‘What’s my treacherous little runt of a son doing bringing nurses up here, anyway?’ he said, as she unwound the dressing.
‘I paint as well,’ Phoebe explained.
‘Ah. Any good at it?’
‘That’s not really for me to say.’
She fetched cotton wool from the chest, water from the basin in an adjoining washroom, and began to clean up the ulcer.
‘You have a delicate touch,’ said Mortimer. ‘Painting and nursing. Well, well. Both of them rather demanding vocations, I would have thought. Do you have your own studio?’
‘Not my own, no. I share with another woman.’
‘Doesn’t sound very satisfactory.’
‘I manage.’ She took a strip of clean bandage and began to wind it around the scrawny, brittle shin. ‘When was this dressing last changed?’
‘Doctor comes about twice a week.’
‘It should be changed daily. How long have you been in the wheelchair?’
‘A year or so. It started with osteoarthritis: then these ulcers.’ He watched her working for a few minutes, and said: ‘Pretty, aren’t you?’ Phoebe smiled. ‘Makes a change to see a young woman about the place.’
‘Apart from your daughter, you mean.’
‘What, Hilary? Don’t tell me she’s here as well.’
‘You didn’t know?’
Mortimer went tight-lipped. ‘Let me give you a warning about my family,’ he said eventually, ‘in case you hadn’t worked it out already. They’re the meanest, greediest, cruellest bunch of back-stabbing penny-pinching bastards who ever crawled across the face of the earth. And I include my own offspring in that statement.’
Phoebe, who was on the point of tying up the bandage, stopped to look at him in surprise.
‘There’s only ever been two nice members of my family: Godfrey, my brother, who died in the war, and my sister Tabitha, who they’ve managed to shut up in a loony bin for the last half a century.’
For some reason she very much didn’t want to hear this. ‘I’ll go and get that ice pack,’ she said, standing.
‘Before you go,’ said Mortimer, as she made for the door, ‘how much do they pay you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘At the hospital, or wherever it is you work.’
‘Oh. Not much. Not much at all, really.’
‘Come and work for me,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a proper wage.’ He thought for a moment, and named a five-figure sum. ‘They don’t look after me here. There’s no one to talk to. And you could paint. Nobody uses half of these rooms. You could have your own studio: a really big one.’
Phoebe laughed. ‘That’s very sweet of you,’ she said. ‘And the funny thing is that if you’d asked me yesterday I probably would have accepted. But it looks as though I’m going to be giving up nursing for good.’
Mortimer chuckled and said unkindly: ‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’ But she had gone by then.
Her ministrations complete, Phoebe washed, dressed and arrived in the dining room just in time to see Pyles clearing away the plates and tureens.
‘I was hoping for some breakfast,’ she said.
‘Breakfast has been served,’ he answered, without looking up. ‘You’re too late.’
‘I could do myself some toast: if there’s a toaster somewhere I could use.’
He stared at her as if she were a madwoman.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ he said. ‘There are cold kidneys left. That’s all. And some sweetbreads.’
‘Never mind. Do you happen to know where Roddy is at the moment?’
‘Young Master Winshaw, so far as I am aware, is in the library annexe. Miss Hilary likewise.’
He gave Phoebe a series of elaborate directions which, followed to the letter, eventually brought her out in some sort of laundry in the basement. Undaunted, she went back upstairs and wandered the corridors for about ten minutes until she heard the laughing voices of brother and sister behind a half-closed door. Pushing it open, she found herself in a wide room which seemed both chilly and airless. Roddy and Hilary had her folio open on a table and were flicking rapidly through it, barely glancing at one picture before taking up the next. Hilary looked up and stopped in mid-cackle when she saw Phoebe standing in the doorway.
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘It’s Florence Nightingale herself. Pyles has been telling us about your little mission of mercy.’
‘Do you want me to talk you through any of those?’ Phoebe asked, ignoring her and walking straight up to Roddy.
‘Perhaps I should leave you two lovebirds to plan your glittering future together,’ said Hilary. ‘Cocktails on the terrace in half an hour, anyone?’
‘Make it a quarter,’ said Roddy. ‘This won’t take long.’
Hilary closed the door behind her and he resumed his desultory browsing. Watching him, Phoebe began to quiver with anxiety. She didn’t know which was more worrying — his silence on the subject of the paintings or his failure, so far at least, to make the smallest acknowledgement of anything that had happened between them during the night. She stood beside him and briefly laid a hand on his arm but he was unresponsive. After that Phoebe went and stood over by the window. About three minutes later he snapped the folio shut. One picture — a simple watercolour of snow-covered rooftops, part of a commission which she had reluctantly accepted to design Christmas cards for a local firm — lay on the table. Roddy picked it up, carried it over to the wall and tried holding it at different heights. Then he put it back on the table.
‘Fifty for that one,’ he said.
Phoebe didn’t understand.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Frankly, that’s more than it’s worth. But I’m feeling generous this morning. You can take it or leave it.’
‘You’re offering to buy that painting … for fifty pounds?’
‘Yes. It would cover that damp patch rather well, don’t you think?’
‘But what about the others?’
‘The others? Well, to be honest, I was hoping to find something a little more exciting. I don’t really see anything here that would justify an investment.’
Phoebe thought about this for a moment.
‘You bastard,’ she said.
‘There’s no need to take it personally,’ said Roddy. ‘Tastes differ, the world over. It’s all subjective in the long run.’
‘After everything you said last night.’
‘But I’d hardly seen any of your work last night. As you were at pains to point out yourself.’
She frowned and said hollowly: ‘Is this some sort of joke?’
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘the Narcissus Gallery has an international reputation. I think you’re the one who must be joking, if you suppose that any of these … studenty daubs are ever likely to find a place in it.’
‘I see.’ She looked out of the window, which was thick with dust. ‘Wasn’t it rather a lot of trouble to go to, just for a quick fuck? I mean, I don’t know what your standards are, in this area, but I didn’t think it was anything special.’
‘Well, of course, I’ve also had the pleasure of your company for the weekend. That’s not to be discounted. You’ll stay for some lunch, I hope?’
Phoebe drew in her breath sharply and advanced towards him. ‘You slimy little piece of shit. Phone for a taxi. Now.’
‘As you wish. I’ll tell him to wait at the bottom of the drive, shall I?’
Those were the last words he spoke to her. He closed the door behind him and left her alone, dumbfounded, dwarfed by the dimensions of the enormous room. But for the next few hours she managed to bottle up her rage and remained steel-eyed and silent. She said nothing to the driver who took her all the way to York station, keeping up an unbroken stream of small talk which to her racing mind was so much meaningless noise, like radio static. She said nothing to the other passengers on the train, or on the bus which took her back to the flat. It wasn’t until she returned to her bedroom and found, not only that it was still cluttered with Darren’s bodybuilding equipment but that there had been an accident with one of his dumb-bells, smashing the glass on her prized Kandinsky print, that she collapsed heavily on to the bed and gave herself over to tears: tears which were brief, cleansing and salty with hate.