‘No.’

‘She may seem like an air-head sometimes, but you can trust her. I would.’

She walks to the door. When the door clicks shut I come out of my hiding place and stand in the entrance of the room.

‘Who are you?’ I ask, but I already know. Of course, I know. It should have been obvious to anyone with eyes. I should have known from the first day.

Invictus

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

—William Ernest Henley

Twenty-nine

I, Quinn Adam Barrington

‘You’re Blake’s brother, aren’t you?’ she accuses, her voice, a shocked whisper.

She is wearing scarlet. I love her in scarlet. I can hardly remember her from the days she used to dress in shades of pink. She has changed so much. Her hair is loose and she is wearing red lipstick. In the glow of the light from the lampshade her creamy skin glows with the luminescence of the polished ivory sword handle that had hung in my father’s study.

She is my beautiful love. My heart feels heavy. Why didn’t I tell her myself? Something has always held me back. I know why. I know exactly why.

I incline my head. ‘At your service.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

I shrug. To tell her would be to leave me defenseless.

She smiles suddenly, brightly, and advances into the room. ‘It doesn’t matter, I realized today that I love you,’ she says excitedly.

I freeze. I actually freeze. Now I know why I never told her. But I thaw surprisingly fast. There is no pain. Maybe later. Definitely later, I will think of those words and how much I wanted them to be true. Now I am like the man whose shoulder is inside the lion’s jaws. The pain is so great that shock cracks a whip, and a weird flat state of being takes over; it is notable only for its total absence of pain. I always knew she was shallow, but this shallow? Not even I could have expected that.

‘Why? Because I am not from a family of servants you have suddenly decided that you love me.’ My voice is bitter. I have never heard it so. So much about me she has brought forth.

She frowns then turns white. ‘You heard us.’

‘Yeah. I came to say goodbye, but after hearing how scornfully you dismissed me just because you thought I was the son of a servant, I walked away.’

She licks her lips. Her eyes turn desperate. I look at them emotionlessly, curiously. How far will she go?

‘It’s not what you think,’ she pleads. ‘I knew I loved you before I figured out that you are Blake’s brother.’

I raise a disbelieving eyebrow.

‘I came here to tell you.’ Her voice is rising, desperate.

I say nothing. I wanted her to love me for myself. Not for my family name. But I have been living in a fool’s paradise for the last few weeks. I so much wanted to believe that she is more, that she could be more. But what I feared most has happened.

‘You have to believe me.’

‘And what about Jack?’

‘I realized that I didn’t love him this afternoon and that is why I came here.’

‘What an amazing coincidence.’

‘I’m telling the truth, Vann… I mean…Quinn.’

Wow, she is a really good actress. ‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Why don’t you want to be known as a Barrington?’

‘I wanted to be recognized as an artist, purely for my talent, not because of my surname and heritage.’ I’ll never tell her the real reason why I don’t want to be associated with the name.

‘I love you.’

I laugh. ‘Well, I don’t. We had a good time and now it is over. I’m leaving at the end of the week.’

She takes a step back as if I have slapped her. Her eyes become huge. She is right though, they are not green. Flecks of gold and brown in them. They are only green when passion comes into her body.

‘You’re leaving?’ she gasps. Her mouth remains open. This is not acting. This she did not expect.

‘Yup. I’m done here.’

For a few more seconds she simply stares at me. I long to cross the space and hold her, but I don’t. I stare at her, my beautiful Sugar. Then she turns around and runs from me. She doesn’t slam the door, but closes it quietly with a click.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I stand there, my thoughts a mess. Some part of me tells me to go after her. Let things carry on as before. But another part of me knows that it can never be like it was before, and whatever we have will be a pale imitation of what I really want. It is for the best. I don’t want her to pretend to love me. I need to be free of the long shadow cast by Jack. A song is playing in my head. Mama, take this badge off me. I can’t use it anymore. I feel like I’m knocking on heaven’s door. Knock, knockin…

The phone rings.

I answer it and listen as Blake explains that he has ordered Croix, my dealer, to put a minimum price on the paintings: £150,000 on the smaller ones, £250,000 on the two larger pieces. These giddy prices… The arrogance is breathtaking.

Abyssus abssum invocat: one hell summons another.

Here it goes again—the meme that money is absolutely everything. I am reminded of Munch’s Scream. His terrible visions, profound insight and his shudder of despair at the human condition reduced to a price tag: 120 million dollars. The hollowness had chilled me then. And it chills me now.

In ordinary circumstances I would have gone mad, told my brother to fuck off, stay out of my business. But today it doesn’t matter. I don’t actually care one way or another.

‘Nobody will buy them at those prices,’ I say quietly.

‘I am the back-up buyer at those prices.’

There is a brief pause when we are both silent.

‘You are the artist. I am the businessman. Leave me to decide what the market can afford. The perception of value is everything. If a Barrington wants to acquire the entire collection…

‘You haven’t seen it yet.’

‘Is it any good?’

‘The best thing I have done in my life.’ I slept with my muse, you see.

‘That’s good enough for me.’

‘See you tomorrow at seven thirty?’

‘See you then.’

‘Oh, do you need us to pick Julie up?’

And suddenly the pain hits. Right in the solar plexus. Oh fuck. Later has come.

‘Yeah.’

‘Right. I’ll get Lana to arrange it with her. See you then.’

The phone hits the wall so hard it smashes into pieces. I stand with my back to the glass wall and look around me. Here, I have been truly happy. I go to the kitchen and open the fridge. That habit of hers, leaving a half-drunk glass of orange juice in the fridge. I take it, find the imprint of her mouth and drink a mouthful of juice. The juice is cold and for some reason tasteless. I leave it on the counter. I need a real drink. I reach for the bottle of beer and stop. I don’t want beer. I’d like to get smashed on a whole bottle of cognac, the kind my granddad used to drink. I close the fridge and I go up to my studio.

At the threshold I stand and look at the empty place. By now, all the paintings are probably being unpacked and the perfect wall to hang them on being decided upon. I go towards my easel, my paints and my brushes. They have comforted me in other times of pain. But not pain like this. I walk to the unfinished canvas on the easel and look at it. There she is smiling mysteriously at me. I put my palm on her mouth and drag it down the canvas. The wet paint smears downwards. I take a rag and wipe my hand and walk to the tap. I watch the water running and realize that the large ceramic sink is totally out of place in this state-of-the-art apartment. It occurs to me that Blake had it installed.