The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

this faff and ceremony about maintaining Russian tradition. MC always hated these Russian parties. Thought they were so fake, when Mimi never actually lived there, and my grandparents escaped when they were barely adults. They became more devoted Londoners than most Cockneys. I don’t know where she’d be more happy – she can’t seem to sink her roots deep enough here. But it’s important the family try and stay together. Not that MC would ever come back here. It was a bit of a blow to Mimi when she left, despite our … despite their differences. But Mimi’s happy I stayed around after college. I think she likes having me close.’

      ‘Marie-Claire doesn’t get on with the family?’ I asked cautiously, remembering his reluctance to speak about her the last time.

      ‘No … I … no not really. She’s a bit of a nonconformist. She’s … unusual. Pissed off with the world. Isn’t willing to believe that fate can sometimes deliver some tough times with the good.’

      ‘Do you miss her?’

      ‘Not really,’ Matt said hesitantly. ‘We didn’t get on. Anyway, she’s made a life for herself in California now. Ron’s a good bloke. Bit too American for my liking, but I think he looks after her.’

      ‘Do you really think they’ll never have kids?’

      ‘No, of course not! I mean, no. MC’s not really the family type. How come you’re so fascinated with my sister? Let’s drop her, okay?’

      ‘Don’t get short with me, Matt. I’m just curious. If I had a sister or a brother, I’d probably want to hang out with them all the time. I guess it’s because I don’t have one that the whole dynamic of having a sibling fascinates me. Surely it’s natural to want to know about you and your family.’

      I had obviously hit a chord with Marie-Claire. We weren’t in a sober state for in-depth family discussions. I was trying to find reasons to like Matt’s mother, but despite her fascinating background, it wasn’t happening. I wondered how MC felt about her.

      We arrived at Anne’s place. I fiddled with my key in the dark, swaying a little from too much vodka. Tonight I actually looked forward to Anne’s pull-out sofa bed, I was that tired, and was unable to analyse Matt’s irritability. I figured he’d come right in the morning. We kissed and he held me tight, as though delivering a silent apology for his reaction.

      * * *

      ‘Why do you not draw your son?’ asks Yasmine between mouthfuls of her food. ‘She made a lot of great pictures,’ she says to the others at the table, pointing a fork speared with a morsel of grey meat in my direction.

      My eyes flash. I don’t like talking about my art, but mostly I don’t like being the centre of attention.

      ‘I don’t know. I sometimes think I’ve forgotten what he really looks like,’ I reply. ‘I need to see him to be able to draw the essence of him. It’s harder than you think to draw my own son.’

      I keep my voice neutral. Though I think it would break me to try and draw him, unable to wrest the detailed memories from my mind. The curve of his rosy cheek or the sweep of his fine hair. Those grey eyes that only started to turn green when I had to say goodbye, their colour enhanced by his tears.

      ‘She has drawn me, you know. She’s a real artist,’ Yasmine says to Fatima who nods with eyebrows raised and mouth turned down at the corners.

      She’s vaguely impressed, or disinterested in my skills, I’m not sure which. A minuscule piece of bread crust sticks to Fatima’s lip, then falls onto Adnan’s head. She blows the crumbs from his crown as he sleeps. His fine fluffy hair puffs like gossamer. My throat tightens.

      ‘Perhaps you could start a business. Lulu’s Portraits,’ Yasmine continues, thinking out loud. ‘Yes, we could make a bit of money. Earn a few sous.’

      ‘We?’ I ask, amused. Lulu?

      ‘Yes, I will be your agent,’ she replies, presenting herself, flamenco fashion with a wave of her arm from head to chest, fingers splayed. ‘Of course you will give me a cut if I am to do your marketing and publicité.’

      ‘Caramba, Yasmine! You are to be my agent, remember? We have a business in cigarillos to organise,’ says Dolores huskily, eyes flashing.

      I have no desire to fight over Yasmine’s attention, though I can see where this is going. Yasmine, with that look on her face that says she is the centre of our universe, demanding deference.

      ‘I am not going to sell my paintings, okay?’ I say, not wanting to darken any moods, but knowing that things like this can escalate alarmingly quickly into dissension in this place. Tiny issues can turn rapidly into thermo-nuclear reactions.

       Chapter 5

      ‘So, Madame Favre, here we are,’ says Dr Schutz, as if we’re on a bus that has pulled up to our stop.

      I look around the sparse office, eyebrows raised with fake curiosity. I turn back to stare at the psychologist.

      ‘I’m really sorry, I thought I’d already told you. My name is not Madame Favre. I prefer to be called Mrs, or better still Ms Smithers. I don’t answer to Madame Favre any more. Sounds like a sordid joke in an opera. It was a sordid joke, Dr Schutz, the missus bit, if that’s what we’re here to talk about. I’m guessing you’re going to get me to talk about my relationship,’ I say, crossing my arms.

      I fix my gaze on the name shield on the psychologist’s desk. Frau Doktor Dagmar Schutz.

      The guards have already learned to use my maiden name, their various pronunciations amusing me each time.

      I’m wary of shrinks, especially after all the interrogation I’ve been through. Each party tearing themselves apart to prove either I am or I am not mentally stable. And nobody able to make their minds up about anything.

      ‘Okay, Mz Smizzers,’ says Dr Schutz over-patiently. ‘You have requested that our interviews be conducted in English from now on, though I am not sure why. I thought you were Swiss?’

      I’m surprised her English is so precise, except for the mispronounced ‘th’s. She speaks fluently, with an American accent, but I don’t ask her how long she lived in the States.

      ‘My French might be better than yours, Dr Schutz. But my mother tongue is English. I prefer not to be misunderstood in a language that is not my own. There has been plenty of misinterpretation over the past few years. And unfortunately, I never sought Swiss citizenship.’

      Dr Schutz tilts her head to one side. I imagine she’d like nothing better than for me to break down in tears and spill all my thoughts and secrets. I’ve done enough crying for now. But I know she’s a shrewd one, and she’d be used to belligerence in this place.

      ‘I’ve heard that you are doing good things among the women on the block,’ she says, trying a different tack. ‘You have volunteered to teach them a little English. Do you think this might help to keep the peace among all these women who speak different languages?’

      She looks up from her file at me, and I feel the flicker of a smile on my own lips. My pride has not been completely broken.

      ‘And the guards are talking about your paintings. Frau Müller is interested to have your copies of Erlach’s art sold at the next Schlossmärit. You must realise that all this is helping your case to show that you are ready to integrate into society when you are free. However, it doesn’t help your case that you are so sullen with me every time we meet. You may be forgetting that it is possible my reports have an influence on your requests to be able to see your son.’

      I check myself. I sometimes forget that Dr Schutz is not an emissary sent from Natasha to confirm that I am crazy and report back to the evil mistress. I have always assumed that her evaluations are of a negative nature, to persuade those in power that it would be better for JP to be