Black Valley (30 page)

She parked the car, picked up her overnight case, and walked over to the entrance, where Dresler and the others were waiting.

‘God, this place is awful,’ he said in a loud voice as they went in. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking of.’

Mia laughed, and Jess realized that his comment had been directed at her, to somehow impress her with his good taste. She wondered for a moment if anything was going on between them, but put the
thought out of her mind.

They went over to the reception desk, got their room numbers, and went up. They were all on the same floor, just one storey up. Dresler had booked a table for dinner and they were slightly late,
so they didn’t hang around in the rooms, simply parking their suitcases, nipping to the loo, and reassembling downstairs.

The meal was a disappointment. The food was good, if not spectacular, but no one seemed to have any appetite for it. Morris’s non-appearance had cast a damper over the proceedings. Nobody
except Jess and Dresler seemed to be drinking. Mia ordered sparkling water and picked at a salad, Jake spent most of his time texting on his mobile phone, and Akiko remained polite but silent. Only
Giles made an effort, engaging Dresler and Mia in conversation about an artist Jess had never heard of; yet he too eschewed the wine, saying that he had an early start in the morning. Don’t
we all? thought Jess, but she didn’t comment.

As the evening wore on, she began to feel tense. She wasn’t used to this kind of social occasion. Nobody laughed; nobody told funny stories; nobody got tipsy; nobody got to know each
other. It was all serious discussion, or silence. By the end of the meal, with the peppermint teas ordered, Jess was half minded to go and sit at the bar, where a raucous crowd had convened; within
minutes, she knew, this being Wales, she would have got into conversation with someone – preferably one of those modern-day Greek gods in their tight pink shirts and fitted jeans and pointed
shoes.

‘Well, I’m going up to bed.’ Mia dabbed her lips with her napkin, and got up. ‘Jacob, I’ll meet you in the lobby at eight. OK?’

She didn’t offer to pay her share of the bill, or thank him for the meal, Jess noticed.

‘Me, too.’ Akiko rose from her seat.

Jake looked up momentarily from his phone. ‘Oh. Right. OK.’ He stood up, too. ‘Goodnight all. See you in the morning.’

They went off upstairs.

Jess glanced at her watch. It was only half past ten. What was the matter with these people?

The waiter brought over the bill. Dresler gave it a cursory glance, then produced his credit card. Evidently, he was picking up the tab for the whole shebang.

Jess got out her credit card too, but Dresler waved it away, as he and Giles continued their conversation.

‘Shall we go over to the bar for a nightcap?’ Jess ventured.

‘I don’t think so. I’m whacked, to tell the truth. Let’s go on up.’ Dresler smiled at her and took her hand. It was the first time he’d acknowledged their
relationship that evening, she realized.

Giles excused himself and left. They waited a few moments, finishing their teas, and then followed suit.

In the lift, they stood side by side, waiting for it to reach their floor. When they got out, Dresler opened the door of their room, and turned on the lights. Jess went into the bathroom, shut
the door, and went to the loo. Then she cleaned her teeth, took off her make-up, squirted some scent on her neck, and went back out to the bedroom. Dresler then took her place in the bathroom,
while she undressed.

Just as she was about to get into bed, his phone went off. She looked around for it, and saw that it was on the bedside table on the far side of the bed. She leaned over and picked it up, but it
stopped ringing. When she peered at the screen, she was surprised to see that the caller was named as Isobel.

She put the phone back down on the table. She was perplexed. Dresler had told her that Morris had ‘broken with’ Isobel and the gallery after Blake’s death, and that he himself
had taken over as Morris’s agent. Those were the exact words he’d used, she was sure of that – paying attention to such details was part of her training as a therapist. So if that
were the case, why would Isobel be phoning Dresler at this hour of the night? Surely they wouldn’t be on friendly terms after he’d poached her most successful artist? Something odd was
going on, and whatever it was, Dresler hadn’t filled her in on it.

He came in wearing only his boxer shorts, and got in beside her. He glanced at the phone, registered the call, and put it back on the side table, without a flicker of surprise. Then he leaned
over and switched off the light.

For a few moments, they lay staring up into the dark. There was a faint noise coming from the bar – the sound of people laughing.

‘What’s the matter?’ There was no note of concern in his voice, only irritation.

‘Nothing.’ Jess was determined not to respond in kind.

‘It’s not really a problem. This will all be OK.’ For a moment, Jess thought he was talking about their relationship, but then realized that he was still preoccupied with the
event. ‘The film can be edited. Giles is going to write it up for the magazine. The important thing is, we’ve announced the exhibition. Mia’s also very enthusiastic . .
.’

He began to burble on about Mia. That’s odd, too, thought Jess. Mia was an associate of Blake’s. If Morris had parted company with the Powell Gallery, what was she doing here? Most
probably she’d switched sides, loath to give up her stake in Morris’s career.

It was when Dresler came to eulogizing Mia’s commitment to radical politics in contemporary art that Jess’s impatience finally got the better of her.

‘Oh, stuff Mia,’ she said. ‘And her fizzy water. And her bloody salad.’

The minute Jess said the words, she regretted them. Mia had been getting on her nerves all evening, but it was only now that she realized how deeply she’d been irritated by her.

There was a pause.

‘You’re jealous, aren’t you?’ There was a note of amusement in Dresler’s voice.

Jess thought for a moment. ‘No. I really don’t think so.’

‘Don’t worry, there’s nothing going on between us.’ Dresler’s tone was placatory. ‘It’s strictly business.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Jess paused. The conversation seemed to be going awry. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude about her. I think perhaps I’ve drunk a bit too much.’

Dresler didn’t reply.

‘But I don’t know,’ she went on, doing her best to make amends. ‘Here we are in this swanky hotel, with a bunch of your friends. I just thought we’d have more fun
this evening. More of a laugh.’

‘We’re all busy people, Jess. And it’s not exactly the right kind of place, is it?’

Jess was annoyed by the snobbery of his remark.

‘You know, there’s something I don’t understand about you left-wing intellectuals.’ She could feel the wine going to her head. ‘You’re all so worried about
the fate of the working classes, the unemployed, and so on, but when it comes to actually meeting one of them, you’re not the slightest bit interested.’

There was a silence.

‘I mean, take that guy Rhys at the centre.’ Jess decided it was time to speak her mind. If they had a row, she reasoned, it might help clear the air. ‘He was dying to meet you.
He runs an art workshop for young people in the area. He really wanted to get involved. An artist like Morris could be so inspirational up here. But you totally blanked him.’

‘That’s not fair.’ Dresler’s tone was measured. ‘I was extremely busy. I had to get the film crew off, sort out all manner of details. I simply didn’t have
time.’

‘Well, OK. If you say so.’

They relapsed into silence. It was a warm night, and the window of the room was open. There was a gale of laughter from the bar below, which only served to emphasize the tension in the room.

‘Right. Now, if you don’t mind, I think we should get some sleep.’

‘Well, before we do, there’s something else I want to ask you.’

Dresler gave a deep sigh.

‘I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth about what’s going on with Morris. You said he’d decided to leave Isobel and the Powell Gallery and come to you,
didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, how come she just phoned you, then?’

‘You mean to say you’ve been monitoring my calls?’ Dresler was outraged.

‘No, of course I haven’t. Your phone rang when you were in the bathroom so I just checked it, that’s all.’

‘Well, please don’t do that again.’ Dresler’s tone was cold.

‘As it happens, there are some negotiations between us—’

‘That take place in the middle of the night?’

Dresler sat up in bed. ‘Look, Jessica, this is my business. What the fuck’s it got to do with you?’

Jess sat up too, keeping a firm distance between them. ‘Quite a lot, actually. Elinor is – was – my client, and I’ve also had dealings with Isobel. I told you my theory
that Isobel is painting as Morris. You dismissed that idea out of hand, and I went along with that. But now I’m beginning to wonder what’s really going on. And whether you’re
telling me the truth.’

‘Are you saying I’m lying?’ Dresler raised his voice in anger.

‘I’m asking you to be straight with me. I think you know there’s something funny going on here, but you’re turning a blind eye.’

‘Of course I’m not.’ Dresler was furious now. ‘You’re imagining all this. The idea that Isobel Powell could be painting the Morris works is utterly
preposterous.’

‘But you’ve never met him, have you?’

‘No, but—’

‘And nor has anyone else, have they?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘I think you know very well there’s something wrong here, Jacob.’ Jess tried to temper her own anger. She knew how important Morris was to Dresler, understood that he was in a
dilemma. ‘All I’m asking is that you discuss this with me, and tell me the truth.’

‘I am telling you the truth.’

‘Well, I don’t believe you.’

‘Listen, Jess.’ Dresler looked her in the eye. ‘I’m not having you meddling in my business affairs. You know nothing about what I do. So keep out of it. Please stop this.
Now.’

‘No.’ She returned his gaze. ‘I won’t stop. Because it involves a client of mine. I think you’re afraid if the truth comes out about Morris, that’ll be the
end of your career. I think Blake and Isobel were involved in a scam together, and when he died, she asked you to take over.’ She paused. ‘As it happened, his death turned out to be
quite convenient for you, didn’t it?’

‘That’s enough!’ Dresler shouted. Then he steadied himself. ‘I’m not going to argue with you any more. And I’m afraid if you keep this up, that’s the
end of it between us.’

There was a silence.

‘I’m going to sleep. If you decide to drop this, we can talk in the morning, when you’re sober.’

She was stung by his remark. The wine had loosened her inhibitions, but she certainly wasn’t drunk. He was trying to patronize her, but it was clear that he was rattled by what she’d
been saying.

He turned his back to her and lay down. After a few minutes, she heard the sound of his breathing slow. Then he started to snore.

She lay awake beside him, her heart pounding, wondering how he could sleep so soon, and so easily, after their argument.

She tried to calm herself, but her whole body was trembling with anger. Christ, she thought. How do I pick them? Another self-centred, lying, cheating bastard, just like Bob. How could I have
thought he was any different?

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and repeated the action. After a while, the trembling stopped and she felt herself begin to calm down.

Dresler was lying to her, she was sure of it. And possibly lying to himself, which, as she knew all too well, most people find it very easy to do – especially when their livelihoods are
threatened. There was no future in the relationship, she realized, unless she was prepared to collude in his self-deception, which was out of the question.

She glanced at the bedside clock. Eleven fifteen. Not late at all. She could easily get up and drive home, she thought. She tried to remember how many glasses of wine she’d had over
dinner. Two or three perhaps – but they were large ones.

There was a blast of noise from the bar, as a door opened and closed, and then she heard voices outside. People were gathering on the courtyard to smoke and talk and laugh. Smirting, they called
it: smoking and flirting. Apparently, it had become a popular way for people to meet partners: standing outside in the cold, they felt a bond with each other as members of an ‘exiled
community’. She felt a sudden urge to go downstairs and join them.

Tears pricked her eyes, but they were tears of anger, not sadness. She was damned if she was going to cry for Dresler. It wasn’t a tragedy, after all. In fact, it was probably a blessing
that it had worked out this way. Better that she’d found out what he was really like before she’d introduced him to the girls, before he’d become part of her life . . .

Dresler shifted in his sleep, still snoring. She felt like smacking him over the head. There was something so repulsively smug, so self-satisfied, about the way he’d ended their argument.
He’d given her an ultimatum, with no room for discussion or compromise. She’d thought they were equals, but she’d entirely misread the level of his self-regard. All that nonsense
about being interested in her work, wanting her to be interested in his; it was all a complete sham. What he really wanted was a plucky little woman by his side, cheering him on, never for a moment
doubting his moral and intellectual superiority, whatever nefarious activity he might be engaged in.

A drift of laughter wafted in from the terrace below. She lay staring up at the ceiling listening to it. There was no possibility of her getting to sleep, she knew. Her anger with him was
mounting, and unless she woke him up and continued their argument, which she wasn’t going to do, she’d lie there awake all night.

She made a decision. She’d get up, get dressed, and slip out of the room, without waking him. She’d go downstairs and have a strong black coffee in the bar, possibly two. Maybe go
outside for a smoke on the terrace if she felt like it. Then she’d get in the car and drive home.