All the Rage (14 page)

‘What is your cut? ' asked Lauren.

‘Forty per cent of retail plus Vat, and I'll cover all costs. '

‘A deal,' Lauren said. She smiled. ‘Champagne? '

It amazed him to see her transform from icy cold to red hot in an instant. Clearly, she had her reasons to not court publicity, and she was keeping her cards close to her chest. He was impressed. Here was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. No messing. It was unnerving.

Michael regained his composure, and thought of the celebration toast. ‘Normally, I would say no at this time of the morning, but, what the hell. ' He felt the devil in him. This was his chance to beat Adele.

‘I'll tell you what, Mr Big Shot, I'll go one better. Seeing as we skipped dinner last night, how about smoked salmon and scrambled eggs as well? '

‘Perfect. ' He didn't just mean breakfast.

Although Maggie had warned him of the danger, he realised that he needed this woman. It was a compulsion, not only for her dead sexy body, but for the dead sexy profitable paintings as well. He would feast on them both.

While Lauren busied herself in mixing the eggs with butter and milk, Michael uncorked the Pol Roger Vintage and began to analyse the mind-blowing preparation that was required in insuring and then collecting the paintings from the dining room, informing the right clients and putting on a private exhibition at the gallery and keeping all this from the grasp of his estranged wife. It would not be easy. Subterfuge would be required. For a start, he would have to enlist the help of Kara. She could be relied upon in matters of secrecy.

Silently, the cogs began to turn.

 

***

 

After breakfast, Michael insisted on carrying on with the task of evaluating the contents of the studio. Lauren seemed relaxed with this, choosing a luxuriant long soak in the bath instead. He in turn showered quickly, made coffee for them both, and attempted a second assault on obtaining what he really came for. At last, he would have the necessary time to be alone; time to concentrate the mind.

In order to regain her confidence, he firstly planted the seeds of a new venture over breakfast. Knowing that Venice was a no-go area, the idea of further seduction and romance meant a necessary rekindling of the eternal flame. Although last night truly shocked him, Michael needed to create an unshakable bond between them, which wasn't entirely dependent on just shagging each other's brains out. There needed to be a core. Originally, he had believed that her initial disdain for him on her return from Ireland would be hard to break down. He needed a strategy. Now, it was almost a superfluous diversion, but he decided to go ahead with it anyway. This, he hoped, would dispel any disloyalty which she may have begun to dwell upon with regard to their relationship. On the table he handed her an envelope containing two airline tickets and a weekend stay at the La Colombe d'Or Hotel in St. Paul de Vence. This time it had the desired effect.

After a long pause, Lauren said, ‘Michael, this is just divine. '

‘A good choice? '

‘A simply wonderful choice,' she responded. ‘I adore you. '

The idea, he explained, was to go in June, when the climate was kinder. In truth, the idea was to distract her attention away from his intended purpose of unravelling a puzzle, hidden in the studio. A puzzle, he had to admit rather forlornly, that had either crucial pieces missing or, more worryingly, were hidden from his immediate grasp. Nevertheless, the tickets did the trick twofold. Point one, she was back in the core, and point two, he had control.

Leaving her to bathe in blissful solitude, Michael knew that Lauren was now lost in romantic dreams, far, far away on the famous Cote d'Azur. This gave him the luxury of both seclusion and precious time.

Scrambling through umpteen boxes, turning over piles of notebooks, emptying files, he searched in vain. ‘
Just one name
,
damn it,'
he cursed under his breath. The unravelling of the studio was a cause of frustration.

There were hundreds, literally, hundreds of art books, photographic journals, sketchbooks, CDs, accountancy files…it was an impossible task. He cursed again. Think. Think. Where would it be, this evidence he so craved?

Frantically searching still further, he was now becoming dispirited. Lauren would soon become restless from her joyous dreams and join him. He was running out of time.

Where
?
Where?
Then he saw it.

A parcel tube was propped in the corner, wrapped in fancy gold paper, now torn and tattered. A red ribbon was attached. This was unmistakably a girl's touch. The thin tube was initially hidden behind a stack of unused canvases, and somehow he had dislodged them. Now the tube was visible. Lauren would not know of its existence. From the evidence of the dust that had accumulated over the years, Michael was sure that Lauren had never taken it upon herself to search this studio. She had been too angry with Julius. If he had disappeared, intentionally or not, it was clear that all the rage, all the pent-up rage in their volatile relationship, was contained in this one space. She had never forgiven him for his sins. As a result, this room was left to rot.

Seizing the tube, Michael carefully withdrew the contents. It appeared to be a drawing, encased in protective acid free paper. Nervously, he unrolled the sheath, revealing a delicate pencil and chalk sketch of a man. It was a head and shoulder study of Julius. In the left hand corner was the inscription ‘To Julius. ' By now his palms began to perspire. Scanning across the image, his heart pounded relentlessly. In the bottom right hand corner was a signature.

Antonia Forlani. He almost stopped breathing.

Distracted by a noise, Michael suddenly became aware of footsteps on the stairs. Desperately, he rolled up the drawing, reinserted it back into the tube and jammed it once again behind the canvasses. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he barely had time to think before Lauren glided in. He said the first thing that entered his head.

‘Feel better? ' he asked, closing a random file which he had snatched within easy arm's reach. He hoped the panic wouldn't show on his face.

‘
Much
better. ' She smiled contentedly. ‘All done? '

He pretended to stretch wearily. ‘For today, at least,' he said. ‘I've made good progress. I'll get Kara to do the final listing. Then we'll assess the value. '

‘What's your initial opinion? '

Michael felt hot under the collar. He needed air. ‘Hard to say,' he replied. ‘At auction, there's money here, that's for sure. ' Then he added, ‘But nowhere in the league of the Patrick Porter collection. '

‘What do you think the Porter collection is worth? '

By now, he simply wanted to retreat from the studio. The atmosphere was becoming oppressive, and he was in panic mode. ‘Can I have a glass of water? ' It was more of a command.

She led him back to the kitchen. Thankfully, the garden doors were open, allowing him fresh oxygen. He gulped down three glasses of iced water.

‘Are you all right? ' Lauren asked, slightly amused.

‘I blame last night,' he said, shaking his head in mock surrender.

‘Too much for an old man? ' she asked. ‘Perhaps you should make a confession right now – are you having trouble keeping up with me? ' Her laughter was infectious.

Grabbing his car keys and jacket, he turned toward the door. She looked surprised by his sudden departure, but didn't make a protest.

‘Till the next time,' Michael said by way of an explanation. He smiled broadly, concealing an inner feeling of rising excitement and expectation.
He had found the name.
His nerve ends tingled.

Two things he wanted to say. ‘Yes, I definitely have trouble keeping up with you. ' Then, at the car, he added rather coolly with no apparent connection, ‘One point five million sterling, to share. '

‘Pardon? ' Lauren said, kissing him goodbye. She seemed bemused.

Igniting the engine, he unwound the car window and looked at her.

‘You can do a lot of things with one million pounds. Start a new life. Leave the past behind. That's a conservative estimate of the Porter collection, I reckon. '

Pulling urgently forward on the gravel drive, he shouted over the screech of the car tyres, ‘You could make a killing with that kind of money. '

Then he was away in a cloud of dust.

Chapter Eight

 

The night drive home gave him a chance to recover his senses and allow for a welcome degree of relief from the lunacy that surrounded him. Why was everything so damned complicated? After he had left Lauren's house, he elected to stay out of London, choosing instead to steer the car through the country lanes of Hampshire, back into Surrey, out to Sussex, beyond the historic town of Arundel, and eventually follow the road signs leading back to the big city. Hours passed. Alone, he felt anonymous and untouchable. He craved this sanctuary. For the first time, he found a kind of inner strength and fortitude which had eluded him recently. Insanity was a lonely business. And he didn't want to remain alone. Refuelling at a garage, he bought a newspaper, a tasteless cardboard covered sandwich and cold fizzy drink. The A3 at Hindhead stretched out before him. Before leaving the forecourt, he dialled Kara at her home.

‘Hi, it's Michael. '

‘Where are you? ' Kara sounded somewhat sleepy.

‘Driving back to London,' he answered. ‘How was your day with Adele? '

‘Best description in a single word? Grotesque. '

‘Listen,' Michael said, ‘I'll be in the gallery early tomorrow. Will you meet me at nine? '

She yawned. ‘No probs. '

‘I have a hell of a lot to tell you. '

 

***

 

Kara drew the remnants of a cold cup of tea to her lips. It was ghastly, just like the many images that flashed through her brain from the preceding bad days: The message on the mirror, Adele kissing John.

‘I have a hell of a lot to tell you too,' she replied, but he had long gone from the other end of the line. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. In truth though, she had decided to conceal the episode in the ladies room from him; it was simply still too raw and humiliating for her to share at this stage. Besides, it was he who was on the precipice, and he needed no further burden to carry at this stage either, especially with what she was about to reveal concerning his devious wife and best friend.

 

***

 

That next morning, Michael entered the gallery in a jaunty mood, almost with a swagger. On the doormat was a solitary letter, which he grabbed. Ronald had the day off. It was just him and Kara. He switched on the lights, the desktop computer, opened the electronic window shutters and filled the kettle. He discarded the envelope in his hand and waited for his trusted aide. She came in at nine sharp.

Over coffee, he relayed the events of the previous day at the farm, omitting the raunchy interlude, and explained the significance of the discovery of Antonia's surname. In his opinion, it was a vital piece of the jigsaw. He told of the fabulous collection contained in the dining room and the not insignificant wealth that could be obtained from their collective sale. More importantly, he requested her complete secrecy on the matter.

After hearing himself speak for what seemed an eternity, he sensed something was wrong. ‘Kara, what is the matter? It's not like you to be so withdrawn. '

She drew breath. Pouring a second coffee, she paced the gallery floor before returning to where he sat. ‘Michael, there is no easy way to tell you this, so I'll come straight out with it. I've seen Adele with another man. '

‘
Another man
? ' Although he had raised this possibility with Adele in the past, the idea still shocked him. ‘As in…'

Kara looked at him directly. ‘As in
the
other man, damn it. The boyfriend. Her lover. Whatever! ' Michael tried to collect his muddled thoughts.
Another man.
He had suspected for many months her involvement with someone else. He had even notified his solicitor of this possibility, but still…

‘Another thing,' Kara volunteered. She bit her lip. ‘It's someone you know, someone you know very, very well. '

Michael slumped back into his chair, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Johnny,' he said, with an air of resignation.

Kara crouched beside him. ‘I'm so sorry. '

‘Not as much as he will be,' Michael announced flatly.

All morning they immersed themselves in the routine business of the day; everyday details which needed to be finalised. On top of that, Michael explained to Kara the procedure for arranging a security firm to collect the Patrick Porters. It was decided that Kara would remain in charge of listing and researching them, valuing each and checking the authenticity of provenance. Michael still had his suspicions as to rightful ownership. This led him to his next task.

He closed his office door and sat behind his desk. Reaching for the telephone, he dialled the number contained on the scribbled note from Kara. He heard the international tone and waited for the distant reply.

‘Buon giorno. Galleria Accademia Dorsoduro. Agnes Olivetti. '

‘Buon giorno. How sweet is your voice. '

‘Ah, is that you, Michael? It is so lovely to hear from you. '

‘It's been too long, Agnes. How are Adriano and the boys? '

‘Very well, very well. '

‘And business. . ? ' The line crackled, making it difficult to listen.

‘Sorry? Ah, business…business is always hard, but we cope. How are you managing in London? '

It was great to reminisce. He and Agnes went back too many years to remember. They had first met as fine art students at St. Martins. She eventually joined the European antiquities division at Sotheby's, working in the capital and then New York. For the past ten years, she and her husband had run their own gallery and restoration workshop in Venice. It was always like old times when they spoke, even though they had not made contact in perhaps eighteen months. Old friends, treasured friends, it didn't truly matter that time and space separated them.

He took up her theme of conversation. ‘Very similar circumstances, Agnes. We live in an entirely different world after 9/11. The bombings here in London have made us all feel, well, unsafe and insecure. But, like you, we cope. '

‘How…how is Adele? '

It was the line of enquiry he was dreading.

‘Listen, Agnes, the line is bad. Adele is fine. Can you do something for me? '

‘Anything, Michael. '

He shifted the phone to the other ear. ‘I'm trying to track someone down whom I believe lives in or around Venice. '

‘An artist? '

‘Possibly. Her name is Antonia Forlani. That is all I know. '

Agnes was quiet, as if weighing up the possibilities. ‘That is enough for now, Michael. I have people who can help. Adriano's brother works in the local police force. If she is here, we will find her.'

Michael was elated. ‘Bravo. It is urgent. If you have any kind of success, ring me on my mobile. Do you still have the number? '

‘Of course. '

‘Agnes, I cannot thank you enough. Ciao. '

‘Thank me later with flowers. Ciao. '

Michael replaced the telephone, and reflected: another gearshift, moving forward.

 

***

 

Beyond anything else, he was beginning to hate John Fitzgerald. A close friendship lasting over three decades, they were confidantes, business associates, playboys, gamblers, winners and losers, Christ, they considered themselves eternal blood brothers. They shared everything.
Everything
. Even the same woman, it now seemed.

It stuck in his throat. Trust and betrayal, such close enemies. Oh, how he now remembered the “little” things which added up to a trail of deceit and dishonour. Searching his memory, it was always these little things that spelt denial: the mutual laughter that only John and Adele shared; the awkward touches that went unnoticed; the sugar coated concern they had for each other. It went on. The exclusion of others, most notably of himself and John's long suffering wife, Suzanne. The secret phone calls. Looking back, how many of those were there? Countless conversations, he guessed. Then there were the furtive meetings; too many to even speculate. On one occasion, he recalled seeing hidden sidelong glances between them. Was it his imagination playing tricks? No. It was all there. Now, thinking about it, he was sure that Suzanne knew. It was only he who failed to recognise the blatant signs at the time. He so wanted to trust her. Blind fucking optimism always got in the way.

He slammed the tabletop with his fist. ‘
Bloody fool! What a bloody fool I am! '
He spat out the words with venom. Contemptible rage boiled in his skull.

No longer would he be the bloody fool. If John and Adele wished to flaunt themselves in the public gaze, unapologetic and shameless, then he too could conduct himself accordingly. So far, he had respected Adele's viewpoint, agreed in principle to her demands, and wished for a harmony of sorts to reflect a relationship of many years standing. Then there was their son, Toby. He lived and worked in New York. So far, they had managed to keep the lid on the situation and deflect the problem of their marriage from him. But now he would need protecting. The shit was about to hit the fan.

In the main gallery, Michael found Kara busy on the laptop, bringing the address labels up-to-date. It was a laborious task, but a vital one. The street outside was empty. She looked up. ‘You OK? '

Agitated, he rearranged the vase of freshly cut white lilies, but in his haste only ended up staining his striped shirt in the process. His mind was elsewhere. He could no longer avoid it. With a heavy heart, he asked, ‘Tell me exactly what you saw. '

He listened impatiently whilst Kara relayed her lunch break sortie and the manner of her initial sighting of Adele with John. He knew she was being ultra-careful with her description of the after dinner amble in the park. It hurt. Accordingly, he could see on her face that it was hard work hiding the truth. She was a poor liar, and it showed.

‘What was she like with you during the afternoon in the gallery? ' he asked.

‘Business-like. Somewhat aloof. She practically hijacked my office, insisted on working alone, making herself look important and necessary. The
cow.
' Bringing her hand to her mouth, Kara said, ‘I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said that. '

‘Forget it,' Michael said, ‘I was thinking the same. '

‘What are you going to do? '

‘Murder them. ' He said the words without the trace of a smile.

Kara stood and stretched. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea first? '

 

***

 

The afternoon went surprisingly quickly. At one point they were overrun with a coach load of tourists from Belgium. Always a dead loss, Michael concluded dismissively, more often than not holidaymakers looking for prints of Big Ben. Kara, on the other hand, was master of this situation and kept everyone moving…towards the exit. Michael retreated from the fray and involved himself with an old acquaintance from a nearby restaurant, a keen collector who had popped in unannounced. After a little haggling, they agreed on a price for a small watercolour of Hampstead Heath by Miles Birket Foster: a mere £12,000. It made the afternoon go even quicker.

‘Still got the old magic touch,' he announced triumphantly.

‘I would have sold him two. ' Kara said with a sly smile.

 

***

 

Later, Kara took a private telephone call from Marcus. Michael heard her giggling as she retreated to a corner of the gallery. Other calls came in from the framing workshop, the printers, a client wishing to sell a painting because he had fallen on hard times and the countless obligatory cold calls from mobile phone companies and electricity salesmen. On top of that, the downstairs toilet developed a leak. Again.

Michael buried himself in paperwork. It was dull and repetitive but necessary. At 4pm, Kara asked casually, ‘Have you got the VAT figures that Adele was working on? '

Michael shifted the workload on his desk, frowned, and looked around him. ‘Try the filing cabinet. '

‘She usually leaves them on my desk so that I can verify the amounts, but I can't find them. ' Kara checked the filing cabinet, to no avail. ‘How odd. '

‘They'll turn up. '

‘Will you be speaking to her? ' Kara asked. ‘It's just that if she was working on them, then maybe she took them home to finish off. '

‘If I truly must. '

‘It's fairly important, Michael. The VAT deadline is only a fortnight away. The last thing you need is a penalty fine. '

‘OK, I'll contact her, in the next century. '

Kara ignored the joke and appeared preoccupied. ‘Hmm, it's not like her,' she said, with a shake of the head.

 

***

 

The day appeared to end on a high. Just before closing, a well-known actor from a long running television series came into the premises. Kara instantly recognised him and kept her own counsel, believing that a discreet charm offensive was a suitable reaction to someone who probably expected to be fussed over. More often than not, many famous clients preferred this modest approach. Over the number of years working at the gallery, Kara had met movie stars, politicians, even royalty. Never had she personally encountered what the tabloids would describe as “outrageous behaviour” from a celebrity, which was, she knew, chiefly designed and manipulated to attract the attention of the national press.