All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  And what had become of Julius? He was forced to ask himself this question yet again.

  Michael needed to know, not just for his own peace of mind, but also to gauge the strength of his ongoing connection with Lauren. On a more practical level he needed to authenticate all the paintings belonging to Julius and substantiate ownership of the Patrick Porter originals. This was imperative before he could sell them on. Legally, he needed permission to do this. It begged the question: who did they legally belong to?

  After returning to the gallery, he sat alone in his office and turned over the many events which muddled his mind. There were certain things he knew. Julius had vanished, leaving his studio intact. Question: was his current work of no concern to him? Equally baffling, why had Lauren left the paintings untouched and gathering dust? She had made it clear that he was not returning to her house. It made sense, therefore, that he would surely request that all his valuable belongings, especially his paintings, should be sent to a forwarding address. Question: he also had to ask himself why she had not purged the house of all Julius’s possessions? It would be natural for her to rid herself of such painful memories. But Michael was learning fast that there was little indeed that was natural in Lauren’s house.

  There were some things he recognised in the studio which did not make sense: for instance, the dried paint on Julius’s discarded palette was rock solid, as were countless tubes of paint where the screw tops had been left off. Michael also counted several expensive brushes which had been carelessly left unwashed when a bottle of white spirit was available to use. These were basic tasks that a professional artist would do without thinking. So, what was the obvious conclusion? Julius had gone, for sure, but in a damned hurry. All that remained was a shrine of sorts. And there was something else.

  At first, he had overlooked it. But it festered in his mind. Something else wasn’t quite right, but until now he had failed to identify it. In the abandoned studio was a pile of exhibition brochures and supporting newspaper articles. Julius was a minor celebrity in the art world. He had gained decent critical acclaim from art critics and the public alike, especially in Scotland. The Oberon Gallery in Glasgow accorded him a one-man show every two years, beginning as far back as 1986: ten good years. And there was the problem.

  Searching his memory, Michael was perplexed as to how all the publicity cuttings, stacked neatly in date order, suddenly and inexplicably stopped in the year 1996. Nothing, it seemed, shone a light on his career since then. It must have been at this point that he and Lauren had separated. Whatever happened, the parting was terrible and permanent. Michael had heard her side of the story. Now he would pursue Julius’s version of the events; if it were indeed possible. And what of the mysterious girl who came between them? She would have to be found, and unearthing vital evidence to this end was paramount to the true picture emerging. Gradually, he was asking the right questions. Now he needed the answers.

  So many tantalising clues! There were certain things Michael feared beyond all else: confined spaces, drowning, the dark, wasps and…the irrational abhorrence of faces hidden behind Venetian masks. It was this that dwelt most heavily on his troubled mind. Whichever way he turned, confusion reigned, but, piece by piece, it was the misshapen images from the Italian lagoon that began to haunt him. They lured him, and yet he had almost missed their significance. Like a lightning bolt from the sky, Michael was convinced in a flash that it was here, in Venice, where he would find them both. The lovers: Julius and the girl named Antonia. Just putting their names together made his heart thump in his chest.

  It was during his investigation of Julius’s studio that he had discovered two paintings that were markedly different from all of the others. These were personal oil studies in a more representational manner, entitled ‘Lunch with Antonia’ and ‘Antonia’s Lagoon’. They had been tucked behind a pile of old dusty frames. Lauren had apparently failed to find them. Michael was now convinced they had been deliberately hidden from her. In each canvas, Antonia was depicted as she was: a ravishing beauty, with sleek black hair tumbling down across her slender shoulders. She was young, perhaps only eighteen, with a full glossy mouth and dark eyes. Julius had captured her as a true masterpiece: His lover. Disturbingly, Michael was now aware that he had seen her before…displayed in his gallery window.

  A bigger picture was beginning to emerge as to the tangled lives of these people. One thing was transparent, however. In order to discover the fate of the artist and his lover, the truth had to be found somewhere amongst the chaos of the abandoned studio. This would be his starting point. Against his better judgment, he decided to accept Lauren’s proposal to value the contents of Laburnum Farm.

  Coupled with this decision, his avid imagination transported him back to a distant idyll, reached across land and sea. La Serenissima. The magic of Venice: a place of sunlight and shadows. A beguiling jewel of shifting islands and tidal waters, of echoing passageways, crumbling stonework and sun-reflected canals. A world apart, inhabited over the centuries by those in search of these very shadows in which to hide. Michael was convinced that it was here, among the labyrinth of lagoons, where he would find Julius and Antonia. He was faced with a dilemma: just how would he find this information out? The answer came quickly. A simple ploy was all that was required.

  In need of fresh air, Michael ambled along the streets of his neighbourhood, taking time to think things through. He bought a newspaper, ordered coffee at Carlo’s, and eventually found himself in Duke Street; staring idly at Asian artefacts in a gallery window opposite the St. James Hotel. He enjoyed this walk, often stopping to chat with his contemporaries, but on this day he kept his own counsel, withdrawing into his troubled thoughts and the extra protection of his heavy brown overcoat. The snow flurries had arrived again.

  Eventually, he took shelter in a doorway and dialled on his mobile. The ploy was in operation. His head pounded.

  ‘Lauren? Hi. ’

  ‘You were right about the weather,’ she responded. ‘Where are you? ’

  ‘In Mayfair, near the gallery. Actually, I’m walking in this blizzard. ’

  ‘Are you mad? I can’t see to the bottom of the garden. There must be two inches of snow on the ground. ’

  Michael retreated still further into the porch and peered up to the grey slate sky. ‘It won’t settle, never does in London. I was thinking…’

  ‘Always a dangerous move,’ she interjected, catching his mood.

  ‘Listen. I’ve decided to help you with the valuation of paintings in Julius’s studio. I can combine this with the marketing of the Patrick Porters at the same time. ’

  He caught the elation in her voice. ‘Michael, this is wonderful news. You’ve lifted a huge burden from my shoulders. When can we start? ’

  ‘Soon, very soon. First, I need a break. We desperately need a break. How do you feel about coming away with me? ’

  ‘Sounds divine. When? ’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, thinking. Then, more triumphantly, he shouted, ‘Next week! Tomorrow! How about right this minute? ’

  ‘Right now? ’ she laughed. ‘This very minute? Do I have time to get my toothbrush? ’

  Someone pushed past him in the doorway, cursing impatiently under their breath. He moved out into the street and immediately felt the icy flakes fall beneath his collar and down his neck. ‘Well, next week would be perfect for me. ’

  ‘Problem, I’m afraid. ’

  ‘Oh? ’

  Lauren hesitated. ‘I meant to tell you. I’m going away by myself for a few days. ’

  ‘I see. ’ He knew that his tone betrayed him.

  ‘Just a weekend. ’

  He detected a shuddering full stop in the conversation. Eventually, he said, ‘Where are you going? ’

  She remained silent for a few seconds longer. ‘Ireland. I’m going home to see my sister in Limerick. Maggie needs
me over there. ’

  ‘This weekend? ’

  ‘Yes. I’m flying to Shannon on Friday night. ’

  ‘When will you be back? ’

  ‘Sunday night. Look, I know you are disappointed, but it doesn’t have to change our plans. ’

  ‘No, no, of course not. It’s just that I was hoping to view the Patrick Porters at some stage. This weekend would have been the ideal opportunity. ’ He tried to mask his growing dissatisfaction. ‘Still, we can arrange something another time. ’

  ‘Michael, what’s the problem here? ’

  ‘No problem. I was just planning your weekend without even asking you. ’ Then he tried the jealousy card. ‘I’ll just have to console myself in the Blue Bar tonight, with my secretary. ’

  ‘Not a good idea, on both accounts,’ she said, her voice hardened. Then she softened. ‘Look, I have to go to see Maggie, OK? When I return you can whisk me off to anywhere you fancy. ’

  ‘I’ve chosen, actually. ’

  ‘I like a man who makes decisions, although your previous one was not so good. Where are we going? ’ Her voice wavered with excitement.

  His mouth suddenly went dry, and he felt his heart start to leap with more intensity. ‘Italy. I thought Venice. ’

  He waited for what appeared an eternity. ‘Lauren, are you still there? ’

  Eventually, she found an answer. ‘Yes, Michael. I’m still here. I cannot possibly go to Venice, is that understood? It is simply not appropriate. ’

  ‘Not appropriate? ’

  ‘I’ll call you when I get home,’ she replied. Her tone was cold and transparently agitated.

  With that the line went silent.

  Michael switched off his mobile, and jammed his hands in his pockets. He shook his head, momentarily taken aback by the manner in which she had abruptly ended their conversation. Was it really so great a surprise though? He quickened his pace in the direction of the gallery. Her response was exactly what he had anticipated. It told him everything he had long suspected.

  Chapter Five

  Later that afternoon Michael had a meeting with his solicitor which lasted an hour.

  The matrimonial complications were spelt out to him in no uncertain terms. His wife, Adele, had instructed her side to reach for the sky and demand whatever she felt she was entitled to, without regard to his considerable achievements and damned hard work in building their wealth. He believed this was an expertise that had created their empire from scratch, and her abject failure to acknowledge his true value in what they had accomplished over the years was hard for him to accept. But that was the reality of divorce. Grab what you could, and damn the consequences.

  His solicitor was blunt and to the point. ‘As it stands, Michael, I’m afraid Adele is out to ruin you. She has filed for divorce. ’

  ‘On what grounds. . ? ’

  ‘Irreconcilable differences. In other words, the gradual breakdown of your marriage, I’m afraid. ’

  ‘Is that it? ’

  ‘Hardly a small matter, as far as the courts are concerned. Do you want to contest it? ’

  Michael stared back across the wide mahogany desk with its clutter of files and saw a neat bespectacled man by the name of Mr Plumb, whom he had known for over twenty years. He was completely bald but still insisted in dragging a few wisps of hair across the top of his shiny head. It was almost comical but Michael didn’t feel like laughing.

  Instead, his thoughts were heavy. He retorted, ‘Damn right, I do wish to contest it, vigorously. ’

  Mr Plumb puffed out his chest. ‘Do you have sufficient grounds of your own? ’

  ‘I believe so. I want to counter-file for divorce. ’

  The solicitor leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. ‘Citing? ’

  Michael remembered Adele’s snide inference regarding ‘someone else’. He almost spat the word out. ‘Adultery. ’

  Later that same afternoon, Michael had a discussion with his accountants on the telephone, finding out his position with regard to the break-up of the partnership and the effect of Capital Gains Tax on their joint homes and the business assets. It was a horrendous picture, too big to grasp at this late hour, and he longed for a large gin and tonic. It had been an eventful day, one of many surprises. But the impending financial disasters which awaited him from the conflict with Adele somehow diminished beside the magnitude of the journey that now confronted him with Lauren.

  He decided to act swiftly and decisively. Even though he knew it was imperative to sort out their financial differences, Adele would have to wait. The mechanics of divorce was a slow and laborious process. It couldn’t be rushed. It was the equivalent of attempting to turn an oil tanker at sea. It took forever. He wouldn’t normally allow himself to be distracted from business (Adele had often complained about him always putting the gallery first. “This obsession”, she called it). But hell, let her stew, he concluded rather rashly, with little regard to Mr Plumb’s words: deal or no deal.

  For now though, Michael had elected to search and examine the studio of Julius Gray. He was sure that vital clues would surface from here. After that a trip to Venice (Not appropriate, Lauren had said) which he hoped would enable him to make contact with Julius, thus allaying his worst fears: if Julius was alive, then, and only then, could he and Lauren begin a healthy relationship built on a solid foundation of trust. In his opinion, they currently collided like two exhausted prize-fighters hanging desperately on to each other in order to survive a contest, winner taking all. For Michael, at least, this was not the way forward. He was already feeling battered, and virtually defeated.

  There was something else which nagged at him too, but it wouldn’t surface, however hard he tried to visualise it. Only one option was clear to him: visit Laburnum Farm whilst Lauren was in Ireland. He wanted to survey the territory on which he would be forced to navigate the thin channels which separated the truth from the lies.

  From behind his desk, he leaned forward and punched the intercom button which connected to the gallery.

  ‘Kara. Would you get me the phone number for Agnes Olivetti? She is curator at the Gallery Academia Dorsoduro in Venice. ’ He checked his watch: ‘Almost closing time. Fancy joining me for a celebratory drink? ’

  ‘What are we celebrating? ’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Good fortune, perhaps. Maybe bankruptcy. The vanity of alter-egos. Take your pick. My accountant tells me I face possible ruin. My solicitor tells me I’m between a rock and a hard place. Given the circumstances, I intend to drown my sorrows in a bottle of fine champagne. ’

  Kara drew breath. ‘Hold on, hold on a minute! I start the day with a fry- up and finish up with a glass of bubbly. I have to guard my reputation here. People will begin a whispering campaign if they keep seeing us together. You know: no smoke without fire. ’ He could hear her giggling quietly to herself.

  ‘Your reputation is safe with me, Kara. ’ Michael decided to lighten the mood, ‘Although I have had my fantasies. ’

  He could hear her muffled snort.

  ‘Besides, it would never work,’ he continued. ‘Although Marcus and you are perfectly suited, I would hate to damage his fragile ego if he knew you would always compare us. There would simply be no contest. ’

  ‘Hah, in your dreams! ’

  ‘A fair assessment. ’ He felt somewhat chastised but had enjoyed the banter nonetheless. He didn’t want to overstep the boundary between them and changed the subject. ‘Listen, Kara, meet me in the Blue Bar in fifteen minutes and bring the file on the works of Patrick Porter, including all the colour images of his paintings we’ve sold over the years. I think I’ve found out who Antonia is. ’

  ‘Antonia? Who is Antonia? ’

  Michael delayed his answer for a few seconds. ’The mistress of Julius Gray. I’ll explain it all in good time. In partic
ular, bring me all you have on the work entitled ‘A’ on green silk. ’

  ‘I remember. If I recall correctly, we sold it in December last year.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I know this,’ he said, his voice rising in pitch, ‘but the girl featured in that painting is called Antonia. And before you ask, no, I’m not going crazy. I have more than a hunch about this.’

  ***

  The bar was hectic and noisy and hip. Jay-Z pounded from the sound system. Everyone in London, it appeared, wanted a drink. Michael consumed the last mouthful of his iced gin and tonic, the second since meeting up with Kara in the club.

  ‘Another? ’ he suggested. He knew he was on a self-destruct high, despite his anger toward Lauren, which was twofold: first, her brusque reaction to a trip to Venice, which he had anticipated, and second, her unannounced departure to Ireland, without considering him. For the first time, he sensed her life independent from his, and it bothered him. On the one hand, he hardly knew her; on the other he wanted to possess her. All of her. It signalled another notch up on his growing anger.

  He realised his involvement in their relationship was all-consuming and he was jealous that she had reached an ordinary decision without his knowledge. It was certainly not unreasonable for her to undertake such a basic decision, but he found it a kind of betrayal. Frankly, he was pissed off.

  The third round of drinks appeared on the table as if by magic.

  ‘Fed up waiting,’ Kara announced, returning from the bar. ‘You do that a lot just recently, ranting on and on and then drifting off. ’