All the Rage (13 page)

Waiting patiently in the small queue at the restaurant entrance, Kara was blissfully idle with her daydreams. First, she planned highlights in her hair. Next on the wish list were new shoes to relieve the pain she now felt in her aching feet
. Why didn't Carrie from Sex and the City ever get aching feet? Life was so unfair
.
What else? A holiday in the sun! Yes, with Marcus: just the two of them on a deserted beach. He would be naked, of course. Her eyes rolled. Now there was a wicked image to make her inwardly laugh.
Not so unfair!
But it was another laughter which jolted her awake from such glorious fantasy. It was a faraway laughter; one that she instantly recognised. Searching the room, scanning a sea of faces, Kara spotted Adele. She was seated discreetly to the side of the restaurant with someone else – a man.

Kara cleared her head as best she could and took a deep breath. As the queue diminished in front of her, she found herself deliberately hiding behind the person in front, for fear of leaving herself exposed to Adele. And she wanted to remain hidden from them. This man with Adele was known to her, socially and professionally, and if their eyes met Kara would die of embarrassment.

John A. Fitzgerald was a distinguished marine painter, in his middle fifties, and a past president of the Royal Marine Society no less. He and Michael Strange were old and dear close friends. Indeed, it was Michael who gave him his first one-man exhibition in London. Over the years, John had won many awards and titles and was popular on the private dinner circuit. Steadfastly single, he was rakishly good-looking and amusing. Often, if he and Michael attended a high profile event, it was they who would take centre stage and inevitably be photographed for the tabloids. Michael affectionately referred to them as brothers; such was the close bond that existed between them. Business associates, golf buddies, holiday pals. John was even godfather to Michael and Adele's only son. It was an unbreakable friendship.

Therefore, it was at first glance no real surprise to see Adele and John together. Why wouldn't old chums have lunch together? Kara's initial shock slowly turned to indifference. Wild speculation was best left to the daily tabloids. But, in spite of this argument with herself, she still felt uncomfortable, gazing inadvertently in their direction one minute, looking away the next.

However, the natural compulsion to snoop was inevitable, and delicious. Kara became transfixed by them, catching sight of mutual shared pleasure and comfort. It was hypnotic. She again forced herself to look away. It was, she told herself, none of her business.

But then Kara recoiled as she witnessed, out of the corner of her eye, the sight of him leaning forward, holding Adele's hand affectionately, and brazenly kissing her on the mouth in full view of the restaurant.

Kara lost her appetite in an instant.

 

***

 

For Michael, talking to Maggie was central to understanding how someone with Lauren's deep-rooted complexity could create such a tangled web of emotional bankruptcy. She had alienated her only sister, her mother, then Julius, Antonia and now, possibly, himself. If in fact Maggie was right in her earlier analysis, then Lauren occupied different character traits, which in turn dictated her irrational actions: diverse actions that she was unaware of or simply refused to acknowledge. Conceivably, even dangerous actions, which forced Michael to question everything he knew or thought he'd known up to this point.

One example chilled him to the bone.

Maggie had said in their previous discussion, ‘Did you know that Lauren could paint? '

This comment brought the conversation vividly back to life in his head, as if spoken only seconds ago.

He had replied, ‘You mean in artistic terms? '

‘Yes. I'm strictly an emulsion girl, but Lauren is actually very good. Strangely, this talent materialises from one of
her
characters. For a long time she shared the studio at the farm with Julius. Unlike him, though, she didn't pursue a commercial career. She chose instead to work on development and personal challenge. Eventually, she decided to paint alone, using one of the spare bedrooms. She became reclusive. '

‘Did Julius encourage her to paint? ' Michael asked, intrigued.

‘I have no idea. What I do know is that she withdrew into herself, isolating herself from the outside world. Often, she painted furiously for days on end, locked in the house somewhere. Not eating. Not communicating. This was one of the many diverse personalities that took over her body and mind. A kind of craziness prevailed. '

Michael took a few seconds to digest this information. It made him question once again his involvement in all this. What was he getting into here? Warning lights flashed in his head. In addition, something far flung began to nag at his subconscious. ‘How did you know all this, especially as you say you didn't see each other? '

‘I'd been over to England a couple of times. Julius rang me once. He was beside himself with worry. To be honest with you, I think Julius thought Lauren was showing signs of madness. I came over and between us we coaxed her out of her makeshift studio, an upstairs bedroom at the time. She was unrecognisable: gaunt, unwashed, and feverish. In my view, her body was seriously dehydrated as well. Lauren refused to see a doctor and I took it upon myself to nurse her back to health. I also found evidence of self-harm. '

‘Drugs? '

‘Hard stuff – there were needle marks in her arms. Even worse, she had cut into her own flesh with a knife. There were also scald marks on her body. It was a shocking sight. I've since learnt that this self-harm originates directly from the cruelty that she suffered as a child. '

He started to compile a list. ‘Self-loathing, a cry for help…'

Maggie dropped her eyes from his. ‘A hell of a lot more complex than that,' she said. ‘Anyway, I stayed for ten days. It was a very bad time. Although her physical wounds healed, I'm afraid those concealed in her head turned cancerous. For Julius, I think it was the beginning of the end. '

‘Were they still in a relationship at that point? '

‘Barely,' she conceded. ‘They had separate rooms. Perversely, Lauren became abusive towards him. It was becoming impossible. Even I struggled to find a reason to justify her ever-increasing demands. She ceased being my sister for a while, I'm ashamed to admit. '

 

***

 

This episode took a more sinister turn, one that he was not properly prepared for. Michael again cast his mind back to when they walked together in the quiet of the garden, the two of them interrupted suddenly by Bruno, who scampered with manic intent around their feet, knocking over several plant pots in the process.

Maggie sensed his recoil at this intrusion. ‘Don't be alarmed,' she reassured him, ‘he won't hurt you, at least, not whilst you are with me.'

Michael wasn't entirely convinced. Composing himself, and with one eye on Bruno, he asked, ‘Where are the paintings she supposedly did? '

Abruptly, Maggie stopped and confronted him, holding firm his arms.

‘Listen to me, Michael. Leave this house and never return. ' Her voice held a conviction matched by the blazing intensity in her eyes. 'My sister is my own flesh and blood, and she is all I will have left after our mother has departed. Our father is dead. Our baby brother is dead. I am the lucky one. I have a husband and two fine children. Lauren has no one to turn to, except for those who madly invade her head. ' Maggie gripped him tighter. ‘I will look after Lauren. Not you.
You
must get away. Now, whilst you can, do you understand? It is not safe for you. Julius could not cope. What makes you think you can? '

He stared in silence, locked in her gaze, searching for guidance. He needed proof. ‘The paintings. . ? ' he said.

‘Come with me,' she said, leading him forcibly by the arm.

Entering the house, Maggie took him on a path that was all too familiar to him. Eventually, they stood on the threshold of Lauren's bedroom, where so recently she had demanded that he make love to her. Pushing back the door, Maggie shouted, ‘So you wanted to see Lauren's paintings. Take a good long look. '

Reluctantly, Michael moved forward and encircled the interior of the room, gape-mouthed, as he slowly reacquainted himself with the grotesque images on the walls. ‘Jesus Christ, Lauren told me…'

‘…that Julius had painted them? ' Maggie grabbed him again, forcing him to halt his almost manic swirling movement. ‘Look carefully at every one of these pictures, Michael. Each one represents a depiction of violation against the female form, most certainly of Lauren herself. It's easy to see the self-mutilation, self-loathing, and self-destruction. She once accused Julius of holding her prisoner in this house, against her will. Not so. He was the prisoner, I see it now. Her wild accusations were all part of the delusion, but this was the biggest delusion of all. She degraded herself: these canvases were painted by her own hand. '

Michael wiped the sweat from his brow. He was shocked to the core.

Unable to speak, it was left to Maggie to finish what he was thinking.

‘The really frightening aspect to all this,' she said, ‘is that Lauren, my dear sister, sleeps in here. It has become a shrine of sorts. Listen to my words, Michael. Get out while you can. Whatever demons possess her world will control yours too, if you allow it. And Lauren is a very persuasive person. '

‘And a manipulative person? '

‘In my opinion, yes: someone or something is compelling her to do things beyond our reasoning. Why else would she
choose
to sleep with these images? '

For once he had no clear answers. Perhaps he never would. Standing at the window, he stared into the garden below, which was shrouded in a thin mist. Suddenly, his attention swung toward Bruno. The dog was acting oddly, chasing shadows and barking at unseen ghosts. But now something else grabbed his attention. Bruno appeared agitated, first pacing back and forth; then scratching furiously at the base of the recently constructed buttress, which supported one side of the giant barn. Watching Bruno's behaviour made him feel extremely perturbed. In his macabre imagination, he could see a corpse being unearthed. Even the smell of rotting flesh invaded his nostrils; such was the strength of the image in his head. Like the contents of this room, it made him shudder. Closing the door quickly behind them, he asked Maggie, ‘Is Julius alive…or dead? '

‘I don't want to even think of
that
horrible possibility. ' Her voice trailed off. Then she led him down the stairs, faraway from the prison they had just occupied.

 

***

 

Recalling this incident over and over and reliving all that it entailed made Michael both nauseous and emotionally drained. He was in no doubt that Maggie expressed sincere intentions in her desire to push him away from Lauren. It was big sister's fervent wish for him to distance himself from people and events that, in some part, were not for his meddling. It made perfect sense, except that she was too damned forceful, in his opinion. What he did know and trust in
his
world was by now disturbed, too, and he found an imperfect empathy with Lauren's plight. At the end of the day, she had asked –
pleaded
– for help, and in spite of all the complex characters that supposedly inhabited her body and soul, Michael had fallen in love with the real Lauren O'Neill. She still bewitched him.

He would endeavour to find and repair the missing links in her life and ultimately set her free. In all, he trusted Maggie but only to a degree. A deep suspicion remained. He felt she was not telling the whole truth. She was holding back from him.

Now, driving down to the farm for his two o'clock rendezvous with Lauren, Michael was genuinely frightened. Not in a physical sense, more a gut feeling of foreboding. He felt dazzled and confused. As much as he tried, he failed alarmingly to unscramble his brain. It was on overload. He was all too aware, though, that this pre-arranged meeting could have far- reaching implications for everyone. It was a daunting prospect.

Chapter Seven

 

John Fitzgerald and the strikingly attractive woman adorning his arm took the short walk from Fortnum and Mason to the park, further down on Piccadilly, just beyond The Ritz Hotel. The couple strolled in the sunshine, as lovers do.

They chatted intimately, held hands, laughed with carefree abandonment and fed the ducks at the nearby pond with leftover bread from the restaurant table. Mingling anonymously with the crowd on this unseasonably warm afternoon was clearly a joy for two people with a secret.

Kara observed from afar, and saw just what Michael had previously referred to in the pub, when he mentioned absent wives
.
Obviously, Adele had found a new life. Now she wanted the hidden treasure – her freedom – to go with it as well. Kara was incensed. As far as she was concerned, it was obvious that Adele was prepared to destroy anything or anyone who was getting in the way of obtaining her ultimate goal.

Returning to the gallery, Kara took front-of-house to allow Ronald his lunch break. Her mind was a swirling mass of contradictions. First there was the message on the mirror, and now this shocking liaison in the restaurant: had she really witnessed what her disbelieving eyes could barely conceive? Was it really possible? Had she foolishly misinterpreted what she had seen? Unable to settle, or concentrate properly, she effectively busied herself doing nothing. Replacing a painting in the main showcase window, her heart jumped a beat as she caught sight of Adele approaching the entrance. Thankfully, she was alone. Dressed in Paul Costello and L. K. Bennett, she personified cool and sophistication. Aloof and unfathomable, she sauntered toward Kara without an apparent care in the world. Kara swallowed hard. ‘
You
bitch
,' she cursed under her breath.

 

***

 

As he had anticipated, Lauren's greeting at the farm was cold and business-like. They kissed, but not passionately. He avoided the obvious subject of her visit to Ireland and his inappropriate proposal to go to Venice. In short, Michael decided he would allow her to broach the subject of either when she had time to thaw. The problem, however, was her authentic portrayal of a gigantic block of ice. Global warming would not succeed in melting her. He felt like the captain of the Titanic. A collision between them was inevitable. It would be funny if it weren't so serious. He had a job to do and any conflict would be counterproductive to this aim. Besides, he was angry and also on a short fuse.

Two kegs of dynamite, ready to explode. Not a good recipe for peaceful resolution, he concluded wisely.

Instead, they circled each other, giving no quarter. Even Bruno sniffed the tension and backed off. Give her space, Michael decided, and copied the antics of the bewildered dog. Pals to the last.

Julius's studio was a logistical nightmare. It took Michael two hours to organise some kind of system to enable him to assess finished paintings (those signed), unfinished paintings, watercolours, drawings, preliminary sketches, and cast-offs. Then there were the neatly stacked sketch books, photographs, expensive frames and limited edition prints to sort through and catalogue. In cardboard boxes, he discovered cameras, a laptop, table easels, tubes of paint and hundreds of brushes. Everything, in fact, that you would expect to find. Although he worked methodically and briskly, Michael was not particularly focused on this part of the task. This was solely for the benefit of Lauren. It made him appear thorough and professional. What he really wanted to unveil was information as to the identity of Antonia. Find her, he believed, and he would find Julius.

The afternoon crawled along at a snail's pace.

Lauren was the first to weaken. Eventually, at around four in the afternoon, she brought him tea and cakes on a tray. He knew curiosity had got the better of her. Before then, she had steadfastly kept herself to the other side of the house. He could play this game. Keep patient. Be cool.

‘Time for a well-earned break? ' she asked.

In rolled-up sleeves, Michael surfaced from behind a large carton of unused canvasses. Brushing dust from his head and shoulders, he emitted a surprised cough. What an actor!

‘It can be thirsty work,' he announced, surveying the organised chaos that he had created.

‘Winning? ' She poured the tea and offered him a cup.

‘Hardly,' he corrected her. ‘It could take days. I have to somehow value the stock, those that are current and those that are old, against prices of five years ago and the current market level, whatever that may be. Not easy when I am not familiar with the reputation of the artist. However, I do have price lists from past exhibitions and you will be able to help as well. I'll also contact galleries who have handled painting sales. It's a big job. If you don't mind, I'll probably get my secretary to do a lot of this preliminary investigation. '

Lauren's expression bordered on crestfallen. ‘I don't want to put you to so much trouble. '

‘I gave you my word,' he reassured her, as he took a sip of tea. ‘But I need help. Bringing in Kara will speed things up and allow me to concentrate on the marketing of the Porter collection. '

She agreed. ‘Fine by me. Shall I prepare dinner for later? '

He looked at his watch, then at her. 'It depends. I don't want to get back to London too late. '

‘Then stay the night, Michael. ' He was somewhat taken back by her forthright manner.

‘Is that what you really want? We've barely spoken to each other lately. '

She looked at him differently now: longingly. ‘Yes, Michael, it's what I want. I've had an exhausting few days, and I've missed you. I'm so sorry for my behaviour. I've been under a lot of stress. '

He approached cautiously, but refrained from touching her.

‘We all need comfort,' he said softly.

Shockingly, Lauren spontaneously unbuttoned her blouse and exposed her naked breasts. Her breathing was heavy and seductive. In an instant, she reached out for him.

‘I need to be fucked, actually.
Now
would be a good time. '

 

***

 

Dawn light eventually filtered into the room, bathing them in a yellow glow. Michael stirred, aware of his immediate discomfort. His limbs ached. He slowly adjusted his eyes. In the window frame, Lauren stood silently still, wrapped in a white silk bedspread. Her flawless skin was bleached from the light, her hair wavy, long and entangled from the heated sex. Seeing her like this took his breath away. She was a thing of utter beauty.

Transfixed, he stared in wonder, reminded instantly of ‘La Belle Irlandaise', a painting by Gustave Courbet. It was a portrait of Jo Hiffernan, the beautiful Irish girl. The comparison haunted him, enriched him.

He watched her for several minutes. Then the aching returned, disturbing his concentration.

He discovered his discomfort came from the makeshift bed of cushions, which were by now scattered across the wooden floor, leaving him a hard place to rest on. He winced, and then took in his surroundings.

In the gloom, he made out a huge oak refectory table with ten accompanying heavy chairs. Behind him, against his bare back, a massive red sofa shorn of cushions was pushed against a wall. The great dining room was dark-wood panelled from top to floor, with two gothic chandeliers hanging, like giant spiders, from the beamed ceiling. The clinging cobwebs emphasised the illusion. The silhouetted flower arrangements were neglected, dead and lifeless in elegant cut-glass vases atop the table. The smell from stagnant water hung pungent in the air.

Shifting his weight, Michael sat upright against the sofa. Lauren had not moved, unaware of his silent awakening. Looking round still further, his eyes alighted upon the impressive paintings adorning the walls. He counted twelve in total. Then it hit him.

‘My God,' he whispered his eyes wide with excitement. She then turned in his direction, almost with a telepathic anticipation of his reaction. Her smile was triumphant.

The paintings were sumptuous and grand and expansive. Each one depicted a young sexually-charged woman, captured in elegant poses; some half-naked, others draped in beautiful and exotic gowns. The inspirational brushstrokes, free flowing and commanding, were reminiscent of great artists of the past: Rossetti, George Frederic Watts, and Whistler. The glazing technique which the artist had employed gave each canvas an effervescent glow, bringing alive each character's fine portrayal; mystical, visionary and perfect. Here was a connection between the sexual and the divine. The paintings contained the three themes of Symbolism: Death. Sleep. Erotic Impulse. Michael was unsettled, and a little overawed. What he saw was a magnificent obsession: An artist at the height of his powers. He instantly recognised the main sitter in
all
of the portraits. Antonia.

Hung grandly before him, in all their individual glory, was the collective work of the deceased artist, Patrick Porter.

For a fleeting moment, time became suspended as the air was sucked from Michael's lungs. He stood and marvelled at the splendour in silence.

‘Well? ' Lauren murmured, searching his face for pain or pleasure. She came quietly to stand by his side.

Catching her appreciative gaze, Michael took her hand and slowly examined the exquisite paintings, staring intently at the sheer beauty and poetry contained in each commanding brushstroke.

‘Simply breath-taking,' Michael said. He had the eye of an expert. ‘A truly great artist and a wonderful collection. How lucky you are. '

‘A curse, actually. ' She dropped her head to his shoulder. He responded by holding a reassuring arm around her slender waist.

‘Why do you say that? '

‘They remind me of all things difficult in my life. They bring back memories of hurt and suffering, fighting and…and…simply surviving.'

Michael reminded himself of his conversations with Maggie, but this was not the moment to invade those inner torments.

Instead, he asked, ‘How did you come to acquire them? '

‘Oh, over a period of time. Julius and I bought one every year to celebrate our wedding anniversary; hard to believe that now. During the good times, he earned a very decent living, and as you know, it is only in recent years that a Porter original has begun to fetch huge money. Some of these cost a fraction of their true value today. '

‘Did you know the artist? '

‘No. We bought from galleries and auction houses. '

Her answer was too swift for his liking. Convinced that she had lied, he didn't press it, instead choosing another path which would test her nerve. ‘The girl in the paintings…she's absolutely stunning. Do you know who she was? '

He'd pushed too far.

She abruptly turned away and walked from the room, ignoring his question. It was not unexpected. She had deceived him about the “decent” living from her husband, which Michael knew was not correct because of his conversation with Kara. Also, she was in denial with regard to the identity of Antonia. More disturbingly, why would she continue to have a constant reminder of her love rival so close to home? Any normal person would put the collection out of sight, rather than parade such blatant reminders. It was as if …but Michael could not finish his train of thought. It would nag like a bad toothache though.

He followed her into the kitchen, and tried to comfort her by offering a shoulder to cry on.

‘Lauren, this needs an answer. You have asked me to sell the paintings. How can I do this if Julius owns them as well? It's called entitlement. I would need his permission. '

She broke free from him and recklessly drank stale red wine from a dirty glass, which she had poured the night before. It must have tasted sour. Looking at him once again, she said emphatically, ‘Each one was a gift to me. I own every one of them, Michael. I do not need permission. I can part with them in whichever way I choose. I can burn them if I want. '

Michael pondered her response. ‘Have you this entitlement in writing? '

She was cleverly prepared for this line of interrogation.

‘Behind each painting is a hand written card from Julius that states they are a gift to me. I have verified this with a solicitor. Therefore, I have rightful ownership. '

‘Yes, in that case, it appears so,' he said reluctantly.

Lauren reinforced her point. ‘Julius will not contest what is rightfully mine,' she replied. ‘Besides, he is not in a position to do so.'

‘Is that right? ' Uneasy, he nevertheless pressed ahead. ‘How fast do you want to act on this? '

‘Take them and sell them, quickly. Can you do this for me? '

‘Yes, of course I can. Naturally, each will need to be photographed and marketed to the right people. We can produce a brochure, sell on-line or go to auction, whichever route brings the quickest and best return. '

‘I want privacy. '

‘Agreed. Personally, I would organise a special private viewing. I have the necessary clients for this scale of work, many of whom would prefer to remain anonymous. We do not need a fanfare. ' He sounded convincing, and in truth, he was right. However, the real motive for this line of action was to eliminate Adele from the equation. Organised correctly, this was his opportunity – possibly his only opportunity – to conduct a financial killing that would bring him back from the brink of ruin. He needed no further incentive. Success equalled reward: money.