself mad? I had enough self-awareness to appreciate the cliché I had become—the jealous husband—and the irony that Kathy was currently rehearsing Desdemona in Othello hadn’t escaped me.

I should have forwarded the emails to myself that first night, as soon as I’d read them. Then I’d have some actual physical evidence. That was my mistake. As it was, I had begun questioning what I had seen. Was my recollection to be trusted? I’d been stoned out of my mind, after all—had I misunderstood what I had read? I found myself concocting outlandish theories to prove Kathy’s innocence. Maybe it was just an acting exercise—she was writing in character, in preparation for Othello. She had spent six weeks speaking in an American accent when preparing for All My Sons. It was possible something similar was going on here. Except the emails were signed by Kathy—not Desdemona.

If only I had imagined it all, then I could forget it, the way you forget a dream—I could wake up and it would fade away. Instead I was trapped in this endless nightmare of mistrust, suspicion, paranoia. Although on the surface, little had changed. We still went for a walk together on Sunday. We looked like every other couple strolling in the park. Perhaps our silences were longer than usual, but they seemed comfortable enough. Under the silence, however, a fevered one-sided conversation was taking place in my mind. I rehearsed a million questions. Why did she do it? How could she? Why say she loved me and marry me, fuck me, and share my bed—then lie to my face, and keep lying, year after year? How long had it been going on? Did she love this man? Was she going to leave me for him?

I looked through her phone a couple of times when she was in the shower, searching for text messages, but found nothing. If she’d received any incriminating texts, she had deleted them. She wasn’t stupid, apparently, just occasionally careless.

It was possible I’d never know the truth. I might never find out.

In a way, I hoped I wouldn’t.

Kathy peered at me as we sat on the couch after the walk. “Are you all right?” “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You seem a bit flat.”

“Today?”

“Not just today. Recently.”

I evaded her eyes. “Just work. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Kathy nodded. A sympathetic squeeze of my hand. She was a good actress. I could almost believe she cared.

“How are rehearsals going?”

“Better. Tony came up with some good ideas. We’re going to work late next week to go over them.” “Right.”

I no longer believed a word she said. I analyzed every sentence, the way I would with a patient. I was looking for subtext, reading between the lines for nonverbal clues—subtle inflections, evasions, omissions. Lies.

“How is Tony?”

“Fine.” She shrugged, as if to indicate she couldn’t care less. I didn’t believe that. She idolized Tony, her director, and was forever talking about him—at least she used to; she hadn’t mentioned him quite so much recently. They talked about plays and acting and the theater—a world beyond my knowledge. I’d heard a lot about Tony, but only glimpsed him once, briefly, when I went to meet Kathy after a rehearsal. I thought it odd that Kathy didn’t introduce us. He was married, and his wife was an actress; I got the sense Kathy didn’t like her much. Perhaps his wife was jealous of their relationship, as I was. I suggested the four of us go out for dinner, but Kathy hadn’t been particularly keen on the idea. Sometimes I wondered if she was trying to keep us apart.

I watched Kathy open her laptop. She angled the screen away from me as she typed. I could hear her fingers tapping. Who was she writing to? Tony?

“What are you doing?” I yawned.

“Just emailing my cousin … She’s in Sydney now.”

“Is she? Send her my love.”

“I will.”

Kathy typed for a moment longer, then stopped typing and put down the laptop. “I’m going to have a bath.” I nodded. “Okay.”

She gave me an amused look. “Cheer up, darling. Are you sure you’re okay?” I smiled and nodded. She stood up and walked out. I waited until I heard the bathroom door close, and the sound of running water. I slid over to where she had been sitting. I reached for her laptop. My fingers were trembling as I opened it. I re-opened her browser—and went to her email log-in.

But she’d logged out.

I pushed away the laptop with disgust. This must stop, I thought. This way madness lies. Or was I mad already?

I was getting into bed, pulling back the covers, when Kathy walked into the bedroom, brushing her teeth.

“I forgot to tell you. Nicole is back in London next week.” “Nicole?”

“You remember Nicole. We went to her going-away party.” “Oh, yeah. I thought she moved to New York.”

“She did. And now she’s back.” A pause. “She wants me to meet her on Thursday … Thursday night after rehearsal.” I don’t know what aroused my suspicion. Was it the way Kathy was looking in my direction but not making eye contact? I sensed she was lying. I didn’t say anything. Neither did she. She disappeared from the door. I could hear her in the bathroom, spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing her mouth.

Perhaps there was nothing to it. Perhaps it was entirely innocent and Kathy really was going to meet Nicole on Thursday.

Perhaps.

Only one way to find out.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THERE WERE NO QUEUES OUTSIDE Alicia’s gallery this time, as there had been that day, six years ago, when I had gone to see the Alcestis. A different artist was hanging in the window now, and despite his possible talent, he lacked Alicia’s notoriety and subsequent ability to draw in the crowds.

As I entered the gallery, I shivered; it was even colder in here than on the street. There was something chilly about the atmosphere as well as the temperature; it smelled of exposed steel beams and bare concrete floors. It was soulless, I thought. Empty.

The gallerist was sitting behind his desk. He stood up as I approached.

Jean-Felix Martin was in his early forties, a handsome man with black eyes and hair, and a tight T-shirt with a red skull on it. I told him who I was and why I had come. To my surprise, he seemed perfectly happy to talk about Alicia. He spoke with an accent. I asked if he was French.

“Originally—from Paris. But I’ve been here since I was a student—oh, twenty years at least. I think of myself more as British these days.” He smiled and gestured to a back room. “Come in, we can have a coffee.” “Thanks.”

Jean-Felix led me into an office that was essentially a storeroom, crowded with stacks of paintings.

“How is Alicia?” he asked, using a complicated-looking coffee machine. “Is she still not talking?” I shook my head. “No.”

He nodded and sighed. “So sad. Won’t you sit down? What do you want to know? I’ll do my best to answer truthfully.” Jean-Felix gave me a wry smile, tinged with curiosity. “Although I’m not entirely sure why you’ve come to me.” “You and Alicia were close, weren’t you? Apart from your professional relationship—” “Who told you that?”

“Gabriel’s brother, Max Berenson. He suggested I talk to you.” Jean-Felix rolled his eyes. “Oh, so you saw Max, did you? What a bore.” He said it with such contempt I couldn’t help laughing. “You know Max Berenson?” “Well enough. Better than I’d like.” He handed me a small cup of coffee. “Alicia and I were close. Very close. We knew each other for years—long before she met Gabriel.” “I didn’t realize that.”

“Oh, yes. We were at art school together. And after we graduated, we painted together.” “You mean you collaborated?”

“Well, not really.” Jean-Felix laughed. “I mean we painted walls together. As housepainters.” I smiled. “Oh, I see.”

“It turned out I was better at painting walls than paintings. So I gave up, about the same time as Alicia’s art started to really take off. And when I started running this place, it made sense for me to show Alicia’s work. It was a very natural, organic process.” “Yes, it sounds like it. And what about Gabriel?”

“What about him?”

I sensed a prickliness here, a defensive reaction that told me this was an avenue worth exploring. “Well, I wonder how he fit into this dynamic. Presumably you knew him quite well?” “Not really.”

“No?”

“No.” Jean-Felix hesitated a second. “Gabriel didn’t take time to know me. He was very … caught up in himself.” “Sounds like you didn’t like him.”

“I didn’t particularly. I don’t think he liked me. In fact, I know he didn’t.” “Why was that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think perhaps he was jealous? Of your relationship with Alicia?” Jean-Felix sipped his coffee and nodded. “Yeah, yes. Possibly.” “He saw you as a threat, perhaps?”

“You tell me. Sounds like you have all the answers.”

I took the hint. I didn’t push it any further. Instead I tried a different approach. “You saw Alicia a few days before the murder, I believe?” “Yes. I went to the house to see her.”

“Can you tell me a little about that?”

“Well, she had an exhibition coming up, and she was behind with her work. She was rightfully concerned.” “You hadn’t seen any of the new work?”

“No. She’d been putting me off for ages. I thought I’d better check on her. I expected she’d be in the studio at the end of the garden. But she wasn’t.” “No?”

“No, I found her in the house.”

“How did you get in?”

Jean-Felix looked surprised by the question. “What?” I could tell he was making some quick mental evaluation. Then he nodded. “Oh, I see what you mean. Well, there was a gate that led from the street to the back garden. It was usually unlocked. And from the garden I went into the kitchen through the back door. Which was also unlocked.” He smiled. “You know, you sound more like a detective than a psychiatrist.” “I’m a psychotherapist.”

“Is there a difference?”

“I’m just trying to understand Alicia’s mental state. How did you experience her mood?” Jean-Felix shrugged. “She seemed fine. A little stressed about work.” “Is that all?”

“She didn’t look like she was going to shoot her husband in a few days, if that’s what you mean. She seemed—fine.” He drained his coffee and hesitated as a thought struck him. “Would you like to see some of her paintings?” Without waiting for a reply, Jean-Felix got up and walked to the door, beckoning me to follow.

“Come on.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

I FOLLOWED JEAN-FELIX into a storage room. He went over to a large case, pulled out a hinged rack, and lifted out three paintings wrapped in blankets. He propped them up. He carefully unwrapped each one. Then he stood back and presented the first to me with a flourish.

“Voilà.”

I looked at it. The painting had the same photo-realistic quality as the rest of Alicia’s work. It represented the car accident that killed her mother. A woman’s body was sitting in the wreck, slumped at the wheel. She was bloodied and obviously dead. Her spirit, her soul, was rising from the corpse, like a large bird with yellow wings, soaring to the heavens.

“Isn’t it glorious?” Jean-Felix gazed at it. “All those yellows and reds and greens—I can quite get lost in it. It’s joyous.” Joyous wasn’t the word I would have chosen. Unsettling, perhaps. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

I moved on to the next picture. A painting of Jesus on the cross. Or was it?

“It’s Gabriel,” Jean-Felix said. “It’s a good likeness.” It was Gabriel—but Gabriel portrayed as Jesus, crucified, hanging from the cross, blood trickling from his wounds, a crown of thorns on his head. His eyes were not downcast but staring out—unblinking, tortured, unashamedly reproachful. They seemed to burn right through me. I peered at the picture more closely—at the incongruous item strapped to Gabriel’s torso. A rifle.

“That’s the gun that killed him?”

Jean-Felix nodded. “Yes. It belonged to him, I think.” “And this was painted before his murder?”

“A month or so before. It shows you what was on Alicia’s mind, doesn’t it?” Jean-Felix moved on to the third picture. It was a larger canvas than the others. “This one’s the best. Stand back to get a better look.” I did as he said and took a few paces back. Then I turned and looked. The moment I saw the painting, I let out an involuntary laugh.

The subject was Alicia’s aunt, Lydia Rose. It was obvious why she had been so upset by it. Lydia was nude, reclining on a tiny bed. The bed was buckling under her weight. She was enormously, monstrously fat—an explosion of flesh spilling over the bed and hitting the floor and spreading across the room, rippling and folding like waves of gray custard.

“Jesus. That’s cruel.”

“I think it’s quite lovely.” Jean-Felix looked at me with interest. “You know Lydia?” “Yes, I went to visit her.”

“I see.” He smiled. “You have been doing your homework. I never met Lydia. Alicia hated her, you know.” “Yes.” I stared at the painting. “Yes, I can see that.” Jean-Felix began carefully wrapping up the pictures again.

“And the Alcestis?” I said. “Can I see it?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

Jean-Felix led me along the narrow passage to the end of the gallery. There the Alcestis occupied a wall to itself. It was just as beautiful and mysterious as I remembered it. Alicia naked in the studio, in front of a blank canvas, painting with a bloodred paintbrush. I studied Alicia’s expression. Again it defied interpretation. I frowned.

“She’s impossible to read.”

“That’s the point—it is a refusal to comment. It’s a painting about silence.” “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Well, at the heart of all art lies a mystery. Alicia’s silence is her secret—her mystery, in the religious sense. That’s why she named it Alcestis. Have you read it? By Euripides.” He gave me a curious look. “Read it. Then you’ll understand.” I nodded—and then I noticed something in the painting I hadn’t before. I leaned forward to look closely. A bowl of fruit sat on the table in the background of the picture—a collection of apples and pears. On the red apples were some small white blobs—slippery white blobs creeping in and around the fruit.

I pointed at them. “Are they…?”

“Maggots?” Jean-Felix nodded. “Yes.”

“Fascinating. I wonder what that means.”

“It’s wonderful. A masterpiece. It really is.” Jean-Felix sighed and glanced at me across the portrait. He lowered his voice as if Alicia were able to hear us. “It’s a shame you didn’t know her then. She was the most interesting person I’ve ever met. Most people aren’t alive, you know, not really—sleepwalking their way through life. But Alicia was so intensely alive.… It was hard to take your eyes off her.” Jean-Felix turned his head back to the painting and gazed at Alicia’s naked body. “So beautiful.” I looked back at Alicia’s body. But where Jean-Felix saw beauty, I saw only pain; I saw self-inflicted wounds, and scars of self-harm.

“Did she ever talk to you about her suicide attempt?”

I was fishing, but Jean-Felix took the bait. “Oh, you know about that? Yes, of course.” “After her father died?”

“She went to pieces.” Jean-Felix nodded. “The truth is Alicia was hugely fucked-up. Not as an artist, but as a person she was extremely vulnerable. When her father hanged himself, it was too much. She couldn’t cope.” “She must have loved him a great deal.”

Jean-Felix gave a kind of strangled laugh. He looked at me as if I were mad. “What are you talking about?” “What do you mean?”

“Alicia didn’t love him. She hated her father. She despised him.” I was taken aback by this. “Alicia told you that?”

“Of course she did. She hated him ever since she was a kid—ever since her mother died.” “But—then why try to commit suicide after his death? If it wasn’t grief, what was it?” Jean-Felix shrugged. “Guilt, perhaps? Who knows?”

There was something he wasn’t telling me, I thought. Something didn’t fit. Something was wrong.

His phone rang. “Excuse me a moment.” He turned away from me to answer it. A woman’s voice was on the other end. They talked for a moment, arranging a time to meet. “I’ll call you back, baby,” he said, and hung up.

Jean-Felix turned back to me. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s all right. Your girlfriend?”

He smiled. “Just a friend … I have a lot of friends.”

I’ll bet you do, I thought. I felt a flicker of dislike; I wasn’t sure why.

As he showed me out, I asked a final question. “Just one more thing. Did Alicia ever mention a doctor to you?” “A doctor?”

“Apparently she saw a doctor, around the time of her suicide attempt. I’m trying to locate him.” “Hmm.” Jean-Felix frowned. “Possibly—there was someone…” “Can you remember his name?”

He thought for a second and shook his head. “I’m sorry. No, I honestly can’t.” “Well, if it comes to you, perhaps you can let me know?” “Sure. But I doubt it.” He glanced at me and hesitated. “You want some advice?” “I’d welcome some.”

“If you really want to get Alicia to talk … give her some paint and brushes. Let her paint. That’s the only way she’ll talk to you. Through her art.” “That’s an interesting idea.… You’ve been very helpful. Thank you, Mr. Martin.” “Call me Jean-Felix. And when you see Alicia, tell her I love her.” He smiled, and again I felt a slight repulsion: I found something about Jean-Felix hard to stomach. I could tell he had been genuinely close to Alicia; they had known each other a long time, and he was obviously attracted to her. Was he in love with her? I wasn’t so sure. I thought of Jean-Felix’s face when he was looking at the Alcestis. Yes, love was in his eyes—but love for the painting, not necessarily the painter. Jean-Felix coveted the art. Otherwise he would have visited Alicia at the Grove. He would have stuck by her—I knew that for a fact. A man never abandons a woman like that.

Not if he loves her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I WENT INTO WATERSTONES on my way to work and bought a copy of Alcestis. The introduction said it was Euripides’s earliest extant tragedy, and one of his least- performed works.

I started reading it on the tube. Not exactly a page-turner. An odd play. The hero, Admetus, is condemned to death by the Fates. But thanks to Apollo’s negotiating, he is offered a loophole—Admetus can escape death if he can persuade someone else to die for him. He asks his mother and father to die in his place, and they refuse in no uncertain terms. It’s hard to know what to make of Admetus. Not exactly heroic behavior, and the ancient Greeks must have thought him a bit of a twit. Alcestis is made of stronger stuff—she steps forward and volunteers to die for her husband. Perhaps she doesn’t expect Admetus to accept her offer—but he does, and Alcestis dies and departs for Hades.

It doesn’t end there, though. There is a happy ending, of sorts, a deus ex machina. Heracles seizes Alcestis from Hades and brings her triumphantly back to the land of the living. She comes alive again. Admetus is moved to tears by the reunion with his wife. Alcestis’s emotions are harder to read—she remains silent. She doesn’t speak.

I sat up with a jolt as I read this. I couldn’t believe it.

I read the final page of the play again slowly, carefully: Alcestis returns from death, alive again. And she remains silent—unable or unwilling to speak of her experience. Admetus appeals to Heracles in desperation: “But why is my wife standing here, and does not speak?” No answer is forthcoming. The tragedy ends with Alcestis being led back into the house by Admetus—in silence.

Why? Why does she not speak?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Alicia Berenson’s Diary

AUGUST 2

It’s even hotter today. It’s hotter in London than in Athens, apparently. But at least Athens has a beach.

Paul called me today from Cambridge. I was surprised to hear his voice. We’ve not spoken in months. My first thought was Auntie Lydia must be dead—I’m not ashamed to say I felt a flicker of relief.

But that’s not why Paul was calling. In fact I’m still not sure why he did call me. He was pretty evasive. I kept waiting for him to get to the point, but he didn’t. He kept asking if I was okay, if Gabriel was okay, and muttered something about Lydia being the same as always.

“I’ll come for a visit,” I said. “I haven’t been for ages, I’ve been meaning to.” The truth is, I have many complicated feelings around going home, and being at the house, with Lydia and Paul. So I avoid going back—and I end up feeling guilty, so I can’t win either way.

“It would be nice to catch up,” I said. “I’ll come see you soon. I’m just about to go out, so—” Then Paul spoke so quietly I couldn’t hear him.

“Sorry? Can you repeat that?”

“I said I’m in trouble, Alicia. I need your help.” “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t talk about it on the phone. I need to see you.” “It’s just—I’m not sure I can make it up to Cambridge at the minute.” “I’ll come to you. This afternoon. Okay?”

Something in Paul’s voice made me agree without thinking about it. He sounded desperate.

“Okay. Are you sure you can’t tell me about it now?” “I’ll see you later.” Paul hung up.

I kept thinking about it for the rest of the morning. What could be serious enough that Paul would turn to me, of all people? Was it about Lydia? Or the house, perhaps? It didn’t make sense.

I wasn’t able to get any work done after lunch. I blamed the heat, but in truth my mind was elsewhere. I hung around in the kitchen, glancing out the windows, until I saw Paul on the street.

He waved at me. “Alicia, hi.”

The first thing that struck me was how terrible he looked. He’d lost a lot of weight, particularly around his face, the temples and jaw. He looked skeletal, unwell. Exhausted. Scared.

We sat in the kitchen with the portable fan on. I offered him a beer but he said he’d rather have something stronger, which surprised me because I don’t remember him being much of a drinker. I poured him a whiskey—a small one—and he topped it up when he thought I wasn’t looking.

He didn’t say anything at first. We sat there in silence for a moment. Then he repeated what he had said on the phone. The same words: “I’m in trouble.”

I asked him what he meant. Was it about the house?

Paul looked at me blankly. No, it wasn’t the house.

“Then what?”

“It’s me.” He hesitated, then came out with it. “I’ve been gambling. And losing a lot, I’m afraid.” He’d been gambling regularly for years. He said it started as a way of getting out of the house—somewhere to go, something to do, a bit of fun—and I can’t say I blame him. Living with Lydia, fun must be in short supply. But he’s been losing more and more, and now it had gotten out of hand. He’s been dipping into the savings account. And not much was there to start with.

“How much do you need?”

“Twenty grand.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You lost twenty grand?” “Not all at once. And I borrowed from some people—and now they want it back.” “What people?”

“If I don’t pay them back, I’m going to be in trouble.” “Have you told your mother?” I already knew the answer. Paul may be a mess but he’s not stupid.

“Of course not. Mum would kill me. I need your help, Alicia. That’s why I’m here.” “I haven’t got that kind of money, Paul.”

“I’ll pay it back. I don’t need it all at once. Just something.” I didn’t say anything and he kept pleading. They wanted something tonight. He didn’t dare go back empty-handed. Whatever I could give him, anything. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help him, but I suspected giving him money wasn’t the way to deal with this. I also knew his debts were going to be a tough secret to keep from Auntie Lydia. I didn’t know what I’d do if I were Paul. Facing up to Lydia was probably scarier than the loan sharks.

“I’ll write you a check,” I said finally.

Paul seemed pathetically grateful and kept muttering, “Thank you, thank you.” I wrote him a check for two thousand pounds, payable to cash. I know that’s not what he wanted, but the whole thing was uncharted territory for me. And I’m not sure I believed everything he said. Something about it didn’t ring true.

“Maybe I can give you more once I’ve talked to Gabriel,” I said. “But it’s better if we work out another way to handle this. You know, Gabriel’s brother is a lawyer. Maybe he could—” Paul jumped up, terrified, shaking his head. “No, no, no. Don’t tell Gabriel. Don’t involve him. Please. I’ll work out how to handle it. I’ll work it out.” “What about Lydia? I think maybe you should—”

Paul shook his head fiercely and took the check. He looked disappointed at the amount but didn’t say anything. He left soon after afterward.

I have the feeling I let him down. It’s a feeling I’ve always had about Paul, since we were kids. I’ve always failed to live up to his expectations of me—that I should be a mothering figure to him. He should know me better than that. I’m not the mothering type.

I told Gabriel about it when he got back. He was annoyed with me. He said I shouldn’t have given Paul any money, that I don’t owe him anything, he’s not my responsibility.

I know Gabriel is right, but I can’t help feeling guilty. I escaped from that house, and from Lydia—Paul didn’t. He’s still trapped there. He’s still eight years old. I want to help him.

But I don’t know how.

AUGUST 6

I spent all day painting, experimenting with the background of the Jesus picture. I’ve been making sketches from the photos we took in Mexico—red, cracked earth, dark, spiny shrubs—thinking about how to capture that heat, that intense dryness—and then I heard Jean-Felix calling my name.

I thought for a second about ignoring him, pretending I wasn’t there. But then I heard the clink of the gate, and it was too late. I stuck my head outside and he was walking across the garden.

He waved at me. “Hey, babes. Am I disturbing you? Are you working?” “I am, actually.”

“Good, good. Keep at it. Only six weeks until the exhibition, you know. You’re horribly behind.” He laughed that annoying laugh of his. My expression must have given me away because he added quickly, “Only joking. I’m not here to check up on you.” I didn’t say anything. I just went back into the studio, and he followed. He pulled up a chair in front of the fan. He lit a cigarette, and the smoke whirled about him in the breeze. I went back to the easel and picked up my brush. Jean-Felix talked as I worked. He complained about the heat, saying London wasn’t designed to cope with this kind of weather. He compared it unfavorably with Paris and other cities. I stopped listening after a while. He went on complaining, self-justifying, self-pitying, boring me to death. He never asks me anything. He doesn’t have any actual interest in me. Even after all these years, I’m just a means to an end—an audience of the Jean-Felix Show.

Maybe that’s unkind. He’s an old friend—and he’s always been there for me. He’s lonely, that’s all. So am I. Well, I’d rather be lonely than be with the wrong person. That’s why I never had any serious relationships before Gabriel. I was waiting for Gabriel, for someone real, as solid and true as the others were false. Jean-Felix was always jealous of our relationship. He tried to hide it—and still does—but it’s obvious to me he hates Gabriel. He’s always bitching about him, implying Gabriel’s not as talented as I am, that he’s vain and egocentric. I think Jean-Felix believes that one day he will win me over to his side, and I’ll fall at his feet. But what he doesn’t realize is that with every snide comment and bitchy remark, he drives me further into Gabriel’s arms.

Jean-Felix is always alluding to our long, long friendship—it’s the hold he has on me—the intensity of those early years, when it was just “us against the world.” But I don’t think Jean-Felix realizes he’s holding on to a part of my life when I wasn’t happy. And any affection I have for Jean-Felix is for that time. We’re like a married couple who have fallen out of love. Today I realized just how much I dislike him.

“I’m working,” I said. “I need to get on with this, so if you don’t mind…” Jean-Felix pulled a face. “Are you asking me to leave? I’ve been watching you paint since you first picked up a brush. If I’ve been a distraction all these years, you might have said something sooner.” “I’m saying something now.”

My face was feeling hot and I was getting angry. I couldn’t control it. I tried to paint but my hand was shaking. I could feel Jean-Felix watching me—I could practically hear his mind working—ticking, whirring, spinning. “I’ve upset you,” he said at last. “Why?” “I just told you. You can’t keep popping over like this. You need to text me or call first.” “I didn’t realize I needed a written invitation to see my best friend.” There was a pause. He’d taken it badly. I guess there was no other way to take it. I hadn’t planned on telling him like this—I’d intended to break it to him more gently. But somehow I was unable to stop myself. And the funny thing is, I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to be brutal.

“Jean-Felix, listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s no easy way to say this. But after the show, it’s time for a change.” “Change of what?”

“Change of gallery. For me.”

Jean-Felix looked at me, astonished. He looked like a little boy, I thought, about to burst into tears, and I found myself feeling nothing but irritation.

“It’s time for a fresh start. For both of us.”

“I see.” He lit another cigarette. “And I suppose this is Gabriel’s idea?” “Gabriel’s got nothing to do with it.”

“He hates my guts.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“He poisoned you against me. I’ve seen it happening. He’s been doing it for years.” “That’s not true.”

“What other explanation is there? What other reason could you have for stabbing me in the back?” “Don’t be so dramatic. This is only about the gallery. It’s not about you and me. We’ll still be friends. We can still hang out.” “If I text or call first?” He laughed and started talking fast, as if he was trying to get it out before I could stop him. “Wow, wow, wow. All this time I really believed in something, you know, in you and me—and now you’ve decided it was nothing. Just like that. No one cares about you like I do, you know. No one.” “Jean-Felix, please—”

“I can’t believe you just decided like that.”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while.”

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Jean-Felix looked stunned. “What do you mean, a while? How long?” “I don’t know. A while.”

“And you’ve been acting for me? Is that it? Christ, Alicia. Don’t end it like this. Don’t discard me like this.” “I’m not discarding you. Don’t be so dramatic. We’ll always be friends.” “Let’s just slow down here. You know why I came over? To ask you to the theater on Friday.” He pulled two tickets from inside his jacket and showed them to me—they were for a tragedy by Euripides, at the National. “I’d like you to come with me. It’s a more civilized way to say goodbye, don’t you think? For old times’ sake. Don’t say no.” I hesitated. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But I didn’t want to upset him further. I think I would have agreed to anything—just to get him out of there. So I said yes.

10:30 P.M.

When Gabriel got home, I talked to him about what happened with Jean-Felix. He said he never understood our friendship anyway. He said Jean-Felix is creepy and doesn’t like the way he looks at me.

“And how is that?”

“Like he owns you or something. I think you should leave the gallery now—before the show.” “I can’t do that—it’s too late. I don’t want him to hate me. You don’t how vindictive he can be.” “It sounds like you’re afraid of him.”

“I’m not. It’s just easier this way—to pull away gradually.” “The sooner the better. He’s in love with you. You know that, don’t you?” I didn’t argue—but Gabriel is wrong. Jean-Felix isn’t in love with me. He’s more attached to my paintings than he is to me. Which is another reason to get away from him. Jean-Felix doesn’t care about me at all. Gabriel was right about one thing, though.

I am afraid of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I FOUND DIOMEDES IN HIS OFFICE. He was sitting on a stool, in front of his harp. It had a large and ornate wooden frame, with a shower of golden strings.

“That’s a beautiful object,” I said.

Diomedes nodded. “And very difficult to play.” He demonstrated, sweeping his fingers lovingly along the strings. A cascading scale resounded through the room. “Would you like to try?” I smiled—and shook my head.

He laughed. “I keep asking, you see, in the hope you will change your mind. I’m nothing if not persistent.” “I’m not very musical. I was told so in no uncertain terms by my music teacher at school.” “Like therapy, music is about a relationship, entirely dependent on the teacher you choose.” “No doubt that’s true.”

He glanced out the window and nodded at the darkening sky. “Those clouds, they have snow in them.” “It looks like rain clouds to me.”

“No, it’s snow. Trust me, I come from a long line of Greek shepherds. It will be snowing tonight.” Diomedes gave the clouds a last hopeful look, then turned back to me. “What can I do for you, Theo?” “It’s this.”

I slid the copy of the play across the desk. He peered at it.

“What is it?”

“A tragedy by Euripides.”

“I can see that. Why are you showing it to me?” “Well, it’s the Alcestis—the title Alicia gave her self-portrait, painted after Gabriel’s murder.” “Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Diomedes looked at it with more interest. “Casting herself as a tragic heroine.” “Possibly. I must admit, I’m rather stumped. I thought you might have a better handle on it than me.” “Because I’m Greek?” He laughed. “You assume I will have an intimate knowledge of every Greek tragedy?” “Well, better than me, at any rate.”

“I don’t see why. It’s like assuming every Englishman is familiar with the works of Shakespeare.” He gave me a pitying smile. “Fortunately for you, that is the difference between our countries. Every Greek knows his tragedies. The tragedies are our myths, our history—our blood.” “Then you’ll be able to help me with this one.” Diomedes picked it up and flicked through it. “And what is your difficulty?” “My difficulty is the fact she doesn’t speak. Alcestis dies for her husband. And at the end, she comes back to life—but remains silent.” “Ah. Like Alicia.”

“Yes.”

“Again, I pose the question—what is your difficulty?” “Well, obviously there’s a link—but I don’t understand it. Why doesn’t Alcestis speak at the end?” “Well, why do you think?”

“I don’t know. She’s overcome with emotion, possibly?” “Possibly. What kind of emotion?”

“Joy?”

“Joy?” He laughed. “Theo, think. How would you feel? The person you love most in the world has condemned you to die, through their own cowardice. That’s quite a betrayal.” “You’re saying she was upset?”

“Have you never been betrayed?”

The question cut through me like a knife. I felt my face go red. My lips moved but no sound came out.

Diomedes smiled. “I can see that you have. So … tell me. How does Alcestis feel?” I knew the answer this time. “Angry. She’s … angry.” “Yes.” Diomedes nodded. “More than angry. She’s murderous—with rage.” He chuckled. “One can’t help but wonder what their relationship will be like in the future, Alcestis and Admetus. Trust, once lost, is hard to recover.” It took a few seconds before I trusted myself to speak. “And Alicia?” “What about her?”

“Alcestis was condemned to die by her husband’s cowardice. And Alicia—” “No, Alicia didn’t die … not physically.” He left the word hanging. “Psychically, on the other hand…” “You mean something happened—to kill her spirit … to kill her sense of being alive?” “Possibly.”

I felt dissatisfied. I picked up the play and looked at it. On the cover was a classical statue—a beautiful woman immortalized in marble. I stared at it, thinking of what Jean-Felix had said to me. “If Alicia is dead … like Alcestis, then we need to bring her back to life.” “Correct.”

“It occurs to me that if Alicia’s art is her means of expression, how about we provide her with a voice?” “And how do we do that?”

“How about we let her paint?”

Diomedes gave me a surprised look, followed by a dismissive wave of his hand. “She already has art therapy.” “I’m not talking about art therapy. I’m talking about Alicia working on her own terms—alone, with her own space to create. Let her express herself, free up her emotions. It might work wonders.” Diomedes didn’t reply for a moment. He mulled it over. “You’ll have to square it with her art therapist. Have you come across her yet? Rowena Hart? She’s no pushover.” “I’ll talk to her. But I have your blessing?”

Diomedes shrugged. “If you can persuade Rowena, go ahead. I can tell you now—she won’t like the idea. She won’t like it one bit.”