1979 Midsummer’s Day
Charlie, my boyfriend, and I had been impressed with Marcus Hartmann, a soft-spoken man of uncertain age, (a moustache always throws me, but I'm guessing around forty) with a guarded smile and an unplaceable accent. We had met him one evening at the pub where we were staying, The Fox & Hounds, and he had invited us back to his house, only a mile away, for a nightcap after closing time. In those days pubs closed at ten-thirty. It was midsummer and the air was humid, and my thin cotton mini dress was sticking to me like wet tissue. It was one of those evenings when the light seemed to go on forever – not knowing when to give up and let everyone sleep. The full moon was making the star-filled sky even more unnatural by ten-thirty – not night, not day – I felt I was in another world, or maybe that was the pint and half of cider talking?
Marcus’s large cottage looked impressive. Typical English rose garden with an arbour and wooden bench seats in the front porch. He opened the heavy wooden front door without unlocking it, which I thought strange; but that was just my city thinking kicking in – it’s not something we do back home. “Come on in,” he said with a smile, guiding me over the threshold with his hand on my clammy lower back.
Chas stood staring, mouth open in awe at the spacious interior. He and I had met at a party the previous New Year’s Eve, and he was all over me the entire evening – very persistent I remember, not taking no for an answer. I knew he only wanted to sleep with me, and like most men of that age, twenty-two, going on twelve, and full of alcohol, sleeping is exactly what they do. He did make up for it the following day, or I should say evening, as we had to sleep off the previous night’s excesses first.
Neither of us had had a lot of lovemaking experience even though I was twenty-three. My first was five years earlier when I was eighteen, and like most first times it was a disaster. Necking, ear-nibbling, breast fondling, thigh touching, and then a hand down the knickers. Hardly seductive. It was also his first time so he was on a learning curve as well. However, after he saw blood on his fingers he ran a mile. There had been one or two others since then, with intercourse, but not knowing what it was supposed to feel like I was never sure of myself, and relationships soon ended.
None of the boys seemed to have had much experience, and they always seemed so young. What they thought they knew was mostly gained from porn films or men’s magazines. Chas had been different, once he was sober. He was still a little naive, but had more concern than others, although still inexperienced at the end of the day. The ‘missionary’ position was the limit of our foray, but I did like the cuddles and quiet moments afterwards, if not the cigarette smoke.
“So,” Marcus asked, “what do you think of my humble abode?”
“Fantastic!” Chas uttered, transfixed by the décor but especially two paintings that adorned one of the walls in the large open-plan lounge that greeted us. Chas gasped in delight. “Bloody hell, man, is that a Picasso? It can’t be, can it?” he asked, staring at the large painting, almost in a trance.
“Very good. Unfortunately, it is a reproduction. The original is at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. They refuse to sell it. I have asked them enough times.” Marcus laughed, remembering something. “It’s called Girl with Mandolin, from his cubism period. So you like art?” He asked, seeing Chas was in seventh heaven.
“Yes, love it,” Chas answered, still mesmerised, but now looking at the other imposing image - the suppressed artist in him begging to surface.
“OK then, can you tell me what this is?” Marcus challenged.
It was not, in fact, a painting – it looked to me like photographs. “Not sure,” Chas said, hands on hips, transfixed, and looking puzzled.
“It’s a David Hockney. It’s made up of hundreds of photographs of Theresa Russell, the film actress. I think the two subjects, this and the Picasso, work well together – the Hockney is mirrored by the cubism of Picasso, don’t you think, Chas?”
“Yes, err . . . totally. Christ man, you must be rich.”
“Chas,” I said rather too abruptly, “don’t be rude.” Hoping Marcus was not offended. On the contrary, he just smiled and shrugged. “Everyone should have a hobby. Mine is collecting beautiful objects,” he said, looking at me with a captivating smile, making me blush ever so slightly. “Now, what about that drink I promised.” He offered, trying to put me at ease.
Marcus poured me a Martini with lemonade, and Chas a whisky. “If you like these, Chas,” Marcus said, nodding at the two paintings, “come and see what I have in the other room.”
And the two of them left me alone with my drink. Looking around the white-walled oak panelled lounge I had the chance to observe more closely the furniture and other objects and artefacts. There were several unusual bronze sculptures; some on shelves, and one, four foot tall standing on the floor. The subject matter for most of them was a naked or near-naked woman squatting, sitting, standing, or in one case, bending over.
A large button backed burgundy sofa faced an old inglenook fireplace, but what took my attention was a very unusual chair against the wall, opposite the paintings. I was about to inspect it closer when Chas called me.
“Bell, come and see these,” he called from somewhere close by. I followed the sound of voices along a narrow hallway to another room. This looked like an office or study with a large writing desk against one wall, and rows of bookshelves on the two adjacent walls. Chas and Marcus however, were occupied with the other wall adorned with framed photographs.
“Look, Bell, aren’t these fantastic. So atmospheric . . . so . . .”
“Erotic?” I offered.
“Bell, don’t be a prude. This is exceptional art.” Chas beamed, hoping I had not offended Marcus.
“Isabel, these are recent works from a very talented English photographer, Michael Payne. He captures the human form perfectly, don’t you think. Yes, erotic if that’s what you see, but the human form should be seen as having many other qualities, not just eroticism.” Marcus said, looking at me for a response. I was holding my drink with both hands – shivering slightly.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“No, just the ice in the drink.” I lied. Not cold but slightly aroused by the images I was looking at. I knew they were beautiful but I was not going to encourage Chas about something we could not afford. Marcus seemed convinced I disapproved of the photos, but in fact, I did admire them. Photography was one of my secret ambitions, but all I could afford back then was a compact Kodak digital, with hardly any features.
“Ah, you didn’t think someone like me would consider having such . . . sensual, contemporary images adorning the walls of this old cottage.” And smiled reassuringly at me.
“I think they are bloody marvellous. Can we have some in our pad when we get one, Bell?” Chas asked excitedly. His Welsh accent accentuated by the recent alcohol.
At any other time, I would have shouted back. “Don’t call me Bell!” but I just smiled and sighed.
“I think you prefer Isabel, and quite right too,” Marcus said, sensing the distaste of my shortened name, and so Chas could hear. “How do you spell it?” he asked with interest.
“I.s.a.b.e.l”
“Ah, the French way, then you are not Jewish, that would be Isobel.”
I looked at him, but his words seemed distant and I felt light-headed. My legs gave way and I found I was falling backwards before I could resist. Instead of hitting the floor I was swept up into Marcus’s arms and carried back along the hall to the lounge where he laid me on the sofa.
“Hey, what’s happened? Is she Ok?” I could hear Chas’s voice somewhere, but not sure where he was. “Bell, are you OK? Look at me. What happened?” I felt Charlie's hand on my cheek, and then forehead.