All the Rage (10 page)

‘I like a man who makes decisions, although your previous one was not so good. Where are we going? ' Her voice wavered with excitement.

His mouth suddenly went dry, and he felt his heart start to leap with more intensity. ‘Italy. I thought Venice. '

He waited for what appeared an eternity. ‘Lauren, are you still there? '

Eventually, she found an answer. ‘Yes, Michael. I'm still here. I cannot possibly go to Venice, is that understood? It is simply not appropriate. '

‘Not
appropriate
? '

‘I'll call you when I get home,' she replied. Her tone was cold and transparently agitated.

With that the line went silent.

Michael switched off his mobile, and jammed his hands in his pockets. He shook his head, momentarily taken aback by the manner in which she had abruptly ended their conversation. Was it really so great a surprise though? He quickened his pace in the direction of the gallery. Her response was
exactly
what he had anticipated. It told him everything he had long suspected.

Chapter Five

 

Later that afternoon Michael had a meeting with his solicitor which lasted an hour.

The matrimonial complications were spelt out to him in no uncertain terms. His wife, Adele, had instructed her side to reach for the sky and demand whatever she felt she was entitled to, without regard to his considerable achievements and damned hard work in building their wealth. He believed this was an expertise that had created their empire from scratch, and her abject failure to acknowledge his true value in what they had accomplished over the years was hard for him to accept. But that was the reality of divorce. Grab what you could, and damn the consequences.

His solicitor was blunt and to the point. ‘As it stands, Michael, I'm afraid Adele is out to ruin you. She has filed for divorce. '

‘On what grounds. . ? '

‘Irreconcilable differences. In other words, the gradual breakdown of your marriage, I'm afraid. '

‘Is that it? '

‘Hardly a small matter, as far as the courts are concerned. Do you want to contest it? '

Michael stared back across the wide mahogany desk with its clutter of files and saw a neat bespectacled man by the name of Mr Plumb, whom he had known for over twenty years. He was completely bald but still insisted in dragging a few wisps of hair across the top of his shiny head. It was almost comical but Michael didn't feel like laughing.

Instead, his thoughts were heavy. He retorted, ‘Damn right, I do wish to contest it, vigorously. '

Mr Plumb puffed out his chest. ‘Do you have sufficient grounds of your own? '

‘I believe so. I want to counter-file for divorce. '

The solicitor leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. ‘Citing? '

Michael remembered Adele's snide inference regarding ‘
someone else
'. He almost spat the word out. ‘Adultery. '

Later that same afternoon, Michael had a discussion with his accountants on the telephone, finding out his position with regard to the break-up of the partnership and the effect of Capital Gains Tax on their joint homes and the business assets. It was a horrendous picture, too big to grasp at this late hour, and he longed for a large gin and tonic. It had been an eventful day, one of many surprises. But the impending financial disasters which awaited him from the conflict with Adele somehow diminished beside the magnitude of the journey that now confronted him with Lauren.

He decided to act swiftly and decisively. Even though he knew it was imperative to sort out their financial differences, Adele would have to wait. The mechanics of divorce was a slow and laborious process. It couldn't be rushed. It was the equivalent of attempting to turn an oil tanker at sea. It took forever. He wouldn't normally allow himself to be distracted from business (Adele had often complained about him always putting the gallery first. “This obsession”, she called it). But hell, let her stew, he concluded rather rashly, with little regard to Mr Plumb's words: deal or no deal.

For now though, Michael had elected to search and examine the studio of Julius Gray. He was sure that vital clues would surface from here. After that a trip to Venice (
Not appropriate, Lauren had said)
which he hoped would enable him to make contact with Julius, thus allaying his worst fears: if Julius was alive, then, and only then, could he and Lauren begin a healthy relationship built on a solid foundation of trust. In his opinion, they currently collided like two exhausted prize-fighters hanging desperately on to each other in order to survive a contest, winner taking all. For Michael, at least, this was not the way forward. He was already feeling battered, and virtually defeated.

There was something else which nagged at him too, but it wouldn't surface, however hard he tried to visualise it. Only one option was clear to him: visit Laburnum Farm whilst Lauren was in Ireland. He wanted to survey the territory on which he would be forced to navigate the thin channels which separated the truth from the lies.

From behind his desk, he leaned forward and punched the intercom button which connected to the gallery.

‘Kara. Would you get me the phone number for Agnes Olivetti? She is curator at the Gallery Academia Dorsoduro in Venice. ' He checked his watch: ‘Almost closing time. Fancy joining me for a celebratory drink? '

‘What are we celebrating? '

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Good fortune, perhaps. Maybe bankruptcy. The vanity of alter-egos. Take your pick. My accountant tells me I face possible ruin. My solicitor tells me I'm between a rock and a hard place. Given the circumstances, I intend to drown my sorrows in a bottle of fine champagne. '

Kara drew breath. ‘Hold on, hold on a minute! I start the day with a fry- up and finish up with a glass of bubbly. I have to guard my reputation here. People will begin a whispering campaign if they keep seeing us together. You know: no smoke without fire. ' He could hear her giggling quietly to herself.

‘Your reputation is safe with me, Kara. ' Michael decided to lighten the mood, ‘Although I have had my fantasies. '

He could hear her muffled snort.

‘Besides, it would never work,' he continued. ‘Although Marcus and you are perfectly suited, I would hate to damage his fragile ego if he knew you would always compare us. There would simply be no contest. '

‘Hah, in your dreams! '

‘A fair assessment. ' He felt somewhat chastised but had enjoyed the banter nonetheless. He didn't want to overstep the boundary between them and changed the subject. ‘Listen, Kara, meet me in the Blue Bar in fifteen minutes and bring the file on the works of Patrick Porter, including all the colour images of his paintings we've sold over the years. I think I've found out who Antonia is. '

‘Antonia? Who is Antonia? '

Michael delayed his answer for a few seconds. 'The mistress of Julius Gray. I'll explain it all in good time. In particular, bring me all you have on the work entitled
‘A' on green silk
. '

‘I remember. If I recall correctly, we sold it in December last year.'

‘I'm not sure how I know this,' he said, his voice rising in pitch, ‘but the girl featured in that painting is called Antonia. And before you ask, no, I'm not going crazy. I have more than a hunch about this.'

 

***

 

The bar was hectic and noisy and hip. Jay-Z pounded from the sound system.
Everyone
in London, it appeared, wanted a drink. Michael consumed the last mouthful of his iced gin and tonic, the second since meeting up with Kara in the club.

‘Another? ' he suggested. He knew he was on a self-destruct high, despite his anger toward Lauren, which was twofold: first, her brusque reaction to a trip to Venice, which he had anticipated, and second, her unannounced departure to Ireland, without considering him. For the first time, he sensed her life independent from his, and it bothered him. On the one hand, he hardly knew her; on the other he wanted to possess her.
All of her
. It signalled another notch up on his growing anger.

He realised his involvement in their relationship was all-consuming and he was jealous that she had reached an ordinary decision without his knowledge. It was certainly not unreasonable for her to undertake such a basic decision, but he found it a kind of betrayal. Frankly, he was pissed off.

The third round of drinks appeared on the table as if by magic.

‘Fed up waiting,' Kara announced, returning from the bar. ‘You do that a lot just recently, ranting on and on and then drifting off. '

‘Do I? '

‘Yes. It's called pre-occupation,
or
, in your case terminal obsession. '

‘Christ. Sorry, Kara. Kick me next time. '

‘I did, actually. And you owe me sixteen pounds for the drinks. I got the last round as well. ' While drinking, Kara texted Marcus to say she was going to be late home. That would keep him on his toes.

Michael fumbled in his pocket, found a twenty pound note, gave it to her, and then returned to the matter in hand. ‘Did you bring the file? '

She smiled forgivingly. ‘I have the file. Who is this girl called Antonia? '

Michael took the folder and emptied the contents on the table, searching for a particular image. ‘Here it is, here it is. ' He pointed to a photo of
‘A' on green silk'
. ‘We sold this painting, and the title appeared genuine, written on the reverse of the canvas. At the time, the lady who originally sold us the work insisted the ‘A' stood for Athena. She said that she and her late husband had acquired the painting from Christies. It was they who had apparently given her this information, so we have no reason to doubt the story. In fact, we know from several paintings over the years that Athena featured in many canvasses. She was obviously a favourite model of the artist, rather like Sir William Russell Flint and his muse, Cecilia Green. '

‘So? ' Kara nudged him with her foot.

‘Well,' he continued, ignoring her little dig. ‘The information was wrong, or, the name Athena was made up simply as a marketing tool. Who really knows? Whatever her name may or may not have been, up to now we do not actually have her true identity. Usually, an artist would employ a professional model, or use a girlfriend. She may have been a penniless student. But, I have seen her before, just recently, painted by a different artist. Namely Julius Gray. Her actual name is Antonia. '

Kara shifted uneasily in her chair. ‘How do you know it is the same girl? '

‘I don't, not at this stage. But I am convinced it is. The similarity is uncanny, almost impossible to ignore. I also know that
‘A' on green silk
was painted in Venice; I recall seeing the location handwritten as an inscription on the reverse of the canvas. It was at a house on San Marco. Now, this is where it gets intriguing. When I visited the studio of Julius Gray, I inadvertently discovered two paintings of the
same
girl, both painted in Venice. Coincidence? No chance. I stake my reputation on this. '

‘Where is this leading, Michael? '

He tried to remain patient with her, knowing that this theory of his was bizarre, but not impossible. He somehow had to show that this girl modelled for both Patrick Porter and Julius Gray. It wasn't going to be easy.

‘Well? ' Kara said.

He could see that he had her full attention and knew Kara was now fascinated by the weird scenario unravelling slowly before her.

He took time out to finish his drink. ‘I believe there is a strong connection between the disappearance of Julius and this mysterious girl. He referred to her as Antonia, and these two paintings were intimate studies of love and shared moments. The paintings were hidden, and not for the attention of anyone else, particularly Lauren. I believe that Antonia and he were lovers, and that they escaped together, possibly to Venice. I am even more convinced because when I asked Lauren to accompany me there, on the pretext of a holiday, her response was decidedly icy. Why would that be? '

‘Beats me,' Kara replied. ‘Unless, as you say, Lauren is aware that they are in fact living there, and it is too painful to bear. '

Michael looked long and hard at Kara. ‘Exactly. Or…'

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Or? '

‘Call me paranoid. But Lauren has a past to hide, one she cannot exorcise. It torments her. It overshadows everything she does. And get this. She often refers to her husband in the past tense. Suppose Julius is dead? '

Kara held up her hands. ‘Hey, hold on a minute, you're in the realms of make believe now. For instance, you'll be relieved to know that a trip to Scotland isn't necessary after all. ‘
Yes, thank you, Kara, for saving me the cost of a luxury weekend in…oh, forget it! '
She smiled. ‘Anyway, I checked up on Julius using the internet. The Oberon gallery is closed, owing to the death of the owner. However, other enquiries suggest that Julius was a modestly successful artist in Glasgow, with no huge following. He was a likeable artist who simply stopped exhibiting in the city. Two other galleries lost contact and evidently didn't lose any sleep over it. Artists move on, full stop. I found no sinister cover-up, if that is what you were looking for. Chill out, Michael; you have nothing to go on to substantiate such wild accusations. '

‘Well, something isn't right. Think about it. Patrick Porter is dead, Julius Gray is missing. Just suppose…'

Kara shrugged again. ‘Perhaps Lauren just wished him dead – it is not uncommon. Many women who feel betrayed simply cut the man from their lives. It's called survival, keeping your sanity, your dignity, whatever. It is easier to think of him as gone, in the past, no longer alive. '

Michael scanned the various brochures and newspaper cuttings on Patrick Porter and downed the last dregs of his drink. He decided on a taxi home and summoned a waiter, requesting the champagne that he had first enticed Kara with earlier in the evening. His car could stay put.

‘Just a glass,' Kara said, as the waiter popped the cork. ‘What are we celebrating? '