The Magical Painting

3

3He woke with his head pounding, tongue thick in his mouth, longing for water. “Jenny, get me something will you, an aspirin, anything to take away this God-awful headache.”

Shadows danced around the corners of his eyes and as the room came into focus, the pain in his leg brought him back to reality. No longer lying beneath the covers of his London bed, central heating wrapping him in its warm embrace, the promise of Jennifer's lithe body responding to his gentle caress … Instead, here he was. Castle Strythe. Another world. He groaned, rolled over, and took his time getting to his feet.

Coffee waited for him in the dining room, the pot fresh, steaming hot. Thank God for Sinclair. The man seemed to possess a sixth sense, knowing instinctively what was required, and when.

Afterwards, Lambert waited at the entrance to the Tower, listening to the old retainer clumping up the winding stairway to the uppermost rooms. For all his life Sinclair had wandered around the periphery of Lambert's existence, as much a part of the castle as the ancient stones, first laid down in the Fourteenth Century, permanent like the Highlands, eternal as the glen. His earliest memory of the man was when, after falling from his bicycle and lying in the gravel wailing like a newborn, Sinclair stood over him, warm smile, big hands lifting him, “A young Laird doesn't cry,” he said. “A young Laird is strong and brave, as his forefathers were.” He'd patted Lambert on the cheek and the pain eased. When Father came and asked, Lambert shrugged, sniffed and said, “Nothing, Father. A mere scrape is all.”

“There,” said Sinclair, breathing hard.

Lambert blinked and found the servant standing over him, with two large, well-taped cardboard boxes at his feet.

Sinclair straightened his back, wincing a little. “It's damned awkward negotiating those steps, but I'll do my best.”

“I'll phone Miles, ask him to come and help. If you can take the boxes to the study. I'll sort them there.”

Sinclair smiled, seeing the sense of his master's words. “Very good sir. Whilst you telephone, I shall bring some more boxes down from your father's study.”

Lambert wheeled himself to the house, pausing at the rear entrance to take in the scenery of the glen. The sky appeared leaden behind the mountains, the threat of rain thick in the air, a metaphor for a new phase in his life he mused. What secrets lay contained in those boxes, he wondered. His father had made a good living from his writing, twenty-two books published, two film adaptations together with a long-forgotten television series. And now, the promise of more unpublished tomes about to be brought to light. Lambert ruminated with the idea of becoming something of a literary wizard himself but knew, deep down, such a thing could never be. He had inherited his mother's fastidiousness and cold, clear business sense; his father's vibrant and ceaseless imagination was an alien concept to him. Better at analysing the daily performance of stocks and shares than the creation of character and plot, Lambert kept his mind firmly fixed in the real world, not the one of fiction.

Why then the images of the girl?

His eyes were gritty and when he returned to the study, he wheeled himself over to the fire and allowed himself a moment, to rest. He required a few moments, to recharge his spirit. He allowed himself to drift.

A train rattled through his brain, as if he were travelling between two stops, one London, with its colourful, vibrant life, the other dark, threatening, drawing him closer to the night of the accident.

He fought against the darkness, found courage in a memory, a bottle of Moët and Chandon chilling in a bucket of ice, Jenny moving around in the bedroom.

“Come on, darling. You can try your new coat on later, this champagne won't keep.”

She appeared in the doorway, wrapped in her new Burberry coat, open to reveal matching black underwear, her toned body shimmering, slim, endless legs in sheer stockings and black, leather boots. The woman of his dreams; a goddess.

“What do you think?”

Her eyes sparkled like the champagne in the glass as she reached out, took his hand and led him into the bedroom, pushing him down upon the cover. She pulled away his shirt without a pause, ripping the material, discarding trousers and pants. He moaned, not wanting to resist, her soft lips wandering over his body, teeth nipping at his n*****s. He cried out, arching his back, responding to such sweet torture!

Moments later, her hot breath lava from a volcano, flowing down his body until it reached the most gentle and sensitive area of his being, the gate opening to what he knew would be paradise.

Lambert snapped his eyes open, sucking in a breath. He put the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing away the images. Why was he thinking about all of this now? He'd made his choices. So had Jennifer.

Jennifer. Was the dream a memory, or a hope? A longing for something that never was? Was it even her? He struggled to regain her features, to recognise the Jennifer he knew with the one of a few moments before.

Perhaps…

His hands dropped to his lap and he gazed into the fire and saw her, the woman in the road, her shocked look of anguish as he lay entangled inside the car, her helplessness as she reached out her hand and realised she could do nothing. Who was she and to where had she disappeared? When the paramedics came and eased him from out of the wreckage he told them what had happened but, despite the police combing the immediate vicinity, they found no trace of the mystery woman, as if she had never existed.

And yet, he had seen her.

In answer to Lambert's phone call, Miles arrived within twenty minutes, clapping and rubbing his hands with glee, filling the room with his persona as he strode across the floorboards to the fire burning in the grate. “Damned bloody weather,” he said, face ruddy with the run to the castle from his car, the rain pelting down with the force of bullets. “Why the hell did you ever come back to this place?” He turned, massaging his backside before the flames. “Not that I'm ungrateful, mind. It's good to have you back, but I'd much prefer to be living it up in your London apartment.”

“I've sold it,” said Lambert, pouring out two tumblers with whisky. He clinked in ice and turned, offering out his hand to his oldest friend.

“Well, you're bloody stupid.” Miles took the drink and downed it in one. “You made a tidy profit, I hope.”

“Yes, of course. Enough to keep me comfortable whilst I'm here.” Lambert sipped at his own drink, savouring the warming sensation as the malt trickled down his throat to lie and smoulder in his stomach.

Miles gaped. “You need your head testing.”

“No. Father's death made me think, Miles. Made me think what to value and care about.” He swept his hand around the room. “All this. My family have lived here for generations and I grew up here, running like a mad thing through the corridors and up and down the winding staircases but as soon as I was able, I couldn't wait to get away. Now…” He shook his head, deep in thought, recalling the images, wondering again if they were of Jenny, or someone else. He finished his drink. “It's different now, Miles. I'm different now.”

“And Jenny? What did you say to her?”

Lambert shrugged, wheeled back to the drinks' cabinet and poured out another glassful of malt. “We hadn't been getting on for a long time. She was seeing someone else. Some guy from the UAE, dripping with money. Who cares?”

“She was seeing someone else? Since when?”

“Since ages. He'd been screwing her for months and I didn't know a damn thing about it. When the business went pear-shaped, she took the opportunity to kick me whilst I was down and tell me all about him, how fantastic he was, so rich, so handsome.” He chuckled, took a sip of the whisky. “I sat and listened to her, telling me how useless I was in bed, how I'd never satisfied her, how—”

“Women always say those things when there's a break up.”

“True. A lot of friends told me their own 'bad date' experiences. I laughed them off, finding them trivial, never once realising when it comes to your own experience, it's one of the hardest things to accept.” He swilled the whisky around the bottom of the glass, deep in thought. “When I was able to provide something akin to a luxury lifestyle, she heaped praises upon me, telling me I was so handsome, such a brilliant lover, but when I reminded about that after our break up, she mimicked the fake orgasm scene done by Meg Ryan in 'When Harry Met Sally'. She told me she'd done the same. I was devastated.”

“Jesus Christ, Andrew, that's no measure of—”

“Apparently it was to her, Miles. She made very sure I knew exactly how f*****g wonderful her new lover was between the sheets.”

Miles stood in silence, staring down into the bottom of his tumbler. “You're better off out of it by the sound of things. You don't need a woman like that in your life, Andrew, so forget about her! There's no shortage of pretty girls out there, so never ever give up. Look at me, eh?” A boyish impishness twinkled in Miles' eyes.

“But I miss her so much. She celebrated life. Every single day I spent with her was like fireworks going off in my heart.” Images of Jennifer, her smile, the way she always played with the hem of her dress, coy, sucking in her lip, tossing her flaxen hair, came into his mind.

“You're punishing yourself for something that was not your fault.”

“You think so? They say everything happens for a reason, but I'm not so sure. Sometimes, a picture of her pops up in my head, her eyes, the cut of her hair, to remind me of the pain of losing her.”

“I think you need time alone to sort your head out. You're here now, in your ancient castle surrounded by majestic hills, breathtaking wildness and the great history behind it all … maybe things will all turn out for the best, in the end. She was always too stuck up anyway.” Miles screwed his face into a gargoyle mask and took a large drink.

“She may have been, but she was gorgeous, and I believed…” Lambert looked away, put his finger and thumb into his eyes. “I believed we had a chance. I hoped for happiness, a life together, a family. I toyed with the idea of coming back here, of bringing up our child in the castle. I was a bloody fool, wasn't I?”

“Andrew, stop beating yourself up. You have to let it go, look forward not back.”

“I suppose. But it's hard, Miles. One moment I'm in the City, the next the shares hit rock bottom, we haemorrhage money and Jennifer sticks her boot in. Within the space of a week, my whole life was turned upside down.”

“And you didn't see any of it coming?”

Lambert shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. I didn't care, I'd lost interest. After Father's death, I'd thought a lot about who I was, the sort of person I'd become and I didn't like it, Miles. I got out some of my old books and I read them through again, listened to the type of music I used to when I started uni.” He chuckled. “I rediscovered myself. Corny isn't it.”

“Not at all.”

“I think Jennifer panicked at what she saw. As my interest for making money waned, she would disappear for a few days. I never took any notice, but of course, I realise now what she was doing. And why.”

“It's for the best. You'll come to believe that, Andrew. Honestly. All you need is some time.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right.”

Miles smiled, seeming relieved as Andrew relaxed. “Talking of the past, I've missed this old place, and your dad. I really liked him. He often used to phone me up, inviting me over, saying, 'I've just got hold of a lovely bottle of Château Margaux, come and help me finish it'. He often showed his penchant for the finest of Bordeaux wines by finishing off a couple of bottles during my visits. I'd drop everything and we'd spend the most precious moments together. He'd be full of stories, about all sorts of things, but usually about wine.” He laughed. “He was something of a historian, your old dad, when it came to the ruby nectar. He told me about the earliest known vessels for storing wine – wineskins, containers made from animal hide or bladders, how he'd looked up references going back to Homer's Odyssey, continuing through to Shakespeare's plays…” Miles stopped, lost in the memory. Silence proved more eloquent than words. “He told me that the last time I saw him.”

Lambert studied his friend for a long time, determined not to allow grief to overcome him.

“Andrew, he was a great man your old dad. I loved him.”

Lambert pressed his lips together and nodded, unable to speak. He drank the malt whilst Miles moved past him, helping himself to a refill before sitting down in a nearby armchair. Both men stared into the flames.

Sometime later, Sinclair arrived with the first of the boxes and Miles, regaining his enthusiasm, helped the old butler to bring more of them up from the Tower. Within half an hour, eight or ten such boxes lay heaped upon the study floor. Miles grinned, hands on hips, the sweat across his brow. “What the hell is inside all of these?”

“Manuscripts and photographs, so I understand,” said Sinclair. “Mr Lambert would often abandon projects mid-stream. I sometimes saw him tying up over four-hundred pages and discarding them. He had no qualms about such things, but when he did experience some form of emotional connection with a story he always finished the work. Every day he would write, from the early morning until well into the evening. When Mrs Lambert passed away he became almost obsessed.” He smiled across to Andrew Lambert, who sat holding his whisky between his palms, listening to every word. “Apologies, sir. Your mother was an exceptional woman, in so many ways. Her death affected him acutely.”

“He soon recovered though, didn't he?”

Sinclair frowned at the sharp tone used and turned to Miles who offered nothing but a slightly raised eyebrow. “It is true they were more friends than lovers, but…” Sinclair's face grew red. “Forgive me, sir, I do not wish to offend the memory of your father. The life he lived with your mother was not usual but it worked for them. He grieved for her, sir, I know that much. Always a private man, he rarely revealed his emotions but I could feel his anguish at her passing.” He pulled in a raking breath, “I shall fetch some more boxes.”

“No, Sinclair, this will be enough to be going on with.” Lambert raised his glass. “Thank you.”

He watched the manservant go out and when the door closed quietly, he glanced across at Miles. “A private man? Didn't stop him having a rack of affairs though, did it.”

“Don't judge your father harshly, Andrew. There's a lot you don't know.”

“Oh, and what makes you the expert?”

“Relationships, they're bloody complicated. Look at you and Jenny.”

“Life is a great canvas; it's not easy to find your complimentary colour.” He frowned, surprised at his own use of such imagery. Perhaps a sense of creativity was beginning to assert itself. He shook his head, continuing, “Jenny immersed herself completely in the material world. My mother possessed something more, the one thing my father needed from her – the one thing he really, truly valued: he needed inspiration. She gave it to him, showed him the way to success and enabled him to grab the possibility. Without her support and ceaseless optimism I doubt he would have continued writing.”

Miles said nothing for a moment, preferring to look though the window to the wonders of their natural surroundings. He smiled. “I read almost all of his books. They were sublime, Andrew. Nothing like anything else. Deep, thought-provoking, forcing the reader, me, to question what we perceive as truth.”

“I'm ashamed to say I've never read any of them.”

“Then you should.”

They stared at one another for a long time and then Lambert, snapping himself out of his reverie, prodded his friend in the leg and smiled. “You'll stay, help me through this lot?”

“These boxes?” Lambert nodded. “Christ, Andrew, do I have to?”

“No. I thought you might want to help out an old friend, that's all.”

“Pompous ass.” Miles grinned, threw down the whisky and stood up. “No, I'm off. I have much to do.” He clapped his hands together and beamed.

“Really. What's her name?”

“Hah! You know me too well, you boring bastard. I'm off to wine and dine the lovely Natalie down in town. Then, it's back to my place for an evening of wild, unbridled sex.”

Lambert blew out his breath in a long stream. “I envy you at times, you know that?”

“Then why not get yourself a girl, eh? I could fix you up, if you want. Nobody like the material girl Jennifer with her limp thighs and her haughty-taughty manner. What you need, my bonny lad is a nubile young thing who will shag you stupid.”

“Yeah, and spend all my money, money which I haven't got I hasten to add.”

“God, you're boring.”

“Careful, more like. It's all right for you, you have two brothers to look after your estate, a private bloody income and enough time on your hands to indulge in every whim and fancy that comes to mind. I've got this place to sort out. Father left a mountain of debts and my responsibility is to get things straight.”

“You should hold a party.”

“What?”

“A party. A get-together. Invite some of the old gang over, lay on a spread. It'll take your mind off everything.”

“Don't be bloody stupid, how am I supposed to organise all of that?”

“I'll help.” Miles jutted his chin towards the boxes. “After you've been through this little lot, give me a call and I'll start the ball rolling, so to speak.”

“I don't want a party, Miles, I'm too—”

“You don't need to do anything, old mate. You can leave all the arrangements to me.” He came across and punched Lambert playfully in the chest. “It'll bring you out of yourself. And who knows, you might even have a good time.”

He breezed out, chuckling softly to himself and Lambert watched him go and wondered if it might work. A party, like the ones he used to know, with Jenny, voices raised in laughter, filling the place with the sound of happiness, replacing the sadness and grief, which draped themselves over every part of the castle. It was time to sweep away the gloom away, bring some cheer to the old stones.

The more he thought the more he became convinced what a good idea it was.