Free The Girl You Left Behind by Jojo Moyes Page A

swung me out into the sea of bodies. I had not danced since I
     had left St Péronne. Now I felt the breeze whirling around my ears, the weight of
     his hand on the small of my back, my clogs unusually light on my feet. He carried the
     scents of tobacco, aniseed, and something male that left me a little short of
     breath.
    I don’t know what it was. I had drunk
     little, so I could not blame the wine. It’s not as if he were particularly
     handsome, or that I had felt my life lacking for the absence of a man.
    ‘Draw me again,’ I said.
    He stopped and looked at me, puzzled. I
     couldn’t blame him: I was confused myself.
    ‘Draw me again. Today. Now.’
    He said nothing, but walked back to the
     table, gathered up his tobacco, and we filed through the crowd and along the teeming
     streets to his studio.
    We went up the narrow wooden stairs,
     unlocked the door into the bright studio, and I waited while he shed his jacket, put a
     record on the gramophone and began to mix the paint on his palette. And then, as he
     hummed to himself, I began to unbutton my blouse. I removed my shoes and my stockings. I
     peeled off my skirts until I was wearing only my chemise and my white cotton petticoat.
     I sat there, undressed to my very corset, and unpinned my hairso
     that it fell about my shoulders. When he turned back to me I heard him gasp.
    He blinked.
    ‘Like this?’ I said.
    Anxiety flashed across his face. He was,
     perhaps, afraid that his paintbrush would yet again betray me. I kept my gaze steady, my
     head high. I looked at him as if it were a challenge. And then some artistic impulse
     took over and he was already lost in contemplation of the unexpected milkiness of my
     skin, the russet of my loosened hair, and all semblance of concern for probity was
     forgotten. ‘Yes, yes. Move your head, a little to the left, please.’ he
     said. ‘And your hand. There. Open your palm a little. Perfect.’
    As he began to paint, I watched him. He
     scanned every inch of my body with intense concentration, as if it would be unbearable
     to get it wrong. I watched as satisfaction inked itself on his face, and I felt it
     mirror my own. I had no inhibitions now. I was Mistinguett, or a street-walker from
     Pigalle, unafraid, unselfconscious. I wanted him to examine my skin, the hollows of my
     throat, the secret glowing underside of my hair. I wanted him to see every part of
     me.
    As he painted I took in his features, the
     way he murmured to himself while mixing colours on his palette. I watched him shamble
     around, as if he were older than he was. It was an affectation – he was younger and
     stronger than most of the men who came into the store. I recalled how he ate: with
     obvious, greedy pleasure. He sang along with the gramophone, painted when he liked,
     spoke to whom he wished and said what he thought. I wanted to live as Édouard did,
     joyfully, sucking the marrow out of every moment and singing because it tasted so
     good.
    And then it was dark. He stopped to clean his
     brushes and gazed around him, as if he were only just noticing it. He lit candles and a
     gaslight, placing them around me, then sighed when he realized the dusk had defeated
     him.
    ‘Are you cold?’ he said.
    I shook my head, but he walked over to a
     dresser, pulling from it a bright red woollen shawl, which he carefully placed around my
     shoulders. ‘The light has gone for today. Would you like to see?’
    I pulled the shawl around me, and walked
     over to the easel, my feet bare on the wooden boards. I felt as if I were in a dream, as
     if real life had evaporated in the hours I had sat there. I was afraid to look and break
     the spell.
    ‘Come.’ He beckoned me
     forwards.
    On the canvas I saw a girl I did not
     recognize. She gazed back at me defiantly, her hair glinting copper in the half-light,
     her skin as pale as alabaster, a girl with the imperious confidence of an
     aristocrat.
    She was strange and proud and beautiful. It