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Chapter 20
Jack
This is the first timethat Leyna is going to be in my home, in my hastily put togetherart studioon the top floor of my mid-terrace house, and I find that I am waiting on tenterhooks for her arrival. The knock at the door puts an end to any more meandering thoughts—she’s here. She arrives just as she did for the art class at the university—wig and sunglasses firmly in place. I let her in and she’s quiet, barely saying hello.
‘Please, come in.’
She keeps her head low, and I can almost see the imperceptible adjusting of the wig to cover more of her face. I think it’s ironic that she’s precious about that sort of thing given the circumstances. This feels like the beginning of another game we’re about to play...
I have thought long and hard about coming clean. About telling her that I know who she is under that disguise she wears. That she doesn’t have to feel ashamed or embarrassed in front of me. That she can be whoever she is, whoever she wants to be.
And that I would love to know more of her—if she’ll allow me.
‘Can I get you a drink or anything? You could bring it upstairs?’ I feel ridiculous asking her, but I can’t help myself. Years of hospitality drilled into me by my stepfather—always make a guest feel welcome.
She shakes her head no and waves a hand dismissively in the air. Still not talking, huh?
I try to be calm and cool but I’m so nervous. Not because we’re about to sit in a room together for a couple of hours, one of us without a stitch of clothing on. But because I need to tell her that she doesn’t have to keep up this charade. Iwantto hear her talk, I want to know what she’s thinking. I just don’t know how or when to start a conversation that goes,‘So, I know who you are...’
‘Alright, well up this way,’ I say and lead her up the stairs, to the first floor and then the second.
The easel and art supplies are already all set up. I feel like such a fraud. I’m not an artist. I don’t even know what I’m doing. The room is dark as well and although I’ve set up a few lamps, the lighting isn’t great. It’s harsh and artificial.
I’ve set a stool, covered in a blanket, near to one of the windows. The window is small and of a reduced size with an equally modest windowsill. No one from outside would be able to see in, but it doesn’t let much natural light in either.
‘Would you like to get ready over there?’ I point to the adjoining toilet and dressing room.
She walks over and out of sight while I get everything set up.
She reappears in an oversized cardigan, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle.
‘I thought you could sit on the stool, as though you’re looking out the window.’ Without a word she takes off her cardigan and drops it on the floor. She walks gracefully to the window and sits down. ‘Could you put one arm on the windowsill, as though you’re gazing out?’ She does exactly as I command, and I get started, blocking out her figure, getting the proportions right.
I feel increasingly frustrated with the lighting situation and I don’t realise it until she says softly, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘What?’ I’m shaken out of my trance.
‘You sound frustrated, you keep making frustrated noises.’
Christ, she has no fucking idea how frustrated I am. ‘It’s just the lighting. It’s so awful. Shadows are in the wrong places and it’s too harsh.’
She is still, staring out the window.
‘Candles.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You need candlelight. In the absence of sunlight, candles can transform the subject.’ She turns slightly to look at me. ‘And it’s about shadow, just as much as it is about the light,’ she continues. ‘When I think of light in art my mind always goes to Vermeer, first and foremost. Many of his pieces were painted in a room not dissimilar to this one, in his house in Delft, relying on a limited source of light from the window. With it being so late in the day, we’ve unfortunately lost the advantage of the bright natural light streaming in.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘So do you have any candles?’ she asks.
