It had been painted the summer after they first met – 1924, maybe? – a forlorn study of Evelyn shipwrecked on a Roman pillow. Heartsore, facing the viewer. White dress, white sheets, glistening sun-bronzed face. Her hand shadowing her eyes against the dazzling glare. Dotty had painted sunlight straight from the tube.
Why was I so sad? asked Evelyn. Do you remember?
Livia?
Oh no. Livia was long gone. How strange the heart.
Listen to this, said Dotty.
On the back of the canvas, she had written a description of the day, which she read out loud: ‘Soundscape: bells, the squeal of swifts, Aunt Maria reciting the rosary. Time: mid-morning. Weather: sun blazing, no respite, no cloud. Gasping.’
They’d been staying with Evelyn’s Italian aunt, whose chronic ill health, celibacy and wealth had guaranteed an unbroken connection with the Catholic Church. She had God’s ear day and night. She also had a beautiful villa with high walls away from the gaze of the city. Because of this, Aunt Maria had long been a favoured destination for both women until her slow decline and eventual death in the winter of 1943. It had been Evelyn who had closed the old woman’s eyes. The villa was bequeathed, unsurprisingly, to a cloistered sect of nuns, which Dotty found highly erotic. The undervalued and wrongly attributed collection of still life paintings went to Evelyn.
At least you got the family fruit, Dotty wrote at the time.
Tell me again why you spent the duration of the war in Italy? said Dotty, finishing her Negroni. Evelyn’s absence from wartime London was her go-to tease.
I was taking care of my aunt, said Evelyn. I’ve told you countless times, you shameless woman. I go where I’m needed. Always have. The result of being brought up by an ailing, critical mother.
You were brought up by your father.
She was a short umbilical drive away.
Spy, said Dotty, grinning.
Lot of bunkum.
Spy, spy, spy, said Dotty, pleased with herself, ordering another round of cocktails. Spy, she mouthed and made her hand into a gun and shot the bread basket.
The two women were woefully underdressed for dinner and carried a faint whiff of pond, but their intention to leave was thwarted by Peppino the owner, who insisted they stay by uncorking a saucy bottle of Bardolino and whispering tasty suggestions from the kitchen. When he left, Evelyn said, Do I look as tipsy as I feel?
No point asking me, dear, said Dotty, I’ve been talking to two of you for the last hour. Cheers, sweets.
They were eyed suspiciously, of course, by pre-theatre diners until word got around who Dotty was. Her notoriety eclipsed any interest in the chef’s specials and women in their elegance and pearls were the ones eager to catch Dotty’s eye. Presenting themselves as the next muse, the next subject for a canvas, the next conquest. Dotty inhaled the attention, especially now there was space.
I’ve left her, she said, plopping an olive in her mouth.
Ah. I was wondering, said Evelyn, exhaling loudly.
Caroline Beevor-Candy was the woman in question. Not her real name, obviously, because Dotty was too discreet to reveal the identities of all her paramours. But the story followed an ever-familiar pattern – that of Dotty’s penchant for young married women. The subterfuge gave a much-needed energy boost to the post-menopausal hinterland of creative repetition. No matter what protestations Dotty made about the difference in age （often significant）， she invariably fell in love with love and the inspiration it brought. To see a beautiful woman writhe in climax beneath her made her incredibly productive, and canvas after canvas shot through the Cork Street coffers in those early days of lust. Evelyn often wondered if the gallery itself procured prospective lovers for her friend, a guarantee against the artistic equivalent of writer’s block.
It usually took six months for needy husbands and colicky children to become the inevitable reality, like the first leaf fall in September’s sultry yawn. Rose tint gave way to Prussian green or blue black, and large seascapes of doom were painted over Limbs with Summer Sweat.
Dotty looked again at the portrait of her friend. I’ve never painted so well, she said before replacing the painting on the wall. She downed a glass of grappa as if it was water and proceeded to deflate like a ruptured lung.
Evelyn knew what she needed to do. And she knew she was the only one who could do it. She reached across the table and grasped Dotty’s hands. She said, How about Florence?
And glassy-eyed and a bit drunk, Dotty said, Would I like her?
The following day they were in Cook’s travel agency in Mayfair.
C’mon, my dear Dotty, humour this ol’ gal. The change of scenery will do you good.