Free Fragile Lies by Laura Elliot Page A

her smile, her white, straight teeth. I switched off the machine and waited for the mist to pass from my mind.
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    M isty man … Mister Men … Mr Dizzy … Mr Bounce … Mr Bump … bump … smash … crash … whirr-whirr-whirrwhirr …

Chapter Twelve
    “ M ount Subasio” was engraved on a granite slab outside the gates of the Sheratons’ residence. Lorraine drove slowly along an avenue that curved into a wide-angled view of the house. The style was mock-Georgian, or had started off as such, but other influences had created a startling edifice of pillars and turrets. A flag with the Sheraton crest hung from one such turret and gave the building the appearance of a massive but ill-designed conference centre. Stone lions crouched like sentinels at either side of the steps and, as Lorraine approached the entrance, a massive studded hall door opened to reveal Andrea Sheraton.
    She waited until Lorraine mounted the steps then lightly brushed her fingers, coolly establishing the fact that this was a business rather than a social lunch. Gold hung from her neck, gleamed on her wrist and fingers. Her hair fell to her shoulders, sleek and flawlessly blonde. She led Lorraine into a dining-room where the windows offered a spectacular view over the Dublin mountains. Throughout lunch she toyed with an avocado salad, unable to hide her impatience whenever she glanced at her son.
    Lorcan Sheraton had the fidgety unease of a landed fish, flapping and helpless under his mother’s scrutiny, his shoulders twitching involuntarily every time she addressed him. He crumbled a bread roll on the damask tablecloth and replied in monosyllables to Lorraine’s questions. He was not going to be an easy subject to paint. From his comments it was obvious he hated the idea of a family portrait. She would have to work on him, reassure him without sounding patronising, focus on his strong features which, looking into his woebegone eyes, could be difficult. His father, after a few failed attempts to include him in the conversation, ignored him completely.
    Andrea insisted that Lorraine paint from photographs rather than sketches. “Photographs will give a truer representation of our family, don’t you agree?” She gave up all pretence of eating and lightly dabbed her lips with a napkin.
    “Whatever you wish.” Usually Lorraine preferred to work from sketches but on this occasion she was determined to spend as little time as possible with this family, whose combined unease in each other’s presence was unnerving.
    “And I insist on seeing all the preliminary work,” Andrea continued. “I adore your work, Lorraine, but ‘quirky and cheekily Cheeverish’ is not what I’m looking for on this occasion.”
    Lorraine winced away from the affected laughter of the woman sitting opposite her. The phrase had been used by the presenter of Artistically Speaking and it had annoyed her as much then as it did now.
    “Just as well you won’t be organising regular sittings.” Bill glanced at his son and grinned wryly. “As you can see, Lorcan wouldn’t be capable of sitting still even if he was encased in cement.”
    His attempt at humour settled wearily across the table and was rewarded with a glare from his son. When the meal finally came to an end Lorraine made excuses and left, after arranging to return the following day for the photographic session.
    Throughout the night, the road-works continued outside her parents’ house. She stood by the window staring down at arc lighting which illuminated the workers in their yellow jackets and hard hats. The lateness of the hour added a surreal image to a scene she would have passed without a glance during the day. She remembered the old night watchman from her childhood who used to guard the cordoned-off trenches and how he called out to her when she passed him by, his hunched figure sitting before a glowing brazier, his gloved hands clasped around a tin mug of tea.
    Before she could change her mind she