Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

Ah, the memories of twenty-six years ago. I haven't been back to Norwich since—until now. I was afraid of what I might find—that I would learn that my life here as a child and a youth was one of squalor that I barely escaped, even though the cost was high. Or worse, I have been afraid that I'd find that there was something noble here and clean that I sold cheaply.

What I found, though, was that it was difficult for me to remember the city at all—or much of my life or of what I did here or dreamt here. Sometimes I try to think of Howard as the first love of my life. But I find I can't picture him at all. And I have no idea what happened to him. A big fear of mine is that perhaps he returned here and is working at the Norfolk Art Institute. And that he will think I should remember him or, heaven forbid, that I should fall under his spell again.

I wouldn't be here at all if it wouldn't be remarked that I had left Norfolk—the shire of my own upbringing—out in this portfolio of art I'm putting together for the National Museum on the regional characteristics of people in Great Britain.

To my shame, I had to have researchers develop themes on a unique personality for Norfolk as much as I had to do for Devon. It was only the shires immediately bordering on London that I felt I could handle in my own imagination.

I do remember this café, though. And the longer I sit here, waiting for Neil Hampton to show up, the more snippets of my mentor, Martin Ashen, come back to me. Was I really that anxious to rise above Norwich and to become someone in the art world to have gone so docilely as I did? Was the price worth it?

"Mr. Barkley . . . Philip. I'm sorry I'm late."

I look up and see the young man I met at the art institute earlier in the day. He showed such promise and I told him so. The canvas he was working on exhibited talent and imagination; it just lacked a few strong brushstrokes to bring the perspective into control. And he, he himself. So sultry of looks. Dark curly hair, like an unruly crown, and the violet eyes and the artfully sported brush of a five-O'clock beard, giving his strong facial features exactly the look that my researchers told me would reflect the seafaring folk that settled the Norfolk coast and beat off the invasions of the Danes and merged their DNA with the French aristocrats fleeing here from their revolution.

"It doesn't matter," I answer. "You're here now. Please have a seat. Coffee or something stronger?"

"Coffee is fine."

As he sits, I lean over and place my hand on his thigh. I wish to know immediately what he is willing to do for me.

"Have you thought of my proposition? As I've said, you show promise and are, I think, wasting your talent here in Norwich. I would be happy to mentor you—if you will come to London with me."

"I think I do want that, yes," he answers.

I move my hand higher on this high and more to the inside, placing an index finger on the bulge of his crop.

"You do understand what I am proposing, don't you? For me to be able to work with you, the relationship will have to be total. I must know you fully. You will have to lie under me. And I will sketch you after sex—for my own uses."

"Yes, I understand." He has said that with a clutch in his throat, but I look into his eyes. So young; I had to recheck his age to be sure. But, yes, he has that look of wanting London.