Kara’s stomach turned, sickened by the memory of the cold triumph contained in Adele’s voice that day.
***
Michael dressed casually in grey trousers and navy polo neck, black suede slip-ons and a fine dog tooth check sports jacket with double vent. He examined his appearance in the mirror, pleased that he had shaved extra carefully this morning. He felt pretty good. On top of that, the weather forecast promised unseasonable sunshine and light winds. He would take the flame red TVR convertible for his trip.
Leaving behind the bustle of the traffic on the Kings Road, he zipped along Cheyne Walk, out beyond the Fulham Road and over Putney bridge towards the A3, heading south. He made excellent progress and enjoyed the soft caress of the winter sun on his face. It was refreshing to get out of London. This mood didn’t last long. He cursed under his breath as he hit unexpected road works at the Surbiton underpass, but thankfully it was a minor delay. Soon he was powering the engine along the stretch of dual carriageway to his final destination, a small hamlet on the outskirts of Guildford. This was where he would meet the woman who called herself Lauren O’Neill.
***
If Kara had misgivings as to her feelings toward Michael and his current predicament, she could not deny they were strong and her unease deepened as the morning progressed. She could not reason why. Ronald arrived bright and perky, and immediately she became infuriated by his banal banter. Normally, Kara enjoyed the gossip on the street, but today it was an intolerable intrusion. Retreating to the sanctuary of the computer room, she suddenly saw the clearer picture. Within her grasp, she held the ammunition that would enable Michael to fight his battle against Adele. As his secretary, she was privy to confidential matters, sensitive issues which she knew could prove highly embarrassing and damaging if revealed to the correct authorities. This, though, would make her position in the company untenable. Adele was also her boss, after all. She knew that what she planned was called espionage, seen as the ultimate act of betrayal. At first, the idea of this chilled her to the bone. It was crazy. Then she thawed. According to her sense of logic and fair play, it was an act worth pursuing. She had no choice. Michael needed an ally. Grasping the moment, her heart pounding, she clicked into the company computer and searched for the file which she knew would reveal the coded documents that she could decipher with expert ease.
***
The village of Old Hampton nestled snugly within the green folds of the countryside, somewhere between Guildford and Petersfield, just within the Surrey borders. It was the kind of place that you explored on a cold Sunday in search of old antique shops and a lunchtime pint in a traditional heavy wooden beamed public house. As he idled past The Royal Oak the faint smell of a roaring log fire invaded his nostrils, reinforcing this view. Michael promised himself to return soon.
He took the narrow ancient pack bridge over shallow waters and followed the river as it flowed listlessly beside the road past the timber- fronted cottages and a small knot of shops. Out beyond the squat Norman church, he glanced once more at the hastily scribbled directions which Lauren had dictated to him over the phone. A sharp left and soon he entered rich arable farmland and narrower muddy winding roads. Within seconds he spotted the red mail box which she had told him to look out for attached to a tree, slowed at the corner marked Deceptive Bends (immediately chuckling to himself recalling the title of the 10cc album) and entered through the open metal gate and down the private lane which would lead him to Laburnum Farm, his destination. He braked to a halt, checked his appearance in the interior mirror, and brushed imaginary flecks of dandruff from his shoulders. He also checked the time: 11. 40am. Ten minutes late.
The long gravel drive was strewn with weeds and dead leaves. Pale yellow sunlight filtered through the naked branches of the black trees. As he approached, he spotted the old thatched house ahead; the ghostly scene made him think of an Atkinson Grimshaw painting from the 1800s. The surrounding garden was bordered by overgrown laurels. Even from a distance, he could see the signs of neglect. The windows were gloomy, the woodwork peeling. Cagily, he stepped out of the car. Silence hung in the damp air. He yearned for a similar quietness to help soothe his feeling of discord, but from somewhere a torrent of noise rushed through his head like a tidal wave, gathering an awful speed. He knew what it was: a trouble brewing. Inwardly, he was screaming at himself.
To the right of the house was a huge timber and granite tithe barn, dangerously leaning from old age but supported by massive concrete buttresses along one side. In front of the double doors was a mangle of farm implements, car bits and the remains of a fire, smouldering. Well, he pondered apprehensively, it was time to meet the Lady of the Manor.
He slowly gathered his briefcase from the passenger seat and made his way to the entrance of the house, pulling at the heavy door chime which signalled his arrival. In the same instant, he was startled by the intimidating sound of a large dog growling and scratching fiercely from the other side of the door. Unnerved, Michael took a step backward.
***
As part of her job, Kara was responsible for keeping all records relating to official purchases and sales. They were first logged on the hand-written ledgers and later transferred to the computer. Michael preferred to present a hand-written invoice and insurance valuation to his clients. This was indeed slow and laborious but he insisted on this old fashioned courtesy. Many of the paintings which came into the gallery from artists were supplied on a sale or return basis. This certainly suited the economics of running a commercial business; it provided extremely good cash flow. Other acquisitions came via the auction houses, through agents or direct purchase from the artist. Kara permitted herself a wry smile. Always, without exception, the margin of profit was greatly enhanced by these three means. The downside was the possibly of the painting taking a long time to sell: hence a larger overdraft. That was where the expertise of the gallery owner came to the fore. And Michael, she freely admitted, was certainly right to the fore. He rarely made a bad error of judgment. She shrugged: Except in the case of Adele, perhaps.
Kara knew Michael and had great admiration for his working methods. He was a successful businessman, and in the early days he and Adele had been a formidable team, her high profile image greatly enhancing the reputation of The Churchill Gallery. The halcyon days. This no one could deny. In fact, Kara’s predecessor had credited Adele as the brains behind the success of their establishment. Without doubt, sex and glamour were perfect ingredients in this glorious world of attracting money and prestige. If Michael was the public face of chivalry and respectability, then his wife was the architect of greed and power. She devoured both with expert ease.
If this appeared fanciful or too far-fetched, Kara had the means and the proof to dispel the other side of the coin: That which cleverly portrayed Adele as the dutiful wife. During her initial training, Adele had insisted on teaching the basics to Kara. Get that right, she would say, and “I can then explain the complications of ready cash; and how to disperse it”. Within three months, she was entrusted with this knowledge and easily understood the hidden implications: back door money. No tax to pay.
With this in mind, Kara took a deep breath and keyed in Document 2002, a file containing all transactions for that year, the year that she joined the firm. Her mind was abuzz, and so immersed in what she trying to accomplish she hadn’t noticed that she was being watched until she became aware that someone was standing directly behind her, looking over her shoulder.
‘Hi. ’
Kara jumped out of her seat and raised her hand to her heart in the same beat. Swivelling in her chair, she gasped, ‘Can I help you? ’ Vainly, she tried to hide her guilt by thumping the button on her computer to close down the document. At the same time she attempted to regain her composure, but the young man who blocked the doorway was an intimidating presence. She felt a trickle of sweat down her neck.
The young man stood awkward
ly and then appeared embarrassed. ‘Ronald sent me through,’ he said. ‘Sorry to scare you. ’
‘You didn’t. It was just a shock, that’s all,’ Kara snapped unconvincingly. She stared at him intently, recognising a familiarity to his face. ‘Do I know you? ’
‘I called yesterday. We met very briefly. ’ He extended his hand. ‘Marcus. Marcus Heath. I had hoped I’d made a better impression. ’
Kara dropped her guard. She was still angry but managed to take his hand. ‘I’m so sorry, of course I know you. I feel such a fool. ’
Marcus smiled with affection. ‘No worries,’ he shrugged, ‘hey, if you’re too busy, I can sort things with the other lady. ’
Kara let out a burst of laughter at his cheeky reference to Ronald.
‘Of course,’ he added reassuringly, ‘I’d feel a hell of a lot safer with you. ’
‘Not necessarily,’ she flirted, appreciating for the first time the artist’s fine good looks. ‘And no, I’m not too busy. ’ She turned and switched off the laptop, her mind now in a swirl of confusion and foolishness.
‘Looks important,’ he said, pointing to the screen.
‘Er, no. It can wait,’ she replied, regaining her poise. Her birthday prospects were looking up. ‘What can I do for you, Marcus? ’
Without a backward glance, he turned and glided effortlessly toward the inner gallery, leaving her alone and still sitting. Inexplicably, she rose, ready to follow, catching the aroma of his aftershave. ‘It’s just that,’ she heard him call over his shoulder, ‘the big boss man, he asked me to bring in three original pieces for the forthcoming brochure. Apparently, the photographer needs to do a transparency of each for the publicity blurb. ’
‘Isn’t the show in September? ’ she asked, following meekly.
‘Yep. I thought I’d strike while the iron’s hot. Boss man was a little tetchy, you could say decidedly underwhelmed with the prospect of an exhibition featuring yours truly. ’
‘It was a bad day, Marcus. ’
‘Bad day, eh? ’ he echoed. His smile was infectious. ‘You should try this: I get a distinct put down from boss man and a right in the face come on from the other guy as I leave. How would you deal with that? ’ He faced her again. ‘What’s your name, anyway? ’
‘Kara,’ she said, with a wide grin. With reference to the “other guy”, she continued, ‘Ronald is spoken for; you will be pleased to hear. Although I know he does have an unquenchable weakness for firm young flesh. ’
Marcus moved closer. ‘And you…? ’
‘I prefer older men,’ she declared, adding, ‘I like the sense of style that maturity brings. ’
‘Ah,’ Marcus said, pondering the point. ‘So you have a thing about boss man…’
Kara smiled, protesting: ‘Now you’re getting too personal! ’
‘An artist,’ he said, with assured cockiness, ‘knows no boundaries. It makes us what we are: free spirits. You cannot be offended by anything I say or do. It’s what makes you so attracted towards me. ’
Kara stabbed a playful finger into his chest. ‘If that’s so, you’ll have to explain your sense of style, Marcus. It’s lost on me. ’
After Marcus had departed (with her private mobile number, she cursed mildly) Kara gathered his paintings together and placed them in the storage room for safety and then emailed the photographer the necessary instructions to collect when convenient. She liked Marcus but shared Michael’s assessment of his work. It was overblown and vain. Just like him. Still, she concluded, if you get caught in a hurricane you are likely to get sucked in. She pondered this scenario and decided quite recklessly not to seek shelter. She would take the storm full on.
‘Ronald,’ she said, shouting her words to the other end of the gallery. ‘You’re a fine judge of men. What do you think of Marcus? ’
***
The Lady of the Manor stood to one side of the door, her left leg stretched at an angle to prevent the onslaught from her overzealous guard dog. Holding him tightly on a lead, she extended her willowy hand and engaged Michael’s grip with a fragility that was almost a caress.
‘I do apologise for Bruno’s behaviour. I live alone,’ she said, ‘and he’s overprotective to the point of hysteria. But he keeps me feeling safe. ’ Her eyes met with his. ‘You must be Michael Strange. ’
‘I’m a little late, Lauren,’ he shouted above the barking. He gesticulated with his hand. ‘Lovely village. Have you lived here long? ’
‘Oh, fifteen years, I guess. ’ She forced the dog to retreat into a side room, closing the door firmly. ‘That’s better. Now, first priority: I insist you join me for a glass of wine. ’ She beckoned him in.
‘Well,’ he hesitated, moving gingerly into the oak-panelled hallway, ‘I have to be careful, I am driving. ’
She moved her seductive green eyes to meet his again. ‘Please be gracious and join me. The bottle’s already opened. ’
He curtailed his initial discomfort and said, ‘It will be a pleasure then. ’
‘It’s a Barola, 1971. Do you approve? ’
‘Yes, a very fine wine,’ he answered, mightily impressed.
***
They sat opposite each other, but close enough, in the conservatory and Michael at last had the chance to study her. She small-talked about the village and the house to begin with and later revealed the troubles with her husband, the errant artist. But, to be truthful, it all washed over him. He enjoyed the exceptional wine from Italy and sitting there, he could imagine himself in an old farm in Tuscany. He loved Italy in the winter, and he was suddenly reminded of a past holiday. And opposite him sat a woman of bewitching beauty; her pale white skin and tumbling red hair conjured a vision of rare intensity, a ravaged soul. Rossetti would have painted her, possessed her, and worshipped her. He was spellbound.
He drowned in the emerald pools of her eyes, and like mother of pearl, they emitted fractured light and incredible depth of colour and shading, intensifying her mystery and mood. Her skin was opaque, like fine English porcelain, her mouth large, full-lipped and expressive. She tossed her wild hair back from her face, revealing a strong sculptured profile with a long and slightly flat nose, but it was most flattering to him. In this light, he recalled the Pre-Raphaelite portrait of Vanessa Wilding, the creature of Beauty, and thought that this woman who sat before him was born to a different age. He could not paint her, like Waterhouse, nor possess her, as Dante with Beatrice. But from afar, he would adore her. For him, time seemed to stand still in that one indeterminable moment.
‘Are you all right? ’ she asked, leaning forward in her chair.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he answered, slightly embarrassed. Lowering his gaze into his glass of wine, gently swirling the contents with the motion of his hand, he said, ‘This Barola is rather good, but it is not conducive to concentrating the mind. I was daydreaming, I’m afraid. ’
Lauren lifted the bottle from the flagstone floor, gesturing towards a refill.
‘I’d better not. ’
‘Do you live far? ’ she enquired, refilling both their glasses anyway.
‘Chelsea Harbour. ’
‘I have friends in Battersea. I travel up by train every few weeks. But mostly I try to keep out of the city. London is far too claustrophobic for me. ’ Lauren sipped her wine and lit a cigarette. Exhaling, she added excitedly, ‘I insist you stay for lunch. It’s the very least I can do for you. There is a great deal of material to look through. ’
Michael declined her offer of a cigarette. He began a futile protest in respect of the first suggestion. ‘I couldn’t possibly…’
‘Nonsense, it’s a simple dish. ’ She laughed, confessing, ‘Leftovers from last night. Just cold salmon, if that’s ok? I’ll add a green salad and French bread and we can wash it down with water, assuming the wine is too overpowering for yo
u. Now, how can you resist such a temptation? ’
He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Well, in the circumstances I can hardly refuse. It sounds delightful. ’ Secretly, he was more than thrilled. He was intoxicated with the scent of her physical presence, which grabbed like an overwhelming sensation of…of…it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before.
Lauren rose from her chair and came to sit beside him on the wicker sofa. ‘Michael, I have a tendency to be overbearing in conversation. Since you have arrived, I’ve talked non-stop about my troubles and told you everything about my husband and my difficult circumstances. ’ She edged forward and touched his arm. ‘If I’m honest, I am feeling raw and vulnerable…and a little scared. Can you understand that? ’
‘Of course,’ he muttered, relating privately to his own situation. ‘It’s hard coping on your own. ’ He was happy for her to leave her hand where it was.
‘Michael, you just being here helps. It brings a little normality back into my life. Being lonely, being alone, facing an uncertain future…well, preparing a simple lunch for two is important to my sanity. Please understand. So thank you. ’
He instinctively reached out and took her hand, marvelling at the touch of her skin. ‘Lauren, I’ll do all I can, within my capabilities. We’ll try and unravel this mess. ’
‘Michael, I need to sell this house, desperately. It’s too big and costly to maintain by myself. ’
‘Hopefully,’ he answered, ‘we will sort out the finances to help you survive and then move on. I will need the details of your solicitor. ’
‘I’ll fax them to your office. ’ She squeezed his hand, smiled, and stood above him. ‘Thank you for your support, Michael, you’ve been so kind andreassuring. It’s rare to find that in a man these days. ’
All the Rage Page 3