identity be made over from profligate anguish to the dedicated anguish of being Pablo's lover and she never recovered. Picasso called her the most convenient woman he'd ever met – if you wanted her to be a dog, she was a dog, if a bird, a bird, if a cloud, well then a cloud. She could even be an abstract notion or a year gone by or a thunderstorm. She would scream at him in her rages, only to beg forgiveness afterwards and say she would once more be anything, anyone, anywhere he chose to specify. She had stepped straight out of Ovid, ready to change shape into tree or wind, except that she didn't shift forms to escape a god, but to embrace one, to bring him back into her mind and flesh, to have him home again inside her thoughts, between her legs. Later, long after Pablo had gone, she returned to the practice of Catholicism. Her observance by the end of her life was as strict as a nun's. The little god from Spain had been replaced by the big one from the sky.
Marie-Therese Wal ter was no more than a schoolgirl when he met her. She adored him. He didn't so much re-create as create her. For years his painting rejoiced in the curvature of woman- h ood and the bright colours of fecundity. It was an incestuous relationship with a new little sister. He left her but she never left him. Even after he'd finished with her he remained the centre of her life till the end of her days. Not long after he died she committed suicide by taking poison. And she was the figure in so many of the etchings from the Vollard Suite.
Francoise Gilot was the only one who actually walked out on him. That was a first and he made sure there was no repeat performance.
Then the faithful Jacqueline saw him through to the end. Change a woman, change a life. That seemed to be Picasso's motto. The question now was this: had this happened to Henry too? In some ways, i t undoubtedly had. Now: was it about to happen again? Break the rules, Henry. There was no one in the gallery. He went through to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of Nuits St George. He wanted something decent to help him think. 12 .30 is in any case so close to one o'clock as makes no difference.
His insouciant account of his marriages in fact covered several wounds, as Sylvie had suspected. His first marriage drew to a conclusion with great rapidity when it became evident to Henry that his wife had been conducting an affair for over a year with one of her business partners, a much neater and richer man than Henry had been at the time. Or was now, or ever would be, if it came to that. He could still remember how he had lain awake in his bed and raged, cuckold hours transmuting into eunuch days. He felt as though he had been living in the harem of another man's pleasures. By then, the only thing unveiled for him each night was the spectre of his own humiliation. Laura had simply come and gone, leaving him sore in the process, but Eleanor. Poor Eleanor. As he sipped at his premature glass of wine, he turned the pages of his address book until he found Sylvie's number at the Institute. He had her mobile too but he didn't want to talk to her now, only to leave a message.
'This is the minotaur. Now you know that I won't eat you, will you be coming back again before long? I've been tidying the labyrinth in anticipation.'
As the call was being recorded at the Institute, it was picked up by Hamish Flyte on his RECE monitoring system. He grabbed the phone immediately and dialled I 47 I before another call could come in. He then phoned the number provided.
'Riverside Gallery. How may I help you?' Hamish now adopted his wheedling tone.
'Sorry. So sorry. Could I just ask who I'm speaking to?'
'Henry Allardyce.'
'Now I am getting confused. Would there be anyone else at the gallery?'
'No, I'm the only one here.'
'Thank you. I think I must definitely have got a wrong number.' He put down the phone and made a note of Henry's name.
When he heard the keys clinking against Sylvie's door later in
Marie-Therese Wal ter was no more than a schoolgirl when he met her. She adored him. He didn't so much re-create as create her. For years his painting rejoiced in the curvature of woman- h ood and the bright colours of fecundity. It was an incestuous relationship with a new little sister. He left her but she never left him. Even after he'd finished with her he remained the centre of her life till the end of her days. Not long after he died she committed suicide by taking poison. And she was the figure in so many of the etchings from the Vollard Suite.
Francoise Gilot was the only one who actually walked out on him. That was a first and he made sure there was no repeat performance.
Then the faithful Jacqueline saw him through to the end. Change a woman, change a life. That seemed to be Picasso's motto. The question now was this: had this happened to Henry too? In some ways, i t undoubtedly had. Now: was it about to happen again? Break the rules, Henry. There was no one in the gallery. He went through to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of Nuits St George. He wanted something decent to help him think. 12 .30 is in any case so close to one o'clock as makes no difference.
His insouciant account of his marriages in fact covered several wounds, as Sylvie had suspected. His first marriage drew to a conclusion with great rapidity when it became evident to Henry that his wife had been conducting an affair for over a year with one of her business partners, a much neater and richer man than Henry had been at the time. Or was now, or ever would be, if it came to that. He could still remember how he had lain awake in his bed and raged, cuckold hours transmuting into eunuch days. He felt as though he had been living in the harem of another man's pleasures. By then, the only thing unveiled for him each night was the spectre of his own humiliation. Laura had simply come and gone, leaving him sore in the process, but Eleanor. Poor Eleanor. As he sipped at his premature glass of wine, he turned the pages of his address book until he found Sylvie's number at the Institute. He had her mobile too but he didn't want to talk to her now, only to leave a message.
'This is the minotaur. Now you know that I won't eat you, will you be coming back again before long? I've been tidying the labyrinth in anticipation.'
As the call was being recorded at the Institute, it was picked up by Hamish Flyte on his RECE monitoring system. He grabbed the phone immediately and dialled I 47 I before another call could come in. He then phoned the number provided.
'Riverside Gallery. How may I help you?' Hamish now adopted his wheedling tone.
'Sorry. So sorry. Could I just ask who I'm speaking to?'
'Henry Allardyce.'
'Now I am getting confused. Would there be anyone else at the gallery?'
'No, I'm the only one here.'
'Thank you. I think I must definitely have got a wrong number.' He put down the phone and made a note of Henry's name.
When he heard the keys clinking against Sylvie's door later in
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