How could Paul see any of that? How could he know only from the portrait?
But it wasn’t only from the portrait. I knew that, too.
Although I ought to have said something, I couldn’t have spoken a word. My breath caught in my throat, high and tight. Never once did I look away from my self-portrait and back at Paul.
He said, “You paint the truth, Marguerite. I don’t think you could work any other way.”
And then he was gone.
After that, I started work on a portrait of Paul. His face is a surprisingly difficult one to capture. The wide forehead—strong, straight eyebrows—the firm jawline—light brown hair with a hint of reddish gold to it that kept me mixing paints for hours in an attempt to get the exact shade—the way he ducks his head slightly, as if he’s apologizing for being so tall and so strong—that slightly lost look he has, like he knows he’ll never fit in and doesn’t even see the point of trying—but it was the eyes that threw me.
Deep-set, intense: I knew what Paul’s eyes looked like. But the thing was . . . whenever I painted someone, even myself, I showed them looking slightly away from the viewer. Expressions become more revealing then; it also gives the person in the portrait a hint of mystery—a sense that the real human being inside is beyond anything my work can capture. That’s part of painting the truth, too.
But with Paul I couldn’t do it. Every time I tried to paint his gaze, he wouldn’t look away from the viewer. From the artist.
He looked at me. He was always, always, looking at me.
The day after my father died, the hour after we learned Paul was responsible, I went to my room, took one of my canvas knives, and slashed his portrait to ribbons.
He made me trust him.
He made me think he saw me.
And it was all just part of Paul’s game, one small element of his big plan to destroy us all.
That’s just one more reason he has to pay.
Around midnight, my head is whirling, and I feel like I’m going to be sick, but I never stop dancing. The heavy drumbeat of the music reverberates through me and drowns out even the thump of my own pulse. It’s like I’m not even alive. Merely a puppet on strings with nothing inside.
A guy’s hand closes over my shoulder, and I wonder which one it is. Will he buy me another drink? If he does, I’ll pass out. I think I’d like to pass out around now.
But when I turn and see who it is, I gasp, and just like that—I’m alive again.
“Nice dress, Meg.” Theo smirks as he glances down my body, then up again. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“Theo!” I throw my arms around him, and he hugs me back. For the longest time we’re locked together like that, right on the middle of the dance floor.
“Are you drunk?” he murmurs into the curve of my neck. “Or are they making perfumes that smell like tequila?”
“Get me out of here.” Why is it so hard to get the words out? Only then do I realize I’m sobbing.
I’ve held it together all this time. I’ve held it together because I had to, carrying the grief and the fear even when I thought the weight would crush me. But now Theo’s here, and I can finally let go.
Theo hugs me tighter—so tightly that my feet lift off the ground—and he carries me off the dance floor, away from all the lights. He settles me on one of the long, low couches in the corner. I can’t stop crying, so he just holds me, his hands stroking my hair and my back. He rocks me back and forth as gently as he would a child. All around us, the club lights pulse, and the music and dancing roar on.
5
THE SIGHT OF THEO’S FACE, THE WARMTH OF HIS ARMS around me, make me feel as though everything should start getting better right away.
And maybe it would, if I hadn’t gotten so drunk that I made myself sick.
“That’s right,” Theo says, rubbing my back as I lean over the edge of the Millennium Bridge, where I have just vomited into the Thames. “Get that junk out of there.”
Shame has painted my face with heat. “I’m so humiliated.”
“What, because I saw you puke? Listen, if you saw me on my average Saturday night, you’d know this is nothing. When it comes to this kind of thing—I’m not throwing any stones. Let’s leave it at that.”
That’s more than a joke. Theo’s quicksilver mind has never totally concealed how wild he can be. Even though he never brought his problems into our house, I knew Mom and Dad had heard rumors about Theo getting wasted and sometimes going AWOL for hours, even a day at a time. They’d mentioned his “drinking,” though really they were worried about substances much, much less legal than his occasional cans of PBR. Even Paul had sometimes quietly suggested that Theo should slow down.
To hell with Paul. Tonight Theo’s in control, and he’s taking care of me. His hand is warm against my bare back as I stare down at the dark water of the river, trying to regain my composure.
Then I glimpse my fragmented reflection in the river, broken into pieces by the rippling water.
“Do you think this is the last thing Dad saw?” I whisper. My mouth tastes horrible. My body is weak. This is what failure feels like. “The river, right in front of him, like this?”
For a few long moments, Theo doesn’t answer. When he does, he sounds even wearier than I feel. “Don’t think about that.”
“I can’t help thinking about it.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. Okay? Come on. Let’s get you home.”
“I hope it was. I hope Dad saw the river rushing up at him, and then—and then it was over.” My voice shakes. “Because that would mean he hit his head in the wreck, or when the car struck the water. Then he blacked out, or died right away. He wouldn’t have had time to be scared.” How long does it take to drown? Three minutes? Five? Long enough to be horrible, I feel sure. Long enough that I hope my dad never had to endure it. “It would be better if he never knew. Don’t you think?”
“Stop this.” Theo’s voice is rough; his hands slide around to my arms, and he grips me as if he’s scared I might throw myself over the rail. “Don’t do this to yourself. It doesn’t help.”
Theo’s wrong. I need to think about my father’s death. I can’t start grieving him yet; I need the pain to keep me angry. Sharp. Focused.
When we find Paul, the pain is what will give me the strength to finish him.