Marriage and Other Games (37 page)
‘Will you come out there with me? If people think we’re friends, they might believe there’s nothing going on . . .’
Charlotte thought for a moment. Catkin was right. If they fronted everyone, they would defuse the rumours. But if she did that, there was no way her identity wouldn’t be discovered. The pressure would be too intense. She wouldn’t be able to keep the press at bay. She couldn’t risk it.
‘I’m really sorry, Catkin.’ She hugged the woman to her. ‘I can’t.’
‘But why not?’
‘I can’t tell you. Just go back in there on your own. You’ll be fine. Come on. Dry your eyes and get your make-up back on. There’re important people out there you need to impress.’
She pulled Catkin to her feet, and brushed the last few pieces of glass off her.
‘Where did you learn all this PR spin?’ demanded Catkin.
Charlotte gave a twisted smile. ‘Bitter experience. Which is why I’m getting out of here before the shit hits the fan.’
Catkin peered at her. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m nobody. And nothing. And you never saw me.’
Charlotte opened the loo door, pulled her coat collar up around her face, and strode out of the entrance hall to the exit as quickly as her trembling legs could carry her.
Fourteen
T
he exhibition was a sensation. Editors, journalists, collectors and critics gushed ecstatically, queuing up to congratulate Sebastian with an enthusiasm that was uncharacteristic of their usual world-weary ennui. He was initially wary of the praise. He knew only too well the emperor’s new clothes syndrome could have a sudden backlash and come back to bite you when you least expected it. But by the time the whole room had unanimously lauded him, he was starting to think that he really was a success. And this success was so much sweeter than before. He was, he realised, proud of what he had accomplished.
he exhibition was a sensation. Editors, journalists, collectors and critics gushed ecstatically, queuing up to congratulate Sebastian with an enthusiasm that was uncharacteristic of their usual world-weary ennui. He was initially wary of the praise. He knew only too well the emperor’s new clothes syndrome could have a sudden backlash and come back to bite you when you least expected it. But by the time the whole room had unanimously lauded him, he was starting to think that he really was a success. And this success was so much sweeter than before. He was, he realised, proud of what he had accomplished.
Catkin was amazing. She worked the room like the professional she was, resplendent in her yellow dress, lavishing praise upon her genius of a husband, targeting the most illustrious collectors and critics and charming them, knowing they would be dually responsible for the final price to be fetched for each piece. But the moment the viewing was over, the moment the last guest trickled out of the door and the staff started clearing up the mess, she closed down. Sebastian came over to hug her, and saw immediately that the light that had been shining in her eyes all night had been snapped out like a bedside lamp.
‘Catkin - you were wonderful.’
She looked at him with contempt, and immediately he started to shrivel.
‘I think we’re done, Sebastian.’
He chose to misinterpret her.
‘Yes - I guess we can go on somewhere else to celebrate—’
‘I don’t mean done here,’ she snapped. ‘I mean we’re finished.’
‘What . . . ?’
She gestured round the room, at the dozen Charlottes.
‘How do you imagine this made me feel?’
He held up his hands.
‘They’re paintings. They could have been of anything: fruit bowls—’
‘Jesus Christ, Sebastian. Have you looked at them?’
Sebastian stared round, confused. Of course he’d looked at them. He’d spent all his waking hours looking at them for the past few weeks.
‘This is a love story. On canvas. You’re fucking obsessed. Can’t you see that?’
Sebastian felt panic creep over him as a slow realisation started to dawn.
‘Catkin, I’m not in love with her if that’s what you think.’
‘You might as well have got up and wanked all over them in public.’
He recoiled at her crudeness.
‘You don’t understand—’
‘What? That you’ve just painted twelve of the most stunning paintings of this century? Of some little two-bit decorator? And I’m supposed to believe you don’t give a toss about her?’
‘Not in that way. Not really.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Catkin put her hands on her hips, always a bad sign.
‘She just touched something in me, that’s all. She’s vulnerable, fragile, kind of . . . innocent. I wanted to capture that.’
Catkin nodded. ‘Right.’ Her tone said it all. She didn’t believe him.
‘She made me want to paint. It’s as simple as that.’ Sebastian wasn’t sure why he was having to defend himself.
‘So she’s your muse?’ She spat out the word as if it was an obscenity.
‘To use an over-rated cliché, yes, I guess she is.’ Sebastian was starting to get angry. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a muse.’
‘No.’ Catkin’s voice was very small all of a sudden, which frightened him more than her shouting. ‘But I guess the problem I’m having is . . . I thought I was your muse. After everything I’ve done for you, trying to get you in the studio. Supporting you. Encouraging you. It was kind of a shock to walk in here and find out somebody else was pushing your buttons all along.’
She started wiping away tears. Sebastian looked at her, aghast. He’d had no idea that this was how his work was going to be interpreted. To him they were simple portraits of someone who’d inspired him. But now, looking round, he understood their impact. The exhibition as a whole was incredibly intense. Twelve immensely powerful paintings of the same woman. Was it any wonder that people, including Catkin, might think he was ever so slightly besotted?
Had he been? He looked back over the past few weeks’ feverish creativity. He hadn’t been besotted with Charlotte herself, as everyone seemed to think, but he had revelled in the creativity she had released in him. She’d freed him from his own tyranny, the total apathy he had felt.
It had been such a relief to want to paint something, to know exactly how he envisaged each piece, and for that piece to have come out perfect every time. Twelve times. Was that a crime?
Of course it was, he realised now. He’d had complete tunnel vision. He hadn’t given a second thought to anybody in all the time he had been working, right up to the moment when he had given his speech. A speech which he now realised could have been completely misinterpreted.
Catkin was picking up her bag, going to find her coat.
‘Catkin—’
‘Fuck off,’ she replied. ‘And you needn’t think you’re staying at the flat. I’ll send a truck down to Withybrook for my stuff.’
And she walked out of the gallery, his beautiful wife in her glorious yellow dress, with her long, long legs in those high, high heels, and he wondered why it was that she’d never inspired him to paint, despite her endless encouragement, and what it was that caused the chemistry, what it was that flicked the switch between paralysis and inspiration. What it was that evoked the gloriously hedonistic pleasure of creating something for the sheer love of it. And he realised that if he had the answer to that, then he’d be an even richer man than he already was.
Penny saw Charlotte running down the platform to catch the Bamford train just as the last whistle blew. Her make-up was smudged, and she looked distraught, running along in her high heels. The guard beckoned her urgently towards the door he was about to slam shut, and Penny saw her as she jumped on board. She prayed she wouldn’t get into her carriage, that she would turn right and not left. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Charlotte head towards the front of the train, swivelling her head from side to side to find a spare seat.
Penny felt terrible. The evening had been a disaster. She knew she shouldn’t have come. She realised now that Sebastian had only asked her to be polite and to salve his conscience, because in fact he had no feelings for anyone except himself. He was a narcissistic little shit. He hadn’t betrayed her. It wasn’t even as interesting as that. She was nothing in his life. He’d got his leg over on Christmas night because Charlotte had been tucked up under Fitch’s big, strong arm, and Sebastian couldn’t handle it. All that crap about his wife. He had no loyalty to his wife. Even Bill, who had behaved like a complete bastard, wouldn’t have rubbed Penny’s nose in his other woman like that.
She sipped at her watery hot chocolate. It trickled down and settled uneasily on top of the blackberry mush. Penny badly wanted to be sick, and she knew what it was. Not what she’d drunk, but guilt.
She shouldn’t have told the journalist about Charlotte. It was confidential information she’d got from her medical records that she shouldn’t have been privy to in the first place, and she had had no right to divulge it. Of course, there was no way anyone could trace the leak back to her, but that wasn’t the point. She’d acted impulsively and now she regretted it. Whatever Charlotte’s relationship with Sebastian was, she would have had no intention of hurting Penny, she was sure. And now Penny had done the one thing that meant Charlotte’s life was ruined. She’d obviously come to Withybrook for a fresh start, and Penny had blown the whistle on her.
She stirred the remnants of her hot chocolate miserably with the white plastic stick, wishing that she’d been stronger. How were you supposed to protect yourself against falling in love? Once the seeds of passion were planted, it was very hard to shut your mind to it. And then it made you behave like a lunatic. She’d slept with another woman’s husband, shafted someone big time, and now she was filled with self-loathing.
She laid her head against the back of the seat and shut her eyes. She’d try to sleep. Although she might miss her stop and end up in Penzance. Frankly, she didn’t care if she did.
Fifteen
T
he post office in Withybrook opened on a Sunday from ten till twelve for people to come and fetch their newspapers, and to buy the annoying things they had forgotten to get for lunch, like mint sauce or gravy browning.
he post office in Withybrook opened on a Sunday from ten till twelve for people to come and fetch their newspapers, and to buy the annoying things they had forgotten to get for lunch, like mint sauce or gravy browning.
Fitch eyed the various photographs of Sebastian’s exhibition on the front pages of the papers that were lined up ready for collection. Obviously there wasn’t much else in the news today as they all seemed to have picked up on it. He fished out his copy of the Independent while studying one of the tabloids. ‘The Man with the Golden Brush!’ it proclaimed, and went on to eulogise about Sebastian being the saviour of the British art scene.
Most of them had chosen the painting of Charlotte staring out of the canvas to represent the exhibition. It made the hairs on Fitch’s neck stand on end. It depicted her so exactly - the wide eyes, the half smile. He had to agree. The man was a genius. It was as if he had captured her soul on canvas—
‘I never had a clue,’ said Nikita, breaking into his thoughts.
‘What?’ asked Fitch absently.
‘That she was at it with him.’ Nikita pursed her lips to show her disapproval. ‘Or that she was on the run.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Haven’t you read the article?’ Nikita thrust a copy of the Mail on Sunday at him.
It was just the sort of aspirational, celebrity-driven tale the Mail loved. By the time Fitch had read their version of events, he felt sick. So that’s what Charlotte was doing in the wilds of Withybrook. She was in hiding because her husband had failed to pull off a rather tacky scam that he should have known better than to attempt. And now, it seemed, she was embroiled with everyone’s new favourite artist, Sebastian Turner. At least, that’s what the media were speculating, although they were all swift to point out that Sebastian’s wife Catkin had been firmly at his side throughout the exhibition. There was a photo of the two of them together, Catkin looking chic and triumphant, Sebastian just looking . . . well, like Sebastian. Slightly rumpled and burned out, but annoyingly attractive.
Fitch slid the paper back to Nikita with a little shrug.
‘It just goes to show,’ she said, ‘that you never really know people, do you?’
‘No . . .’ agreed Fitch. He remembered Christmas night, how she’d told him things were complicated. He felt rather hurt that she had pulled the wool over his eyes so completely. He thought they had built up an element of trust between them. He’d confided his fears and worries about Hayley to her, and she’d kept silent in return. Not that she owed him any explanation, of course, and if she wanted to keep her past a secret that was up to her. But he felt disappointed nevertheless.
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