The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

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      On the way home afterwards, I asked Matt about his mother’s Russian background.

      ‘Mimi’s got a bit of a thing about the old country. I don’t know why really. She’s more Swiss than most Swiss people. But there’s a pride in her that doesn’t come from the Alps. Something deeper. She has a fiery character. Since the dissolution of communist Russia, they’ve wanted to travel back … But anyway, why the interest in her background?’ Matt asked, a little irritated.

      I thought of the icons on the wall, the traditional fare at the table. I shrugged. ‘Curious, I guess. Have you ever been there?’

      Matt shook his head. ‘Papa’s only started researching for his latest book recently, but they’re planning to travel there soon.’

      ‘Sounds like a great plot location for a historic romance.’

      ‘He says he wants to write about the experiences of Mimi’s family before the revolution. Mimi’s not keen, keeps telling him to let sleeping dogs lie.’ I looked at him curiously. ‘I don’t really know what she means, the revolution happened more than a generation ago. She’s proud, but I think she’s scared of something. She continues to look for links to her roots though. Maybe she feels like she never quite belonged in this Western society.’ Matt stopped, as though he thought he was maligning his mother.

      ‘I thought she fitted in well here, considering the cosmopolitan nature of Switzerland’s population,’ I said when he didn’t continue.

      ‘Mm. Maybe. You should hear my sister talk about her.’

      I was surprised to hear him offer the opinions of the sister I hadn’t known he had until recently.

      ‘She calls Mimi such a hypocrite,’ he continued. ‘All this faff and ceremony about maintaining Russian tradition. MC always hated these Russian parties. Thought they were so fake, when Mimi never actually lived there, and my grandparents escaped when they were barely adults. They became more devoted Londoners than most Cockneys. I don’t know where she’d be more happy – she can’t seem to sink her roots deep enough here. But it’s important the family try and stay together. Not that MC would ever come back here. It was a bit of a blow to Mimi when she left, despite our … despite their differences. But Mimi’s happy I stayed around after college. I think she likes having me close.’

      ‘Marie-Claire doesn’t get on with the family?’ I asked cautiously, remembering his reluctance to speak about her the last time.

      ‘No … I … no not really. She’s a bit of a nonconformist. She’s … unusual. Pissed off with the world. Isn’t willing to believe that fate can sometimes deliver some tough times with the good.’

      ‘Do you miss her?’

      ‘Not really,’ Matt said hesitantly. ‘We didn’t get on. Anyway, she’s made a life for herself in California now. Ron’s a good bloke. Bit too American for my liking, but I think he looks after her.’

      ‘Do you really think they’ll never have kids?’

      ‘No, of course not! I mean, no. MC’s not really the family type. How come you’re so fascinated with my sister? Let’s drop her, okay?’

      ‘Don’t get short with me, Matt. I’m just curious. If I had a sister or a brother, I’d probably want to hang out with them all the time. I guess it’s because I don’t have one that the whole dynamic of having a sibling fascinates me. Surely it’s natural to want to know about you and your family.’

      I had obviously hit a chord with Marie-Claire. We weren’t in a sober state for in-depth family discussions. I was trying to find reasons to like Matt’s mother, but despite her fascinating background, it wasn’t happening. I wondered how MC felt about her.

      We arrived at Anne’s place. I fiddled with my key in the dark, swaying a little from too much vodka. Tonight I actually looked forward to Anne’s pull-out sofa bed, I was that tired, and was unable to analyse Matt’s irritability. I figured he’d come right in the morning. We kissed and he held me tight, as though delivering a silent apology for his reaction.

      * * *

      ‘Why do you not draw your son?’ asks Yasmine between mouthfuls of her food. ‘She made a lot of great pictures,’ she says to the others at the table, pointing a fork speared with a morsel of grey meat in my direction.

      My eyes flash. I don’t like talking about my art, but mostly I don’t like being the centre of attention.

      ‘I don’t know. I sometimes think I’ve forgotten what he really looks like,’ I reply. ‘I need to see him to be able to draw the essence of him. It’s harder than you think to draw my own son.’

      I keep my voice neutral. Though I think it would break me to try and draw him, unable to wrest the detailed memories from my mind. The curve of his rosy cheek or the sweep of his fine hair. Those grey eyes that only started to turn green when I had to say goodbye, their colour enhanced by his tears.

      ‘She has drawn me, you know. She’s a real artist,’ Yasmine says to Fatima who nods with eyebrows raised and mouth turned down at the corners.

      She’s vaguely impressed, or disinterested in my skills, I’m not sure which. A minuscule piece of bread crust sticks to Fatima’s lip, then falls onto Adnan’s head. She blows the crumbs from his crown as he sleeps. His fine fluffy hair puffs like gossamer. My throat tightens.

      ‘Perhaps you could start a business. Lulu’s Portraits,’ Yasmine continues, thinking out loud. ‘Yes, we could make a bit of money. Earn a few sous.’

      ‘We?’ I ask, amused. Lulu?

      ‘Yes, I will be your agent,’ she replies, presenting herself, flamenco fashion with a wave of her arm from head to chest, fingers splayed. ‘Of course you will give me a cut if I am to do your marketing and publicité.’

      ‘Caramba, Yasmine! You are to be my agent, remember? We have a business in cigarillos to organise,’ says Dolores huskily, eyes flashing.

      I have no desire to fight over Yasmine’s attention, though I can see where this is going. Yasmine, with that look on her face that says she is the centre of our universe, demanding deference.

      ‘I am not going to sell my paintings, okay?’ I say, not wanting to darken any moods, but knowing that things like this can escalate alarmingly quickly into dissension in this place. Tiny issues can turn rapidly into thermo-nuclear reactions.

       Chapter 5

      ‘So, Madame Favre, here we are,’ says Dr Schutz, as if we’re on a bus that has pulled up to our stop.

      I look around the sparse office, eyebrows raised with fake curiosity. I turn back to stare at the psychologist.

      ‘I’m really sorry, I thought I’d already told you. My name is not Madame Favre. I prefer to be called Mrs, or better still Ms Smithers. I don’t answer to Madame Favre any more. Sounds like a sordid joke in an opera. It was a sordid joke, Dr Schutz, the missus bit, if that’s what we’re here to talk about. I’m guessing you’re going to get me to talk about my relationship,’ СКАЧАТЬ