She hadn’t felt comfortable out here since the discovery of the body and, now she knew the story behind it, she felt even less so, imagining Frances’s footsteps underneath hers, seeing the spot where Eliza had been toppled into the cellar mouth. But people were busy stringing fairylights between the trees and setting out folding tables and chairs. In the past fortnight, she had worked like mad to get the wilderness into a more presentable state. Jason had spent every day stripped to the waist, hacking back bushes with a chainsaw. Not that that had been such a bad sight . . .
Where was he, though?
She wandered vaguely through the old formal garden, rather less formal than it used to be. Potted shrubs and miniature trees had been placed in the flowerbeds, which next year would hopefully have blooms of their own to show.
She reached the tree trunk with the entwined initials and turned back, her skin suddenly cold.
Frances’s happiness had been so short-lived.
She looked back at the house, raising her eyes from the hectic business on the patio and lifting them all the way to the roof.
Ah. That could be her answer.
She went back inside and climbed the stairs to the top floor. Nobody was up here – it was out of bounds to exhibition-goers. They had decided to do the attic frescoes as a separate exhibition, once Jason’s name was made. She called up to the attic and was rewarded by the sight of Bowyer leaping out of the door.
‘Jason? What are you doing?’
‘Come up and see.’
She huffed. ‘I haven’t got time for this. We’ve only got three hours before the first guests . . .’
‘Come up and see,’ he repeated.
She did as she was told, grudgingly, and huffed again when she saw the state of Jason, bare-chested in his old trackpants with paint all over him, even in his hair.
Her scolding words died in her throat when she saw what he was doing.
He had a large canvas in front of him, on which was a half-finished picture. Unusually for him, it was a portrait. Of her.
‘Is that . . . me?’ she asked uncertainly.
So far, it was just an outline, but she knew from the pose he had put her in and the sketch of her hair and face that it couldn’t be anyone else.
‘I’ve made a start,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I mean, there’s a long way to go with it. I’m not used to portraits either.’
‘I . . . Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but if you’re painting me, shouldn’t I be
posing for you?’
‘You’d have to keep still for five minutes,’ he said with an uncharacteristically shy little laugh. ‘When does that ever happen?’
‘I could do it for you,’ she said, looking closer. ‘Are you going to put clothes on me?’
He reached over to ruffle her hair with a paint-stained finger.
‘What do you think?’
‘Jason!’
‘It’s only a sketch. I’m nowhere near ready to paint the real thing yet. I’m kind of hoping you will pose for me when I get that far.’
‘If this exhibition does what it’s meant to do, you’ll be a hot property. And so will any picture you paint of me. Especially if it’s nude!’
‘Yeah, and? There’s a gorgeous painting I saw once in art class at school of a woman lying on her side, showing her arse. Dead sexy, can’t remember the title or the artist, though. But, whoever she was, she’s living forever. Everybody gets to see what a beautiful woman she was when she was alive, even centuries after she died. I want that for you. Nobody looks at that painting and goes, ew, I can see her bum, how embarrassing. Do they? They look at it and go, wow, what a beautiful thing.’
Jenna nodded. ‘The “Rokeby Venus”, maybe?’ she suggested. ‘Velazquez?’
‘Whatever. No, the title was stupid. Made us all laugh.’