Page 56 of Under a Dancing Star

“Let me give you the tour,” Lili says, taking my arm. She guides me around the room pointing to different pieces and telling funny stories about the artists that painted them; how they hogged all the hot water when they came to stay, or how they would only drink a particular vintage of wine and ate raw vegetables for a week. There are names that even I recognize, names like Picasso and Matisse. We stop in front of one painting. A white road curves through a trembling blue sky, full of arcs of light, and Lili says, “This was always Ben’s favourite.”

Ben comes to stand beside me. “Balla. This piece is genius. See how he captures the speed and urgency of it, the way the light crashes like waves across the canvas, pulling you along and through it.”

I am distracted then by a portrait of a beautiful woman whose face looks faintly familiar.

“What about this one?” I ask. Ben’s face stills, the enthusiasm dies from his eyes.

“That is a genuine Sir Hugh Falmouth original,” he says.

“It’s a portrait of Susie, Ben’s mother.” Gert wraps a plump arm around Ben’s waist and squeezes hard. “That is why we keep it here. She was a real beauty.”

“She was,” I murmur. She looks like she fell out of a renaissance painting, all golden hair spun like a halo, and delicately flushed skin. Still, there’s something about the picture that I don’t like. Her eyes look hunted, and her head is turned slightly away, as though she longs to escape the canvas. It’s like seeing a butterfly pinned down to a board.

I shiver, telling myself I am being melodramatic; but even as the others continue chatting cheerfully about the friends who will be calling in to see Ben, even as I accept a cup of coffee and settle into one of the sofas to hear stories of Ben’s childhood, I still feel as if those eyes are watching me, crying out for help.

CHAPTER THIRTY

After we have been sitting for a while, chatting and dunking biscotti into bitter black coffee, Gert shows me up to my room, which is small and papered with tiny yellow roses. There is an old brass bedstead and an ancient-looking travel case that acts as a nightstand. Gert bustles around, checking that I have all I need.

“We’re so happy to have you here,” she says at last. “We hardly ever get the chance to meet Ben’s friends.”

“I know Ben was excited to come and see you,” I say. “He says you are his family.”

“Oh, we are close,” she nods. “He was such a lamb as a boy. So inquisitive.” Her voice is soft and affectionate. “He was already painting and drawing when he came to us, but the way he flourished here…” She shakes her head. “He’s got real talent.”

“And you would know,” I say. “Judging by all that beautiful work downstairs.”

“It’s true, we’ve seen it all,” Gert says. “And Ben is capable of great things. We’re both very proud of him. His work changed, of course, after his mother died.” She looks up, her face open, her wide blue eyes guileless. “Has he spoken to you about her?” she asks.

“Not really,” I say. “Just that she was very young when she had him.”

“He will,” she says certainly. “That poor boy has needed someone to confide in for years. Lili and I tried, but…” She smiles at me. “I’m so glad he’s found a nice young lady at last.”

“Oh, we’re just friends,” I say awkwardly.

Gert smiles serenely. Her expression is innocent, but I think she sees a great deal more than she’s letting on.

When Gert and I head back downstairs it’s to find that several more guests have turned up to see Ben. In fact, over the next few hours a sort of rolling cocktail party takes place in Gert and Lili’s living room. The bell jangles and jangles and people stream in, starting conversations right in the middle as though they’ve been here for hours. Lili reigns from one of the battered armchairs and people buzz around her like worker bees around their queen.

Sometime after a delicious dinner of bread and stew has been handed around in chipped and mismatched plates and bowls, I am in the corner, deep in conversation with a beautiful man with dark brown skin, a French accent and long-lashed, dancing eyes, about the medicinal uses of lavender, when Ben squeezes through the crowd towards us.

“Excuse me, Alphonse,” he says, patting the man on the shoulder, “but I wondered if I could steal Bea away for a moment?”

Ben takes me by the hand, just as the scrape of moving furniture is heard and the wheeze of the record player begins. “Come on,” he whispers, “quick!” and he tugs me through the crowd. As we dodge through the doorway I look over my shoulder to see Gert and Lili leading the charge to the makeshift dance floor, their arms wound tightly about one another.

It’s a bit of a relief as we make our way up the stairs, past the crush of people sitting in small groups, smoking and having intense conversations. As the crowd thins the temperature cools and the noise recedes a little.

“This is quite a party,” I manage when we make it to the top landing.

Ben laughs. “Gert and Lili wouldn’t call this a party, Bea. This is just an average Tuesday night for them.” He gestures back towards the crowd. “This house is always absolutely full of people, so you’d better get used to it. Friends of friends, like-minded folk. They all find Lili and Gert… People are just drawn to them, I guess. They’re like the flame that all the moths gather around.”

“I can see why,” I say. “They’re so open, so friendly. They remind me of Filomena.”

“Well, she spent a lot of time with them too,” Ben says. “Come on. I’ve got something to show you.” He reaches up to a cord that hangs from the ceiling and pulls open a trapdoor with a rickety ladder that slides noiselessly down. “Follow me,” Ben calls over his shoulder as he starts to climb.

I hesitate for only a second before following. When I stick my head through the trapdoor I see that we’re in an attic room, dark and poky and seemingly used for storage. There are lots of bulky objects covered in dust sheets. Ben is fiddling with the latch on the small window and once he manages to get it open he starts to squeeze through.

“Ben!” I gasp. “What are you doing?”