Diamond (17 page)

Jenna stood taking it in while Petra disappeared to the upstairs office to find Tabitha.

She was heralded by her clear, patrician tones from the back of the gallery, diverting Jenna’s attention from the fascinating portrait made up of red and green dots she had been examining.

‘Jen, darling, I can’t believe it’s you!’

‘How are you? The gallery’s looking stunning.’

‘Thank you.’

Air kissing wafted an expensive scent, more Paris than London, into Jenna’s nostrils.

‘And how are you? Looking very well, I must say. I heard you were taking it easy.’

‘Oh, no, I’ve just fitted a kitchen. That’s real work. I was taking it easy before.’

Tabitha laughed, but there was a little indulgence in it, as if she understood that Jenna was going through the grinder and needed humouring.

‘Do come up and have a drink. Coffee? Or is it too early for something a little stronger?’

‘Oh, best not. I’m driving,’ said Jenna, following Tabitha to the back of the gallery and the staircase.

‘You? Are driving yourself? I’m not sure I’d remember how, but of course, I’m spoiled, living and working in London. No need for all that car rubbish.’

‘I’m slowly getting used to it. LA was ridiculous, though. Chauffeurs, chefs, assistants, personal trainers. I could never go anywhere without an entourage. It’s actually rather a relief to be just me again.’

‘Well, then, that’s good, isn’t it?’ said Tabitha, as if she
needed convincing. ‘Come into the pit. Sorry about the mess. I’ve got an opening in a couple of days and nowhere else to stash the sketches.’

Tabitha’s office was pristine as ever, the only difference being a few large portfolio containers propped against one wall.

Petra came in with a coffee tray then left them to relax on the curved sofa set in one corner.

‘Have you taken up painting, Jenna?’ Tabitha had noticed the plastic wallet on her friend’s lap.

‘Oh, no, not me. I still can’t draw a stick man to save my life. A friend. Rather a discovery, I think.’

‘Really?’

Jenna reminded herself that Tabitha’s look of professional scepticism was understandable. Of course she wasn’t just going to take anyone’s word that a brilliant new artist was about to burst on to the scene. She must hear this pitch a dozen times a week.

‘Oh, I don’t want to walk straight in and start thrusting these pictures on you,’ she said, laughing and taking a sip of coffee. ‘But I would like you to look at them sometime, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’

‘I’m not expecting anything more than a quick “it has potential” or “it sucks”. Just as a guide, that’s all. I love art but you know as well as I do that it isn’t my area of expertise.’

‘Well, every time a really stunning piece comes to my gallery, it always seems to end up on your walls, darling, so I think I’d vouch for your taste. Let me drink my coffee and I’ll have a look.’

They chatted about Tabitha’s family and what was
happening on the London art scene until the coffee cups were dry.

Jenna could barely stand to look as Tabitha slid painting after painting from its transparent sheathing and frowned at each of them. She considered them all, looking from different angles, sometimes bringing an earlier one back to contrast and compare with the current focus, before putting them all back, carefully as if they were made of gold leaf, into the wallet.

‘So?’ said Jenna, and it came out as a whisper. ‘What do you think?’

‘Darling, I think if you were scared to tell me you’d painted these, you needn’t be. They’re wonderful.’

‘No.’ Jenna’s laugh was near hysterical and she was surprised to find that she had tears in her eyes – of relief? ‘Honestly, I didn’t do any of them. But they
are
wonderful, aren’t they? It isn’t just me having a moment of madness?’

‘Not in the least. They’re remarkable. Who’s the artist?’ Tabitha’s eyes were bright and Jenna realised, to her disappointment, that she was hoping it was one of Jenna’s famous clients. Brilliant art plus a famous name would indeed be something close to the Holy Grail. But she was going to have to let her friend down gently.

‘I’m afraid at this stage I can’t tell you the name,’ said Jenna, which only served to brighten Tabitha’s eyes even more. ‘Not that it would be one you’d have heard before.’ The brightness dimmed.

‘Oh? Then why ever not?’

‘The artist wishes to remain anonymous. But they would like some, well, some recognition of their work. And to that end, they’d like your advice.’

‘It
is
you, isn’t it? Or is it Deano?’

‘No, really, I faithfully promise you that you don’t know, or know of, the artist. It’s a private individual from my home town.’

‘How intriguing.’ Tabitha was clearly making an effort not to appear disgruntled. ‘Well, it’s certainly of displayable standard. If the artist were willing to step out of the shadows, I would be very happy to exhibit this. I think it would interest the arts media and might attract a buyer or two. And I’m not saying that as a favour to you. I think your mystery man or woman has exceptional talent. But exceptional talent is everywhere in this city, and often never finds its market.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll be honest with you, if your man isn’t willing to pound the pavement and do all the tedious publicity stuff, he won’t get anywhere. I need a
person
to connect with.’

Jenna leant forwards, keen to sell her idea to Tabitha despite her misgivings.

‘Yes, but can’t we make anonymity work for us? You know – a touch of mystery, of enigma. I mean, look at Banksy.’

Tabitha paused. ‘Well, we can’t, can we? That’s the whole point.’

‘Quite. But do you get what I’m driving at?’

‘There’s only one Banksy,’ said Tabitha firmly.

‘Oh yes, but while the art is different, the publicity goal is the same. I think a mystery artist would interest the press and the public more than a few articles about his background and inspirations. And his work speaks for itself, surely.’

Tabitha shuffled through the pictures again.

‘Well,’ she said at length. ‘I must admit, you’ve
intrigued me. I want to find out more about this person and see more of his work – it is a male, I take it, from what you’ve said?’

Jenna nodded. ‘I’ll tell you that much.’

‘And if you’re involved, we have an angle,’ she continued. ‘Because everybody’s heard of you. If you act as his patron, for the purposes of our PR, that gives us a huge leg up from the start. Although it might also work against us – a lot of the art establishment is utterly dismissive of anything connected with popular culture. Modern popular culture, that is – they’re mostly delighted to reference older versions of it. It might prevent his being taken seriously.’

‘But we want to be popular, don’t we?’

‘I suppose we do. It’s a risk. Everything’s a risk in this game. We take a lot of chances.’

‘So, will you take a chance on this?’

Jenna fought a strong urge to snatch Jason’s pictures from Tabitha’s hand. This could really happen, and it suddenly felt very dangerous indeed. His paintings couldn’t now be unseen – nothing could be rewound. She almost wanted Tabitha to shake her head, to put them down, to say it was not for her.

‘All right,’ said Tabitha. ‘For you, and because I really do think this work is rather wonderful, I’ll get on board with you. I’ll see about fitting in a private view – it might not be for some months, though, if you want to use the gallery. I’m fully booked until November.’

‘November?’ Jenna tried to compose her disappointed expression into one of mild understanding.

‘I know it’s a long time away.’ Tabitha shrugged. ‘We’re doing well. What can I say?’

‘I’m happy for you, but …’

‘You’re welcome to use the gallery’s name if you want to hire a private venue.’

‘Thank you. Perhaps I’ll do that. Let me go away and think about it.’

‘Yes, but—’

Tabitha put a hand on Jenna’s arm, preventing her from reaching for the portfolio.

‘Won’t you tell me a little more about this man? I suppose he’s some friend of yours?’

Jenna bit her lip. ‘Really, I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to him. I’m sure the day will come when he’ll be happy to come into the public view, but it might be a while yet.’

‘Goodness. I suppose he does know you’re here?’

An unpleasant sensation of being hit in the solar plexus silenced Jenna before she could speak again.

‘He … he doesn’t like attention,’ she stammered, fidgeting with her coffee cup.

‘A recluse, perhaps?’

‘Yes, that’s it. He’s a recluse. Never leaves the house.’

‘How fascinating. May I keep the pictures?’

‘Oh. Better not. Would you mind if, you know, perhaps you could take some photos of them?’

Tabitha sighed.

‘This is all very cloak and dagger, I must say. All right then. Let’s spread them out on the floor and I’ll take a few snaps.’

They spent the rest of the morning trying to achieve the perfect photographic representation of each picture and sharing ideas about how to publicise Jason’s work.

Jenna left with an unsettled feeling at the pit of her stomach that owed as much to fear as it did to excitement.
She was pleased to know that she was not alone in rating his paintings highly, but on the other hand, she had gone behind his back, and wished it could all be above board.

She called in at her company’s London office after a solitary picnic lunch on its roof garden, then set straight back off on the long drive to Bledburn.

As mile after mile passed, she thought about all the offers her assistant had turned down on her behalf. Oodles of TV shows, adverts, voiceovers, appearances, free holidays had been offered and rejected. Every newspaper and celeb magazine wanted to know if there was a chance of reconciliation between her and Deano. He had made some veiled remarks in an interview, apparently, that made it seem as if it were on the cards. She would have to look that interview up, then send him an irritated email requesting him to keep her name out of his PR exercises.

These thoughts preoccupied her all the way home, so much so that they were still on her mind when she opened the front door. The sight of Jason, sitting on the bottom of the stairs reading yesterday’s newspaper both startled and alarmed her.

‘God,’ she said. ‘There you are.’

‘Here I am,’ he said, putting the paper down beside him and giving her a raised eyebrow of disapprobation. ‘Did you forget about the bed?’

‘What?’

‘A delivery lorry turned up. Hammered at the door for ages before shoving this card through. I thought I’d best not answer it. You never know whether it’s a trap.’ He held it out.

‘Shit, I totally forgot! I did order a bed to be delivered today. Damn. Oh, well, I’ll just have to phone them …’

She trailed off.

Jason had spotted the portfolio under her arm. Why hadn’t she left it in the car until the coast was clear?

‘What are you doing with that?’

He reached out for it. With some reluctance, she handed it over.

His eyes were hard, black coals.

‘Well? Are you going to answer me? Why have you taken my stuff out with you? What’s going on, Jen?’

She sat down beside him on the stairs and took a deep breath.

‘I took them to London with me.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Don’t panic. Your name wasn’t mentioned, nobody knows about you.’

‘What,’ he asked, very slowly and deliberately, and not a little menacingly, ‘have you done?’

‘I wanted a professional opinion on your work, so I showed them to a friend who runs an art gallery in London.’

‘You did
what
?’

‘Oh, don’t. What’s wrong with that? She loved them. She thinks you’re brilliant. Jason!’

But he had shot to his feet and was storming upstairs, portfolio in hand.

By the time Jenna had gathered herself together to give chase, he stood on the landing. He withdrew one of his pictures – a dense landscape of terraces painted in a vertiginous, swirling pattern – held it up to her, then ripped it clean in half.

‘Oh, Jason, no!’

She stopped, aghast, and could only watch as he
continued the process, tearing it to shreds which fluttered down the stairs towards her, settling all around like dark grey snow.

‘Why?’ she wailed.

‘It’s not mine,’ he said. ‘None of it’s mine, any more.’

He flung the rest of the portfolio over the bannister, scattering pictures right and left, then stormed up to the attic, banging the door behind him.

‘Jason!’ she yelled, running upstairs in his wake. ‘Jason, come down. Talk to me. Please.’

But no reply came from above, and he had weighted the trap door so she couldn’t open it from below. After listening to the sounds of furious paint mixing and brushing, she decided to leave him to it and slouched downstairs, threw herself on her mattress and succumbed to the darkness, outside and in.

It was an hour, maybe two, before she moved. Her brain had run through every possibility, from leaving Bledburn tonight and never returning, to staying here forever and never re-engaging with the world outside. Somewhere, a workable balance had to be found. Jason’s innocence had to be proved, so he could leave if he wanted or stay. If she hadn’t thrown away that possibility for good.

She heard the creak of the trap door and stiffened, her nose still pressed firmly into the duvet. Soft steps whispered down the uncarpeted stairs – he wasn’t wearing shoes, she thought – then crossed the hall.

She felt his presence in the doorway, even though she couldn’t see him.

His voice, when it came, was a shock – rough and ragged at the edges.

‘Sit up and look at me.’

It was a command, and she didn’t dare disobey. She pulled her hot, rumpled face from the mattress and turned eyes, from which her defiance couldn’t quite be extinguished, to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should have asked first.’

‘Aye,’ he said quietly with an emphatic nod.

‘But you’d have said no.’

His face, pale but set as firmly as that of a sergeant major about to give the battle signal, bore down on her, making her feel squeezed and a little breathless.