The Painting

“It’s a little disconcerting don’t you think?”

She turned and looked at him, this stranger that had materialised from nowhere.

“Why?” She asked.

And he smiled in an arrogant, knowledgeable way. “It’s the juxtaposition between the head and the space around it. The positioning of the eyes. It’s what they call the Mona Lisa Approach.”

She looked at him.

“Oh, sorry, in laymen’s terms, the eyes follow you around the room.”

She willed the pompous prick to leave her alone. It had taken courage to come and look at this painting and she needed it to be alone.

“I’ve heard that it’s a good likeness, though. Did you know him?”

“Yes” She replied, but didn’t elaborate and it seemed she didn’t need to. Her new companion obviously liked the sound of his own voice.

“Of course, it’s a little too dark and a little too sinister for my liking.

And you can’t really call it a painting because there are other elements, which technically means that it’s a mixed media work. He said this slowly as if she was a child learning a new word and she wanted to laugh, (and cry,) at the same time.

“It is said that the artist never painted again.” He continued.

“Is that right?” She asked sardonically. She could not believe that she was in the most tender of situations and being lectured at, by this twat. “I would look up the artist. I think you’ll find that she is a sculptor, but started painting again a couple of years ago.”

“Dee-Dee you’re here!” She turned and smiled at her old friend.

“Yes, Jessie let me in.” Lizzy looked at the painting.

“The world never was quite so bright after he left us.” Dee Dee said following Lizzie’s eyes.

“Thank-you Dee,” Tears sat on Lizzy’s lashes but didn’t stray and despite herself, she too felt the tiny tears prick in her eyes. She hugged her, tight, so tightly, that Lizzie gasped.

“I see you met my sisters’ new partner, Mike. Mike likes Art. You’d get on well.” she smiled conspiratorially. “Sorry please forgive me, I have a speech to deliver, Mike can I ask you to make sure everyone has something to drink?”

Dee looked around her.

It was a small, select gathering, the girls of course, Rebecca and Jessie, now 24 and 21, one the image of her mother and the other of him. There was a smattering of the family members, a couple of which, she knew quite well. And in the corner, her three oldest friends. They were standing together, chatting and she marvelled at how these women, Denise, Ali, and Kate were as, if not more beautiful as they were 20yrs ago. They, like her had been there throughout.

Her heart lurched, in the corner of her eye a man had turned and was heading towards her.

Richard?

For a second, she felt sick and then she breathed again’

No, it’s not Richard.

HE is not Richard.

“John, you are so like your brother, it’s uncanny.” She smiled at him, and they chatted away amiably, old friends, reunited.

“She still worships him.” John said indicating to the spot she had been trying to avoid.

Her stomach knotted as she took in the small covered table in front of fireplace. Today it masqueraded as a shrine and a sense of deja-vous washed over her. There again, was Richard’s guitar, his wedding band, his vinyl collection, his drawing tools, his most valued treasures. Candles were lit in the grate as well as on the table and music, Duran, Duran, from an old tape recorder was playing. Lizzy appeared next to her.

“Ladies and gentleman, on behalf of Rebecca and Jessie I wish to thank you for coming today and sharing our memories of Richard. He would have been 60 today. His birthday.”

She pointed to the painting, then squeezed my hand.

“It’s one of the most precious things I own. Thank you Dee. Thank you for the painting. It will always be pride of place.”

There was a groan and Dee looked at Mike. He was looking a little abashed. But she smiled ruefully before turning to Lizzy.

And there they were again, those fat tears which Lizzy forbade to fall.

She hugged her again.

“You are a very special, Lizzy. Thank you back.”

Her eye travelled up, above the fireplace to Richard, or rather the painting of Richard she had made 16 years ago.

She looked at Richard and he, he looked back.

And she shivered.

In some ways this was the most successful painting she had ever, ever done. And she still couldn’t believe that had she painted it. Yes, if you knew her work it is her style but it was the happy accidents, the sophistication of it that still surprised her.

And it made her want to run away from it and hide, and never, never see it again. Never

Even now.

Even now.

The colours were muted, she had used paint, ink, charcoal, wood dyes, anything her heart had told her to.

There was something about the light, the eyes, the expression on his face that made her balk. He seemed to be really there.

No matter where she was in the room, his eyes followed her. When she felt sad, he seemed to cry, when happy he seemed to play, but most of the time he seemed to carry an arrogance, a sneer, the Richard expression of condescending mockery.

It was as if his spirit had left its confines.

It was dizzying. She felt strange, ungrounded. Her husband had not been able to come today and she sorely needed him, his anchor, his roots, his physicality.

She re adjusted the coping mask and returned to the speech.

She found deep breathing helped and by looking people in the eye she could shut out all the memories that were crowding in. How dare she feel like this! It was never her loss. Never.

Lizzy; she stood with her daughters, so young, so lovely and next to her…. the painting and Richard’s eyes which bore holes into Dee’s heart.

She was transported back, 16 years ago to the church, to the funeral to the young widow, her two little girls and this bloody painting.

And the tears came unbidden.

She still cried. Still. A heart wrenching, throat clenching pain that was as raw today as it was then.

She had been one of the last to see him. They had walked the children’s charity run together. She with her dog, he with little Jessie, too young to compete. It was the first and perhaps the only time they had been alone and to be honest, she had felt less than comfortable. Richard was one of her husbands’ best friends, but Dee had always felt intimidated by him. He was a little too handsome, a little too confident, a little uncommunicative. He didn’t suffer fools gladly and Dee generally felt like a fool when she was with him. Today however, he had been relaxed and they had talked of his love of music and how jealous he was of her art studies. He was a successful graphic designer but he had always wanted to be a musician and visual artist.

Two days later Lizzy, Richard and the girls took their annual holiday to the Florida Keys to visit Lizzy’s father.

It was Denise who called Dee with the news. But it was Lizzy’s voice that stayed in her head even now.

I said goodbye to Dad and Richard in the morning and I never saw either of them again..

Alive that is.

Dad hired a light plane. They were going to Orlando for the day…….. they think it was engine trouble. I got a phone call in the afternoon. All I can remember Dee is the phone in my hand, me on my hands and knees, screaming and screaming and screaming

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO, nooooooooooooo!

The tears were running down Dee’s face now and a sob threatened to interrupt the speech. Dee looked around and realised that the only dry eyes belonged to Lizzy and the girls. And she was again struck at the strength of them.

It had taken a few weeks for Lizzy to come home. There was an inquest, the cremation there were the media sharks sniffing for blood, there was the legalities of transporting the ashes back to the UK and of course a funeral to arrange by a vicar that had told Lizzy that he was on holiday and couldn’t and wouldn’t discuss her loss until he was back to work. And in the midst of all this there was a young woman bereft of a husband and father and two little girls to care for.

Meanwhile Dee’s group of friends were in shock. They were all young mums, and one of their flock had lost heavily. They grieved. They grieved for Richard, for Lizzy, for the children, but also for the fact that it could have happened to them. Couples became closer, children more precious, life revalued.

Dee could taste the sadness. It was sour on her tongue and she felt again her inadequacy, her helplessness of watching a friend’s trauma, of being able to do nothing, of that small sick part of relief that it hadn’t happened to her.

Soon after the news, Dee had gone to Lizzy’s house. She had been given a key in case of an emergency.

And this was an emergency.

She knew what she wanted but what she found was horrible. The house, it was as they had left it, washing up on the drainer, crayons and paper on the table, the guitar on the sofa. A life from before, when there were four.

Dee looked and looked, hating to open drawers, cupboards, shelves, feeling like a trespasser violating her friends’ private selves. And she still couldn’t find what she wanted, so she went upstairs and next to Rebecca’s bed was a picture of Richard with the two girls. It was only a 4 x 6 print but it was good enough and she put it into an envelope and left the house. She would later find out that this was the last picture taken of him and it was one that Lizzy had taken on their bed, a few days before their holiday.

“If Richard was here today he would be proudest of his girls. Rebecca is an artist and Jessie, a jazz musician. His magic lives on in his girls……”

For the next week all Dee could do was paint, to paint him back to life, to paint his life. She had wept as she painted, so much so that sometimes, she could barely see the canvas. She worked and reworked the image, day in, day out, hour in, hour out.

All her loss went into the painting, her grief and despair, her terrors, her guilt. all her love for Richard, Lizzy, the girls, but also her own family, her own children, they were there too.

She was in a war zone of conflict, death, injuries, uproar and terror.

She was a captive being tortured. Her chest being booted, her eyes being burnt. Her wrists bound.

Day in, day out, hour in, hour out.

Now she was drowning, chained to the bottom of the ocean, gagging, choking, and swallowing salty water.

She worked and cried and hurt.

She was in space alone and untethered.

She was in the desert parched and eating sand.

She was falling, a porcelain vase smashing into thousands of fragments.

She was a butterfly; bereft of wings, stranded.

She was lost.

It was never ending.

And so she worked harder.

She cried so much that her head ached and still she painted and painted,

day in, day out, hour in, hour out.

What else could she do?

For without painting, she could not start to heal the torment that threatened to consume her.

Her loss gave her need.

The need to paint.

As she worked she tore at the canvas, ripping it, sticking it, stitching it. She stuck newspaper articles to it, and painted over them, she ‘healed’ the ‘wounds’ with iodine and bandage, her soggy tissues were incorporated, and her love, and all that she was, she gave to the painting.

Finally, when she thought that she couldn’t endure any more: that she was unhinged,

a light appeared.

And the painting lived.

And she was done.

It was done.

And she could look at the painting no longer. For what she saw was not Richard,

but torment, grief, torture and distress, hers, and all those involved.

And it lived in the painting.

And it frightened her.

And she loathed it.

She had argued with her husband but had lost. The painting would as planned, to be gifted to Lizzy, despite the revulsion Dee had for the finished article. Dee, unable to look at it had wrapped it in brown paper, placed it on the newly laid kitchen table with a note for Lizzy. Lizzy would fly home that evening and there would be Dee’s homemade pie in the fridge waiting for her, vegetables, bread, milk, wine, and a parcel in brown paper that could be locked away as a memory or keepsake.

For some reason, she has never considered the painting to be anything but a keepsake. Instead Lizzy had loved the picture and it was pride of place at the funeral and conspicuous in all her subsequent redecorations or house moves.

She looked at Richard. He was enjoying her discomfort. It really isn’t about you, you know. She felt him say. And she looked right back and thought, No, its about you.

And she realised then that Richard was Dorian Gray.

This painting had become a prediction.

He would be forever youthful, handsome, talented, in fact, he would never be anything less than perfect in Lizzy's eyes.

And over the years he had become more beautiful and more perfect, because those who’d loved him chose what they would remember.

And he was worthy of remembrance.

Was he worthy of reverence?

She cast her mind back to that last time, the walk.

And she winced.

She had always found him interesting, not just for his intelligence, his creativity, his charisma, but more because she found him curiously impenetrable. Dee was good a reading people. she had had to be, but Richard was a closed book. She had found his presence scary, exciting, and diminishing all at once. Part of her had wanted to run away, but the other had bathed in the discomfort and enjoyed the Adrenalin rush.

Then little Jessie had decided that adult talk was a little too boring and tagged along with another family who had a daughter the same age. And they were left to walk the valley with the dog unhindered. They had walked for miles before resting in a glade with a stream and the sound of birds. The sex had been surprising, not just because because it was with Richard, but because it felt so natural. She realised that he had seen in her what Dee had not. That she was infatuated by him and strangely, he her.

This would be the only time,

they had agreed that.

after all they had families to consider, friends, children.

This was a bubble in time.

One to be savoured and then forgotten.

one that happened in their imagination,

in an unreality.

One that could and would not be repeated.

“Thank you all for coming, for your friendship and support. You have helped me keep my darling alive in spirit. You haven’t forgotten him and you’ve loved him too. none of you ever made him the elephant in the room. And for that I will be eternally grateful.

“Happy 60th my darling,” She looked at the painting and lifted her glass.

“A toast?

To Richard, happy birthday.”

And in unison the gathering lifted their glasses and hailed the lost man.

Dee looked at Richard, Richard at Dee.

Minutes later, Denise appeared by her side. She followed Dee’s eyes and gazed at the painting. “I still love it.” And Dee winced. Unnoticed Denise continued. “But It’s uncanny, I could swear those eyes follow you around the room.” And Dee’s laugh was forced and fake.

“I hear you’re painting again?”

“Just learning, its painful…you know?” She replied. She hadn’t painted for 16 years, not since Richard and only then because she was forced. And painting was still agonising, a little too emotional, a little too exposing. It was a battle that she raged against every day now.

Who ever thought that painting was relaxing, obviously didn’t actually paint, mused Dee.

“I can’t believe its 16 years.” Denise said wistfully, changing the subject.

“And in all that time Lizzy never loved again.

She was so young,

and

was, and still is SO beautiful

and

I know she feels lonely,

especially now the girls have left home…..”

Dee studied the painting

“He’s a tough act to follow,” Dee said, eventually.

And the painting laughed.