| was turning over in his mind, playing with as a gambler rolls the dice between his palms, was: could he pretend he had not seen Moore? He could still put the picture up in the gallery. No one would know it was not genuine. Moore would never see it, never know it was in circulation. The trouble was, he might mention it casually. It could be years later. Then the truth would come out: Julian Black had sold a painting he knew to be a fake. That would be the end of his career. It was unlikely. Good God, Moore would die anyway within a few years—he must be pushing seventy. If only the old man would die soon. Suddenly Julian realized that, for the first time in his life, he was contemplating murder. He shook his head, as if to dear it of confusion. The idea was absurd. But alongside such a drastic notion, the risk of showing the picture diminished. What was there to lose? Without the Modigliani, Julian hardly had a career anyway. There would be no more money from his father-in-law, and the gallery would probably be a flop. It was decided, then. He would forget about Moore. He would show the picture. The essential thing now was to act as if nothing had happened. He was expected for dinner at Lord Cardwellʹs. Sarah would be there, and she was planning to stay the night. Julian would spend the night with his wife: what could be |
muffled creak of bedsprings, and a panting. It was coming from the bedroom. He guessed Sarah was having a nightmare. He was about to call out to wake her; then he remembered something about not waking people suddenly when they were dreaming. Or was that sleepwalking? He decided to look at her. He walked up the half-flight of stairs. The bedroom door was open. He looked in. He stopped dead in his tracks, and his mouth fell open in surprise. His heart beat very fast in shock, and he could hear a rushing noise in his ears. Sarah lay on her side on the sheets. Her neck was arched, her head flung back, and her expensively coiffed hair plastered to her perspiring face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, emitting low-pitched animal grunts. A man lay beside her, his pelvis locked with hers in a slow shudder. The man′s thick limbs were dense with black hair. The muscles of his white buttocks bunched and relaxed rhythmically. Sarah had one foot on the knee of the opposite leg, making a triangle; and the man squeezed the flesh of the inside of her raised thigh as he murmured obscenities in a deep, clear voice. On the bed behind Sarah lay a second man. He had blond hair, and his white face was slightly spotty. His hips and Sarah′s bottom fitted together like spoons in a drawer. One hand curled around Sarah′s body and squeezed her breasts |
