by Karen Swan
‘So when did you first meet Cat?’ she began.
‘When she came to work for me here. Although I knew her by reputation before that.’
‘And what was her reputation?’
‘Attractive, good taste, highly social. Invited to all the best parties and married to a rich husband. My target customer, basically.’
‘She lives in Surrey, though,’ Laura said, puzzled. ‘Surely you couldn’t have “heard” about her from there?’
‘This was several years ago. They used to live around here, on Aubrey Walk, back then.’
‘Oh. Why did they move, do you know?’
‘She said they were talking about starting a family.’
Laura nodded, remembering Rob’s face on the glacier. ‘And was she one of your clients before she started working here?’
Min thought for a moment. ‘No. But I was aware she was very well connected and knew a lot of my clients. When I finally met her myself at a party, I could tell she was bored of the housewife parade, so I offered her a role here, at the gallery.’
Laura nodded. That tallied up with Kitty’s comments about Cat wanting to prove herself in ways beyond her looks. And hadn’t Orlando said they’d each realized an ambition, teaming up together to open their own business? Alex had said she was intelligent – top three in economics, which she later read at university. Laura could see Cat was constantly trying to break out. ‘Tell me what you thought of her when you first met. You said you knew her by reputation beforehand . . .’
‘Yes. And she pretty much confirmed all my assumptions – blonde, bored, pampered and spoilt. Surprisingly clever, though,’ Min added graciously after a moment.
‘It sounds like you didn’t like her very much,’ Laura suggested carefully.
‘Not to begin with.’ Min’s frankness was surprising.
‘So then why hire her?’
‘Where Cat Blake leads, others follow. If she had her nose pierced, I can guarantee everyone else would do the same within the fortnight. My turnover doubled within her first four months here.’
‘Was she aware of this?’
Min snorted, crossing her arms. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Did you become friends?’
Min slowly straightened, like a cobra rising from a basket. ‘Yes, I would say so. I think I quickly came to see the real Cat Blake, and she came to rely on me in her own way. Not that we ever discussed it in such explicit terms, you understand, but when you’re working closely with someone day after day, you’re bound to see the truth of their lives.’
Laura nodded, recognizing the territorial pride she had noticed everybody took in their friendship with Cat. She understood it now, maybe even felt it herself. Even taking her formidable beauty out of the equation – which it was such a cliché to admire – Cat was the pinnacle of everybody’s personal ambitions: intelligent and driven; kind and generous; compassionate, delicate, feminine and fashionable.
‘What’s she like to work with?’
‘You want the truth? Maddening. She’s like a dog with a bone when she’s got an idea in her head. Never takes “no” for an answer. Not many people say “no” to Cat. I expect you’ve already found that out yourself.’
Laura nodded. It was true – she hadn’t said ‘no’ to her, even though the launch party was everything she’d once told Fee she didn’t want. Much like blonde hair and painted nails.
‘Can you give me an example?’
Min pursed her thin, rouged lips together. ‘Well, the most obvious is a gala show we held for the local hospice a few years ago. There was an artist Cat had come across at a party, and she kept badgering me to host an exhibition for him. He was a fellow called Ben Jackson, based in a bothy somewhere in the Highlands. Don’t misunderstand me – it wasn’t like she’d discovered him or anything. He had been lauded for his graduation show at the Slade years earlier, but he was very much of the artistic temperament. You know, he’d rather live on moss and dew than make any money from something substandard or, God help us, commercial.’ Min rolled her eyes. ‘He wouldn’t play the game, and even the art world can only cope with so much eccentricity. But Cat kept plugging away at me to let her try. Eventually – just to shut her up, to be honest – I told her that if she could convince him to produce some new work for us, I’d put together an exhibition for him.’ She shrugged. ‘I mean, there was no way she – an inexperienced, uneducated art world part-timer was going to be able to talk him into it.’ She dropped her chin.
‘And yet you’re going to tell me she did,’ Laura murmured, knowing that the woman who provoked men to graffiti marriage proposals on railways bridges would also have inspired a reclusive artist to paint for her. ‘How did she do it?’
Min shrugged. ‘Batted her eyelash extensions? I don’t know. But she travelled up to see him on a Tuesday and came back a week later with nine canvases and a further eleven promised for delivery eight weeks later.’ She shook her head, as if still in disbelief at the coup. ‘It was simply unheard of. As soon as word got out, we had offers on the spot for the entire collection from four Mayfair galleries, a couple in Paris and one in Manhattan. Of course, Cat insisted I turn them down. She was adamant the event should be held for “local people”.’
That compassion again. ‘What was the exhibition called?’
‘Exposure. It explored the boundary separating space, solitude, retreat, from isolation – a glorious interplay between shadow and light. It was all very intense and moody. Sold out within hours, of course. The Times ran a lead on it, and people were buying simply what was available. Most didn’t even look at the canvases first. We had to hire some security to control the numbers. People were left standing on the pavement trying to get in. Some particularly crafty sorts actually abseiled down from the flats above and came in through the back door.’
‘A triumph, then,’ Laura said, wondering how on earth she could represent all that on a charm.
‘Yes, and it was purely Cat’s. I take no credit for it. It’s purely thanks to her that Ben’s a bona fide star now.’
‘Do you still represent him?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s got a contract with Lehmann Maupin Gallery in SoHo. There was no way we could compete with the terms they were offering.’ She gave a small snort. ‘He’s changed a lot since his Highland seclusion days. Put it this way, he doesn’t live in a bothy now.’ She inhaled sharply. ‘But it’s served us well, being his launch pad. We get a lot of new artists fighting for our patronage. And people coming to us know they’re getting in early on future names and that they’ll get a good return on their investments.’
‘Would you say Cat has a good eye for art, then?’
‘One of the best I’ve come across. She could have had a glittering career as a dealer, in my opinion. Half the job’s what you know; the other is who you know. She’s blessed in both departments.’
‘Have you ever shared that opinion with her? From what I’ve learnt from her family and friends, she’s ambitious.’
Min shook her head. ‘She never took it seriously enough. Once she’d nailed Ben Jackson, she seemed to lose focus. Maybe doing this was only ever a rich girl’s whim after all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, she just lost all interest in pushing for any recognition beyond making the tea. I hired her as a publicist-slash-ambassador, to leverage her contacts and increase footfall through the door, but that all just stopped and suddenly she was putting her hand up to do menial things like the photocopying. I mean, I get eighteen-year-olds on work experience in here who shoot me death stares for even suggesting they photocopy something. She stopped chatting up the customers, too, making a big thing instead about standing by the window and looking for the warden or feeding the meter.’ She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t go on justifying her salary when she was basically a glorified tea-girl.’
Laura’s eyebrows jumped up. ‘Sorry? Are you saying she doesn’t work here any more?’
Min shook her head. ‘No. Not
for about two years now.’
Two years? Laura frowned, confused, as she tried to recall Rob’s words about her in the café. He’d given no indication she had left her job – or lost it. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s . . . that’s just so strange. When Rob asked me to see you, he said that you were her boss and that she works here several afternoons a week. He definitely used the present tense.’
‘You mean he thinks she still works here?’ Min looked as surprised as Laura.
Laura sat back in her chair. Was Cat too ashamed to tell Rob she’d been sacked?
‘Do you still see Cat in a social capacity?’
‘No. I do often see her around and about, but she never comes in.’ Min’s lips set into a flattened line. ‘I expect it’s sour grapes on her part.’
‘You see Cat around here?’
‘That’s right. She’s a regular at the Italian on the corner over there. I see her at least once a week hopping in and out of taxis.’
‘But she never stops by?’
‘Not once.’
Laura hesitated, then turned off the digital recorder. ‘Well, thank you for sparing your time. I’m going to need to go back to Rob on this. I’m as baffled as you are as to why he’s included you in the project. I think perhaps he’s misunderstood your relationship with Cat. Each charm is supposed to be a homage from the closest people in her life, and if you’ll forgive me for being so blunt, you’re clearly not.’ She stood up and let Min lead her to the door. ‘If it’s okay with you, I’ll speak to Rob and come back to you if I need any further information.’
‘Fine,’ Min replied, holding her hand out this time. ‘Please do send Cat my best if you see her. It’s sad to lose contact altogether.’
‘Yes, of course. Goodbye.’
Laura walked quickly down Holland Park, lost in thought. It had begun to snow properly now, the sky a toxic grey with a lime shine to it. All around her, the wealthiest denizens of London swept past in 4x4s and furs. She checked her watch: 11.44 a.m. That gave her just an hour and a quarter to get to Brampton Oakley. She had lied to Min about the traffic, but in these conditions, the motorways really would be slowing down and snarling up – there wasn’t time to call Rob now. It would have to wait till later. And besides, she’d prefer to send an email explaining the situation rather than hear his voice in her ear.
She saw a traffic warden stop at Dolly up ahead. Oh great! Just what she needed. She could tell from the telltale flashing halfway down the street that the meter had expired and she saw him pull out his electronic bookings pad. Laura broke out into a run.
‘You’re over,’ he said aggressively as Laura wordlessly ran round to the driver’s side. ‘Oi, wait!’ he said as she opened the door. ‘I’ve started writing out your ticket.’
‘Yep, but you’ve got to get it on my windscreen to validate it, haven’t you?’ she shouted back to him, turning on the ignition noisily and throwing Dolly into reverse.
The warden started typing faster, but he was no match for Laura’s haste and he could only watch as she manoeuvred out of the parking space.
‘Merry Christmas!’ she shouted, pulling out into the traffic and heading west for the Surrey Hills. It was only a mini victory, but it was the first thing that had gone her way in days.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The door opened with a creak. Suitably, Laura thought as she braced herself for entering the tall, dark and creepy house at last. She took a deep breath before she was in Olive’s line of sight and forced a weak smile. Ironically, Olive Tremayne had become, in the wake of Monday’s events, her ideal interview candidate: brittle and recalcitrant, she matched Laura’s mood perfectly. Even Min’s ‘spiky’ demeanour had been preferable to wide smiles and polished conversation – they would have finished her off before she’d begun. It had been enough of an achievement just getting dressed today. Left to her own devices, she would have sat on her studio window-sill in her pyjamas, looking out on the sea as a meditation.
‘Laura,’ Olive said, looking an inch past Laura’s left ear so that Laura’s new look was only in her peripheral vision. ‘Won’t you come in?’ Her behaviour made no reference to their previous meeting.
‘Thank you,’ Laura said quietly, smoothing her jumper down as she passed by, her Converses squeaking slightly on the highly polished black and white tessellated floor. She followed Olive past an old-fashioned coat stand that had a mac and an umbrella hanging from it, and a gothic staircase that turned on itself in sharp ninety-degree angles.
Olive led her into a large room with burgundy silk-papered walls, a dramatically swagged marble fireplace, ornate plasterwork on the ceilings and a dusty chandelier that looked as heavy as a car. A bottle-green tartan carpet stretched from skirting board to skirting board, but other than two patched velour wing chairs by the fire, a battered chesterfield opposite and a leather-topped round coffee table, there was no other furniture in the room. It was like the visitors’ room in an old people’s home, Laura thought as she sat in one of the wing chairs – its purpose felt transient, the decor half baked.
Olive sat opposite her, the fire crackling between them. Her wild, frizzy hair had been plaited back into a blonde rope, and she was wearing navy trousers with a lemon silk blouse and a canary-yellow V-neck jumper. Her face was delicately made up, and Laura found it impossible to guess how old she might be. She could be in her thirties, but the way she dressed – as if she shopped from the back of weekend magazine supplements – she could have been twenty years older than that. There was none of Cat’s easy charm or grace, effortless style or inherent sexiness. She was like a dowager aunt and seemed different from Cat in every way it was possible to be.
‘So, you want to discuss my sister with me,’ she said quietly, looking at Laura for only the briefest of moments before shifting her position so that her long legs were pointing towards the fire.
‘Yes, please,’ Laura said, reaching down to get her digital recorder out of her bag. ‘Do you mind if I . . . ?’
Olive gave a vague gesture of consent. ‘How does this work, then?’
Her voice was so quiet, Laura had to strain to hear her. ‘Well, I wonder if you could start by telling me a little about your childhood together. Your strongest memories of growing up with Cat.’
The door opened and a woman carrying a tray came in. She nodded at Laura as she set the tray down on the low table. It only had coffee, scones and biscuits on it, even though it was 1 p.m. and Laura hadn’t eaten lunch. But she wasn’t hungry anyway.
‘Would you like me to pour, Mrs Tremayne?’
‘Thank you, Mary,’ she replied. ‘This is Mary, my woman who . . . does,’ Olive murmured.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mary,’ Laura said. She was rewarded with a smile from this woman, at least.
Mary served the coffee to the two women, who sat waiting for her in silence. She passed Laura a small plate with biscuits on it.
‘Thank you,’ Laura said again, feeling absolutely no appetite for the food in her hands.
Mary nodded at Olive and left the room.
‘Where were we?’ Olive mumbled, as though they’d been in full flow when Mary had entered. ‘Oh. Yes. Childhood . . .’ She sighed heavily.
‘Are you the elder sister?’ Laura asked, taking a tiny, polite nibble of the biscuit.
Olive fixed her with a chilly stare. ‘By four years.’
‘And your parents. Can I ask a little about them? I haven’t heard anything about them yet and Rob hasn’t—’
‘They’re dead. Died within six months of each other, eight years ago. Cancer, both of them.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Olive looked at her hard for a moment, as though assessing whether she looked suitably sorry, before staring back into the fire.
‘So then you and Cat—’
‘What? Have each other?’ She gave a low snort. ‘No. We have our own families.’
‘Right.’ It seemed hard to believe. Laura’s eyes skated around the room, but there was
n’t a single photograph or toy in evidence. She remembered the rocking horse she’d seen through the window on her first visit here.
‘I noticed the rocking horse on my way down the drive,’ Laura ventured. ‘Is that your children’s?’
‘I don’t have any children. It’s just my husband and me here.’ Bitterness that she was having to divulge all this clung to every word. ‘That rocking horse belonged to me and Cat as children. This house was our childhood home.’
‘Oh, I see!’ Laura said, looking around with renewed interest. As a childhood home – with noise and bustle and some mess, perhaps – this house might come to life. Perhaps that was what it was missing now. A noisy, busy soul. ‘Was the rocking horse a favoured toy?’
Olive’s lip curled slightly. ‘Hardly. I’ve kept it because it’s a valuable antique.’
‘It doesn’t sound like you were close.’ Laura paused. ‘Would that be accurate to say?’
‘Why would you want to say it? I thought this was just about a piece of jewellery?’
‘It is . . . yes,’ Laura said haltingly. ‘Each charm is supposed to be representative, that’s all, of the key people in your sister’s life.’
Olive snorted again. ‘Well, God only knows why Rob’s got such a bee in his bonnet about including me in this thing. He practically begged me to talk to you.’
Laura frowned. ‘But Cat’s your sister. There must be some happy memories that you look back on?’
Olive stared at her for a long moment before picking up her teacup wearily, almost painfully. ‘Our pony, Truffle,’ she said finally. ‘A Welsh cob our father bought for us both. I was almost eight; Cat was four. We shared him – the only thing we ever shared. ’ She rubbed her lips together, contemplatively. ‘I would sleep with his brushes under my pillow so that I could smell him while I slept. Our mother had to confiscate our alarm clocks in the end. We were getting up before five o’clock at one point to muck him out and feed him.’ A ghost of a smile hovered above her. ‘It didn’t stop us, though. We loved that pony more than anything.’
‘Do you ride still?’