Forget to Remember, page 16
“It is the pride of my life. I’ve been a connoisseur of art since before your parents were born. Did you see my Monet?”
“Which one is it?”
“The painting over the fireplace.”
Carol stood beside him and admired the exquisite painting of water lilies. Monet had used many different colors she didn’t ordinarily associate with water lilies, but he had made it work.
Lord Binghamton smiled. “This is one of his lesser known paintings of water lilies although, I suspect it’s still worth a few schillings.”
He guided Carol to a seat on a white couch and sat down on an identical couch adjacent to it. Although he hid it well, it took him some effort to sit. With perfect timing, the maid wheeled a cart into the room containing a teapot and everything that went with serving tea.
Lord B poured the tea—she didn’t know lords did that—and Carol followed his example this time by adding milk and sugar. She tried to remember how many times she had been served tea, hot and cold, over the past few weeks. She was quite sure she hadn’t been a tea drinker in her past life.
She attempted to balance the cup and saucer on her knee without looking too awkward, and without dropping the delicate pieces of china on the hardwood floor. She also helped herself to a couple of cookies Lord B referred to as biscuits.
He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to talk business, chatting instead about his art collection and telling interesting stories about where he obtained some of his pieces. Carol relaxed in his presence, her nervousness about meeting a lord gone, and enjoyed the moment. After emptying one cup of tea and pouring himself another, he changed the subject.
“Sean tells me you’re looking for a girl who may have lived in his flat once upon a time.”
“Yes.” She briefly outlined the information she had about Cynthia being in London, sparse as it was.
“You say this was two years ago. That would be two thousand seven. A young fellow had the flat then. He was about Sean’s age. I never ask questions about who they have staying with them. None of my business. Unfortunately, he died in a crash on the M twenty-five.”
That was a jolt. “If Cynthia died with him that would have been reported.”
“Yes. As I recall, he was alone in the car. What did this Cynthia look like?”
“I’m told she looked like me.” Carol hadn’t bothered to bring a picture of Cynthia, since she was apparently a better likeness for her than the picture on the Internet missing persons Web site.
Lord B focused on her as if seeing her for the first time. He was about to say something when a small bundle of energy burst into the room in the form of a woman wearing a long, black dress that might have been fashionable eighty years ago and incongruous sneakers, or trainers as Carol knew they were called here. Her cheeks were flushed under her white hair that was pulled into a severe bun.
She strode directly to the cart and poured herself a cup of tea. Then she addressed Lord B. “Lovely day for a brisk walk, Abie. You should try it. It would help your arthritis.”
“Yes, Hermy, I plan to do a few miles on the stationary bike in a bit.”
“Better to go outside in the fresh air. The sun gives you Vitamin D and siphons the toxins out of your system.” She pronounced the “vit” in vitamin to rhyme with “it.” She took a couple of sips of tea and turned to Carol. “I’m Hermione. No, don’t get up.”
She shook hands with Carol, who mumbled her own name, and then turned back to Lord B. “Where did you find her? I’m sure she’ll make a good subject for one of your infamous paintings. In fact, if I recall correctly, there’s a girl in your den who looks a lot like her. Well, I’m off to a meeting of the Young Ladies Welfare League.”
Before either of them could say anything more, she was gone. Lord B smiled at Carol. “Well, now you’ve met my sister. My older sister, although you wouldn’t know it by watching her nonstop activity.”
“She seems very nice.”
“She is that, but we operate on different planes of existence. Since she alluded to my weakness, I feel it only fair that I mention hers. She’s never been married, never had a date as far as I know. There’s a bit of verse that describes her. Since it uses baseball terminology I can’t usually recite it in England, but I spent several years in the States and I’m sure you’ll understand it.
“It goes like this: ‘Beneath this clay lies Ellie May; for her life held no terrors. She lived a virgin, died a virgin; no runs, no hits, no errors.’”
Carol laughed. “She doesn’t seem to be any the worse for it.”
“No. Certainly she’s a good spokesperson for her lifestyle although, it’s not one I could undertake. She mentioned a painting in my den. I would like you to see it.”
Lord B laboriously rose from his seat. Carol followed him to another room containing a high, glass-topped table that must double as a desk—it even had a computer on it—and more paintings on the walls, with a higher percentage of nudes than in the other room.
He pointed to a good-sized nude hanging above the table. “What do you think of that?”
Carol couldn’t suppress a gasp. It was either a picture of her or her twin sister. The face, the body style. The model’s hair was longer, but the same color as Carol’s. She looked at it for another few seconds and calmed down a little. It wasn’t her. “That must be Cynthia.”
“I don’t know the name of the model, but it was painted by Jacques, the fellow who died in the crash. Too bad. He had talent.”
“I’m sure that’s Cynthia. At least I can be certain she was here.”
“I never met her. Since we can’t ask Jacques about her, I don’t know how we can trace her. Would it help if you had a picture of the painting?”
Carol nodded. “Yes it would. At least it would prove I tried to find her.”
Lord B stepped up to the table, which was high enough so he could operate the computer while standing. He was obviously an expert. With a few clicks of the mouse, he brought up a likeness of the painting on the monitor, activated the printer, and printed a copy. Carol asked him for a second copy. He made three and handed them to her. She thanked him. He turned toward her.
“As far as I know, that’s all I can do for you. Let’s talk about what you can do for me.”
“Anything.”
“Sean tells me he asked you to pose for him. He saw you as an ideal candidate for my collection. Of course, he’s seen this painting. He was correct. If you’ll be his model, I’ll make sure you get paid double the usual fee.”
She should have seen this coming. In a way, Sean had set her up. Still, she had learned something about Cynthia. Old men were obviously attracted to her. There was nothing wrong with that as long as young men were, too. “I’ve never modeled before—at least not nude.”
“I’m told that once you get started, it’s like any other job and you forget about what you’re wearing. But if it’s too much to ask…”
At least he didn’t call her an uptight Yank. “He’s working on a bowl of fruit.”
“His skills are eclectic; he’s very versatile. He’s good at portraits. He’ll make you look beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about. The fruit, by the by, is for Hermione. She’s got her own art collection. Needless to say, it’s a bit different than mine.”
“I guess I’m a little afraid of being alone with him.”
“Well, I’d love to be there—to protect you, of course.” Lord B gave a hint of a smile. “Unfortunately, I can no longer navigate the stairs. However, you’re safe with Sean. He’s a professional. If he did anything to hurt you, I’d have him castrated.”
Carol was wincing too much to laugh. “All right, I’ll do it.”
***
Carol found a post office, purchased an envelope and a stamp, and mailed a copy of the painting to Paul. Cognizant of the five-hour time difference with North Carolina, she called him on her cell phone late enough so he’d be in his office. She told him briefly what she’d found out. He was more excited than she thought he’d be.
“That painting is the only proof she was actually in London other than the letter. Good work.”
“Unfortunately, with the artist dead, I don’t know where to go from here.”
“Maybe he had friends…”
“Maybe, but I don’t know how to go about finding them. For one thing, he was French.”
“Do you want to go to France?”
She was sure he was being facetious. “Not right now.”
“Well, keep on plugging. Maybe you’ll come up with something else. I miss you.”
He missed her body. She wasn’t going to play that game. “I’m about to go on a tour of the House of Commons. If I find anything else, I’ll call you.”
CHAPTER 27
Over a breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast at the Balmoral, Carol decided she couldn’t possibly pose for Sean. Maybe she was an uptight Yank. Anyway, she had cold feet. Frozen feet. She would call him and cancel. She was supposed to be at his loft at nine. She would call him at eight. He should be up by then.
At eight o’clock she was ready for the day. The thought occurred to her that if she didn’t pose, she didn’t have anything else on her schedule. She was at a dead end as far as Cynthia was concerned. She decided to walk to Sean’s loft—it couldn’t be over two miles—and tell him face-to-face she wouldn’t pose for him. That would give her something to do and be less cowardly than telling him on the phone.
She joined the throngs of walkers rushing to tube stations or other destinations. She almost got hit by a bus when she looked the wrong way before crossing a street and felt invigorated from the walk itself. By the time she arrived at Sean’s building, she’d put together an explanation for him, succinct yet logical. He would understand her reasons.
She rang his intercom button. He verified who she was and buzzed her in. She walked up the three flights of stairs. He yelled that the door was open in response to her knock. She went in and prepared to launch into her speech. He was setting up his easel and paints and barely looked at her.
“You can change in the WC. I put a robe in there. I’ve figured out a pose you should be able to hold without giving you a permanent bad back.” He chuckled.
Now was the time to talk to him. Carol wished he would stop working and turn in her direction. He had rigged up a set, consisting of a low platform with a skeleton frame on it—a window. He had already spent a lot of time getting it ready.
She could picture herself looking out the window in the painting. If done right, the painting could be beautiful, as Lord Binghamton had said. Cynthia had been immortalized, wherever she was. In a hundred years, her painting might be worth millions of dollars—or pounds. Carol decided if Cynthia could pose nude, she could, too.
“Well, get a move on. We don’t have all day.”
Sean’s words stimulated her to action. She headed for the bathroom. She took off her clothes and was about to put on the robe when she saw her abdominal scar in the mirror. It was ugly. She had completely forgotten about it. She couldn’t model like that.
She quickly put on the robe and walked out into the open loft and over to Sean. “I forgot to tell you about my scar.”
“Let’s see it.”
She had to open the robe. Now was the time to quit. Something stiffened her spine. She would make him fire her. Then she’d be off the hook with her conscience. She couldn’t be accused of being a quitter. She timidly showed him the scar.
Sean took a quick look and went back to setting up. “I just won’t paint it. Not a problem.”
Surprised, Carol knew she couldn’t quit now. She was committed.
***
Lord Binghamton had been correct. Once Carol had been posing for about an hour, her lack of clothing ceased to bother her. She was much more concerned about holding her pose. She was supposed to be looking out the window and waving to somebody outside. She could lean against the window frame for support—Sean had made it quite sturdy—but the hand she was waving with was up in the air. Every few minutes she had to lower her arm.
She could only see Sean in her peripheral vision because she wasn’t directly facing him. She wondered whether he had posed her like this on purpose, so she wouldn’t freak out watching him work, wondering what part of her he was painting.
The heater radiated warmth, but she was still chilly. Sean had promised her a break after an hour, so she could put on the robe for a bit. She hoped he couldn’t see her goose bumps.
He didn’t talk while he painted. That was all right with her. She spent the time wondering about the relationship between Sean and Lord Binghamton. Lord B must be Sean’s patron—wasn’t that what they used to call them?—buying his paintings, subsidizing his rent. Well, if he could afford it, why not?
Carol heard the door to the loft open, but it was out of her field of vision. She panicked and became very aware of her lack of clothes. Who was it? The only thing that kept her from grabbing the robe was Sean’s calmness when he spoke.
“Melanie. What a surprise. I thought you were working at the shop today.”
“I have a client nearby I have to talk to, so I thought I’d pop in for a moment and see how you’re getting along with your new model.”
“Somehow I thought you might just do that. Take a break, Carol, and we’ll have some tea. Melanie, this is Carol. Carol, this is Melanie. Melanie is an art dealer.”
They said hello from a distance. Carol was happy to put on the robe, not only to warm up but because she was self-conscious in front of Melanie, even though she was a woman—or perhaps because she was a woman. Melanie was the quintessential English blond with blue eyes. She didn’t have anything to fear from Carol. Carol, in fact, was surprised, thinking the girlfriend of an artist would be more laid back than to worry about his models.
Melanie had evidently gotten a good look at her, because she said to Sean, “She’s got the combination of beauty and sex appeal Lord B likes. But that scar on her abdomen…”
Sean spoke gruffly. “I’m not going to paint the scar.”
“You’re going to have to add some pubic hair, however, because he’s a traditionalist.”
Sean’s voice became gruffer. “I’ll take care of it. I know what I’m doing.”
Carol hoped Melanie was through picking at her. At least she didn’t ask how Carol got the scar.
Melanie heated water and got the tea things ready while Sean cleaned up a little and covered the canvas, explaining it was off limits until the painting was finished. Carol went over to see if she could help Melanie, who started asking her questions.
“I understand you live across the pond in the colonies. What part?”
Carol gave the simplest answer. “California. Los Angeles.”
“Near Hollywood?”
“Sure.”
“What brings you to swinging London?”
Carol explained about looking for Cynthia. While she was talking, she had an idea. “You’re an art dealer. Did you know Jacques, the painter who lived here two years ago?”
“Jacques. The bloke who was killed in the accident? I did know him. Pity. He had good technique.”
“He painted a portrait of a girl I’m sure is Cynthia. Lord Binghamton owns it. I was wondering if you ever met Cynthia. She looks something like me.”
Melanie studied Carol. “I don’t remember any Cynthia, but I do remember a model who looked like you. She had a Japanese name—Iko or something like that.”
Carol was startled. “Could it possibly have been Aiko (ah-ee-ko)—spelled A-i-k-o?”
“Sounds right.”
What was going on here? Aiko was the name Carol had presumably used when she was a swimsuit model. Unless…unless it was Cynthia who had made the swimsuit video under an assumed name, not Carol. It made sense. If Cynthia had been known as Aiko here, that might be one reason they couldn’t trace her.
“Do you remember her last name?”
Melanie poured water into the cups and set tea bags on the table, along with milk and sugar. “If she used a last name, I never heard it. I only saw her once or twice. As I recall, she disappeared after Jacques died.”
“Cynthia and Aiko may be the same person. Cynthia gave this flat as a return address in a letter to her parents.”
“London is one of the places in the world where rootless young people come. She may not have had a permanent address.”
“Where do these people hang out?”
Sean had just come over to join them. Melanie repeated the question for him. He sprawled in one of the chairs, threatening to break it. “Artists and models with no money stay wherever they can. They mix and match their bodies to find food and shelter.”
Melanie scowled at him. “That’s not helpful. The poor girl is trying to find her friend. Isn’t there a sort of commune where they live?”
“Yeah, but it has to change its location from time to time. They keep getting booted from places.” Sean chuckled. “Not likely there’d be anyone who’d remember who was here two years ago, anyway. Wait a minute.”
Sean put his fingers together and leaned back, staring at the skylight in the roof. Carol wondered if he were having a vision. He snapped his fingers and came back to earth.
“When I moved in here, I met the chap who lived here after Jacques. He had known Jacques so he might have known the girl. Of course, whoever came over here looking for the girl probably already talked to him.”
“They would have asked about Cynthia, not Aiko.” Carol thought it was worth a try. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“He gave up being an artist and became a street performer. You might want to check out Covent Garden.”
***
Carol took a bite of her McDonald’s hamburger and ate a couple of fries, which were usually called chips here. Potato chips became crisps. She felt entitled to some fast-food after surviving a morning of posing. She had warned the server about putting on too much mayonnaise, which seemed to be glopped on all sandwiches in abundant quantities. For a drink, she was having Coke and water, in rebellion against all the tea she’d consumed.
