far beyond his supper. And meanwhile Mrs. Holden, who seemed unable to read the signs, would be twittering around him anxiously, trying to anticipate his needs, trying to engage him in conversation, trying to get him to notice her new hairdo / nail polish / cardigan without being so crass as to actually tell him about them.
It was at times like these that Lottie would feel vaguely cross with him. She could see that being married to someone like Mrs. Holden would be rather irritating. But it did seem unnecessarily cruel to ignore her in this way, especially when she did so much to try to make his life better. As far as Lottie could see, he did nothing to try to improve hers. And over the years Mrs. Holden had grown more anxious and more twittery, and Lottie had watched his attempts to hide his irritation with her become fewer and his absences longer, and she had decided that, what with her mother and Dr. and Mrs. Holden, marriage was definitely A Bad Lot and something to be avoided, a bit like sewage outlets or chicken pox.
“I THINK HERE, DON’T YOU ? I T’S TOO WHITE AT THE moment. Too vacuous. Too . . . spare.”
Lottie squinted, trying to see what Adeline apparently could. It just looked like a wall. She wasn’t entirely sure how a wall could be spare.
But she nodded and tried to look intelligent and raised an eyebrow as if she understood when Adeline announced that Frances had plans for “something figurative.”
“I have this idea,” Adeline said. “For a mural. I don’t want pictures of forests or lakes . . .”
“Or Palladian landscapes,” said Frances, who had appeared behind them. “I can’t bear temples and pillars. Or deer. Really can’t stand those awful deer.”
“No. I have an idea.” Adeline paused, ran a finger down the wall. “It will be a human landscape. We will all appear. All Arcadia’s people.”
“Like a kind of Last Supper. But without the religion.”
“Or the symbolism.”
“Oh, no, we’ve got to have some symbolism. No good paintings without a bit of symbolism.”
They had lost Lottie completely. She stared at the white wall, its reflected light almost blinding in the afternoon sun. Below them the beach stretched out, segregated by its breakwater, packed with holidaymakers despite the approaching autumn. If it had been down to her, she would probably have put a few pots of plants in front of it. Or a bit of trellis.
“. . . and you, Lottie. We said we would paint your portrait, didn’t we? You will feature. And Celia, in her absence.”
She tried to imagine how she would appear on the wall. But all she could picture was one of those cartoon doodles that had appeared everywhere in the war, saying “Wot, no . . . ?”
“Will I have to pose?” she said.
“No,” said Frances, smiling. She had smiled a lot lately. Smiles sat awkwardly on her face, pulling its long sides up like old pantaloons on thin elastic. “We know you now. I prefer something a little more . . . impressionistic.”
“Her hair. You must show her hair. Do you ever let it down, Lottie?” Adeline reached out a slender hand and stroked it. Lottie flinched. She could not help herself.
“It gets a bit tangled. It’s too fine.” Lottie reached up to smooth it, pulling unconsciously away from Adeline.
“Stop putting yourself down, Lottie. Men find it so boring.”
Men? Lottie realigned her vision of herself, as someone in whom men might be interested. Up until now it had been only boys . Or, more specifically, Joe, who barely counted as that.
“One should always refer only to one’s good points. If one only ever draws the eye to the good, people rarely notice the bad.”
It was the closest she had come to revelation. But Lottie barely noticed. “Perhaps we could get Lottie painting.”
“Oh, yes! What an idea, Frances. Would you like that, Lottie? Frances is the most fabulous teacher.”
Lottie shuffled her feet. “I’m not very good at art. My bowls of fruit usually
The Cowboy's Surprise Bride
David Horrocks Hermann Hesse David Horrocks Hermann Hesse