"David Garnett - Still Life" - читать интересную книгу автора (Garnett David)

at half past eight, O.K.? Phone me if there's a change in plan."
Corinne squeezed another inch of cerise onto the piece of mirror she
used as a palette, and when she looked around next, Robert had gone. She
wasn't sure if he'd left a minute ago or an hour.
She realized that there wasn't much more she could do; the light from
the window was fading. Even if there had been more daylight, she had
virtually finished. She put down her brushes and easel and climbed off the
stool. She had finished; there was no point trying to delay the moment any
longer. She was through. It was over, finished. Her last portrait.
She didn't even look at it as she took her brushes over to the corner by
the sink and began cleaning them with turpentine.
What was it Robert had said before? That he'd come and pick her up
before they went out to dinner? But that was no good. She had to go home
and change. She kept other clothes in her studio, but nothing suitable for
going out. And she certainly wanted to shower and wash her hair if they
intended to celebrate.
After drying her hands, she rubbed skin lotion into her palms and
worked it around her fingers and up to her wrists. She stared at her
hands. They were long and slender, like her fingers. Her fingernails were
trimmed down almost to the quick, because they were very brittle and
split easily. Maybe she'd have time to grow and take care of them better
from now on.
She took off her smock and hung it up, glancing around the
high-ceilinged white room and remembering all the people who had been
there. Corinne had always preferred painting in this room, although that
hadn't always been possible. Removing her headband, she shook her hair
free as she walked toward the phone. She noticed her distorted image in
the blank screen while punching out the first digits. Then she paused and
pressed the cancel button.
What was the point in calling Robert? What was there to tell him? Only
that she was coming home early. She could be back in less than half an
hour; then she could bring him here to view the completed portrait before
they went out for the evening.
Ideally, she would have liked to take the picture now and give it to
Robert as her gift. But it was too wet and awkward to manage alone.
She put on her street clothes, her old faded and patched coat, the
scratched boots with worn heels, then left the room and security-sealed
the door. Although the major walkways were quite well guarded, Corinne
always carried a bag with a small sum of money. It could easily be
snatched from her hand, and it was safer than having nothing. If an
attacker found nothing to steal, he was more likely to become violent.
She walked quickly, not looking at anyone as she passed, her eyes aimed
at the ground a dozen feet ahead of her, until she reached the perimeter
fence that surrounded the block of flats. The armed guard in the
blockhouse opened the outer gate as she approached and he recognized
her.
Often, Corinne had considered that she ought to take over one of the
other flats as her studio, but it wouldn't have been the same. She'd had the
old room for fifteen years now, and she felt more at home there in some
respects than in the apartment she and Robert shared.