The afternoon crawled along at a snail’s pace.
Lauren was the first to weaken. Eventually, at around four in the afternoon, she brought him tea and cakes on a tray. He knew curiosity had got the better of her. Before then, she had steadfastly kept herself to the other side of the house. He could play this game. Keep patient. Be cool.
‘Time for a well-earned break? ’ she asked.
In rolled-up sleeves, Michael surfaced from behind a large carton of unused canvasses. Brushing dust from his head and shoulders, he emitted a surprised cough. What an actor!
‘It can be thirsty work,’ he announced, surveying the organised chaos that he had created.
‘Winning? ’ She poured the tea and offered him a cup.
‘Hardly,’ he corrected her. ‘It could take days. I have to somehow value the stock, those that are current and those that are old, against prices of five years ago and the current market level, whatever that may be. Not easy when I am not familiar with the reputation of the artist. However, I do have price lists from past exhibitions and you will be able to help as well. I’ll also contact galleries who have handled painting sales. It’s a big job. If you don’t mind, I’ll probably get my secretary to do a lot of this preliminary investigation. ’
Lauren’s expression bordered on crestfallen. ‘I don’t want to put you to so much trouble. ’
‘I gave you my word,’ he reassured her, as he took a sip of tea. ‘But I need help. Bringing in Kara will speed things up and allow me to concentrate on the marketing of the Porter collection. ’
She agreed. ‘Fine by me. Shall I prepare dinner for later? ’
He looked at his watch, then at her. ’It depends. I don’t want to get back to London too late. ’
‘Then stay the night, Michael. ’ He was somewhat taken back by her forthright manner.
‘Is that what you really want? We’ve barely spoken to each other lately. ’
She looked at him differently now: longingly. ‘Yes, Michael, it’s what I want. I’ve had an exhausting few days, and I’ve missed you. I’m so sorry for my behaviour. I’ve been under a lot of stress. ’
He approached cautiously, but refrained from touching her.
‘We all need comfort,’ he said softly.
Shockingly, Lauren spontaneously unbuttoned her blouse and exposed her naked breasts. Her breathing was heavy and seductive. In an instant, she reached out for him.
‘I need to be fucked, actually. Now would be a good time. ’
***
Dawn light eventually filtered into the room, bathing them in a yellow glow. Michael stirred, aware of his immediate discomfort. His limbs ached. He slowly adjusted his eyes. In the window frame, Lauren stood silently still, wrapped in a white silk bedspread. Her flawless skin was bleached from the light, her hair wavy, long and entangled from the heated sex. Seeing her like this took his breath away. She was a thing of utter beauty.
Transfixed, he stared in wonder, reminded instantly of ‘La Belle Irlandaise’, a painting by Gustave Courbet. It was a portrait of Jo Hiffernan, the beautiful Irish girl. The comparison haunted him, enriched him.
He watched her for several minutes. Then the aching returned, disturbing his concentration.
He discovered his discomfort came from the makeshift bed of cushions, which were by now scattered across the wooden floor, leaving him a hard place to rest on. He winced, and then took in his surroundings.
In the gloom, he made out a huge oak refectory table with ten accompanying heavy chairs. Behind him, against his bare back, a massive red sofa shorn of cushions was pushed against a wall. The great dining room was dark-wood panelled from top to floor, with two gothic chandeliers hanging, like giant spiders, from the beamed ceiling. The clinging cobwebs emphasised the illusion. The silhouetted flower arrangements were neglected, dead and lifeless in elegant cut-glass vases atop the table. The smell from stagnant water hung pungent in the air.
Shifting his weight, Michael sat upright against the sofa. Lauren had not moved, unaware of his silent awakening. Looking round still further, his eyes alighted upon the impressive paintings adorning the walls. He counted twelve in total. Then it hit him.
‘My God,’ he whispered his eyes wide with excitement. She then turned in his direction, almost with a telepathic anticipation of his reaction. Her smile was triumphant.
The paintings were sumptuous and grand and expansive. Each one depicted a young sexually-charged woman, captured in elegant poses; some half-naked, others draped in beautiful and exotic gowns. The inspirational brushstrokes, free flowing and commanding, were reminiscent of great artists of the past: Rossetti, George Frederic Watts, and Whistler. The glazing technique which the artist had employed gave each canvas an effervescent glow, bringing alive each character’s fine portrayal; mystical, visionary and perfect. Here was a connection between the sexual and the divine. The paintings contained the three themes of Symbolism: Death. Sleep. Erotic Impulse. Michael was unsettled, and a little overawed. What he saw was a magnificent obsession: An artist at the height of his powers. He instantly recognised the main sitter in all of the portraits. Antonia.
Hung grandly before him, in all their individual glory, was the collective work of the deceased artist, Patrick Porter.
For a fleeting moment, time became suspended as the air was sucked from Michael’s lungs. He stood and marvelled at the splendour in silence.
‘Well? ’ Lauren murmured, searching his face for pain or pleasure. She came quietly to stand by his side.
Catching her appreciative gaze, Michael took her hand and slowly examined the exquisite paintings, staring intently at the sheer beauty and poetry contained in each commanding brushstroke.
‘Simply breath-taking,’ Michael said. He had the eye of an expert. ‘A truly great artist and a wonderful collection. How lucky you are. ’
‘A curse, actually. ’ She dropped her head to his shoulder. He responded by holding a reassuring arm around her slender waist.
‘Why do you say that? ’
‘They remind me of all things difficult in my life. They bring back memories of hurt and suffering, fighting and…and…simply surviving.’
Michael reminded himself of his conversations with Maggie, but this was not the moment to invade those inner torments.
Instead, he asked, ‘How did you come to acquire them? ’
‘Oh, over a period of time. Julius and I bought one every year to celebrate our wedding anniversary; hard to believe that now. During the good times, he earned a very decent living, and as you know, it is only in recent years that a Porter original has begun to fetch huge money. Some of these cost a fraction of their true value today. ’
‘Did you know the artist? ’
‘No. We bought from galleries and auction houses. ’
Her answer was too swift for his liking. Convinced that she had lied, he didn’t press it, instead choosing another path which would test her nerve. ‘The girl in the paintings…she’s absolutely stunning. Do you know who she was? ’
He’d pushed too far.
She abruptly turned away and walked from the room, ignoring his question. It was not unexpected. She had deceived him about the “decent” living from her husband, which Michael knew was not correct because of his conversation with Kara. Also, she was in denial with regard to the identity of Antonia. More disturbingly, why would she continue to have a constant reminder of her love rival so close to home? Any normal person would put the collection out of sight, rather than parade such blatant reminders. It was as if …but Michael could not finish his train of thought. It would nag like a bad toothache though.
He followed her into the kitchen, and tried to comfort her by offering a shoulder to cry on.
‘Lauren, this needs an answer. You have asked me to sell the paintings. How can I do this if Julius owns
them as well? It’s called entitlement. I would need his permission. ’
She broke free from him and recklessly drank stale red wine from a dirty glass, which she had poured the night before. It must have tasted sour. Looking at him once again, she said emphatically, ‘Each one was a gift to me. I own every one of them, Michael. I do not need permission. I can part with them in whichever way I choose. I can burn them if I want. ’
Michael pondered her response. ‘Have you this entitlement in writing? ’
She was cleverly prepared for this line of interrogation.
‘Behind each painting is a hand written card from Julius that states they are a gift to me. I have verified this with a solicitor. Therefore, I have rightful ownership. ’
‘Yes, in that case, it appears so,’ he said reluctantly.
Lauren reinforced her point. ‘Julius will not contest what is rightfully mine,’ she replied. ‘Besides, he is not in a position to do so.’
‘Is that right? ’ Uneasy, he nevertheless pressed ahead. ‘How fast do you want to act on this? ’
‘Take them and sell them, quickly. Can you do this for me? ’
‘Yes, of course I can. Naturally, each will need to be photographed and marketed to the right people. We can produce a brochure, sell on-line or go to auction, whichever route brings the quickest and best return. ’
‘I want privacy. ’
‘Agreed. Personally, I would organise a special private viewing. I have the necessary clients for this scale of work, many of whom would prefer to remain anonymous. We do not need a fanfare. ’ He sounded convincing, and in truth, he was right. However, the real motive for this line of action was to eliminate Adele from the equation. Organised correctly, this was his opportunity – possibly his only opportunity – to conduct a financial killing that would bring him back from the brink of ruin. He needed no further incentive. Success equalled reward: money.
‘What is your cut? ’ asked Lauren.
‘Forty per cent of retail plus Vat, and I’ll cover all costs. ’
‘A deal,’ Lauren said. She smiled. ‘Champagne? ’
It amazed him to see her transform from icy cold to red hot in an instant. Clearly, she had her reasons to not court publicity, and she was keeping her cards close to her chest. He was impressed. Here was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. No messing. It was unnerving.
Michael regained his composure, and thought of the celebration toast. ‘Normally, I would say no at this time of the morning, but, what the hell. ’ He felt the devil in him. This was his chance to beat Adele.
‘I’ll tell you what, Mr Big Shot, I’ll go one better. Seeing as we skipped dinner last night, how about smoked salmon and scrambled eggs as well? ’
‘Perfect. ’ He didn’t just mean breakfast.
Although Maggie had warned him of the danger, he realised that he needed this woman. It was a compulsion, not only for her dead sexy body, but for the dead sexy profitable paintings as well. He would feast on them both.
While Lauren busied herself in mixing the eggs with butter and milk, Michael uncorked the Pol Roger Vintage and began to analyse the mind-blowing preparation that was required in insuring and then collecting the paintings from the dining room, informing the right clients and putting on a private exhibition at the gallery and keeping all this from the grasp of his estranged wife. It would not be easy. Subterfuge would be required. For a start, he would have to enlist the help of Kara. She could be relied upon in matters of secrecy.
Silently, the cogs began to turn.
***
After breakfast, Michael insisted on carrying on with the task of evaluating the contents of the studio. Lauren seemed relaxed with this, choosing a luxuriant long soak in the bath instead. He in turn showered quickly, made coffee for them both, and attempted a second assault on obtaining what he really came for. At last, he would have the necessary time to be alone; time to concentrate the mind.
In order to regain her confidence, he firstly planted the seeds of a new venture over breakfast. Knowing that Venice was a no-go area, the idea of further seduction and romance meant a necessary rekindling of the eternal flame. Although last night truly shocked him, Michael needed to create an unshakable bond between them, which wasn’t entirely dependent on just shagging each other’s brains out. There needed to be a core. Originally, he had believed that her initial disdain for him on her return from Ireland would be hard to break down. He needed a strategy. Now, it was almost a superfluous diversion, but he decided to go ahead with it anyway. This, he hoped, would dispel any disloyalty which she may have begun to dwell upon with regard to their relationship. On the table he handed her an envelope containing two airline tickets and a weekend stay at the La Colombe d’Or Hotel in St. Paul de Vence. This time it had the desired effect.
After a long pause, Lauren said, ‘Michael, this is just divine. ’
‘A good choice? ’
‘A simply wonderful choice,’ she responded. ‘I adore you. ’
The idea, he explained, was to go in June, when the climate was kinder. In truth, the idea was to distract her attention away from his intended purpose of unravelling a puzzle, hidden in the studio. A puzzle, he had to admit rather forlornly, that had either crucial pieces missing or, more worryingly, were hidden from his immediate grasp. Nevertheless, the tickets did the trick twofold. Point one, she was back in the core, and point two, he had control.
Leaving her to bathe in blissful solitude, Michael knew that Lauren was now lost in romantic dreams, far, far away on the famous Cote d’Azur. This gave him the luxury of both seclusion and precious time.
Scrambling through umpteen boxes, turning over piles of notebooks, emptying files, he searched in vain. ‘Just one name, damn it,’ he cursed under his breath. The unravelling of the studio was a cause of frustration.
There were hundreds, literally, hundreds of art books, photographic journals, sketchbooks, CDs, accountancy files…it was an impossible task. He cursed again. Think. Think. Where would it be, this evidence he so craved?
Frantically searching still further, he was now becoming dispirited. Lauren would soon become restless from her joyous dreams and join him. He was running out of time.
Where? Where? Then he saw it.
A parcel tube was propped in the corner, wrapped in fancy gold paper, now torn and tattered. A red ribbon was attached. This was unmistakably a girl’s touch. The thin tube was initially hidden behind a stack of unused canvases, and somehow he had dislodged them. Now the tube was visible. Lauren would not know of its existence. From the evidence of the dust that had accumulated over the years, Michael was sure that Lauren had never taken it upon herself to search this studio. She had been too angry with Julius. If he had disappeared, intentionally or not, it was clear that all the rage, all the pent-up rage in their volatile relationship, was contained in this one space. She had never forgiven him for his sins. As a result, this room was left to rot.
Seizing the tube, Michael carefully withdrew the contents. It appeared to be a drawing, encased in protective acid free paper. Nervously, he unrolled the sheath, revealing a delicate pencil and chalk sketch of a man. It was a head and shoulder study of Julius. In the left hand corner was the inscription ‘To Julius. ’ By now his palms began to perspire. Scanning across the image, his heart pounded relentlessly. In the bottom right hand corner was a signature.
Antonia Forlani. He almost stopped breathing.
Distracted by a noise, Michael suddenly became aware of footsteps on the stairs. Desperately, he rolled up the drawing, reinserted it back into the tube and jammed it once again behind the canvasses. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he barely had time to think before Lauren glided in. He said the first thing that entered his head.
‘Feel better? ’ he asked, closing a random file which he had snatched within easy arm’s reach. He hop
ed the panic wouldn’t show on his face.
‘Much better. ’ She smiled contentedly. ‘All done? ’
He pretended to stretch wearily. ‘For today, at least,’ he said. ‘I’ve made good progress. I’ll get Kara to do the final listing. Then we’ll assess the value. ’
‘What’s your initial opinion? ’
Michael felt hot under the collar. He needed air. ‘Hard to say,’ he replied. ‘At auction, there’s money here, that’s for sure. ’ Then he added, ‘But nowhere in the league of the Patrick Porter collection. ’
‘What do you think the Porter collection is worth? ’
By now, he simply wanted to retreat from the studio. The atmosphere was becoming oppressive, and he was in panic mode. ‘Can I have a glass of water? ’ It was more of a command.
She led him back to the kitchen. Thankfully, the garden doors were open, allowing him fresh oxygen. He gulped down three glasses of iced water.
‘Are you all right? ’ Lauren asked, slightly amused.
‘I blame last night,’ he said, shaking his head in mock surrender.
‘Too much for an old man? ’ she asked. ‘Perhaps you should make a confession right now – are you having trouble keeping up with me? ’ Her laughter was infectious.
Grabbing his car keys and jacket, he turned toward the door. She looked surprised by his sudden departure, but didn’t make a protest.
‘Till the next time,’ Michael said by way of an explanation. He smiled broadly, concealing an inner feeling of rising excitement and expectation. He had found the name. His nerve ends tingled.
Two things he wanted to say. ‘Yes, I definitely have trouble keeping up with you. ’ Then, at the car, he added rather coolly with no apparent connection, ‘One point five million sterling, to share. ’
All the Rage Page 12