All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  During the rest of the afternoon and over an uneventful weekend, Michael received no word from Lauren. Even the fax that she promised to send detailing her solicitor’s name and address failed to materialise. Although he knew how to contact her, he was reluctant to do so. On the one hand she held a certain fatal fascination for him, and she had made her intentions clear in the bedroom. It would have been difficult to resist the temptation had she not collapsed at his feet. On the other hand, he readily admitted this could so easily spiral out of control and drag him into a world that he would not be able to handle. Either Lauren was a clever and manipulative schemer or an innocent, damaged woman in genuine need of comfort and support. Naturally, he preferred to think of her in the latter terms. He wanted to be there for her, even if his reasoning was less than convincing.

  Recollecting the events of their time together, he decided that the accumulation of pills and alcohol had contributed to her downfall. Clearly depressed, she had self-inflicted a heady cocktail which would have probably downed a bull elephant. It was her way of dealing with the pain and sorrow, he deduced. It was clearly the wrong way. A thumping headache would surely testify to this when she finally awoke.

  But still he pondered. Although he could not put his finger on it, little things began to aggravate him and make him feel uneasy. Her anger was suppressed and raw and her temper quick to surface. She spoke of spite and vengeance and, more disturbingly, retribution. Yet she displayed outward signs of tenderness and compassion. When he analysed all of this, he pictured Lauren O’Neill as a volcano waiting to erupt.

  And what of Julius Gray?

  Where was he now living and with whom? Who was this mysterious seductress that he had run off with? Who had last seen him alive? Lauren had indeed spoken of him in the past tense: surely a slip of the tongue. Yet, it was evident from the set-up in the studio that the artist had left quickly. Had this Julius simply ran off with his mistress without a care or need for his work which he had carelessly left behind? Maybe, just maybe, Julius was forced to leave, forced to…to…he searched frantically for the right word…to escape. Many questions remained unanswered.

  Putting all this aside, Michael tried to refocus on his failing business and failing marriage. But it was proving to be a hopeless task. Lauren was in his head, all consuming.

  ***

  On the Monday morning, he called Kara into his office for their regular weekly meeting. They discussed the weekend events, or rather, lack of weekend events, and agreed between them that certain preferential clients needed jolting into action. Often it would be a case of following up several prospective customers’ requirements and gently trying to coax them to part with their hard-earned money. Something had to happen and fast. Business was grim. All the retailers throughout the West End were bemoaning the lack of trade. It was bleak for everyone, the hotels, restaurants and the theatre. Two leading shows had already announced their immediate closure. With the continual threat of terrorist attacks in the city, London had become a jittery place in which to live and work.

  Michael started the proceedings, without his normal enthusiasm for the task. ‘What about Mrs Dunning, from Hampstead? ’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Kara said, mulling things over. ‘She was keen on the John Hibbit still life. Thinking back, it was all to do with the cost of the redecoration of her dining room,’ Kararemembered. ‘With her, I would think the price was the stumbling block. I’ll chase it up. She’s definitely worth a try. ’

  ‘Hmm,’ Michael pondered, jotting some figures down on a pad, ‘give her a call. Go in at £9,500, that’s just over ten per cent discount. Tell her she can have the painting on approval for a few days. ’ He hesitated. ‘What about the commission at the new hotel on Connaught Street? ’

  ‘Delayed, I’m afraid. Apparently there are structural problems and they will not commit to us until they know the wall space available, which now could be smaller than they first envisaged. ’

  Michael shrugged. ‘OK, it will come good – eventually. In the meantime, contact Mr Pointing in Jersey and ask when he is coming over next. Could he be tempted with the new Nicky Jennings? What do you think? ’

  ‘A strong possibility; I think he will buy, as he’s an avid collector. How about we crate it over to him on approval for a few days? ’

  ‘Always a good ploy,’ he laughed. ‘It’ll be too much trouble to return it: much easier to just stick it on the wall. ’

  They discussed other options which could prove beneficial to the financial welfare of the gallery, but the market was tough, and they had to respond with equal toughness. Leasing artwork was considered, but Michael wasn’t keen as the margins were low. Next on the agenda were various issues regarding the spring exhibition in May, called “City Heat. ”

  ‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Kara announced, ‘there are three of Marcus Heath’s work in the stockroom, ready for collection by the photographer. Just in case you were wondering what they were doing there. ’

  ‘He’s keen,’ Michael reflected. ‘A bit early to say the least. ’

  ‘I think he panicked! Marcus thought you might change your mind. ’

  ‘I’m tempted. ’

  Kara shared his laughter. ‘You can be such an ogre; I can’t see why anyone wants to deal with you. ’

  He shrugged his shoulders in puzzlement. ‘Or work for me for that matter. I must have something going for me. ’

  ‘Hmm, you think so? ’ she teased, a mocking frown creasing her forehead.

  ***

  Later that day, Kara poked her head around the door to Michael’s office, still carrying a frown. This time it was for real.

  ‘Well,’ she asked, with a tone of bewilderment, ‘what does a girl have to do around here to get information? ’

  Michael looked up, bemused.

  ‘It’s like getting blood out of a stone,’ she added, grinning now.

  ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me a little? ’

  She sighed, ‘Men! Always so secretive. ’

  Michael fiddled with his pencil, staring blankly.

  ‘Ah, keeping me in suspense, so typical. ’ She stamped her foot playfully, advancing further into the office. ‘How long was it going to be before I got to know? ’

  ‘Got to know? ’ Michael was teasing her now.

  ‘Yes, damn it: the meeting with the so-called mistress of the manor. How did you get on with Lauren O’Neill? What was she like? ’

  ‘Ah, yes, well – I’m not sure that I can breach client confidentiality. ’ He somehow managed to maintain a serious face.

  ‘Bullshit. ’

  ‘I’m not sure I can relate to that term. Has it got anything to do with a cup of coffee? ’

  ‘OK, its bribery and corruption time,’ she countered, folding her arms, ‘I’ll make the coffee. First you spill the beans. Something big, you said on the phone. I’m dying to hear. ’

  ‘Just what is it with women and gossip? ’ he asked. ‘Actually, Kara,’ he said seriously ‘I’m not entirely sure how I got on with Lauren. She turned out to be a strange and disturbing lady. ’

  ‘Just your sort then,’ Kara quipped.

  He chose to ignore Kara’s jibe, even though it was close to the truth. ‘The appraisals she wants me to do could prove to be a major logistical nightmare. ’ His throat stuck on this last word.

  ‘And the Patrick Porters, were they as good as you’d hoped? ’

  ‘To be perfectly frank with you, Kara, I didn’t get to see those. It was all a bit of a disappointment. ’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Oh,’ she muttered. ‘You seemed so full of it when we spoke on the phone. ’

  ‘I got carried away with the excitement and intrigue. In reality, when I got there I soon discovered a tangled mess of, well, people’s lives smashed and stolen. Too much for me to take in, really. I end
ed up being a reluctant counsellor, and a poor one at that. Next time I’ll just stick to being a humble art dealer. I’ve got enough problems of my own. ’

  ***

  Within an hour, Kara returned, this time with a face like thunder. ‘Michael, how exactly was it left between you and Lauren? ’

  He looked vague. ‘There’s been nothing…It was Thursday when we last had contact. I’m still hopeful of viewing the Porters, but I don’t feel compelled to phone her. It’s like opening a can of worms. ’

  He stared at her vacantly, waiting for a barrage of questions, but instead she stared back at him with a look of agitation.

  ‘You haven’t made contact with her at all? ’ she asked.

  ‘No. Perhaps I should write a courtesy letter, explaining our company position. Keep it simple. ’

  Kara raised her eyebrows. ‘Michael, I think you should come and see something. Now. ’

  ‘Have we finally had word from her? ’

  Kara turned on her heels and walked briskly from his office.

  ‘Perhaps you should check out your emails,’ she called from afar.

  Intrigued, he rose from his desk and wearily followed her, knowing he was not quite on the same wavelength at this point. Kara could be so infuriating at times. Just what was she referring to? It was his policy to leave all the internet stuff to his secretary; it was basically too much trouble for him.

  He soon found trouble. On the computer screen, he read:

  WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED TO SEE YOU. WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED TO SEE YOU. WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED TO SEE YOU.

  Kara clicked through a never-ending list of recurring emails.

  ‘This is one sick chick,’ she said.

  ‘Is everyone the same? ’ Michael asked with a nervous edge to his voice.

  ‘Every damn one,’ Kara responded, looking back at him. ‘There are literally hundreds of them, and look at the time lapse between each message. Every fifteen minutes. This took her bloody hours, Michael,’ she said gravely.

  ***

  Searching for reasons which would make some kind of sense to what was happening made his blood run cold. What he did know was this: Lauren was possessive and needy and calculating. What he did not know was this: how far was he prepared to go with his fascination for this woman? Admittedly, he felt he was losing control with his business; and his relationship with Adele was disintegrating to the point of collapse. He felt diminished and unworthy and rudderless. Perhaps Lauren represented another world in which to escape. Certainly, this now appeared as an unwanted intrusion and yet…yet… he had a compulsion to be propelled head first into this alternative universe of the weird and the wonderful. Thinking about it, though, made him realise it wasn’t an unwanted intrusion. Christ. He welcomed it. It was now becoming a distressing trait in his thought process that he was prepared to search for it and embrace it. What the hell was going on?

  Everything he knew and understood and valued in his life was suddenly in question. But, strangely, it bothered him little. A small madness had infiltrated his orderly mind and had become an insidious intruder, gradually overpowering his logical reasoning to illogical fears. In his brain, the dark shadows embraced him perversely. They offered comfort. The further he withdrew into the murkiness, the more he felt protected. Lauren was both the comfort and the protection. He wanted to believe this. She was his salvation, his Holy Grail. It was his fascination with her that held the flaw.

  His mind then turned to his other obsession.

  Money. It consumed his parallel thoughts. He began to calculate a survival plan which would enable him to rise above the debris of divorce. Adele’s financial demands would begin the seeds of gradual destruction, one which his business could not sustain, especially in the current economic climate. He was acutely aware of the damage her actions would cause and it deeply appalled his sense of injustice. The seemingly bad timing of her selfish act also galled him. Callous bitch.

  When he considered the various options open to him, each presented a frightening scenario. If he were to hold on to the business then turnover would need to improve significantly in order to fund a substantial loan or provide cash up front to fuel her greed. The advice from his accountants spelled out the caustic truth. Firstly, he owed the Inland Revenue £150,000 for the current fiscal year. The impending tax inspection would incur approximately £9,000 in expenses and untold claw backs, and the rent on the property in Cork Street would rise from £130,000 to £155,000 next year. In addition, business rates were set to soar in the city. At the existing level of projected turnover loss, the gallery would be contemplating a drop in profits of £200,000. Then there was the tiny matter of a possible one million pound divorce settlement and as yet unconfirmed yearly maintenance figure (£100,000 had been mentioned), plus the loss of the investment in the Spanish villa. He would be left with the Chelsea apartment (heavily mortgaged) and the country house, which he had inherited from his parents. Something mighty substantial would have to be sacrificed.

  His main concern was the business. If turnover continued to dive in such alarming fashion then how would he be able to sustain the restructuring of the finances, which would inevitably require loan funding of a large scale? This could be achieved, but the equity in his assets would in turn be savagely reduced, thus making the foundations on which everything was built particularly vulnerable.

  And then he turned his attention to the sale of the Porter originals. Twelve of them! That prospect certainly whetted his appetite. Lauren had offered him the opportunity to market them, and if he hesitated, then undoubtedly another art dealer would step in quickly. These paintings would be highly desirable and realise big value profits, possibly as much as £750,000. He was aware of his first obligation, which was to the business. Therefore, it would be financial suicide to ignore such an opportunity, tantamount to gross negligence in his own professional integrity if he allowed this chance to pass him by. He was first in the queue, ahead of the pack. That was how he always played the game: being the predator.

  He checked for Lauren’s contact number. After three aborted attempts, drawing breath and steeling himself, his fingers nervously punched in the telephone number that took him on a path to the unknown: a journey of discovery, a destination without boundaries. The warnings, however, were there. Sick Chick, Kara had said earlier. It made him wonder, and then something else crept into his brain: be careful what you wish for.

  ***

  If Kara had been concerned at the odd antics displayed by her boss, she

  was downright spooked by his initial reaction to the emails. He was too damn calm for her liking, almost undisturbed by the obsessive nature of Lauren O’Neill. What hold did she have on him? What really happened at the house? It was this same concern that justified her decision to listen in on the private telephone conversation between them. Fortunately, Michael seemed to be oblivious to her concealment just beyond the open door of his office. It was a risk she took but a risk worth taking.

  This is what she heard:

  ‘Hi, it’s Michael, the good Samaritan. How’s the head? Uh-uh. I felt awful leaving you the other afternoon. No. No. It was no problem. I thought it best to leave well alone for a few days, but, well, to be perfectly frank with you, Lauren, the emails were rather alarming. ’ A long pause ensured. ‘OK, you don’t have to feel like that. No. No, of course I will help you. ’ Another but much longer pause, followed by a sigh from Michael. ‘Lauren, nobody is abandoning you. No, I will not be like all the others…’ He took a deep breath, changing the telephone from one ear to the other. He listened patiently. ‘Lauren, hear me out. Calm down, please calm down. Right now you are experiencing a very traumatic upheaval in your life and you’re not expected to behave in a rational manner. Believe me, I know exactly what you are going through - listen, let’s meet for a drink and I’ll do the talking this time, OK? Come up to town and we’ll go o
ut for a meal, what do you think? Great. Great. Catch the train. Do you know the Monsoon restaurant off Monmouth Street, Covent Garden? It’s just opened to good reviews. Let’s meet tomorrow night, say, eight thirty? Good. No. No. You can stay at my place, are you OK with that? ’ He paused. ‘Fine, Lauren, I look forward to it. Take care. ’

  Kara heard him replace the receiver. Even from her hidden position she detected his nervous excitement at the prospect of meeting up with her. With any luck, he had sufficient health insurance to cover all eventualities, she thought. Then she quietly slipped away.

  ***

  Kara had agreed to meet Marcus directly after work at a wine bar just a few hundred yards from the gallery, one which she was familiar with. This made her feel more comfortable, rather than enter alone and order a drink in a strange place. Marcus was late. She drank her chilled Pinot and made idle chat with the barman, whom she knew as Jack, an Australian from Perth. Feeling relaxed, they swapped banter and insults as only two people could who came from their respective mother countries. The more insulting the joke, the less offence was taken. That was the way it was between the Brits and the Aussies.

  She checked her watch again and sighed. Then the door opened and in breezed the boy.

  ‘Hi, sorry I’m late. ’ Marcus said, plonking himself beside her on a stool. Catching the barman’s eye, he shouted, ‘bottle of Becks, mate! ’

  Kara stared at him, disdain in her eyes.

  ‘How’s it going? ’ he asked, oblivious to her annoyance. He overfilled the space between them wearing a huge grey duffle coat and scarf and a cheeky grin. Kara shifted backwards on her stool, feeling overpowered.

  ‘A good way to impress me,’ Kara remarked, glancing at her watch and then deflecting her gaze toward Jack. ‘A girl can get easily distracted if kept waiting. Is this your idea of playing hard to get? ’