She looked very nervous about telling me this, which was a shame. But then again – consider how well I’d handled her getting married and leaving me alone in the flat. But this time, I was not going to get it wrong. I was genuinely excited for her. How could you not be, when you saw her pleasure and fear and wonder – that right now, there was this little thing in there, such a good thing, such a good mother to meet it when it finally showed its face.
‘Oh, Cynthia. Cynthia,’ I said, and to my shock tears filled my eyes. ‘I sitting here talking about mysterious women and you the greatest mystery of all.’
‘Delly, you sound like a poet even when you chokin’ up.’
‘Come here. I proud of you.’
We embraced, I held her tight and she held me, breathing out relief and crying a bit, because my happy reaction just made her happier still.
She was due at the beginning of April. She was terrified but excited, and worried they were not going to have enough money for it. ‘You’ll manage,’ I said, thinking how much Cynth’s life was going to transform, whilst mine was going to stay exactly the same. ‘Sam got a good job. So have you.’
‘So, Lawrie,’ she said, dabbing her eyes with tissue. ‘Don’t wriggle. You had a fight.’
I was unable to hide my surprise. ‘How you know?’
‘Because I know you, Delly. I also know that if thing were harmony, you be seein’ him today, but you at some long loose end and see your boring ol’ friend instead. Let me guess. He tell you he love you and you run a mile.’
‘It not like that.’
She laughed. ‘He is miserable, Delly. Mis-er-ab-le. He the one who pinin’.’
‘What? Come on, how you really know?’
‘I hear it from Patrick, who hear it from Barbara, who see the feller mopin’ around like someone chop off his arm. He lost. And he a good one, Dell. Don’t be dotish. He say he love you and you push him off a cliff.’ Even though it was an admonishment, Cynth wheezed with laughter.
‘But what if me don’t love him? Why me have to love him?’
‘You don’t have to do anything, Delly. You don’t have to rush. But you could give the feller explanation. If only to give his friends a break.’
‘Lawrie the type of man to push a rhino down a rabbit hole. It won’t work.’
‘You a rhino though, Delly, so it would be amusing at least.’
We laughed, me from relief of being able to talk about it, and Cynth because it refreshed her to tease me, to be her younger self, to pull on the old ties and discover they were still intact. I still didn’t know what I wanted, but it was sad to know Lawrie was going around feeling like someone had severed his limb.
After another hour or so, we embraced outside the tube station, Cynth descending north on the Bakerloo to her new life in Queen’s Park. We promised to see each other before Christmas, and I thought how bittersweet it was, how once upon a time, we’d have made sure we were catching up within the week.
I watched Cynth move down the steps carefully, thinking that surely she had no need to be so ginger. She stopped and turned back. ‘One thing, Dell. If you do speak to Lawrie again, maybe keep this Olive Schloss story to yourself.’
‘Why? If it true—’
‘Well, yes. But you don’t know it true for a fact, do you?’
‘Not yet, but—’
‘And he want to sell that painting, if I hear it right through Barbara. His stepfather selling the house and that painting all he got. You goin’ around sayin’ that what he got ain’t Isaac Robles – it goin’ to knock his ship right out of the water. Don’t make trouble where there ain’t none, Delly. Think of your heart for once, not that clever head.’
I watched her go, knowing that there was sense in what she said, but also aware that Quick’s behaviour wasn’t something I was going to let lie.
•
I called Lawrie that night, but Gerry the Bastard answered. It was a shock to have him pick up.
‘Who’s this, calling on a Sunday?’ he said.
Immediately, I put on my BBC tones. You couldn’t help it – you heard an Englishman like Gerry, you just tried to make your voice sound the same as his. ‘This is Odelle Bastien,’ I said. ‘Is Lawrie there, please?’
‘Lawrence!’ he yelled. Gerry must have put down the receiver because I could hear him move away.
‘Who is it?’ said Lawrie.
‘Couldn’t catch the name. But it sounds like the calypso’s here.’
There was a wait, and then finally Lawrie put his mouth to the receiver. ‘Odelle? Is that you?’
The sound of relief, mingled with wariness in his voice, was painful to hear. ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘How are you, Lawrie?’
‘Fine, thanks. You?’
‘Fine,’ I lied. ‘I got a story published.’
‘You called to tell me that?’
‘No – I – it’s just. It’s what’s happened, that’s all. Was that Gerry I spoke to?’
‘Yes. Sorry about that. Well done on the story.’
We were silent for a moment. Ironically, I didn’t know how to shape these particular words, how to tell him that I missed him, that strange things were happening with Quick, that my best friend was having a baby and I felt like a teenager out of my depth.
‘I’m coming to the gallery tomorrow, as it happens,’ he said, his voice more hushed. ‘Is that why you’ve called?’
‘No. I didn’t know.’
‘Reede’s had more information from a fellow who works at Peggy Guggenheim’s palazzo in Venice. A couple of interesting things, apparently.’
‘I see.’
‘So why did you call? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.’
‘No – that’s not – I do. I do. I spoke to Cynthia. She said you’ve been miserable.’
There was quiet on the line. ‘I was miserable.’
‘You’re not miserable any more?’
He was silent again. ‘I shouldn’t have rushed in like that,’ he said.
‘No, it’s fine – I mean—’
‘I won’t ever say what I said to you again.’
‘I see.’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I don’t really know what I want you to say, or not say, Lawrie,’ I admitted. ‘I just know that when I heard you were miserable, that made me sad. And I realized I’d been miserable too. And I was wondering whether it might be a bit easier – if we were miserable together.’
Quiet on the line again. ‘Are you – asking me on a date, Odelle?’
I didn’t – couldn’t – say anything. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ Lawrie went on. ‘Thank you. Let me just check my diary – oh, no need. I’m free.’
A pleasurable warmth spread through my stomach and I couldn’t hide the smile in my voice. ‘Convenient,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Now, where would you like to meet?’
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XIII
We met early the next morning, as early as we could, in the middle of Skelton Square, before I started work and Lawrie went in to see Reede. He was clutching a bottle of champagne. ‘For your first published story,’ he said, handing it over. ‘That’s vintage, you know. Sorry about the dust. Nicked it from the house.’
‘Gosh, thank you.’
‘Actually . . . I knew about the London Review.’
‘What?’
‘We do take modern periodicals in Surrey, you know. I read it.’ He looked down at his shoes. ‘It was just brilliant.’
‘Shut up.’ I took the bottle, my head about to explode with pleasure. I read the label: Veuve Clicquot. ‘Lawrie, can we start again?’ I said.
&nb
sp; He sighed. ‘I don’t know if that’s possible.’
I sat down on the bench, trying to bat away my despondence. I was so sure he’d say yes. He was here, wasn’t he? ‘I suppose not,’ I said, looking up at him.
‘You could hit me over the head with that champagne bottle,’ he suggested.
‘What?’
‘Knock the memories out of me. But then I’d lose the first time I saw you, reading that poem. Or the first time I spoke to you; those yellow rubber gloves. Or the way you pretended to like the Bond film, your nose all wrinkled up. Or when you out-danced me at the Flamingo and the manager offered you a job, or when you told me about that idiot in the shoe shop. Or when we had that shepherd’s pie, and I messed everything up. It’s all part of it, Odelle. It’s not going to be perfect. Personally, I don’t want it to be. I’d go through that horrible drive up the A3 again, just for the sweetness of hearing your voice after so long. I wouldn’t change any of it. I don’t want to start again, because that would make me lose memories of you.’
I couldn’t say anything for a moment. Lawrie sat down next to me and I felt the warm solidity of his body. I took a deep breath. ‘I – get scared,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how else to explain it. I get feelings that I’m lost, that I’m no good, that if someone likes me there must be something wrong with them.’
‘But why?’
‘Well, if I knew that, Lawrie . . . and when I met you, I told you things I’d never told anyone. Then you swept in with your declaration that you loved me, and – well – it felt that like you were filling out a form, obeying some pattern.’
‘A pattern?’
‘Of what people do, what they think they’re supposed to say.’
‘No one tells me what to say.’
‘But I also realized I didn’t want you not to say it. I just wanted you to say it – when I wanted to hear it.’
He laughed. ‘You really are a writer, aren’t you? All right. How about, whenever I feel that I might be about to say I’ve fallen in love with you, or that I love you, or that you’re wonderful, we agree on a sign that such a declaration is coming – and you recognize the sign, and give me the go ahead or not as to whether I can say it.’
‘You make me sound mad.’
‘I’m joking. I’m sorry. Whatever you need. I just want to see you, Odelle. Is that OK?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I hesitated. ‘More than OK.’
‘Good. Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and hear what the venerable Mr Reede has to say.’
•
‘Good morning, Odelle,’ Quick said, stopping smoothly at my door. Lawrie had been with Reede for about thirty minutes. Quick looked tired, a little apprehensive. Her appearance was a world away from my first week, when she had breezed up to my typewriter and suggested a light lunch – in order to pick my brains – for what exactly, I still wasn’t sure.
‘Good morning, Quick.’
She froze, her eyes on the champagne bottle standing on the desk. ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked.
I swallowed, intimidated by the look on her face. ‘Lawrie gave it to me.’
She turned her gaze to me. ‘Friends again?’
‘Yes. He’s here. He’s talking to Reede,’ I said. ‘I think they’re discussing the exhibition.’
‘I know they are. I scheduled the meeting.’ Quick came in, closing the door. To my surprise, she walked over and sat down opposite me, taking the bottle in her lap. ‘Lawrie gave this to you?’
‘To say well done for getting “The Toeless Woman” published. Is there something wrong with it?’
She ran her thumb across the neck, leaving a clean smear through the dust. ‘It’s vintage,’ she said.
‘I know that. Quick—’
‘Odelle, what happened on Friday night—’
I sat up straighter. ‘Yes?’
‘It shouldn’t have happened. I broke a professional barrier when I told you about my illness. I’ve compromised you. I’ve compromised myself. I don’t want the attention.’
‘You’ve done rather a good job of getting mine, though.’
She looked at me, sharply, but I refused to shrink away. ‘I want you to know – that whatever happens – your job is completely safe.’
‘Safe?’
Quick seemed to suffer a spasm of pain, and the bottle sagged heavily in her lap. ‘They’ve got me on rather strong painkillers,’ she said. ‘No choice but to take them now. I’m hallucinating. I can’t sleep.’
‘What are you hallucinating?’ I said. ‘What is it that you see?’
I waited, barely able to breathe, my fingers drawing away from the typewriter and resting in my lap.
She didn’t answer, and we sat in silence for a few moments, the clock on the wall syncopating my heartbeat. I took the risk. ‘On Friday night, you said that Isaac Robles didn’t paint the picture. Do you remember that, Quick?’
Quick sat, staring at her hands. She was swallowing hard, her throat constricted.
‘Did he paint any of the pictures, Quick – the ones in the Guggenheim?’
Still, Quick remained silent.
‘If he didn’t paint those pictures, who did—’
‘All I wanted,’ she said, abruptly, in clear distress. ‘I just wanted to see.’
‘What, what was it that you wanted to see?’
I watched in horror as Quick fanned her fingers open on the neck of the bottle, and the entire thing slid between her legs and cracked against the floor. The base smashed clean off and the champagne gushed between us, fizzing and pooling everywhere. She jumped up crookedly, staggering from the mess before us. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It was an accident,’ I said. I stared at Lawrie’s ruined bottle, resting on the floorboards in a puddle of champagne. The green glass was so dark it was almost black, winking as the overhead lights caught its jagged edges. I’d never even got a taste. I swallowed hard and looked at Quick.
She was drained of colour. I knew the conversation was over, that I would get no further now. Would she go so far as to sabotage my present from Lawrie? I ushered her to her own office, and she leaned on me, snaking her arm through mine. I could feel her bones so easily through the skin. Now I knew about the cancer, I could see how ill Quick was; her pain, her brittle glamour. But it wasn’t just the cancer in her body; I was also witnessing her psychological recalibration.
I wouldn’t say her mind was diminishing, despite her protests of hallucinations and insomnia. It was almost the opposite to her body; an augmentation, Quick’s imagination inhabiting more than just the present. Somewhere inside her memory, a drawbridge had been lowered, and the foot soldiers of her past were pushing through in serried ranks. She wanted to talk; but she couldn’t. She didn’t have the words.
‘Please lock the door,’ she said, beginning to rally a little. ‘Odelle, I’m so sorry about your bottle.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘I’ll make it up to you in my will.’
Her black eyes glimmered with gallows humour. ‘Got a cellar in Wimbledon, have you?’ I said in kind, trying to chivvy her spirits.
‘Something like that. Fetch my handbag, would you? I need the pills.’ She moved slowly to the drinks table. ‘Gin?’
‘No thanks.’
I watched her pour herself one, breathing deeply, corralling herself as the clear liquid glugged into the tumbler. ‘Those are bloody strong,’ she said as I handed her the pills. ‘I fucking hate them.’
The expletive, the bitterness in her voice, shocked me. I forced myself to sit, reminding myself I was a junior employee, and must be mute and mild. Pushing Quick to tell me things I wanted to know was clearly not going to work. I’d had my suspicions that it wouldn’t, after the night with the telephone book, and now I had one smashed champagne bottle to confirm th
em. As frustrating as I found it, I had to be her blank canvas. Patience was never my strong suit, but as long as it kept her talking, it was better than silence.
‘There’s a fellow called Barozzi in Venice,’ she said, lowering herself into her leather chair and reaching for her cigarettes. ‘Works for Guggenheim. Around the time Mr Scott’s painting was being made, Peggy Guggenheim was attempting to open a gallery in London.’ Quick stilled herself for a minute, before finding the strength to continue. ‘She succeeded. The place was on Cork Street, before the war turned it on its head and it closed.’
‘I see.’
‘You don’t. The point is, she – or others at her gallery – are good with keeping paperwork. Barozzi found some rather interesting correspondence in her archives, sent it to Reede, and he’s beside himself.’
Cork Street. I knew the name – it was the street that the pamphlet came from. My skin began to tingle. I was used to the twists and turns of Quick’s conversational style, and knew I would have to keep up.
‘He now has evidence that Mr Scott’s painting was a commission for Peggy Guggenheim, as a twin to Women in the Wheatfield.’
‘A twin?’
‘He’s found a telegram addressed to Isaac Robles, which for some reason was never sent. It was destined for Malaga in Spain, dated September ’36, enquiring how much longer she will need to wait for the “companion piece” to Wheatfield, which Robles had called Rufina and the Lion. Barozzi has acknowledged that no deposit was actually given Robles for the Rufina piece, otherwise Mr Scott could have found himself in a lot of trouble, given that he’s apparently got no proof of purchase. The Guggenheim could have tried to claim it as theirs.’
I marvelled that Quick could be talking about another discovered telegram, as if the one hidden in her own house wasn’t inextricably tied up with all this too. Not only was she acting as if the smashed champagne bottle was not deliberate sabotage, she was now pretending that our evening with the telephone book had never happened.
‘Rufina and the Lion,’ I repeated. ‘That’s what Lawrie’s painting is called?’
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