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Authors: Jojo Moyes
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with light. One wall
was bare brick, another almost entirely of glass, its windows running shoulder to
shoulder along its length. The first thing that struck me was the astonishing chaos.
Canvases lay stacked against each wall; jars of congealing paintbrushes stood on every
surface, fighting for space with boxes of charcoal and easels, with hardening blobs of
glowing colour. There werecanvas sheets, pencils, a ladder, plates
of half-finished food. And everywhere the pervasive smell of turpentine, mixed with oil
paint, echoes of tobacco and the vinegary whisper of old wine; dark green bottles stood
in every corner, some stuffed with candles, others clearly the detritus of some
celebration. A great pile of money lay on a wooden stool, the coins and notes in a
chaotic heap. And there, in the centre of it all, walking slowly backwards and forwards
with a jar of brushes, lost in thought, was Monsieur Lefèvre, dressed in a smock
and peasant trousers, as if he were a hundred miles from the centre of Paris.
‘Monsieur?’
He blinked at me twice, as if trying to
recall who I was, then put his jar of brushes slowly on a table beside him.
‘It’s you!’
‘Well. Yes.’
‘Marvellous!’ He shook his head,
as if he were still having trouble registering my presence. ‘Marvellous. Come in,
come in. Let me find you somewhere to sit.’
He seemed bigger, his body clearly visible
through the fine fabric of his shirt. I stood clutching my bag awkwardly as he began
clearing piles of newspapers from an old
chaise longue
until there was a
space.
‘Please, sit. Would you like a
drink?’
‘Just some water, thank
you.’
I had not felt uncomfortable on the way
there, despite the precariousness of my position. I hadn’t minded the dinginess of
the area, the strange studio. But now I felt slighted, and a little foolish, and this
made me stiff and awkward. ‘You were not expecting me, Monsieur.’
‘Forgive me. I simply didn’t
believe you would come.But I’m very glad you did. Very
glad.’ He stepped back and looked at me.
I could feel his eyes running over my
cheekbones, my neck, my hair. I sat before him as rigid as a starched collar. He gave
off a slightly unwashed scent. It was not unpleasant, but almost overpowering in the
circumstances.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like
a glass of wine? Something to relax you a little?’
‘No, thank you. I’d just like to
get on. I … I can only spare an hour.’ Where had that come from? I think
half of me already wanted to leave.
He tried to position me, to get me to put
down my bag, to lean a little against the arm of the
chaise longue
. But I
couldn’t. I felt humiliated without being able to say why. And as Monsieur
Lefèvre worked, glancing to and from his easel, barely speaking, it slowly dawned
on me that I did not feel admired and important, as I had secretly thought I might, but
as if he saw straight through me. I had, it seemed, become a
thing
, a subject,
of no more significance than the green bottle or the apples in the still-life canvas by
the door.
It was evident that he didn’t like it
either. As the hour wore on, he seemed more and more dismayed, emitting little sounds of
frustration. I sat as still as a statue, afraid that I was doing something wrong, but
finally he said, ‘Mademoiselle, let’s finish. I’m not sure the
charcoal gods are with me today.’
I straightened with some relief, twisting my
neck on my shoulders. ‘May I see?’
The girl in the picture was me, all right,
but I winced. She appeared as lifeless as a porcelain doll. She bore anexpression of grim fortitude and the stiff-backed primness of a
maiden aunt. I tried not to show how crushed I felt. ‘I suspect I am not the model
you hoped for.’
‘No. It’s not you,
Mademoiselle.’ He shrugged. ‘I am … I am frustrated with
myself.’
‘I could come again on Sunday, if you
was bare brick, another almost entirely of glass, its windows running shoulder to
shoulder along its length. The first thing that struck me was the astonishing chaos.
Canvases lay stacked against each wall; jars of congealing paintbrushes stood on every
surface, fighting for space with boxes of charcoal and easels, with hardening blobs of
glowing colour. There werecanvas sheets, pencils, a ladder, plates
of half-finished food. And everywhere the pervasive smell of turpentine, mixed with oil
paint, echoes of tobacco and the vinegary whisper of old wine; dark green bottles stood
in every corner, some stuffed with candles, others clearly the detritus of some
celebration. A great pile of money lay on a wooden stool, the coins and notes in a
chaotic heap. And there, in the centre of it all, walking slowly backwards and forwards
with a jar of brushes, lost in thought, was Monsieur Lefèvre, dressed in a smock
and peasant trousers, as if he were a hundred miles from the centre of Paris.
‘Monsieur?’
He blinked at me twice, as if trying to
recall who I was, then put his jar of brushes slowly on a table beside him.
‘It’s you!’
‘Well. Yes.’
‘Marvellous!’ He shook his head,
as if he were still having trouble registering my presence. ‘Marvellous. Come in,
come in. Let me find you somewhere to sit.’
He seemed bigger, his body clearly visible
through the fine fabric of his shirt. I stood clutching my bag awkwardly as he began
clearing piles of newspapers from an old
chaise longue
until there was a
space.
‘Please, sit. Would you like a
drink?’
‘Just some water, thank
you.’
I had not felt uncomfortable on the way
there, despite the precariousness of my position. I hadn’t minded the dinginess of
the area, the strange studio. But now I felt slighted, and a little foolish, and this
made me stiff and awkward. ‘You were not expecting me, Monsieur.’
‘Forgive me. I simply didn’t
believe you would come.But I’m very glad you did. Very
glad.’ He stepped back and looked at me.
I could feel his eyes running over my
cheekbones, my neck, my hair. I sat before him as rigid as a starched collar. He gave
off a slightly unwashed scent. It was not unpleasant, but almost overpowering in the
circumstances.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like
a glass of wine? Something to relax you a little?’
‘No, thank you. I’d just like to
get on. I … I can only spare an hour.’ Where had that come from? I think
half of me already wanted to leave.
He tried to position me, to get me to put
down my bag, to lean a little against the arm of the
chaise longue
. But I
couldn’t. I felt humiliated without being able to say why. And as Monsieur
Lefèvre worked, glancing to and from his easel, barely speaking, it slowly dawned
on me that I did not feel admired and important, as I had secretly thought I might, but
as if he saw straight through me. I had, it seemed, become a
thing
, a subject,
of no more significance than the green bottle or the apples in the still-life canvas by
the door.
It was evident that he didn’t like it
either. As the hour wore on, he seemed more and more dismayed, emitting little sounds of
frustration. I sat as still as a statue, afraid that I was doing something wrong, but
finally he said, ‘Mademoiselle, let’s finish. I’m not sure the
charcoal gods are with me today.’
I straightened with some relief, twisting my
neck on my shoulders. ‘May I see?’
The girl in the picture was me, all right,
but I winced. She appeared as lifeless as a porcelain doll. She bore anexpression of grim fortitude and the stiff-backed primness of a
maiden aunt. I tried not to show how crushed I felt. ‘I suspect I am not the model
you hoped for.’
‘No. It’s not you,
Mademoiselle.’ He shrugged. ‘I am … I am frustrated with
myself.’
‘I could come again on Sunday, if you
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