Page 37 of Pictures of Him

‘The reprobates are here. Good. About time.’

He hugged you first, then Alexa, then Jack, and finally he offered his hand to me.

‘So you’re Catherine. I was beginning to wonder if you might be his imaginary friend.’

He pointed to an ice bucket on the table in between the sofas.

‘We’re having champagne in your honour,’ he said, smiling at me, and in that instant I relaxed.

Here I could be whoever I wanted to be.

Everything was perfect about that weekend. Your uncle treated us like equals, the first adult I’d ever known who did that. Over supper in the kitchen – Jack was right, the pie was incredible – we talked about music and parties and art. Your uncle was a collector; he took me into the drawing room, an old-fashioned room with sprigged wallpaper and highly polished furniture, and there on the wall facing us was a naked man sprawled across a snooker table, poised to take his shot. Eye-watering nudity aside, it was a feat of geometry, this painting.

‘Francis Bacon,’ I said.

‘Hideousness is something I like in a picture,’ he said. ‘Do you?’

We sat up late in the library that night, playing through your uncle’s record collection, and I began to understand your obsession with blues and rock and roll; it came from him first. We must have listened to at least three Rolling Stones albums throughout the night –Exile on Main St.,Black and Blue,Sticky Fingers. But there were some Elvis ballads too, and early Leonard Cohen, and quite often Alexa segued in with something unexpected. I remember her choosing ‘Piece of my Heart’, Janis Joplin, which youruncle loved. I’ve never been able to hear it without thinking of him since.

‘A woman of taste,’ he told Alexa. ‘I thought as much.’

I was struck by your closeness to your uncle. Quite often I’d find myself straining to overhear conversations between the two of you, filtering out the music or Alexa’s incessant chatter to pick up on what was said. I heard him telling you about his lover, how they’d split up and were now back together again. He seemed to be asking your advice.

‘You’re happier when he’s around,’ you said. ‘He’s good for you.’

‘Same back at you,’ your uncle said. ‘She’s good news, your girl.’

You laughed and looked over at me and I felt a sharp little thrill at being the cause of your new-found happiness.

I remember thinking, good, you’ve got someone who loves you, someone other than me and your friends. It seemed important.

The next day was hot and we lay on rugs in the garden reading the Saturday papers and drinking home-made lemonade that Mary brought out for us. Jack had driven into the village to buy theMirrorand he was reading out its most ludicrous stories.

‘Listen to this,’ he’d say, and we’d all look up from our own papers and take notice of him instead. That was the weekend when I began to realise how much he craved your attention. Everything he did was designed for your amusement. I felt a little sorry for him; it looked exhausting.

It was Jack’s idea to go swimming.

‘Not in the pool,’ he said. ‘Let’s go down to the lake.’

‘Good luck with that,’ your uncle said. ‘It’s freezing coldand choked with weeds. You’ll last about five minutes, I reckon.’

We took blankets and towels and Mary packed up a picnic: home-made Scotch eggs, I remember, with bright orange yolks, and coronation chicken sandwiches. Your uncle produced more champagne.

‘The only thing to drink at a picnic,’ he said without irony.

The lake, on the edge of your uncle’s land, was like entering a secret wilderness, an oasis entirely screened by poplar trees. There was a little wooden jetty, with a rowing boat tied to it.

‘Look. We could go out in the boat,’ I said, but Jack shook his head.

‘Good try, Catherine,’ he said. ‘But we’re going to be swimming.’

None of us had bathing suits, and after lunch, fuelled by champagne, Jack and Alexa stripped off easily, not a moment of embarrassment as they ran naked into the water, Alexa shrieking at the cold.

‘I can’t take all my clothes off,’ I’d said to you, urgently, when you began to undress.

You leant over and kissed me.

‘Fine,’ you said. ‘Keep your underwear on.’

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