Free Snatched by Bill James Page B

nudged by a wall or one of the other models, like a piece of flotsam carried gently in and out and in again by the tide. To Lepage, dazingly preoccupied, the peasant’s face looked terribly hurt, as if conscious of rejection but determined to fight it. Maybe troilism was quite a thing in his times. During difficult and, yes, painful early days with Julia, Lepage had sometimes seen that look of rejection on his own face in the shaving mirror. He found it not very pleasant to be gazing down at Kate, so obviously enclosed in contentment, and at the same time have this whiskery, reproachful set of features next to her.
    â€˜Darling,’ she whispered, ‘now?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, yes.’ Her responses grew even more powerful, and the humming more intense and happy, like a slice from one of the least unbearable operas. But then, suddenly, she asked: ‘What’s wrong?’
    He did not know how she had detected a snag. Perhaps he sounded tense, or her flailing hands had touched some part of the patriarch. Anyway, she opened her eyes and saw the model, snuggled sweetly against Lepage, moving up and down with him, and seeming to hold Lepage fondly with one arm. ‘I’ll put him back,’ he said.
    â€˜No, George.’
    Lepage was surprised to see her smile grow larger, happier still. ‘He’s joined us. Perfect. How it should be.’ She reached up and languorously ran her hand over the wax face and gross, manufactured hair. Under Lepage, her body still responded with magnificent strength and concentration. ‘The past and present together,’ she muttered. ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes.’ She brought her own arms into play and squeezed the two of them hard to her, Lepage and the pushy yokel, hugging both around the neck, chanting softly to each, and moving her face and mouth rhythmically, gently, democratically, between one of Lepage’s ears and the vile, token blobs that were supposed to be the peasant-in-chief’s. Christ, but what did it mean? To her, did he and the puppet rate equally? She had decided, had she, that as long as she knew this model was only a model, and not a present day dick-swinger, she could give it affection? If symbolism of some sort was being enacted, what sodding sort was it? Behaviour like Kate’s could cause deep wilt.
    And then Lepage’s worries soared even higher. Although one of his ears was against the figure’s sacking smock, and the other being crooned into on rota at this point, he thought he heard the door of the tableau room pushed open behind them, then, some time afterwards, quietly re-closed. In terror for a moment, Lepage wanted to turn and look, but Kate held him too firmly. Maybe it was better like this, anyway – not to show his face: an intruder would have trouble identifying him from a rear view only. The socks, after all, were Marks and Spencer, plain navy, two of a million. He recalled, as a comforting example from years ago – long before the Birds cupboard girl – that Neville Falldew had surprised someone, almost certainly Flounce, stripped on the floor of the religious icons room with one of the secretaries. Although Nev could identify the woman because she was face-up, he could never be sure about the man: Nev had only the bare back and so on to judge from.
    In any case, for Lepage now, every one of these anxieties disappeared: fear, worry, guilt, confusion, each gloriously relegated, each gloriously displaced. Her odd reactions had not knocked the power out of him, after all, thank God, and the standard machinery did its gorgeous, agonizingly short-lived, age-old, ever-fresh, supreme job for both of them.
    â€˜Oh, yes, such sweet therapy,’ Kate said, chortling, ‘worth every minute on the motorway from Kidderminster.’
    â€˜It will always be like this, I promise,’ Lepage said, trying to free his leg from under Wax-Man’s.
    â€˜Nobody can promise anything