All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  ‘Pardon? ’ Lauren said, kissing him goodbye. She seemed bemused.

  Igniting the engine, he unwound the car window and looked at her.

  ‘You can do a lot of things with one million pounds. Start a new life. Leave the past behind. That’s a conservative estimate of the Porter collection, I reckon. ’

  Pulling urgently forward on the gravel drive, he shouted over the screech of the car tyres, ‘You could make a killing with that kind of money. ’

  Then he was away in a cloud of dust.

  Chapter Eight

  The night drive home gave him a chance to recover his senses and allow for a welcome degree of relief from the lunacy that surrounded him. Why was everything so damned complicated? After he had left Lauren’s house, he elected to stay out of London, choosing instead to steer the car through the country lanes of Hampshire, back into Surrey, out to Sussex, beyond the historic town of Arundel, and eventually follow the road signs leading back to the big city. Hours passed. Alone, he felt anonymous and untouchable. He craved this sanctuary. For the first time, he found a kind of inner strength and fortitude which had eluded him recently. Insanity was a lonely business. And he didn’t want to remain alone. Refuelling at a garage, he bought a newspaper, a tasteless cardboard covered sandwich and cold fizzy drink. The A3 at Hindhead stretched out before him. Before leaving the forecourt, he dialled Kara at her home.

  ‘Hi, it’s Michael. ’

  ‘Where are you? ’ Kara sounded somewhat sleepy.

  ‘Driving back to London,’ he answered. ‘How was your day with Adele? ’

  ‘Best description in a single word? Grotesque. ’

  ‘Listen,’ Michael said, ‘I’ll be in the gallery early tomorrow. Will you meet me at nine? ’

  She yawned. ‘No probs. ’

  ‘I have a hell of a lot to tell you. ’

  ***

  Kara drew the remnants of a cold cup of tea to her lips. It was ghastly, just like the many images that flashed through her brain from the preceding bad days: The message on the mirror, Adele kissing John.

  ‘I have a hell of a lot to tell you too,’ she replied, but he had long gone from the other end of the line. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. In truth though, she had decided to conceal the episode in the ladies room from him; it was simply still too raw and humiliating for her to share at this stage. Besides, it was he who was on the precipice, and he needed no further burden to carry at this stage either, especially with what she was about to reveal concerning his devious wife and best friend.

  ***

  That next morning, Michael entered the gallery in a jaunty mood, almost with a swagger. On the doormat was a solitary letter, which he grabbed. Ronald had the day off. It was just him and Kara. He switched on the lights, the desktop computer, opened the electronic window shutters and filled the kettle. He discarded the envelope in his hand and waited for his trusted aide. She came in at nine sharp.

  Over coffee, he relayed the events of the previous day at the farm, omitting the raunchy interlude, and explained the significance of the discovery of Antonia’s surname. In his opinion, it was a vital piece of the jigsaw. He told of the fabulous collection contained in the dining room and the not insignificant wealth that could be obtained from their collective sale. More importantly, he requested her complete secrecy on the matter.

  After hearing himself speak for what seemed an eternity, he sensed something was wrong. ‘Kara, what is the matter? It’s not like you to be so withdrawn. ’

  She drew breath. Pouring a second coffee, she paced the gallery floor before returning to where he sat. ‘Michael, there is no easy way to tell you this, so I’ll come straight out with it. I’ve seen Adele with another man. ’

  ‘Another man? ’ Although he had raised this possibility with Adele in the past, the idea still shocked him. ‘As in…’

  Kara looked at him directly. ‘As in the other man, damn it. The boyfriend. Her lover. Whatever! ’ Michael tried to collect his muddled thoughts. Another man. He had suspected for many months her involvement with someone else. He had even notified his solicitor of this possibility, but still…

  ‘Another thing,’ Kara volunteered. She bit her lip. ‘It’s someone you know, someone you know very, very well. ’

  Michael slumped back into his chair, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Johnny,’ he said, with an air of resignation.

  Kara crouched beside him. ‘I’m so sorry. ’

  ‘Not as much as he will be,’ Michael announced flatly.

  All morning they immersed themselves in the routine business of the day; everyday details which needed to be finalised. On top of that, Michael explained to Kara the procedure for arranging a security firm to collect the Patrick Porters. It was decided that Kara would remain in charge of listing and researching them, valuing each and checking the authenticity of provenance. Michael still had his suspicions as to rightful ownership. This led him to his next task.

  He closed his office door and sat behind his desk. Reaching for the telephone, he dialled the number contained on the scribbled note from Kara. He heard the international tone and waited for the distant reply.

  ‘Buon giorno. Galleria Accademia Dorsoduro. Agnes Olivetti. ’

  ‘Buon giorno. How sweet is your voice. ’

  ‘Ah, is that you, Michael? It is so lovely to hear from you. ’

  ‘It’s been too long, Agnes. How are Adriano and the boys? ’

  ‘Very well, very well. ’

  ‘And business. . ? ’ The line crackled, making it difficult to listen.

  ‘Sorry? Ah, business…business is always hard, but we cope. How are you managing in London? ’

  It was great to reminisce. He and Agnes went back too many years to remember. They had first met as fine art students at St. Martins. She eventually joined the European antiquities division at Sotheby’s, working in the capital and then New York. For the past ten years, she and her husband had run their own gallery and restoration workshop in Venice. It was always like old times when they spoke, even though they had not made contact in perhaps eighteen months. Old friends, treasured friends, it didn’t truly matter that time and space separated them.

  He took up her theme of conversation. ‘Very similar circumstances, Agnes. We live in an entirely different world after 9/11. The bombings here in London have made us all feel, well, unsafe and insecure. But, like you, we cope. ’

  ‘How…how is Adele? ’

  It was the line of enquiry he was dreading.

  ‘Listen, Agnes, the line is bad. Adele is fine. Can you do something for me? ’

  ‘Anything, Michael. ’

  He shifted the phone to the other ear. ‘I’m trying to track someone down whom I believe lives in or around Venice. ’

  ‘An artist? ’

  ‘Possibly. Her name is Antonia Forlani. That is all I know. ’

  Agnes was quiet, as if weighing up the possibilities. ‘That is enough for now, Michael. I have people who can help. Adriano’s brother works in the local police force. If she is here, we will find her.’

  Michael was elated. ‘Bravo. It is urgent. If you have any kind of success, ring me on my mobile. Do you still have the number? ’

  ‘Of course. ’

  ‘Agnes, I cannot thank you enough. Ciao. ’

  ‘Thank me later with flowers. Ciao. ’

  Michael replaced the telephone, and reflected: another gearshift, moving forward.

  ***

  Beyond anything else, he was beginning to hate John Fitzgerald. A close friendship lasting over three decades, they were confidantes, business associates, playboys, gamblers, winners and losers, Christ, they considered themselves eternal blood brothers. They shared everything. Everything. Even the same woman, it now seemed.

  It stuck in his throat. Trus
t and betrayal, such close enemies. Oh, how he now remembered the “little” things which added up to a trail of deceit and dishonour. Searching his memory, it was always these little things that spelt denial: the mutual laughter that only John and Adele shared; the awkward touches that went unnoticed; the sugar coated concern they had for each other. It went on. The exclusion of others, most notably of himself and John’s long suffering wife, Suzanne. The secret phone calls. Looking back, how many of those were there? Countless conversations, he guessed. Then there were the furtive meetings; too many to even speculate. On one occasion, he recalled seeing hidden sidelong glances between them. Was it his imagination playing tricks? No. It was all there. Now, thinking about it, he was sure that Suzanne knew. It was only he who failed to recognise the blatant signs at the time. He so wanted to trust her. Blind fucking optimism always got in the way.

  He slammed the tabletop with his fist. ‘Bloody fool! What a bloody fool I am! ’ He spat out the words with venom. Contemptible rage boiled in his skull.

  No longer would he be the bloody fool. If John and Adele wished to flaunt themselves in the public gaze, unapologetic and shameless, then he too could conduct himself accordingly. So far, he had respected Adele’s viewpoint, agreed in principle to her demands, and wished for a harmony of sorts to reflect a relationship of many years standing. Then there was their son, Toby. He lived and worked in New York. So far, they had managed to keep the lid on the situation and deflect the problem of their marriage from him. But now he would need protecting. The shit was about to hit the fan.

  In the main gallery, Michael found Kara busy on the laptop, bringing the address labels up-to-date. It was a laborious task, but a vital one. The street outside was empty. She looked up. ‘You OK? ’

  Agitated, he rearranged the vase of freshly cut white lilies, but in his haste only ended up staining his striped shirt in the process. His mind was elsewhere. He could no longer avoid it. With a heavy heart, he asked, ‘Tell me exactly what you saw. ’

  He listened impatiently whilst Kara relayed her lunch break sortie and the manner of her initial sighting of Adele with John. He knew she was being ultra-careful with her description of the after dinner amble in the park. It hurt. Accordingly, he could see on her face that it was hard work hiding the truth. She was a poor liar, and it showed.

  ‘What was she like with you during the afternoon in the gallery? ’ he asked.

  ‘Business-like. Somewhat aloof. She practically hijacked my office, insisted on working alone, making herself look important and necessary. The cow. ’ Bringing her hand to her mouth, Kara said, ‘I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. ’

  ‘Forget it,’ Michael said, ‘I was thinking the same. ’

  ‘What are you going to do? ’

  ‘Murder them. ’ He said the words without the trace of a smile.

  Kara stood and stretched. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea first? ’

  ***

  The afternoon went surprisingly quickly. At one point they were overrun with a coach load of tourists from Belgium. Always a dead loss, Michael concluded dismissively, more often than not holidaymakers looking for prints of Big Ben. Kara, on the other hand, was master of this situation and kept everyone moving…towards the exit. Michael retreated from the fray and involved himself with an old acquaintance from a nearby restaurant, a keen collector who had popped in unannounced. After a little haggling, they agreed on a price for a small watercolour of Hampstead Heath by Miles Birket Foster: a mere £12,000. It made the afternoon go even quicker.

  ‘Still got the old magic touch,’ he announced triumphantly.

  ‘I would have sold him two. ’ Kara said with a sly smile.

  ***

  Later, Kara took a private telephone call from Marcus. Michael heard her giggling as she retreated to a corner of the gallery. Other calls came in from the framing workshop, the printers, a client wishing to sell a painting because he had fallen on hard times and the countless obligatory cold calls from mobile phone companies and electricity salesmen. On top of that, the downstairs toilet developed a leak. Again.

  Michael buried himself in paperwork. It was dull and repetitive but necessary. At 4pm, Kara asked casually, ‘Have you got the VAT figures that Adele was working on? ’

  Michael shifted the workload on his desk, frowned, and looked around him. ‘Try the filing cabinet. ’

  ‘She usually leaves them on my desk so that I can verify the amounts, but I can’t find them. ’ Kara checked the filing cabinet, to no avail. ‘How odd. ’

  ‘They’ll turn up. ’

  ‘Will you be speaking to her? ’ Kara asked. ‘It’s just that if she was working on them, then maybe she took them home to finish off. ’

  ‘If I truly must. ’

  ‘It’s fairly important, Michael. The VAT deadline is only a fortnight away. The last thing you need is a penalty fine. ’

  ‘OK, I’ll contact her, in the next century. ’

  Kara ignored the joke and appeared preoccupied. ‘Hmm, it’s not like her,’ she said, with a shake of the head.

  ***

  The day appeared to end on a high. Just before closing, a well-known actor from a long running television series came into the premises. Kara instantly recognised him and kept her own counsel, believing that a discreet charm offensive was a suitable reaction to someone who probably expected to be fussed over. More often than not, many famous clients preferred this modest approach. Over the number of years working at the gallery, Kara had met movie stars, politicians, even royalty. Never had she personally encountered what the tabloids would describe as “outrageous behaviour” from a celebrity, which was, she knew, chiefly designed and manipulated to attract the attention of the national press.

  But then never had she encountered the likes of Paris Hilton, who was at this very moment standing across the street, modelling the latest fashion creation for the TV cameras, and surrounded by an entourage of pampering, silly people. Kara found it quite spellbinding.

  ‘Vulgar,’ said the actor, observing the action from the window.

  ‘Another world. ’ Kara sighed.

  ‘Would you like my autograph? ’ the actor asked, shamelessly.

  It turned out the actor was in fact passing time before meeting a publicist at Brown’s Hotel. He regaled Kara with stories of his adventures as an A-List celebrity; named the starlets he had taken advantage of, and listed the terrible insecurities of his profession. She in turn nodded sympathetically, counting the lines on his surgically enhanced features.

  When he finally departed, he insisted on giving her his mobile phone number.

  ‘Be sure to ring now,’ he said, kissing her fondly on both cheeks, adding, ‘You have an impeccable disposition, my girl. You could go far in theatre. ’

  Watching intently as he sauntered across the road, Kara was then surprised to see him greet (‘Hello, Darling! ’) the model with an infectious huge hug and an array of over the top air kisses. Old friends. Old foes. Old luvvies. Acting to the last. Kara howled with laughter.

  ***

  Coming out to see what all the commotion was about, Michael gathered up the envelope which he had found on the doorstep in the morning.

  ‘Am I missing all the fun? ’ he asked, moving to the window. A crowd had gathered on the street to watch the photo shoot. Michael did a double take. ‘Is that Paris Hilton? ’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ Kara said, sarcastically.

  Removing the contents from the envelope, Michael too was somewhat caught up in the circus. It was truly entertaining. Unfolding the letter, his eyes glanced down. He was silent as he read the contents.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he murmured, ashen-faced.

  ‘What is it? ’ Kara asked, following his gaze down to his outstretched hand.

  He passed her the unfolded piece of paper. ‘Wh
at the hell do you make of this? ’ he asked.

  On what appeared to be a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping, Kara read:

  Dublin Evening Herald, 1978

  NORTH STRAND DEATH. FAMILY MEMBER HELD.

  At 8 o’clock this morning local emergency services rushed to a disturbance at a house on Clonmore Terrace, after being alerted by neighbours who heard the sound of screaming. The property, as yet to be identified by the Gardai as part of their on-going enquires, has been sealed off as an investigation begins. It is understood that a body of a man has been discovered. A senior Gardai spokesman has issued a statement announcing that a possible murder inquiry is now under way.

  The identity of the victim has also been withheld until a forensics team can confirm the exact nature of the cause of the fatality. A press conference has been set at 10am tomorrow morning.

  What can be substantiated though is that a member of the immediate family has been detained in custody for further questioning. A source for the local Gardai has revealed that they are not seeking anyone else in connection with this incident.

  Reporting piece by Frank Magee.

  Kara’s eyes were now firmly fixed upon the typed message on the bottom of the newspaper cutting, which read:

  YOU ARE IN GRAVE DANGER

  ‘Oh, Michael, what is this? I don’t understand. ’

  He watched her shake her head and saw a tear form in the corner of her eye. Like him, he knew she was undoubtedly trying to digest the contents of the cutting, and make sense of it. A kind of rushing fear suddenly engulfed him.

  She handed the cutting back to Michael, who re-read the details and then checked the envelope. It simply stated his name in capital type.

  ‘Christ,’ he said again.