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stop being a portrait painter. I hate bloody portraits. All little Orps gets to do is one pompous fool after another.’ He paused and considered this for a moment. ‘No, they are not all fools. Chamberlain I liked. Asquith, too. And Berri’s not a fool. Except he wants to pose with a falcon. Told him he’ll have to get his own. Get it stuffed. Not having a live falcon in here. Against the terms of the lease. No birds of prey in the house. Must say it somewhere.’ He winked just to underline the jest.
    He handed a piece of paper across. ‘Look at this. Chaplin.’
    Williams looked down at the drawing, a caricature of the Little Tramp, signed and dated. ‘Man comes to my studio … my studio, greatest portrait painter in Europe, the world. Comes to my studio and does his own fucking portrait. Ha.’
    Orpen drained his glass and refilled. ‘Just three fingers, as the Yanks say. Forty-six thousand. I should be happy shouldn’t I? But look, my wife hates me. Mrs St George never writes to Orpsie boy now.’ This, Williams knew, was a former mistress, a longstanding affair that had soured some time ago. ‘And I hardly see my children. Have you heard Kit play? Bloody good pianist she is. I’ll get her to play for you when she comes over.’
    Williams steeled himself for a long, slow ramble. Any minute now they were going to hit the how-life-should-have-been section, and this was open ended, a long improvisation on his woes. He snapped out of it, and even refreshed Williams’ drink—just the one finger he noticed—and said jauntily, ‘Forty-six thousand, eh? How about we go to Dieppe at the weekend and see if we can lose some of it?’
    That night Eve lay in bed, listening to the tidal snoring of Orpen, a great nasal gush as air came into his tubes, a softer whistling as it ebbed. He had announced earlier in the evening that he would be heading off for London in a couple of months in time for his daughter Kit’s series of concert recitals. There was no mention of Eve accompanying him.
    Which is just as well, as she probably wouldn’t have gone. The last time had been a disaster, as Orpen spent his time in male-only clubs and she searched in vain for some hint of levity in the grey, drizzly capital, so lifeless and buttoned-up after Paris. When they did go out together, Orpen’s fellow artists treated her as some kind of prize specimen, a lurid professional model and mistress like Kiki de Montparnasse, whose over-cooked memoirs they had all devoured.
    It was hard to explain to outsiders why she was with this corpulent, somnambulant man. That ever since he captured her horrendous experiences at the hands of a German soldier at the age of fourteen on canvas, she had been smitten by his intuition, his generosity, the kindness, albeit attributes increasingly buried under hangovers and sore feet, but still alive and well at his core. Perhaps she’d buy a dog while he was away. Or two. She would love a dog, but Orpen hated canines, and would certainly order its destruction upon his return. No, not worth it.
    To cap it all, Orpen was slipping away from her as a lover. Too tired, too fat he would complain. Eve could hardly remember the last time. She had to sit astride him now, because his tendency to flop, unannounced, his full weight on her could break a girl’s ribs.
    Her hand sought out between her legs, trying to conjure up some erotic image to initiate the proceedings, but none came. She heard the muffled slam of a door far downstairs, either Cook or Williams, and she felt a little electric spark. Not her type, but he’d do.
    At that moment Orpen made an alarming barking sound and threw a stubby arm across her chest as he rolled over. She suddenly felt herself pinned and constricted, the limb as solid as a fallen tree trunk. She eased her hand away from her groin. Ah well, something else that will have to wait for another day.

Four
    F RANCE , M AY 1928
    S UMMER ARRIVED QUICKLY that year, turning Paris warm and