Rachael's Gift (12 page)

Carol’s phone beeped. She picked it up, nodded and said, ‘You may go in again.’

I said thanks and drew back the heavy door to the boardroom. Five pairs of eyes followed me.

One of the suits spoke this time. ‘Mr Larkin, Harvey White. I’m managing the case. I’m very sorry to hear about the death in your family. It always takes some time dealing with a bereavement. This on top of Rachael’s allegations must be a very trying time for all. We want to help as much as possible. The pressure on Rachael must be extreme.’ Years of slaving over papers in an office had probably made Harvey White’s shoulders round, but his eyes were clear and sharp. He was a lawyer. Never trust a lawyer. The old man had hated them with a passion, had plenty of jokes about them:
What do you call five thousand dead lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start! How can you tell when a lawyer is lying? His lips are moving.

Harvey’s lips were still moving. ‘The fact that Rachael is not here at present to be interviewed notwithstanding, we will nevertheless proceed with the investigation.’

I was all fired up to start arguing, but this caught me off guard. ‘Really? Good. Okay,’ I said. So they would investigate this guy after all. I was glad – I may have had my own secret doubts about my kid, but they were private and my right as a parent; I still wanted him checked out. ‘What have you got on him, then?’

Harvey White’s lips made a smacking noise. ‘Er, Mr Larkin, we’re not at liberty to talk about the alleged perpetrator. Ms Larkin’s complaint is deemed “reportable conduct” under the category of “sexual misconduct” and as such we have been enlisted to commence a workplace investigation into the matter.’

‘What does that mean exactly?’ I asked.

‘The category of “sexual misconduct” is defined by the New South Wales Ombudsman as “inappropriate and overly personal or intimate behaviour”. We’ll be looking for evidence of this and also for “grooming”. In cases like these, the perpetrator establishes special friendships, has perhaps given gifts, sent personal emails, letters, phone calls – we’ll check their social media, we’ll look for references or jokes of a sexual nature, and incidences when they have touched the students unnecessarily, such as putting his arm around them or touching their back, neck or shoulders, or kissing as a greeting . . . Of course, we’ll take into account their background, previous employment history, health, financial status and whether anything like this has been reported before. We have to understand the context of the situation, too, and the victim’s background, health and maturity. We’ll conduct interviews with both teachers and students, and once all our evidence has been gathered we’ll make a decision on whether a finding is sustained or not. If you think of anything or find anything that might help us, please let us know.’

‘When do the police get involved?’

‘As you know, the police have already been informed; however they are unable to proceed without a statement from the victim or the victim’s family. To make a sustained finding there needs to be more than just a complaint, we need to find other corroborative evidence – evidence other than Rachael. The burden of proof is “on the balance of probability”. Any other questions?’

‘What if Rachael doesn’t want to go through with a formal interview at all?’

‘The school still has a duty of care and we would still have to undertake an inquiry. Should we find no other corroborative evidence, the case will be closed and no records of it will be kept in his personnel file. Has Rachael hinted that this might be the case?’

‘Er, no . . . not yet . . .’ So Rachael wouldn’t even have to come forward again if she didn’t want to – Camille had no reason to be afraid. The whole thing could be dealt with quietly. It seemed to have a ring of too good to be . . . An ache grew at the back of my neck.

‘Some families do prefer that the police aren’t involved but are keen for us to investigate instead. And, of course, it’s always better if we can talk to the victim. Right now all we have is Ms Sheehan’s notes. Perhaps we could speak to Rachael via video conference? Would that be a possibility? Sorry, I realise this may seem a bit insensitive given the situation.’

Ah, yes, here was the catch. ‘Er . . . I could ask,’ I said weakly, knowing Camille would never agree. ‘So what’s likely to happen to him? If he’s guilty?’

‘If sexual misconduct is sustained the perpetrator will be reported to the Office of the Children’s Guardian; he’ll become a “prohibited person” and will not be able to work with children again and may face criminal charges.’ Harvey White pushed his business card across the table. ‘Anything else, just call me – I’m available anytime. Seriously, any hour. Don’t forget, when Rachael gets back she’s entitled to counselling and support.’ He tapped his knuckles on the table. ‘Got kids myself, I know how worrying this is. We’re here to help.’ He stood up, straightening his jacket. ‘By the way, this is a protected-disclosure case – all allegations of a sexual nature are by default; it just means we’ll be keeping the names of the victim and the alleged perpetrator confidential.’

‘Good, good. Thanks.’ We shook hands again.

That big angry storm had made it overhead while we’d been shut up in the goldfish bowl with the curtains drawn. I got soaked running to the Ford. I started her up, drenching the seat. I should have been pleased. The engine kicked over, the wipers started scratching, the indicator ticked. I pulled out into the traffic. The ache in my neck had grown sharper, radiating down my shoulders. I still had questions – but mostly, they were to do with Rach.

Finding a moment to myself, I crept through the apartment, hoping to find my mother. Above a walnut sideboard was a series of charcoal sketches of her and Francine. They looked like Grace Kelly in pearls and full skirts, and with the same heart-shaped face, almond eyes and straight noses, they could have been twins.

There were more black-and-white family photos in the study: Francine and Rupert on their wedding day; my grandfather grinning with Picasso; the two sisters by the sea – a blurry young Marguerite turning her face away while Francine, a person who knew, even then, the secrets of light, held her face up to the camera.

I sat in the salon and worked my way through the André Philippe memoir. An ageing man looked fondly back on his life through a series of anecdotal paragraphs. Occasionally, there was a snip of gossip about the Rothschilds or the Wildensteins or the nouveau riche of America, but not much else; ‘sales had never been better or higher’ he said of the state of the art trade during the war. I skimmed the pages until I caught the name
La Baigneuse
.

I had heard of the Baroness Lech from time to time, although I had never had the pleasure of meeting her until my great friend and collector Lord Wentworth invited me to her summer residence in Switzerland. I knew of her exquisite and vast collection – in fact could name every single piece with a descriptive catalogue – and it was there I viewed the incomparable Courbet, La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux . . . I was shattered to hear of the sale of her estate only five years hence.

He was referring to the year 1962 – so she had been in possession of it then, but it still didn’t shed any light on how or where she acquired it.

*

That afternoon Francine took Rachael and me to browse the shops and small galleries in Saint-Germain. Short, sharp pellets of rain hit our cheeks and we ducked into a cafe. The waiter, a man in a black waistcoat and white apron, took Francine’s order – three espressos.

Francine unwound herself from her fur-trimmed cape and Rachael and I unpeeled our wet woollen layers. My hands were red from the cold. Our coffees arrived moments later, followed by a paper bill stuffed into a shot glass.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Francine. ‘I’m going to give Michel Berrinoux at the school a call.’

Rachael and I exchanged a glance. I could see the instant joy in her eyes but I was immediately on guard. What had changed Francine’s mind? Rachael, of course. She was at her most charming. However, I was reluctant to agree; what would Francine want in return? There was always a price – and yet it would be so easy: just a word, just one little word . . .

‘That’s very generous of you, Francine,’ I said, and felt Rachael’s hand squeeze mine under the table.

‘I’ve thought about it and I’d like to. He’s an old friend.’

Rachael stared intently at Francine. ‘Are you being serious?’ Her voice was measured; only the shine in her eyes gave her away. ‘Because that would be seriously cool.’

Francine explained that it didn’t mean they would accept Rachael. ‘But I can at least get you the interview.’

Rachael kissed Francine on the cheek. ‘That would be amazing, Francine.’

I muttered a thank you and something about how she really needn’t be so generous. ‘I still think Rachael is capable of getting in on her own.’

‘Camille, my dear, it’s only ever who you know in this business.’ She looked at me dismissively as if I, of all people, should understand that.

Rachael took a sip of her coffee – something new – and said, ‘I bet you can make and break artists.’

Francine gave a discreet laugh. ‘It’s not quite like that. I’m no Yvon Lambert. It’s more that people come to me for advice.’

The coffee left a sour aftertaste. I cracked open a tin of mints from my handbag. Francine explained how her career had come naturally, growing up as she did, surrounded by art and artists. ‘There were always people at our house; gallery owners, curators, collectors, artists like Picasso and Braque – parties, debates, discussions. For me, all of this – this career – happened without even thinking.’

‘That’s insane,’ Rachael said. I saw the adoration in her eyes and it made me weary.

‘Your great-grandfather was a national hero – although he would have denied it. During the war he looked after his Jewish colleagues’ art and then afterwards helped them to retrieve it. Of course, he said he was just doing his job.’

Rachael pinched my wrist. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’

‘I don’t know.’

Watching Rachael and Francine, I felt as if I was looking through a thin veil, their colours a dull grey and bronze, slightly disfigured, not unlike Sickert’s portraits of prostitutes. I saw that they were alike; not in physical appearance – Rachael was dark and lithe, whereas Francine was blonde and bony – but in how they could get people to do things.

‘Later, someone tried to discredit him,’ Francine said. ‘When they were purging Paris of all the collaborators, they used photographs to identify them. My father had attended an opening night for Arno Breker’s exhibition, Hitler’s sculptor. There he was, in his double-breasted suit and tie, next to some senior SS officials – can you believe it? That was his job. And they executed people for that – a photo! But there were too many stories of his courage and they dropped the case.
Alors, on y va
.’ Francine stood up.

Outside, white streams of jet vapour crisscrossed the sky. We headed back to the apartment in a taxi. A man in a double-breasted suit sits at a desk before a typed certificate, tilting his fountain pen, pressing the nib into the space that has been left and draws, in long elegant strokes,
Le valeur est 52,000FF, Anton Delamotte
.

My eyelids grew heavy and I felt disoriented, slipping between consciousness and sleep, a weariness so heavy my limbs were like sandbags. Smoke-filled rooms in my grandparents’ house, artists with goatees and black hats gesticulating, courted by art dealers, gallery owners and collectors; the trusting eyes of a young woman. I jerked awake when the taxi came to a halt.

*

‘Welcome back!’ Francine’s husband, Rupert, bellowed, as we walked in the door, his Oxford English imposing and theatrical. He pressed his wet lips against my cheek. ‘What mess are you escaping from this time?’

I coloured, thinking for a minute that they’d found out about the teacher, but he eyed Rachael and quickly moved on. ‘Who do we have here? My dear Camille, we knew you had a daughter, but you didn’t mention she was an absolute stunner. What else are you keeping from us?’

He crushed Rachael’s face into the crook of his shoulder and she grimaced into his armpit, but when she pulled away shot him a winning smile, flirting like an expert – a thing she was cultivating with a keenness that scared me.

Rupert sat across from us at the dinner table, tucking heartily into a steak and drinking red wine out of a balloon glass; his eyes were bleached of their blue, watery and bloodshot; his salt-and-pepper hair was combed to the left and a light wool-knit crinkled over a perfectly rounded belly. Francine and Rupert fell into their private shorthand, discussing his business trip to Cologne. They’d been married for thirty years, no children. The entrepreneur and his collector wife. He was a collector too. ‘It’s what we do in life,’ he had once said to me.

‘I hear we have a little genius in the making,’ Rupert roared with his mouth full.

‘We think so,’ I said, smiling at Rachael. I searched Francine and Rupert’s faces for signs of trepidation at the familiar track this visit had taken, but if they were concerned they didn’t show it.

‘There’s a subtle violence in the work. I think you’d find it intriguing, Ru,’ Francine said. I looked for a trace of insincerity in her voice, but I didn’t find it; she seemed completely serious.

Rupert swilled his glass of wine and declared that he must be given a private viewing after dinner; Rachael eagerly agreed and they clinked glasses. Inevitably, the Beaux-Arts application came up.

‘It’s been my dream forever. I had to decline becoming class captain at my school just in case I got into the Beaux-Arts and had to leave. They were really supportive.’

This was an out-and-out lie – she had never been elected class captain. ‘Yes, it was a shame you weren’t able to accept it.’ I said, glowering at her, but my sarcasm was lost on the others. She wasn’t saying this stuff to impress – it was more like she truly believed the things that popped out of her mouth, they just slid out so naturally and it frightened me.