The Perfect Retreat (30 page)

Lucy’s schedule kept Willow in the public eye but not hankering for attention. Lucrative deals negotiated with photo agencies meant that Willow’s carefully constructed image was back in the magazines and on the internet. Photos of her doing the kindergarten run with Lucian and Poppy. Pushing Jinty in the baby swing, walking with her parents through the streets or St James’s Park.

Janis and Alan had stepped up as parents and Willow was beginning to see another side to them. Less self-involved and more present, the relationship had changed, with Willow allowing Janis to see her vulnerable side and Janis and Alan allowing themselves to be grandparents for the first time.

Janis liked to look over the pictures of herself in the
magazines
. ‘I look fat in this one,’ she would say, and Willow would try not to laugh at this woman who worried about what her weight looked like in a photo but refused to see that multicoloured rave pants with fluorescent yellow stripes, bought at a street market in London, were unflattering.

Arriving at the party, Willow and Richard stood on the red carpet outside and allowed themselves to be photo-graphed together for the first time.

Willow smiled. Fuck you, Merritt, fuck you, Kerr, she thought, and she put her hand into Richard’s. He looked at her in surprise. He had tried to make a move on Willow last week and she had begged off with a headache; this was the furthest he had got with her yet. Proud of himself he smiled broadly for the camera, his slightly receding hairline showing off his forehead, shining in the spotlights.

Richard was more attractive because of his connections and his name and he knew it, so he went after women who wanted what he had to offer. Women who wanted to be not necessarily happy but wealthy for the rest of their lives. He knew of Willow’s financial woes – Kerr’s lawyer talked in the spa at the health club and Richard’s lawyer repeated everything to Richard over lunch at The Wolseley.

Willow was just what he wanted. Elegant, glamorous, not talented enough to be a threat but beautiful enough to wear the Devon and Squires products with the chicness they required. The lack of sex between them didn’t worry him; he had his whores for that. He liked sex with prostitutes: they were easier, less complicated and always ready to do what he asked. He saw no shame in it, just as his father and
grandfather
before hadn’t.

He watched Willow as she was interviewed by a blonde with huge breasts wearing a fur hat. Willow was all charm and generosity. Yes, she would do nicely, he thought. The children weren’t too much of a problem; he had been raised by nannies and he was fine, he thought to himself. Willow had mentioned a nanny and her mother – clearly she
understood
child raising was a job to be outsourced at all possible times.

Richard knew the pressure was on him to bring a new heir into the company. He was thirty-six years old and single. His mother, Magdalena, had told him in no uncertain terms that his responsibility was to manage the company affairs, keep Devon and Squires’s name clean and shiny, and procreate.

Hopefully Willow would like more children, he thought, as he watched her sip her champagne and listen to a dinner guest drone on. She caught his eye and he smiled at her and made a face as though he was bored. She laughed a little.

Later when they danced to Michael Bublé, whom Willow despised but Richard loved, he asked her if she thought she had more children in her future. Willow, a little drunk, told him that she would sooner stab herself in the eye with a pencil than have more children.

Richard made sure she got home safely under the care of his driver. He had his secretary return her calls over the next two weeks and finally she got the message. He had his hookers for sex, but he needed a wife and an heir. Willow wasn’t right, he decided.

Eight weeks later he announced his engagement to Ingrid, a model and the ex-girlfriend of a Swedish tennis champion. Beautiful and malleable, she was perfect for Richard and guaranteed to be knocked up within the year.

Willow wasn’t devastated. Actually she was partly relieved.

‘Did you see the papers?’ asked Lucy when the announcement came out.

‘Yes, I saw it,’ answered Willow.

‘You OK?’

‘Fine. I don’t really care; nothing happened between us,’ said Willow truthfully.

‘Well, I think your contract is safe for at least this year,’ said Lucy, ‘but I will start looking for something else just in case.’

Willow put down the phone and sighed. Working was such a chore, she thought. For the first time she wanted to be at home with the children, pottering in the small garden that she had set up with them. She tried not to think of Merritt but it was impossible. Poppy chattered on about him endlessly and now Lucian’s voice had been located he too piped up with his name occasionally. Jinty was walking everywhere and Willow was waiting for the magical ‘Merritt’ word to spring forth from her any day.

The ghosts of Middlemist were everywhere, she thought, as she looked out over the pots of parsley and basil, just beginning to seed.

‘It’s a ghost,’ confirmed Henry to Ivo and Merritt. ‘They all have them,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ve run these ones through the infrared reflectography machines. There are definitely works underneath them. To be conservative I would say that they look to be a different style of work from the top layers, but I cannot say they are George Middlemists just yet. We’ll need to send them off for further tests.’

Merritt stood stunned in the back rooms of the auction house.

‘How many more did you say there were at the house?’ asked Henry.

‘At least another fifty of different sizes,’ said Ivo, his voice raised to a fever pitch.

‘Let’s get these done first and restore at least one, and then I’ll come back to you,’ said Henry.

‘How long will it take?’ asked Ivo.

‘It depends on how long it takes to take the existing layers off, could be weeks or months,’ said Henry.

Ivo looked at the painting in front of him. It was his favourite so far. He called it
The Proposal
. A young man knelt in front of his love, a woman in a white dress with dark hair and dark eyes. The garden surrounded them and the man had such an expression of hope and pain on his face that Ivo related to him completely. He knew he could never afford it, not even with his wage.

Ivo nodded. ‘Come on mate, we need to get you a drink,’ he said to Merritt, and saying their goodbyes to Henry they headed for the nearest pub.

‘You could have a fortune on your hands,’ said Ivo as he settled two pints in front of them.

Merritt shook his head. ‘You mean to tell me they’ve been in the house all these years and we dismissed them? I can’t believe it.’

Ivo nodded. ‘I know. It’s crazy but it makes sense. Where else would they have gone? The paintings that are out in public now must have been sold directly by George himself.’

Merritt sipped his beer. ‘If they are what you think then I could sell them and do up the house finally,’ he said.

‘Absolutely,’ said Ivo excitedly. He had taken great pride in his sleuthing work, and the rush of the find was more intoxicating than any drug he had ever used.

‘I have a proposal,’ said Ivo carefully.

‘Yes?’ said Merritt, waiting. What did Ivo want? Money for his trouble? A painting? He sat still in anticipation.

‘I want … I want …’ Ivo swallowed. He had been thinking about this for the last two weeks since the paintings had been with Henry.

‘Out with it,’ said Merritt impatiently.

‘I want to write a book,’ said Ivo finally.

‘A book? On what?’ asked Merritt, puzzled.

‘On George and Clementina. I know these are the
paintings
, I feel it; and I think it’s the most amazing story. The story of the house and love and revenge and art. It’s perfect,’ he said.

‘Go for it,’ said Merritt, laughing with relief.

‘But I would need to write in peace. In the place where it all began,’ said Ivo, looking at Merritt for a reaction.

‘You want to write it at Middlemist?’ asked Merritt.

‘Yes. If you don’t mind,’ said Ivo, looking down into his pint.

‘Mind? I would love you to stay,’ said Merritt. He enjoyed Ivo’s company, and if the paintings were George’s then he would be indebted to him forever.

‘Really? Wow. Great. I mean fuck, bloody marvellous,’ said Ivo, beaming from ear to ear.

‘Knock yourself out, although I’m not sure anyone would buy it. I don’t know how interesting it is,’ said Merritt.

‘I think you’d be surprised,’ said Ivo with authority. ‘There’s a market for this type of book. Part academic, part intrigue. Look at
The Da Vinci Code
,’ he said.

Merritt laughed. ‘Good luck then,’ he said.

‘I can pay rent,’ said Ivo proudly.

‘No rent,’ said Merritt firmly. ‘I owe you, I think.’

‘You owe me nothing. It’s everything I wanted to do, I’ve finally realised,’ said Ivo.

‘Really?’ asked Merritt with interest. ‘You don’t want to be an actor?’

‘No, too much waiting around. I like to make things happen.’

‘There’s a lot of sitting around in writing a book. I should know, I’ve written a few gardening books in my day,’ said Merritt.

‘I know, but it’s different – I would be learning things, writing things down, telling a story,’ said Ivo, his face flushed from the warmth of the pub and his passion.

‘I could put you in touch with my literary agent,’ said Merritt. ‘They might be able to help you get a book deal.’

‘Really? That would be great,’ said Ivo. ‘Things have a way of working out, huh?’ he said, and then he thought of Kitty. ‘Well, almost everything.’

Merritt sat thinking about Kitty and Willow. He hadn’t heard from Willow. Lucy had rung him about the packers. She was formal and polite on the phone, and he hadn’t dared ask her how Willow and the children were. He missed them all more than he thought possible, spending nights poring over the workbook she had put together on the house.

Kitty was settled with Harold, the film’s director. She insisted that nothing was going on, he was merely being a gentleman and helping her. Merritt had no choice but to believe her. He would have liked to talk to Willow about it, but she had clearly moved on, he thought. He had seen photos of her everywhere, in the street, with the children. Jinty was walking, he noticed with pride when he saw images of them in the park together.

Lucian looked happy and Poppy – well, she was still Poppy. Ridiculous clothing and a defiant attitude like her father, he thought, as he saw her wearing wellies with a fairy dress in a magazine he had bought because it had Willow on the front. She was dating too, he read with a heavy heart. First a jewellery designer or something, and then rumours of her and the actor Jack Reynolds, whom she had met with for lunch before they started their next film.

The next few weeks were excruciating while he and Ivo waited for the results of the tests on the paintings, but when the call came through from Henry confirming their authenticity, he and Ivo were exultant.

‘Now I have a book!’ cried Ivo.

‘And I will have the money for the house,’ said Merritt in shock.

And they sat in silence, both thinking for a moment of what they didn’t have. It lingered longer than the short-lived joy they had just felt.

The rest of the paintings were packed and shipped off to London for restoration, but not before Ivo and a photographer had documented each canvas of Clementina’s work.

Ivo worked hard on the proposal for his book and sent it off to Merritt’s literary agent. They were interested; could he write three chapters?

‘Three chapters?’ said Ivo, reading the email to Merritt. ‘I suppose I’d better get started.’

‘You’ll be right,’ said Merritt encouragingly. ‘I’ll be your editor, so to speak. You write and I’ll check,’ he said.

‘Really? Thanks Mezza.’

‘Mezza?’

‘I’m trying to find a nickname for you,’ said Ivo.

‘Not Mezza, please,’ said Merritt with a frown.

‘What about Tits?’ asked Ivo cheekily.

‘No thanks,’ said Merritt, snorting. Ivo made him laugh and he was such good company; he could see what Kitty liked about him. He was fun. A few times he had nearly told Ivo where she was, but he couldn’t break his promise to her.

Ivo had stopped asking now; he knew Merritt was good to his word, and he let it go. Instead he buckled down and started to write. Within two weeks he had his three chapters and an outline of the rest. It was the most productive two weeks he had spent in years, and he was mentally exhausted at the end of each day when he tucked himself into Kitty’s little bed.

Merritt didn’t tell Kitty about Ivo staying, but he did tell her about the paintings. He told her a white lie, that an art historian had discovered the paintings underneath Clementina’s by happenstance. Kitty didn’t care as long as Merritt was happy, and he seemed to be, even though she knew he was mourning the loss of Willow and the children.

Ivo and Merritt settled into a routine of writing and gardening. Ivo sometimes stretched his body and helped Merritt in the garden, and Merritt read what he had written most evenings.

‘It’s a shame we aren’t gay,’ said Ivo. ‘We cohabit very well.’

‘Yes, shame; but if we were, you’d be too young for me,’ said Merritt laughing. ‘I’m an old man now, nearly forty-two,’ he said.

‘Forty is the new thirty,’ said Ivo.

‘Said the twenty-eight-year-old,’ said Merritt as he watched the fire. The weather was turning and winter would soon be here, he thought. He had done as much as he could in the garden and he was nearly out of money. He was considering a new book or a television special, but he had lost his creative urge for anything else besides Middlemist.

He needed the paintings sold as soon as possible.

‘You heard from Henry?’ he asked Ivo each night to the usual answer from his housemate.

‘When I do, you will be the first to know.’

Word came through when Merritt was down the bottom of the garden. Ivo had to run the length of the estate to find him. ‘It’s Henry,’ he said, holding out the phone.