It was a fair point.
‘Mind if I sit here?’ said Michael, indicating the space beside her on the bed.
Phoebe shook her head. She looked tired, and ran a hand through her hair.
‘How’ve you been, anyway?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been looking out for your novels.’
‘I never wrote any more. I dried up.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Still painting?’
‘On and off. I can’t really see much future in it at the moment. Not while the Roddy Winshaws of this world continue to rule the roost.’
‘Well, there’ll be one less of them by tomorrow morning, at this rate.’ Not wanting to dwell on this macabre prospect, Michael added: ‘You mustn’t give up, though. You were good. Anyone could see that.’
‘Anyone?’ Phoebe echoed.
‘Do you remember that time,’ said Michael, not noticing her question, ‘when I came into your room and saw the painting you were working on?’ He began to chuckle. ‘And I thought it was a still life, when it was really a picture of Orpheus in the underworld or something?’
‘Yes,’ said Phoebe, quietly. ‘I remember.’
Michael had a flash of inspiration. ‘Could I buy that painting? It would be so nice to have – just as a sort of … keepsake.’
‘I’m afraid I destroyed it. Soon afterwards.’
Phoebe got up and sat at the dressing table, where she began brushing her hair.
‘You don’t mean – not because of what I said, surely?’
She didn’t answer.
‘I mean, it was just a silly mistake.’
‘Some people bruise easily, Michael.’ She turned around. Her face was flushed. ‘I don’t, any more. But I was young at the time. And not very sure of myself. Anyway, it’s all forgotten now. It was a long time ago.’
‘Yes, but I had no idea. Really I didn’t.’
‘You’re forgiven,’ said Phoebe, and then tried to rescue the mood by asking: ‘Have I changed much since then?’
‘Hardly at all. I would have recognized you anywhere.’
She decided not to point out that he had noticeably failed to recognize her at the Narcissus Gallery’s private view a couple of months ago. ‘Do you ever hear from Joan?’
‘Yes, I saw her. Saw her just recently, as it happens. She married Graham.’
‘That figures.’ Phoebe rejoined him on the bed. ‘And they’re both well, are they?’
‘Fine, yes, fine. I mean, Graham was almost dead when I last saw him, but I should think he’s recovered by now.’
This required a certain amount of explanation, so Michael told her all that he knew about Graham’s documentary and Mark’s abortive assassination attempt.
‘So now he’s fallen foul of the Winshaws, too,’ said Phoebe. ‘They seem to get everywhere, this family, don’t they?’
‘Of course they do. That’s the whole point about them.’
She thought a little more about his story, and asked: ‘What were you doing in this hospital over New Year?’
‘I was visiting someone. A friend. She got taken ill unexpectedly.’
Phoebe detected an abrupt change of tone. ‘You mean – like a girlfriend?’
‘Something like a girlfriend, I suppose.’
He lapsed into silence, and she suddenly felt that her questions had been intrusive and unnecessary.
‘I’m sorry, I – didn’t mean to pry … I mean, it’s none of my business –’
‘No, that’s all right. Really.’
He forced a brief smile.
‘She died, didn’t she?’ said Phoebe.
Michael nodded.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She put her hand on his knee for a few, embarrassed moments; then withdrew it. ‘Do you want – I mean, would it help to talk about it?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not really.’ He squeezed her hand, to show that her gesture had not gone unnoticed. ‘It’s silly, really, I’d only known her for a few months. We never even slept together. But somehow or other, I managed to … invest in her, quite heavily.’ He rubbed his eyes, adding: ‘Makes her sound like a public company, doesn’t it? I’m starting to talk like Thomas.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘The same thing that gets everybody, in the end: a combination of circumstances. She had a lymphoma, which could have been treated, but certain people chose to arrange things so that it didn’t happen. I’d been meaning to have a word with Henry about it, while I was up here, but … there’s no point, now, is there. Nothing … more to be …’ His words dried up and he stared into space for what seemed a very long time. Finally he said one more word, very softly, but with emphasis: ‘Shit.’ Then he keeled over and lay curled up on the bed in a foetal position, with his back towards Phoebe.
After a while she touched him on the shoulder, and said: ‘Michael, why don’t you stay here tonight? I don’t fancy spending the night alone, and we’d be company for each other.’
Michael said: ‘OK. Thank you.’ He didn’t move.
‘You’d better get undressed.’
Michael undressed down to his underwear, slipped between the sheets of the double bed and fell asleep almost instantly; just finding the time to murmur: ‘Joan asked me to stay in her bedroom once. I ran away. I don’t know why.’
‘She was very fond of you, I think,’ said Phoebe.
‘I’ve been so stupid.’
Phoebe put on her nightshirt and got into bed beside him. She turned off the lamp. They lay back to back, with an inch or two of space between them.
Michael dreamed about Fiona, as he had done every night for the last two weeks. He dreamed that he was still sitting beside her hospital bed, holding her hand and talking. She was listening to him and smiling back. Then he dreamed that he had woken up to the realization that she was dead, and started to dream that he was crying. He dreamed that he was reaching out in the bed and touching a warm female body. He dreamed that Phoebe had turned towards him and put her arms around him and was stroking his hair. He dreamed that he was kissing her on the lips and that she was returning his kiss, her mouth open, her lips soft and warm. He dreamed the warm smell of her hair and the warm smoothness of her skin as his fingers touched the small of her back beneath her nightshirt. He tried to remember when he had last had this dream, this dream of waking up and finding that he was in bed with a beautiful woman, waking up in the joyful awareness that she was touching him, that he was touching her, that they were dovetailed, entangled, coiled like dreamy snakes. This dream where it seemed that every part of his body was being touched by every part of her body, that from now on the entire world was to be apprehended only through touch, so that in the musty warmth of the bed, the curtained darkness of the bedroom, they could not but find themselves starting to writhe gently, every movement, every tiny adjustment creating new waves of pleasure. Michael was dreading the moment when the dream would end: when he would wake up for the last time and find himself alone in bed, or when he would be overtaken by a still deeper sleep and fall into another dream of emptiness and loss. But it didn’t happen. Their love was long, slow and sleepy, and although there were times when they did nothing but lie together, drowsily entwined, these intervals of huddled stillness were all part of a single movement, perpetual and effortless, during which they slid rhythmically in and out of sleep, rocked back and forth between dreaming and waking, and had no knowledge of the passing of time until Michael heard the grandfather clock in the hallway strike five, and turned his head to see Phoebe’s eyes smiling at him in the dark.
‘Kenneth,’ he said, ‘you’ll never know what you missed.’
‘My name isn’t Kenneth,’ said Phoebe. She laughed as she rummaged around in the tousled sheets for her nightshirt, then struggled into it. ‘Don’t tell me you were thinking about someone called Kenneth all that time. Although I suppose it would at least explain why you and Joan never got it together.’
She climbed out of bed and made for the door. Michael sat up, his mind still foggy with sleep, and said in an abstracted way: ‘Where are you going to go now?’