The Debutante (28 page)

‘I want something I can look at. Something I can hang on my wall.’

‘Like a trophy? Something along the lines of a moose head?’

‘Yeah, paint me a moose head.’ He pushed her hair back from her face. ‘So long as it looks like you.’

‘You have me.’

‘I want more of you.’

‘There is no more, this is it.’ Her voice was tinged with frustration. What he called devotion felt like a demand.

He was quick to pick up on it. ‘There’s always more. If it matters to you.’

She closed her eyes. ‘It’s been so long. I probably can’t even do it.’

‘Probably not,’ he sighed, rolling away. ‘Who knows? Maybe you’re all dried up. I was trying to do you a favour.’

She opened her eyes, looked across at him. Was he serious? But his face was hidden.

The tender moment was gone. He had a knack of building her up and then whipping the ground away beneath her feet. She was either soaring or falling; there was no in between. But once the doubts were planted, they took hold, rapidly. She moved away too, twisting over on to her side. Maybe she was dried up. But he wasn’t going to get the better of her.

It began as a self-portrait, which wasn’t like her at all. Cate had done a few in art school, as assignments. But she was hardly her favourite subject. They’d been rather terrified, conservative line drawings of her face and shoulders; just what she could see comfortably in the bathroom mirror. She’d found it excruciating to stare at herself so long, with complete objectivity; to note in ruthless detail each flaw, the unevenness of her features, the scar that still formed a shiny crescent-shaped mark on her forehead; the way her heavy eyelids lent her eyes an air of dull sadness. Her mouth turned naturally down in repose and at the time her hair had been darker and hung in thick, lank tendrils around her shoulders. There was a rigidness to the finished works that had baffled her instructors, who were used to more daring results. Her marks had been uncharacteristically low that term.

But this time she used the full-length mirror on her closet door, filling her little studio with candlelight. And she decided to paint herself nude, reclining on her fold-out bed.

After all those reproductions, that fastidious copying, the self-portrait became a turning point, even an obsession with Cate. At the end of her working day, she rushed home to finish it, often painting late into the night. She didn’t like posing naked. But, oddly, that only made the painting more dynamic. It brought out tensions and contradictions; the bed became a dark, floating, slightly sinister mass. And she didn’t so much rest on it as emerge from it.

It wasn’t beautiful. Instead it was powerful, disturbing. And far and above the most accomplished work she’d ever produced.

When she finally presented it to him, he looked at it closely but said nothing. He was a man of constant snap responses, of quick, sharp quips. But he just stared at it, frowning.

‘It seems you really are talented,’ he said at last. It came out more like an accusation than a compliment.

‘But do you like it?’ She couldn’t make him out; part of her felt frightened, rejected, and unsure why.

‘Like I said, you’re a world-class talent, Cate. What’s it called anyway?’

She hadn’t thought of that. ‘I don’t know.
Untitled,
I guess.’

His face softened. ‘Well, I’ll come up with a name, shall I?’

It wasn’t the way it worked. And yet she’d conceded. It was as if he needed to own a part of everything she did.
He would love her, passionately, greedily. But she would pay for it with little pieces of herself.

Cate pushed open the heavy glass door of the Richard Green Gallery. There was a vacuum-like silence when it closed again, sealing her in.

She looked around, at the classic burgundy walls and illuminated paintings. There was a time when she had longed to be included in a gallery collection of fine art, but not like this. She felt exposed, as naked as she was in the painting. It was ridiculous to imagine that anyone would recognise her, but her heart thumped and her head pulsed nonetheless. She picked up a leaflet but had difficulty focusing. After a moment, an attractive young woman with dark hair came up to her. ‘May I help?’ she asked.

Cate shook her head. ‘Oh, actually,’ she reconsidered, ‘I’m … I’m very interested in the painting in the window. The title …
The Mistress?’

‘Oh yes!’ The young woman smiled. ‘We’ve had a lot of interest in that one. I understand it’s by an unknown artist. In fact, it’s due to be sold later this month, although it’s not been officially confirmed yet.’

The bottom of her stomach disappeared. ‘Sold?’ she repeated.

‘Yes. The clients are liquidating some of their collection.’

‘I see.’ Cate nodded her head, tried to swallow.

‘Are you all right?’ the girl asked. ‘You look a little pale.’

‘I … It’s just I knew them … well, one of them … slightly…’

‘Oh, I see. Well, it’s quite normal with people who collect on this scale.’

‘It’s just I had no idea that … that they were collectors.’

‘Oh, yes. It’s really quite a fascinating and informed selection of artworks. Very intelligently compiled and demonstrating a rather distinctive sensibility.’ She stopped, frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Would you like a glass of water or something?’

‘No, no, I’m fine.’

‘You can have a seat if you like.’

‘Thank you. I … I just need to go now.’

Her head was buzzing and her mouth was dry; a band of pain stretched across her abdomen. She made it out to the pavement, fumbled in her handbag for her mobile phone.

Yes, he was a collector.

She’d spent so much time and effort avoiding his calls, staying away from him. But now she had to reach him. She had to know.

Standing on the corner, she watched as passers-by stopped, staring at her self-portrait in the window. There she was—raw, stripped bare—for the entire world to see. And about to be liquidated.

There was the distant sound of the overseas connection being made and then …

‘The number you are ringing has been disconnected. Please hang up. The number you are ringing has been disconnected. Please hang up. The number you are ringing has been disconnected…’

The last thing she remembered, someone was shouting and there was the strange sensation of the pavement rising to meet her.

And then the world went black.

When they returned to Endsleigh in the late afternoon, Jo’s old car was in the driveway, its boot open, boxes stacked alongside.

They climbed out of Jack’s Triumph.

‘What’s all this?’ Rachel wanted to know.

Just then Jo appeared, struggling down the narrow pathway at the side of the house, carrying a particularly unwieldy box from the direction of the cottage.

‘Here, let me.’ Jack rushed forward to help, relieving her of the load.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled at them both, catching her breath. ‘Nice to have a man around for a change!’ She held out her hand to Rachel. ‘Hi, I’m Jo Williams. I used to be the housekeeper here.’

Rachel took it. ‘Rachel Deveraux. Having a clear-out?’ she asked, looking round.

‘Much against my will, I might add. Turns out I’d
forgotten about the loft space in the cottage. My mother got up this morning and was in a positive panic about it. Can you believe how much junk one old lady can hoard away?’ She sighed. ‘“Josephine,” she says to me, “there’s something I need you to do. A few things that need to be collected from the loft.” Well, will you look at it!’ She shook her head. ‘We’ve got nowhere to put anything! I don’t know what she expects me to do with it all.’

Jack lugged the box over to the side of the car. ‘I don’t even know how you got this one down. It weighs a ton!’

‘I can carry almost everything. Remember, for years I had a B & B with my ex-husband, which means I ran the damn thing by myself.’

Jack eased the box into the back of the boot. ‘What is it? Books?’

‘Oh, all sorts. Junk mostly.’

She opened the top and riffled through. It was filled with piles of old newspapers and magazines—some of them falling apart they were so fragile—a bolt of faded cream taffeta material, knotted balls of yarn and half-finished knitting, an old hot-water bottle, a couple of shapeless women’s day dresses …

‘Looks like personal effects,’ Rachel said, lifting out a squashed misshapen pillbox hat with a torn black veil.

‘Well,’ Jo sighed heavily, hands on hips, ‘what do you think? Is any of it worth anything?’ She picked up a faded yellow ball of yarn and a half-finished baby blanket, the stitches clumsy and uneven. ‘Jesus!’ She poked her finger
through one of the gaping holes before tossing it back in the box. ‘Our house is filled to the brim as it is. I’m going to have to take this lot down to one of the charity shops in Lyme Regis.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Rachel unearthed a large wooden box buried at the bottom. ‘This is nice,’ she said, turning it over. It measured about twenty-two inches long and fourteen inches wide, fashioned from a rich, gleaming mahogany with an inlaid ivory Celtic knot design on the lid.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a writing case. Probably Victorian. Most likely used for travelling. See, ink, pens and paper can be kept inside and the top is large enough to write on.’ She tried to open it, but it was locked. ‘Only we need the key. Someone was careful enough to lock it.’ Turning it over, she examined the bottom. A small label was fixed to the bottom, faded and brown with age. ‘“Benedict Blythe, Tir Non Og, Ireland”,’ she read aloud. ‘Who’s that?’

Jo leaned forward to see it better. ‘Oh, yeah. He was Irene’s father. He was some sort of writer—a historian, I think.’

‘Irene Blythe?’ Rachel asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Well …’ She turned it over again. ‘If this belonged to him, it’s quite valuable. For a collector, it would be worth a lot. Don’t give that to the charity shop.’

Jo wrinkled her nose. ‘Believe me, I’d like to sell it but Mum would kill me. Especially if it went to one of the
nosy people who are always looking for memorabilia about Baby Blythe. She’d never forgive me.’

‘I’ll give you three hundred pounds for it,’ Jack said suddenly.

Jo’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious? As much as that?’

‘It’s a special piece. And I promise not to sell it on.’ He looked at Rachel, who was staring at him in surprise.

‘Wow.’ Jo shrugged her shoulders. ‘OK. Only I feel like I’m robbing you blind!’

‘Believe me, you’re not,’ Rachel assured her.

‘No,’ Jack said. ‘In fact, if you wanted to auction it, you could probably get a lot more.’

‘Well, I’m not going to auction it.’ Jo frowned. ‘Seems like an awful lot for a wooden box.’

‘You’re meant to be bargaining the price up, not down!’ Rachel hissed in a stage whisper.

Jo laughed. ‘OK, OK! Done!’

Jack and Jo shook hands.

‘Here.’ He took out a pen and an old envelope from his jacket pocket. ‘Write your address down on this and I’ll bring a cheque over later.’

‘Thank you.’ Jo jotted the address down. ‘Now—’ she turned to Rachel, a gleam in her eye—‘what about you? Do you want some old dresses for a fiver? Or some dodgy knitting?’

A few minutes later, she headed back to the old cottage to lock up and Jack and Rachel stood in the drive on their own.

‘So,’ Rachel folded her arms across her chest, ‘starting a collection of your own?’

‘It’s a good piece, don’t you think?’

She clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, your father would be proud of you. In there like a flash when you spotted it. And yes, it’s unique, with valuable history. A smart buy.’

‘The truth is I have no idea what I’m doing right now,’ he sighed. ‘Not a clue.’

A pair of magpies swooped down, landing on the lawn in front of them, bouncing after one another in the long grass.

‘Look,’ she pointed to the birds. ‘One for sorrow, two for joy! It’s a sign.’

‘Do you believe in that sort of thing?’

‘No,’ she laughed, shaking her head. ‘But we need all the help we can get in this world. And if a couple of birds can get us through the next five minutes, then so be it. I’m not above laying myself open to chance.’