The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley by Jeremy Massey Read Free Book Online Page B

packing up my briefcase.
    â€œAre you sure? There’s a fridge full of food here and I’m going to have to throw it all out if it’s not eaten.”
    â€œNo, really, I can’t do it, but you’re very kind to ask, thank you.” I rose to my feet and picked up my briefcase.
    She took two wine glasses from the cupboard and picked up a bottle of red from the shelf beside the cooker. “Then have a glass of wine with me at least.”
    The way she said it had me wondering again whether she liked me, making me hesitate long enough for her to close the deal.
    â€œSettled then,” she said, and she uncorked the bottle. I relaxed back into my seat and rested the briefcase on the floor beside me.
    â€œOkay,” I said, swearing to myself I’d leave after one glass. “Thank you.”
    She sat down at the table and filled the two glasses.
    â€œYou know you don’t look like an undertaker.”
    â€œWhat does an undertaker look like?”
    She took a sip of wine, considering me. It was a Château Certan, 2006, from Bordeaux, and as far as my palate was concerned, exquisite.
    â€œI don’t know, but even five minutes ago when you were playing an undertaker, I still saw you as somehow detached from it all, like an observer, in a slightly voyeuristic sense.” She trailed off, making me raise my eyebrows and smile, which made her laugh a little, preempting another of those silences.
    I took a drink from my wine and savored the taste while Brigid looked at me. Apart from her beauty, her energy and humility were especially alluring: A readiness to laugh, particularly in difficult situations, had always disarmed me; and the lack of self-importance and ego emanating from her was refreshing. She didn’t play on her looks, but operated instead from the seat of her character. Sitting with her now, I felt more comfortable than I had in quite a while. Lucy’s effect on me earlier had been a soothing one and, of course, being around her exquisite beauty had been a pleasure, but with Brigid it was different. The harmony between us was effortless and captivating.
    â€œWhat do you do?” I asked.
    The cat arrived in from outside and stopped to brush against my leg. I rubbed its face before picking it up to let it rest on my lap.
    â€œI’m a painter,” said Brigid. I cocked my head to listen, as relaxed now as she and the cat were. “Six years ago, I used to share a studio with a sculptor, an old man who came to London in the seventies from India and stayed, and he told me about the seven veils.”
    â€œThe dance of the seven veils?” I said.
    â€œNo, veils we use to hide and reveal ourselves. He said everyone has seven veils they use throughout their lives. When you’re standing at a bus stop or waiting in line at the airport, you’ve got your seven veils on. Then if you pass by a neighbor on the street you know vaguely, you nod to her with six veils on. Then at work when you’re around people you’re familiar with but have no real friendship with, you drop down to five. With acquaintances, you alternate between five and four; with good friends, between four and three; with family, it’s three veils and sometimes two, and with the one you love, two veils or, very occasionally, one. And the last one, he said, you never take off.”
    I had the cat purring loudly now.
    â€œWhen I’m painting people, I always notice how many veils they have on. When a model is standing naked in front of you, they very often—usually, in fact—have their seven veils on. And then you might find an old woman sitting on a bench, say, fully clothed; she could be lost in thought and be wearing only two veils. But you, as an undertaker, get to see people stripped of their veils every day because death does that. It’s a privilege.”
    I looked back at Brigid, considering what a privileged position I was in. I had the warmth and company