Guns in the Gallery (16 page)

To her surprise, Carole was having a rather good time. Because she would later be driving her Renault back to Fethering, she had determined at the beginning of the afternoon to restrict herself to one drink, but the first Pimm's weakened her resolve and she allowed her glass to be refilled from the ever-circulating jug. Despite inevitable misgivings before the event, she enjoyed having no responsibility. She could just melt into the background and observe what was going on, hoping – though with small expectation of fulfilment – to pick up some small clue that might help her solve the mystery of Fennel Whittaker's death.

For Jude the situation was different. She had been invited to the launch in her professional capacity and, as the various minor celebrities were photographed with various alternative therapists, she felt a growing sense of awkwardness. The lingerie model who had just dumped a Premiership footballer after tabloid ‘love rat' allegations was led into the treatment room to be shot revealing a lot of flesh while she underwent a mock-up of a hot stone massage. The stand-up comic who had recently become the voice of a smoothie-maker in a new ad campaign was posed by an acupuncture chart with needles stuck in his nose. Jude felt uncharacteristically ill at ease.

The moment came. Chervil approached her, together with one of the smoothly suited Gale Mostyn girls. ‘I wonder, Jude, whether you'd be up to a photograph with Shaylene?'

‘Shaylene?'

‘She's the girl from Rochdale who's got this fantastic dance act with her Siamese cat.'

‘And what do you want me to be doing with her?'

Chervil Whittaker looked nonplussed. ‘Well, healing, obviously.'

‘Healing isn't a very photogenic subject, I'm afraid.'

‘Well, can you be sort of waving your hands around or something? I was hoping Shaylene would be able to bring Gin Seng with her.'

‘Gin Seng is nothing to do with the kind of healing I do.'

‘Gin Seng is the name of her cat. But since they've got famous, Gin Seng's insurers have got very strict about how much he can travel around with Shaylene.'

‘I'm sorry, Chervil,' said Jude firmly, ‘but I'm afraid I can't be photographed healing. It wouldn't be real, unless I was actually doing the healing. And if I was doing it, I certainly wouldn't be being photographed.'

Carole, standing nearby, was mildly surprised. Her neighbour was usually up for most things. But now Jude was showing the kind of reticence that would have been more characteristic of Carole herself.

‘Oh,' said Chervil, puzzled by not getting her own way.

Rescue for Jude came in an unexpected form. ‘You can't photograph someone healing,' announced a warm Canadian voice.

It was Sam Torino who had overheard their conversation as she passed from one photo opportunity to another.

‘What do you mean?' asked Chervil.

‘It trivializes the whole thing,' said Sam Torino, putting into words exactly what Jude had been feeling.

Chervil Whittaker backed down immediately and moved off to get the singer predicted to go Top Hundred on iTunes within the next week to take up some positions with the Hatha yoga instructor.

‘Thank you for that,' said Jude to her rescuer.

Sam Torino shrugged. ‘No problem. So many people just don't
get
healing. They think it's some kind of conjuring trick.'

‘Have you had some yourself?'

‘Yes, a good few times.' The famous hazel eyes looked into Jude's brown ones. ‘I get the feeling you're a good healer.'

The line needed no explanation; their contact was instinctive. ‘Thank you,' said Jude.

‘I have a problem,' Sam Torino confided. ‘Would you be able to take a look at it?'

‘For the cameras?'

‘Of course not. For me. Would you mind staying a bit when all this hoopla's over?

Jude agreed.

Wandering round Walden, taking everything in and feeling atypically mellow after her third glass of Pimm's, Carole found herself with Sheena Whittaker and suddenly realized that she hadn't expressed condolences to the bereaved mother. She made up for lost time, stammering out appropriate platitudes.

But she was surprised to be cut short in her sentiments. ‘We don't need to talk about that today,' said Sheena quite sharply.

‘I'm sorry. I just thought—'

‘Fennel was headstrong. She always went her own way. And she was always drawing attention to herself too. I know this is not something that a mother should say about her daughter, but in many ways my life will be simpler without Fennel in it.'

Carole Seddon was profoundly shocked. For two reasons. First, because Jude hadn't told her what Ned had said about his wife's reaction to their daughter's death. And, second, because of the transformation in Sheena Whittaker's manner. Gone was the tentative insecurity Carole had noted on their previous meeting. It was as if the absence of Fennel had literally lifted a burden from her mother's shoulders.

So marked was the change that, for a moment, Carole even wondered whether Sheena Whittaker might have had a hand in arranging the outcome which was clearly such a relief to her. It was not impossible.

EIGHTEEN

‘
A
re you sure this is all right? There isn't something else you should be doing?'

‘It's fine and dandy, Jude,' said Sam Torino. ‘They got their pound of flesh. I've done all they asked me to. I've earned a little “Me Time”.'

‘What about the kids?'

‘They're fine. They're toasting marshmallows over the bonfire with Katya.'

‘Katya?'

‘One of their nannies.'

‘Oh. Right. You said you had a problem . . .?'

They were in one of the side rooms of the treatment yurt with the door firmly closed. Even though everything had been meticulously cleaned and the white tiles gleamed, Jude could not quite remove from her memory the image of the space spattered with Fennel Whittaker's blood.

Sam Torino, incapable of looking less than elegant in any posture, draped her long limbs across the treatment couch. ‘It's a back thing. I always swore I'd never turn into one of those old women who had
backs
, and Lordy, Lordy, it's caught up with me. Maybe growing old is just a process of becoming all the things one swore one'd never be.'

‘You're not old,' said Jude.

‘I am too.'

‘You still look stunning.'

‘Maybe. But if you knew how much longer it takes me to look stunning these days . . .' She laughed grimly. ‘As I say, it's a back thing.'

‘Caused by any particular injury?'

‘I don't think the last divorce helped.'

‘But no physical injury?'

‘Not that I know of. Mind you, I grew up in the School of Hard Knocks. So it could be any one of those knocks that started the thing off.'

‘How long have you had the pain?'

‘Since the last divorce.'

‘Really?'

Sam Torino nodded. Close to, Jude could see the fine tracery of lines around her eyes. The model had been right. She'd always be beautiful, but time was beginning to fray away at her perfect outline.

‘Lie down on the couch and let's have a look.'

‘Sure.' Sam swivelled round to lie on her back. ‘Do you want me to take anything off?' After a lifetime of backstage changing at catwalk shows, she had no coyness about removing her clothes.

‘Just the shoes for the time being.'

Sam Torino slipped off what looked like Converse Hi Top trainers (though a discerning
fashionista
would have recognized them as being by a far more exclusive designer). Like all her clothes, they appeared to have been put on the first time that day.

‘Could you just lie down on your front?' Sam obeyed. ‘Just get comfortable. From what you said, you've used healers before.'

‘Sure. I'll try anything. Anything that helps.'

‘And did the healing help?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘When you said you'd had the pain since your last divorce, was that a joke?'

‘No, I had the pain before the divorce, but then I divorced him.' She stopped herself. ‘Sorry, I suffer from Reactive Wisecrack Syndrome. When I'm nervous I make dreadful jokes.'

‘Are you nervous now? You don't look it.'

‘One thing you learn with a career like mine . . . Whatever you're feeling, don't look it.'

‘Well, you're succeeding. Nobody would know you're nervous.'

‘I am too.'

‘So why are you nervous now?'

‘Because if you're anything like a decent healer – and I get the feeling you are – then you aren't just going to be checking out my body, you're going to be looking inside my soul. And I've got a lot of clutter down there in my soul, and some of it's clutter I'm ashamed of.'

Jude nodded. What Sam Torino was saying to her didn't seem strange at all. With an inward smile, she thanked the Lord that Carole wasn't in the yurt with them at that moment.

‘OK, Sam, just relax. I'm just going to check where the pain is.' Jude ran her hands expertly along the contours of the woman's body. No contact was actually made with the designer clothes, her fingers hovered a couple of inches above the famous contours. They kept being drawn back to one source of heat.

‘That's where the pain is, isn't it?' pronounced Jude, lightly touching a spot just above Sam's right buttock.

‘Hey, you're good,' said the model. ‘Got it in one. Any idea how to get rid of the sonofabitch?'

‘I can try.' Jude focused her energy on to the troublesome area. ‘So you say this started at the time of the divorce?'

‘In the run-up to it, yeah.'

‘You know why, don't you?'

‘Do I? You tell me.'

‘It's because you're Sam Torino. Everyone who meets you gets the full Sam Torino experience, regardless of whether you're feeling very Sam Torino or not.'

‘Meaning?'

‘You know what I mean. You never give yourself a break, Sam.'

‘I do too. I programme gym visits and spa days into my schedules. If I listed the number of vacations I take it'd embarrass me.'

‘That's not what I'm talking about. When you're in the gym, when you're on vacation, you're surrounded by other people. Other people who admire you, who're impressed with the way you manage all the demands of your life. They expect you to give them the full-on Sam Torino treatment every moment of the day. And you oblige them.'

There was a long silence. Still not touching the woman's body, the knuckles of Jude's hands were whitening with the intensity she was channelling into it. Then, in a long drawl, Sam Torino said, ‘Yes, Jude. You're good.' Then, after a moment, she asked, ‘Can you take away the pain?'

‘I think I can for the time being. If you want it to stay away, you'll have to make some changes.'

‘Like what?'

‘For your condition I would prescribe solitude.'

‘How d'ya mean?'

‘Just as important as your gym and spa visits, you need time on your own. You should programme that into your schedule. Time to think.'

‘Are you talking meditation? Because I've done classes in that and—'

‘Classes, no. Classes are with other people. They still have expectations of you. You want to be alone when the only person who has expectations of you is you.'

‘I have very high expectations of myself.'

‘Of course you do. And that's good. All I'm asking is that you carve out for yourself half an hour a day to think about those expectations. Are they realistic? Would it really matter that much if you let your guard slip for a moment? Why not allow a little imperfection into your life? You're a human being. All human beings have flaws.'

There was an even longer silence while Sam Torino took this in. Then she said, ‘Do you know how much you're asking?'

‘I know exactly how much I'm asking.'

‘Hm.' More silence. ‘I'll give it a go. More “Me Time”.'

‘Don't think of it as “Me Time”. Think of it as “Nothing Time”. Just time when you stop feeling the pressure to be Sam Torino. See where it takes you.'

‘OK.' She flexed her long legs. ‘The pain's easing, you know.'

‘Yes. A little bit longer and it'll be gone . . . for the time being.'

‘And whether or not I keep it away is up to me, huh?'

‘Sure is,' said Jude, dropping into a parody Canadian accent.

‘Right.' Sam Torino looked around the interior of the treatment yurt. ‘Funny, this place doesn't have any ghosts . . . considering what happened here so recently.'

Jude was shocked. ‘I didn't know you knew about that.'

‘Ned told me.'

‘You know Ned?'

‘Sure.'

‘Can I ask how?'

‘No problem. There are a lot of events which people with a certain level of income get involved in. Charity fund-raisers, that kind of stuff. I can't remember the first one I met him at, but we kind of got on and stayed in touch.'

‘So is that why you're here for the Walden launch?'

‘Sure.'

‘I thought Gale Mostyn had organized your participation.'

Sam Torino let out a haughty laugh. ‘Gale Mostyn are not big players. I have my own personal PR company. Sure, Gale Mostyn can organize a line-up of reality TV hopefuls, but they don't have access to the A-list.' Somehow her words didn't sound arrogant. She was just describing the realities of celebrity life. ‘And, incidentally . . .' She reached into her back trouser pocket and produced a neat card case. ‘If you ever need to contact me, use this mobile number. If you try going through my PR people, they won't let you near me.'

‘Thank you,' said Jude, pocketing the card she'd been given. ‘So, Sam, I assume you heard from Ned about what happened to Fennel?'