Sublime

Grace Macaulay, then: seventeen, small and plump, with skin that went brown by the end of May. Her hair was black and oily, and had the hot consoling scent of an animal in summer. She disliked books, and was by nature a thief if she found a thing to be beautiful, but not hers. She didn’t know she couldn’t sing. She was inclined to be cross.

and she looks into my eyes as if trying to catch the image of a minnow that has darted across the pool of a limpid spring.

There, between the folded plaits, I saw a loose pearl, whose size equalled that of a coco-nut.

Stitched among the whorls were so many seed pearls, in such a massed weight, the dress could only have been worn by a strong woman whose love for extravagance and style exceeded the desire for comfort.

Single strand of pearls, wild, not cultured. (Worth it, she said. Only the wild ones had souls.)

‘And there is a pearl and sapphire necklace which you would be hard put to match anywhere in the world. Someone is interested in it, but if you wished to make a definite offer . . .’ He flicked at an underling. ‘Go on down to the safe, Ted, and get Number 509.’

Pearl had understood the hierarchy: her mother’s real work was her art, and whatever paid the bills existed only to make that art possible.