Found (18 page)

‘Wow,’ I whistle, before letting out a mighty yawn, followed by three sneezes. This space is quite something.

‘Am I boring you?’ Etta snarls.

‘What?’ I shoot a look at her. ‘What are you on about, Etta? Please don’t be ridiculous. I’m too tired to fight you today.’

When she doesn’t answer me I take the time to look around. We’re standing near the entrance of the gallery. To the left of me on the bright white wall are sharply-cut Perspex tiles in geometric shapes. To the right, high up where the wall meets the ceiling, a row of windows runs all the way around the perimeter of the gallery. The light from the windows opposite is hitting the tiles spot on so that bright red and blue shapes are, almost, dancing across the gallery’s floor. It’s mesmerising and an amazing use of this space.

Opposite that installation are bright modern cubist paintings, again in vivid colours. They look to be by the same artist but, unlike in museums and touristy art galleries, there are no price tags or information points here. These could have been painted by GCSE students or an award-winning artist, for all I know.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Lockley,’ a crystal-cut voice calls out to us. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Millhouse.’

I turn around and see a woman wheeling towards us, and I realise it’s the woman I almost bumped into at Felicity’s funeral.

‘It’s Mrs Bramley, actually. Well,’ I tut to myself, thrown by my recollection, ‘it’s Arielle.’

The woman must be in her sixties, but she looks darn good for her age. She’s wearing a coral tailored Jaeger skirt suit with a baby blue blouse that would, I think, on anyone else clash like crazy but she pulls it off with aplomb. Her chestnut brown hair is cut into a sleek, shoulder-length style, and she’s glowing with a tan that puts mine to shame. Her make-up is minimal, apart from a defiant swash of red lipstick which, again, shouldn’t work with her outfit but suits her marvellously.

‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Bramley,’ she says, reaching up to shake my hand. If she’s remembered me from the funeral, she doesn’t comment.

‘You’re Blythe, right?’ That’s what Mum told me. I wondered with the name if she would be Scottish, but she has a crisp neutral accent – she could hail from Hampshire or Oxfordshire, Berkshire or Surrey. ‘And it’s Arielle,’ I add. I doubt she would have called Felicity “Miss Farrell”. Far too formal for Flick.

I now wish I’d made a bit more of an effort, especially since Etta is looking more stylish than I am. Her red curls are spilling over her crisp white shirt. Her jeans, for once, aren’t black or grey but a trendy, faded dark-blue colour worn with a rich brown suede belt to match her suede ankle boots. All of which makes my messy blonde bun, plain black tee and mid-wash, bootcut jeans look terribly unsophisticated. OK, I was all for a simple wardrobe whilst I was in New York, but I need to up my game a little. I work in fashion, after all – now the art world. I should accept that I am no longer a size six and buy bigger clothes. Bigger,
trendier
clothes.

‘Hi Maggie,’ Etta says with a smirk.

I flush. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumble. I also need to regain some confidence.

‘It’s Maggie Blythe,’ she says, looking pointedly up at Etta who is grinning at my discomfort, ‘though Flick always called me Blythe, and you may do so if you wish.’

If there’s a Mr Blythe, I suspect he’s a dead ringer for Alfred from the
Batman
films. I hope there is.

‘How...’ I stop myself.
What am I thinking
?

I was about to ask Maggie –
Blythe
– about her wheelchair, which is a ridiculously rude question. What is wrong with me today? I blame the jet lag and sitting on our front doorstep for the best part of an hour whilst Tabitha’s head doorman tracked down our key. Piers found me there half-asleep, and I’m blaming my sneezing this morning on last night’s cool London air.

We’ve returned to London at the end of June, yet it feels more like October. I’m missing the blue skies of the Hamptons. I’m also, and this is ridiculously soppy, missing Piers. We’ve been together pretty much 24-7 for the past few months. It feels weird not to glance over and see him by my side, or know he’s just in another room.

Etta smirks at me again like she knows what I was about to ask. It’s very unnerving that she’s, for once, more with it than I am.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, too, Blythe,’ I say, ‘and thank you so much for looking after the gallery for us.’

She smiles at me, which is charitable considering we’re paying her to look after the gallery – it’s not an insubstantial sum either.

Everything that has come out of my mouth this morning has come out wrong. I fully blame Etta for springing this meeting on me when I’ve been back in the country less than twenty-four hours.

‘Shall we go to my office to chat about matters?’ Blythe asks. ‘We might be more comfortable in there.’

‘Of course.’

Blythe has spun her chair around and is halfway down the gallery before I’ve even picked up my bag from the floor. Etta has, likewise, strolled on without me.

As I walk slowly through the gallery I stop and admire the paintings. I can’t believe these are now mine. Well, mine and Etta’s.

Art is never something that I’ve appreciated. Sure, I’ve been to the Tate and the National Portrait Gallery but I don’t get why it’s exciting when a new Picasso painting is discovered in someone’s dusty attic, or why an unmade bed can win the Turner Prize.

As I move further along the gallery the mood changes from bright and contemporary to some seriously long brushstrokes on canvas that, somehow, show an intricate level of detail. Again, there are no names or any information about what is hung on the walls, but I have a feeling that these are the big money items. Security cameras watch me peer closer at paintings that I’d associate with belonging in museums. Pale-faced men wearing curly wigs sitting on horses stare back at me, as bejewelled pale women fan their faces and children pose with baskets of fruit. They’re not my cup of tea, but they are quite imposing.

I tear myself away, and hurry to catch up with Etta and Blythe.

‘Do you know art at all, Arielle?’

I shrug. ‘My husband has a Lowry,’ I share, ‘but I couldn’t tell you a Manet from a Monet.’

‘Manet painted Monet,’ Etta dryly says, and I think she’s taking the piss.

‘
Monet dans son bateau atelier
.’ Blythe’s French is exemplarily. ‘It was exhibited here in the eighties.’

‘In London?’ I ask, stupidly. My brain feels like cotton wool.

‘In this gallery,’ Blythe confirms.

‘Wow.’

That nugget is insane. How have we ended up with this place? I know a little bit about fashion, sure, and Etta knows a lot about music – but art? I think I can safely say that neither of us knows enough about art to be left in charge of paintings like the ones I’ve seen in here. It’s a lot to take in but Blythe seems to have everything in hand. Surely she can keep things ticking along nicely?

‘Can I get you a drink? Etta? Arielle?’

We’ve arrived at Blythe’s office, a smallish room with a desk, some chairs and filing cabinets. There’s no impressive artwork in here; the walls are filled with unmounted paintings and crayon drawings that I suspect have been drawn by Blythe’s grandchildren. I could be wrong though; these could be worth millions.

I shake my head, and Etta does the same. If I have another drink, I’ll need to pee. My souvenir from the States seems to be a weak bladder. I need the loo all the time, can no longer sleep straight through the night until Piers’ alarm beeps and buzzes. He still sets one even though he doesn’t have to get up.

‘To business then.’

Etta and I grab a seat.

‘First things first, we need to discuss my replacement.’

‘No,’ I squeak, all plans of being left to focus on the fashion side of things tumbling out of my head. ‘You can’t leave.’

‘I did mention this to Etta last week.’ Blythe looks between the two of us.

‘I was on my honeymoon.’ I turn to Etta. ‘I thought you were leaving things for my mum to sort out?’

‘Chill, OK.’ She cracks her knuckles, causing both Blythe and I to wince.

I smile apologetically at Blythe who looks distressed. ‘It is only for three months,’ she clarifies, ‘and then I should be back here on two feet.’

Curiosity gets the better of me. ‘What happened?’

‘Heli-skiing.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I broke my leg heli-skiing. Comminuted tibia fracture. Hasn’t aligned properly. I’ve been putting off surgery because of the situation with Felicity, but it’s imperative I get it fixed now I’ve met you both.’

I let the medical terminology wash over me as I marvel at how this dainty woman sitting in front of me has broken her leg heli-skiing, of all things. 

‘Isn’t that when you jump out of a helicopter?’ I ask, awed.

‘Not quite that James Bond,’ Blythe laughs, ‘but not too far off the mark.’

Wow. People are surprising.

‘My party?’ Etta interrupts before I can fire a million questions at Blythe. What other interesting hobbies does she have?

‘My last event here, and very different from the ones we usually put on,’ Blythe tinkles, though it seems almost strained.

‘A party?’ I ask confused. ‘I thought you wanted to talk about a pop-up.’

‘No, I’m having my launch party here. The invites have already gone out.’

‘You can’t–’

‘You don’t see me interfering with your fashion stuff and commenting on all those silly videos you’re wasting your time on, so you can help out with my party.’ Etta sounds amused, though I’m secretly flattered that she has watched some of my videos.

‘I...’ I’m speechless.
A party
?! This is the first I’ve heard of this. I take a deep breath. ‘OK, how many people have you invited?’

‘One hundred.’

‘
In
here
?’

I doubt the gallery could hold a hundred people, not to mention the fact that a music crowd is going to be a lot different to the usual soirées held here.

‘One hundred is rather ambitious, Etta,’ Blythe says diplomatically, but I can see she knows that what she is saying is going straight out of Etta’s ears. ‘I did advise you that fifty is the absolute limit with what you want to do.’

Etta shrugs, standing up. ‘I’ve already told the press one hundred, so I’ll let you two work out the logistics. I need to get to the label. Publicity meeting,’ she adds with a what-can-you-do look that infuriates me.

She leaves Blythe’s office before I can calm down enough to formulate a response; Blythe also looks slightly shell-shocked.

‘Well...’ I mutter.

‘Well indeed,’ Blythe agrees. ‘It looks like we’re going to be very busy if we’re going to pull this off.’

How convenient it is that Etta has left us to it. I’ll have to delay the fashion side of things, once again, now I have this party to sort out. If it’s already in the newspapers, then the gallery’s reputation is at risk – I can’t let Etta destroy Felicity’s name.

‘OK, thank you.’ I press the end call button on my iPhone and throw it down, annoyed.

‘No luck?’

‘No luck. They can’t get hold of Etta.
Apparently
.’ I sigh. It’s amazing how Etta can be around to take calls for her stupid album party next week, yet when it comes to finding Blythe’s replacement, she’s nowhere to be found. How she instinctively knows whether I’m calling about potential candidates or if it’s a question about the caterers is amazing.

She possesses an uncanny sixth sense that would make Felicity beam if she was around, though I would hope that if Felicity was still around she’d be calling her goddaughter out on her shitty diva-like behaviour and how she’s not rolling up her sleeves to help.

Because of Etta and her stupid party I’ve done nothing on the fashion side of things – well, apart from re-vamp my wardrobe slightly. No videos. No Twitter. No blog posts. No figuring out either whether another pop-up at Tabi’s is on the cards.

I
have
heard Etta on the radio and seen interviews in
Metro
so I know she really is gearing up for her album launch, but I’m not here to make Etta look good. I’m not one of her lackeys, part of the Etta Millhouse publicity machine. That applies to our businesses, too, unless she fancies giving me half of her music royalties.

‘My offer still stands,’ Piers says.

I flop down next to him on the sofa and I kiss him.

‘Believe me,’ I say when we break apart, ‘if it was up to me then I would say yes in a heartbeat, but I need to run it past Etta first.’

‘Like she ran her party past you, you mean?’

I shrug. ‘Etta is Etta,’ I finally say, weighing up my words, ‘and, yeah, she sprang that party on me without a choice, but I respect our partnership. Even if she doesn’t.’

Piers reaches over and squeezes my hand, and I snuggle into him. It’s a grey Saturday afternoon in London and I’m waiting for Ob to arrive as it’s his stag do today.

I had expected him and Atlas this morning, but he’s running late. Obviously. I didn’t want to ask why when all I could hear was Jade screeching at him in the background. She’s hacked off about his stag do which, even though I’m his best woman, has been left to his uni friends to organise.
Thank goodness
. I’m not looking forward to doing a pub crawl with a bunch of men, let alone having the pressure of also having to organise Ob’s last fabulous night of freedom. Judging from what I heard of Jade’s screams earlier, it really will be his last night out.
Poor bugger
.

‘How are you feeling about everything today?’ I ask.

Yesterday Piers had a meeting with the HR department at his work and that’s it, he’s gone. Kicked out. No longer employed. Of course they phrased it a bit differently – redundancy – which Piers claims could have happened to him anyway, illness aside. Less money floating around the markets equals less staff, but it seemed a little too clean-cut for me – an easy way to get rid of a sick man...

His pay-off is incredible though – one month’s salary for each year he’s worked there. He started there when he was eighteen, so that’s fourteen months’ salary, plus he also gets his quarterly bonus and can now sell off his company shares. He has enough money in the bank to last a long time. A
really
long time, and that’s without including any of his other investments. I know we’ve never struggled for money, but I’m only realising now how wealthy we are compared to most people. Maybe I should have agreed to him buying an apartment in New York.

‘I’m good,’ he says with a shrug, which I know is only partially the truth. Piers’ job has defined him for the past fourteen years; it’s going to take some adjustment, alongside his rehabilitation, to figure out who he is and what he wants to do with the rest of his life.

His suggestion of taking over from Blythe for the next three months is a pretty decent one – if only I could get hold of Etta to get her to agree to it. Blythe has the next eighteen months’ worth of exhibitions already sorted out – all Piers needs to do is hold the fort.

‘Really?’

‘Really, Arielle.’ He shoots me a look. ‘Stop worrying about me. It’s me who should be worrying about you!’

‘Why?’

Etta aside, things are going well.

‘You’re going on a stag do with eleven men,’ he says wryly. ‘I can only imagine what will be going through their minds.’

‘Are you sure you can’t come along?’ I cajole, flashing Piers a smile.

‘Pony, I would if I could, but–’

‘You feel like crap, I know.’

As well as his redundancy meeting yesterday, Piers also had a physio session. It’s going to be a slow recovery for him, no matter what he thinks. Getting him home was just the beginning.

‘Are–’ The doorbell interrupts Piers.

‘Ah, finally! The sooner I go,’ I point out at Piers’ amused expression, ‘the sooner I can come home to you. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less than go on Ob’s stag do right now.’

‘Are you still feeling sick?’ Piers asks as the doorbell buzzes again. Ob has zero patience.

I leap up from the sofa. ‘I’m just tired,’ I call as I head through to answer the front door.

I must have eaten some dodgy chicken in my lunchtime salad yesterday as I spent most of last night puking. I still feel pretty ropey today, but I’m trying to rally so I don’t disappoint Obélix. 

I open the door and there he is. The last time I saw Ob
I
wasn’t married. I can’t believe that this time next week
Ob
will be married. Everything is changing so quickly.

‘Hello, Fatty!’

He’s holding a bright orange cat carrier in one hand with what looks like my wedding dress bag covering most of it. I can hear Atlas meowing pitifully inside.

‘Ooh, sorry!’ he says looking at me with an odd expression as I grab the dress bag off the carrier and coo at Atlas.

‘Ooh, sorry what?’ I ask. I step to one side so he can get into the house. Shutting the door behind me, I follow him into the living room.

‘Randolph,’ Piers says as he walks towards Ob, sticking out his hand.

Ob puts down the cat carrier. ‘Congratulations, mate.’ Shaking Piers’ hand, he pulls him in for a man hug that lasts no longer than a nano-second. ‘Welcome to the family.’

Ob is so weird sometimes.

‘It’s
Obélix
,’ I stress as I reach down and let Atlas out of his carrier. ‘Please don’t call him Randolph.’ I turn to Piers as Atlas shoots out of the carrier and towards our bedroom. He’ll be hiding under my dresser until he’s forgiven us, unless Piers can coax him out with some Dreamies.

‘I’ll get him,’ Piers offers. I know his game; he wants cuddles with Atlas first.

‘I’ll show you to your bedroom,’ I say to Ob who has already managed to mess up the place in the ten seconds he’s been here.

Ob obediently follows me through to the spare bedroom, the room that was once mine. I’m still carrying my wedding dress as I’m going to hang it up in this wardrobe, but first I want a quick squiz at it. We should be getting the official photos sent to us any day, and I can’t wait to see them.

‘You never answered my question,’ I say as I unzip the bag and Ob starts unpacking his overnight bag.

‘Oh, the fatty jibe? I shouldn’t have called you that.’

‘You always call me Fatty,’ I point out. Is this something to do with Jade? Am I no longer to have a nickname; is that too
personal
for her liking?

‘Only when you’re not fat.’

My cheeks burn crimson. I can’t believe he’s just said that. OK, I’ve put on weight, but I’ve had the most stressful three months of my life. Of course I’m going to have let myself go a bit – not that I have let myself go, I hasten to add. I’m happy and healthy, albeit two dress sizes bigger than I was, which makes me a size ten. Why should my dress size matter to him though? It shouldn’t, and I now feel hideously self-conscious. Bloody Ob!

I’m about to give him a lecture on not judging women by their size when something grey catches my eye and it’s not Atlas. Well, not per se.

‘Ob,’ I hiss. ‘Why is there grey fur on my wedding dress?’

Ob laughs. ‘Atlas kept wanting to sleep on the bag when I picked him up from your parents, so I unzipped it for him. Gave the little bugger space to stretch out.’

He let my cat sleep on my wedding dress?

‘And that didn’t seem like a stupid idea?’ I ask through gritted teeth.

‘It’s not like you need the dress to get married,’ Ob says slowly. ‘You’ve already married Piers.’

I stare at him open-mouthed. Is he for real?

‘Jade said you wouldn’t mind and, anyway, you should have heard the purring when he settled down to sleep. He looked so sweet. Wait...’ Ob reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out his phone. ‘I’ve got a picture somewhere.’

‘Settled down?’ I whisper having visions of what Atlas does to our duvets at home. His sharp claws piercing the delicate material of my beloved wedding dress, over and over.

What. An. Idiot. Well, I’m not sure I can blame Ob entirely because my brain has just registered that he said
Jade
told him I wouldn’t mind. How would she like
her
wedding dress to be used as a rub-down blanket on her horse after an extremely muddy ride? What a piece of work!

‘Arielle, I wouldn’t have let him sleep on it if you still had to wear it,’ Ob protests, looking at me like I’m creating a fuss over nothing. ‘I’m not that stupid.’

‘You fucker!’ I whisper as I drop the dress on the bed and leave the room so I can take a few deep breaths. I may actually throttle him if I have to speak to him before I’ve calmed down.