All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  Ronald entered silently with a silver tray and Earl Grey in a bone china cup and matching saucer. He cleared his throat. ‘Ron sends his regards, Mr Strange. He particularly likes the Alexander Averin of the two boys bathing in the Black Sea. The picture is overpriced, of course. ’ He placed the tray down on the desk.

  Michael was amused, and distracted, as he usually was by his conversations with his employee. ‘Please reciprocate my regards to Ron when you see him. I trust he is on sparkling form. Incidentally, it’s the Mediterranean, just off Antibes, and it certainly is not overpriced. Well, maybe…’

  They laughed fondly, with Ronald voicing both their thoughts, ‘Well, whatever. Actually it is the men he favours. Just typical of him, of course. Like the water in the painting, he’s terribly shallow, I’m afraid, especially when it comes to fine art appreciation. ’ He retreated to the door, a thin smile and a raised eyebrow, delivering the punch line: ‘Of course, on matters of greater importance, he can go surprisingly deep, as deep as he likes. ’

  ***

  The afternoon in the gallery moved unexpectedly fast. There was no time for any more idle chat. At one stage Ronald sold a small oil of a ballerina (Russian) for £2,500 and agreed for a larger painting to go out “on approval”. Kara eventually settled the matter with the framing workshop and spent the remainder of the day updating the mailing list. Michael tried to busy himself, mainly with the contents of the next month’s issue of All the Rage. However, his mind lacked concentration and he was angry with Adele. He knew that any impending divorce and the financial repercussions that would follow could be catastrophic. Ruinous, in fact. Pressure encased him, squeezing and suffocating like a straightjacket.

  It was 4. 45pm. Kara and Ronald had departed moments earlier to avoid the mounting problems with the underground “go slow”. The Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone, had a lot to answer for, according to Kara. Michael began to reshuffle his briefcase and contemplate eating alone once more when the phone rang.

  He slowly lifted the receiver, his voice less than enthusiastic. ‘The Churchill Gallery,’ he announced.

  ‘May I speak with Michael Strange? ’

  ‘Speaking…’

  ‘My name is Lauren O’Neill. I called earlier. No one got back to me.’

  He detected a slight impatience in her tone, but it did the trick. She somehow gained his immediate attention. Her voice was husky and honey-warm, alluring even underneath the initial starchiness.

  He took up the conversation. ‘I do apologise, Mrs O’Neill. Your message was passed on to me: simply an oversight. I had every intention of coming back to you. I believe you require a valuation on various paintings. ’

  Her voice remained guarded but precise. ‘My husband is an artist; possibly you may recognise his name – Julius Gray? ’

  ‘Your husband? ’

  ‘Yes. I preferred to keep my own name, and since he subsequently walked out on me, that wasn’t a bad decision in hindsight. Perhaps it was an omen of things to come. Anyway, are you familiar with his work? ’

  ‘No, to be honest with you,’ Michael replied, without wanting to tax his brain unduly at the end of the day. ‘Should I be? ’

  The caller fell silent, then said, ‘Julius exhibited mainly in Germany and Scotland, his Glasgow outlet was the Oberon Gallery. Unfortunately, they are now closed. The owner had a heart attack. ’

  Michael rubbed his chin and loosened his tie. ‘What would you like me to do, Mrs O’Neill? ’

  ‘Please, I prefer Lauren. I have a problem, Mr Strange. My husband deserted me, many years ago. ’ She hesitated, clearing her throat. ‘He is now living overseas with . . . with another woman. To simplify matters for you, we are currently contesting the value of our assets. To be perfectly blunt, I’m broke. Many of his major works are still here at the home we once shared and I believe they have a considerable financial worth. Of course, his advisers tell me they are worthless. ’

  ‘And you presumably want someone to verify valuation for your solicitor? ’

  ‘Precisely. ’

  Michael stifled a yawn. He chose his words carefully. ‘Unfortunately, Lauren, I am not the man for you. I would need to be familiar with both his work and current market prices in order to provide a correct assessment. Surely there is someone else, an agent that he employed perhaps, who would be better qualified to deal with this? ’

  ‘I am willing to pay,’ she interrupted, ‘generously. ’

  Michael was struck by the immediate contradiction between being “broke” and her ability to pay generously. It did not add up, but he chose to ignore it. ‘I appreciate your generosity, Lauren. However…’

  ‘I will make it worthwhile, Mr. Strange. Please, this is important to me, I don’t know who else to turn to. Everyone I know in the art world would have an overriding loyalty to Julius. This is a very delicate matter. Will you help me? ’

  There was a certain childlike vulnerability to her voice. He took a deep breath and hesitated as to whether to get involved, especially after her earlier remarks. However, something indefinable drew him to her.

  ‘Mr Strange,’ she continued, ‘a while ago you displayed in your window a painting by the artist Patrick Porter. It was a very fine nude. ’

  ‘Indeed we did. I understand you own one? ’

  She lowered her voice. ‘I own twelve in total, to be exact. ’

  Michael lifted a hand to suppress a gasp. For the first time during their conversation his brain engaged, triggering a full alert message to start taking her seriously. He sat upright in his chair, well and truly hooked.

  ‘All oils? ’ he enquired casually, trying to keep a damper on the mounting excitement in his voice.

  ‘Yes. ’

  ‘And…and are you aware of the price we were asking for that piece? ’

  ‘Yes, which is the reason why I want to sell them all, Mr Strange.’

  Michael cleared his throat. ‘Then we both know this represents a considerable amount of money, Lauren. ’ He held his breath for a moment and removed his tie altogether. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.

  ‘I did say I would make it worthwhile,’ she murmured. She let a silence drop between them, which seemed to reinforce her viewpoint.

  It was becoming a game of cat and mouse, in his opinion. He delayed his response, his mind a whirl of possibilities and fiscal calculations. Now he understood the contradiction. God, she was good.

  ‘Why don’t you call me Michael,’ he said, ‘and let’s meet and discuss this further over a drink. ’

  ***

  Later, he began to think about the gradual disintegration in his life. He had thought of the word “ruinous” earlier in the day, and now, toying with his single malt and idly overlooking the steel coil of the River Thames below, he realised that he was swimming against the tide. And these were treacherous waters. The glass frontage to his riverside apartment afforded him a magnificent panorama of London and the dazzling lights reflected in the icy flow. In the distance he caught sight of the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye, now motionless. Beneath him, the white hulls of sleek and opulent yachts bobbed in the private moorings. From afar, the sound of a horn blasted from a huge dredger as it pushed against the swirling cold current. Michael watched all this – his London – and yet felt detached, a forlorn figure on the landscape.

  He began to examine the motives behind his wife’s demand for a divorce. In the morning post he had received a letter marked “private and confidential”. It made heavy reading. The letter from her solicitor clearly marked out her territory, insisting on a financial settlement of a proposed one million pounds, the villa in Marbella and maintenance of £100,000 per year. On top of that was a secondary list of “minor demands”: the Mercedes, furniture, paintings. If she had intended to hurt him, damage him, she would undoubtedly succeed, spectacularly. Adel
e had petitioned for divorce citing “unreasonable behaviour. ” Moving across the room in order to refill his tumbler with his third whisky of the night, he caught sight of his reflection in the window glass, a grotesque apparition of the man he once was. It greatly disturbed him that he was visibly shrinking.

  Beyond this, the business had suffered badly post 9/11 and since the more recent tube bombings. A decrease in tourism from overseas visitors had hit the City in dramatic fashion and as a result, business in the gallery had plummeted, suffering in particular from a lack of turnover from rich Americans. Trade had dropped by over twenty-five per cent. This was not recoverable. Even more of a concern was the unpalatable fact that his lease was up for renewal shortly, triggering a large rent increase on his prestigious premises.

  It went further. The current tax demand for January 31st, his accountant informed him, was close to £150,000. He hadn’t paid it. The Inland Revenue had written to his advisers with confirmation of an official investigation into his tax affairs. It was strictly “routine business” they pointed out with professional coldness. He knew what this entailed.

  All in all, Michael had held his composure with remarkable aplomb. On the outside he appeared calm and collected, even untouchable, but within, his insides churned and tightened like the unforgiving grip of a python. There was simply no escape. Slowly but surely, his empire, his world, was being constricted. It was dying.

  Showering and refreshing himself, he ate a light supper of grilled tuna and green salad, washed down with a glass of chilled Muscadet. However, his mood of apprehension did not vanish, unlike the wine, which began to make his mind-set more bullish. He would not lie down and let Adele walk all over him. He would fight back as he had always done in the face of adversity. A calculated plan of vicious counter-attack began to formulate in his head. And then, inexplicably, he thought of Lauren O’Neill.

  This was a woman who intrigued him deeply. Her voice conveyed a sexual undertone, an invitation to sin. He held a visual picture of her in his head and it enraptured him. Earlier, on the phone, they had arranged a meeting at her home for the following day. He would ascertain the collection of her husband’s canvases and endeavour to produce an overall valuation, as she had asked. More importantly, it gave him an opportunity to market the twelve paintings by Patrick Porter. In this respect, he saw a way to raise a great deal of money. Handled properly, the sale would actually raise a substantial amount of capital for him. He cared little for the work of Julius Gray. Quite simply, by employing a tried and trusted camouflage technique, he might ensure a survival of sorts, and find a solution to pay off his wife. It was his only shot.

  Lauren O’Neill would be a formidable woman, he concluded. He sensed that from her manner, and his feverish imagination, she was tactile, very attractive and probably dangerous. But nothing, he had to admit, actually pointed towards this. It was his fantasy. It surprised him that he cancelled his appointments so readily in order to see her. It surprised him still further to admit to a certain nervous tension building in his stomach. What was he looking for? Idiot, he muttered to himself.

  Before retiring for the night, he phoned Kara.

  ‘Sorry it’s so late,’ he told her, ‘but I won’t be in tomorrow. ’

  Kara responded by stifling a yawn, which he picked up on. ‘Oh, OK,’ she said. ‘Can I contact you on your mobile if anything crops up? ’

  ‘Sure. Oh, by the way: Happy Birthday! ’

  ‘Yeah, right. ’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you. ’

  ‘Promises…’

  Michael detected a losing battle. ‘I’ve cleared my appointments for tomorrow and left you a list of priorities on your desk. It’ll be a long day for me, I feel. Appraisals: quite a lot it appears. ’

  ‘Is this to do with Mrs O’Neill? ’ Kara asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Her details are now in a file on the computer. ’ He hesitated, adding, ‘Something big may be in the offing. ’

  ‘Oh, really’ she teased, ‘anything to do with a certain artist you might want to get your eager dirty hands on? ’

  ‘Kara, this is not a game,’ he said, reeling from the effects of the alcohol. It surprised him to see he had consumed the whole bottle. It made him nauseous and unsteady on his feet, but he was in full flow now. He dismissed her little joke. ‘I cannot stress the importance of all this. I do not intend to get my hands on just anything. ’ He stopped for a second, imagining this woman called Lauren. It consumed him. ‘I intend to get my eager dirty hands on everything. The rewards are just too great to ignore, and I won’t be denied. Is that understood? ’

  Michael halted his rant. He hated himself for this display of anger and knew that Kara would be embarrassed. Where had this suddenly come from? Idiot.

  He waited for what seemed an eternity before she responded. His gut twisted. He imagined a knot tightening in her stomach as well, such was her feeble comment.

  All she managed was a pathetic, ‘Oh. . . ’

  Michael’s impatience surfaced once more. He gave her no chance to react further. With one swift movement, he clicked the line dead.

  Chapter Two

  In spite of his uncharacteristic rage last night, Kara Scott had to admit to a certain soft spot for her employer. He wasn’t perfect, but at least he remembered her birthday. Michael was handsome in a craggy sort of way, his charm centred on an irresistible combination of lived-in easy looks and wonderful manners, with a roguish twist. Most appealing were his deep-etched laughter lines and silver swept-back hair, just a shade too long. He stood nearly six feet tall and carried himself well. She often found herself standing back and admiring his sharp wit and sparkling eyes as he held court during an opening night at the gallery. He always attracted women. He always had a story to tell. With a glass of champagne in one hand, dressed in an immaculate white silk shirt and navy wool summer suit, he was an impressive man, a man who stood out in a crowd. Kara had more than a soft spot for him; she was a little in love with him.

  On this morning, as she paced the gallery, her thoughts were confused and more than a little troubled. She was concerned about her boss. Something was wrong, amiss, and the conversation they had last night on the phone left her feeling nervous and rattled. On the face of it, his recent behavioural change from considerate normality to downright bizarre was more than understandable, taking into account what she now knew. Two months earlier, Adele had confided in her the fragile state of the marriage and how things were “likely to go”. Kara was shocked, genuinely. Never had she detected anything untoward in the relationship up to that point. They were a glamorous couple and seemed to have everything. Now, in the blink of an eye, it all appeared to be going down the pan. Kara was aware that business had been poor and the financial pressure had been building, and she was also privy to the investigation by the tax office. It was she, after all, who was asked to supply the necessary accounts. She knew the score. But this was entirely different. It hit her like a bombshell. Her own parents had divorced, so she knew all too well just how bloody messy it was going to get.

  She began to resent Adele. Looking back, Kara could now recognise little things which had fragmented this marriage. Little things which at the time seemed unimportant: Adele had stopped attending exhibitions, her days working in the gallery decreased; she even went on holiday to Marbella without Michael. Then there was the blazing row she had the misfortune to interrupt one Saturday last year. It went on…Kara could so easily make a list. Why had she not seen it before?

  If she had felt anger toward Adele, then it was natural to show sympathy, a kind of protection toward Michael. He was falling apart right before her eyes. It wasn’t just that odd conversation last night, there were many other instances when he had been sharp and intolerant. She recalled his impatience with Marcus Heath. Such things were harmful to him and his reputation, and she wondered if she should say something. It hur
t her to see him suffering in this manner.

  Then there was the question of his wife and the damage she was capable of inflicting. Kara knew of her glamorous past. Adele Churchill was a former debutante, privately educated at Roedean and later, much to her parents’ displeasure, a bit part actress before marrying Michael. She was used to the best things in life and had been considered the “it” girl of her day. She had been photographed by Parkinson and Snowdon and adorned the front cover of The Tatler magazine. Before Michael, she had conducted a whirlwind romance with a dashing Hollywood actor and was also implicated in a drug scandal. It was even said that she had secretly had an affair with a married senior politician in the government of the day. Intense speculation meant that her picture was on the front page of every daily tabloid for months on end. But all publicity was good publicity to Adele and it was widely known that she manipulated all those who came across her path, particularly the media. Now, Kara acknowledged with a touch of admiration, not many people could lay claim to that dubious achievement. Such was her beguiling power.

  Adele controlled both her husband and their impending divorce, and Kara did not need to speculate as to the eventual winner. If proof were ever needed, Adele had instructed one Sir Benjamin Joshua Stone to act upon her affairs. He was acknowledged to be the meanest, hardest and most ruthless matrimonial lawyer in London. Even more disturbingly, Adele had seen fit to pass on this information to Kara. It came during a reluctant tête-à-tête over lunch several weeks past.