Grace filled up her cup with hot water from the kettle and thought again of her poor father and how bony his shoulders had felt under her arm last night. She was intending to ring him to see how he was this morning, but she appeared to be ringing her mother.
‘How could you?’ she said as soon as Felicity answered, which wasn’t the non-confrontational start she’d had planned either. ‘How could you do that to Dad? I mean, God knows I never understood you as a couple, but in your own weird way you’ve always worked.’
‘Now look—’
‘No, don’t you speak. Don’t you say anything at all. You just bloody well listen to me. Were you or were you not lying half-naked on a bed with Jay Houghton and letting him … letting him … ?’
‘Letting him what? Go on, spit out whatever filth that man has told you. Wait till I tell your sisters about—’
‘He’s not that man – he’s my dad and your husband, a husband who has put up with a lot from you over the years, not least your addiction to flirting. But he’s right – this has crossed the line, Mum.’
‘Oh, and he’s been a saint, has he? Haven’t I had to put up with all that crime stuff and those stupid friends of his? Him acting like he’s Gene Hunt and Sherlock Holmes all rolled into one.’
‘Whatever he’s done, it hasn’t involved lying on a bed and letting another man play with his breasts …’
Grace stopped talking, aware that Alistair was back in the office.
‘Uh, I heard shouting,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the phone. ‘It’s not a client, is it?’
Had she been shouting?
‘My mother. It’s a long story, Alistair.’
He nodded as if his life were full of long stories and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
He needn’t have bothered – when Grace held the phone back up to her ear it was silent.
Grace left early to get to the Paddwick Gallery, knowing she was avoiding Tate and anyone else who might pop into the office. The only person she really wanted to speak to today was hundreds of years old and holding a baby, but when she arrived in front of the icon, there were too many people around. She had to settle for willing her thoughts to transmit themselves from her flesh-and-bone head to the painted one. She started to feel calmer.
She was certainly calmer than Norman, whom she passed on the way back downstairs to meet her group. Sitting by Lady in a Robe, he was jouncing his leg up and down as he told her that Ludmilla didn’t like the necklace he’d bought her for her birthday; said it was ‘cheap’.
‘It wasn’t, Grace.’ He looked gutted and filleted. ‘I got it in Bond Street. Well, one of the roads off Bond Street.’
‘I’m sorry, Norman.’
‘S’all right. She’s hard to please. Has high standards. Likes the best of everything.’
Grace regarded the balding Norman in his slightly too tight grey uniform and doubted if that were strictly true. She made her way to the meeting point next to Lilly on the ticket desk.
‘All right, Grace?’ Lilly said looking even more painted than usual. ‘See Norman while you were up there?’ She clicked her tongue. ‘He wants to ditch that wife, get himself a new model.’
Grace was wondering whether Lilly might like to be considered for that role because there always seemed to be a hint of petulance whenever she was discussing Norman’s wife and a lot more appearance primping, but got no further with this reasoning as she had just glimpsed a mop of blond hair through the glass of the door. Her panic subsided as she saw it belonged to the teenage son of the Dutch family she was taking round the gallery today. All five of them towered over her, were polite, ridiculously healthy looking and spoke perfect English. Grace hoisted on her professional persona and set off up the stairs with them, and as she settled into her tour she started to enjoy it, despite her mother, despite Tate, despite her flat-wrecking father. The de Janvers were knowledgeable and interested and nodded in all the right places.
A Bar at the Folies Bergère,’ she said, stopping in front of the painting and falling silent just long enough for them to take stock of it. She turned back to them and what she was going to say next disappeared from her brain. Either the de Janvers now had another blond son or Tate Jefferson had joined them. Today he had on the same pinstriped trousers he’d worn the day Grace first saw him but this time with the addition of a red T-shirt with a silver skull on it.
‘Hi,’ he said to the de Janvers. ‘Don’t mind me. Just here for training purposes. Keeping an eye on the new girl. Carry on, Gracie,’ he added with a cheerful wave of his hand.
And then he did absolutely nothing. No smart asides, no yawning or wandering about. No examining his finger nails. He just stood there, arms crossed, chin slightly down, watching her. She’d never seen him stay still for so long and it absolutely, utterly, spooked her out.
She fumbled her way through Manet’s motivation, making such a stop–start hash of the whole thing that it would have seemed quite believable to the de Janvers that she was a beginner.
She tried not to look at Tate, but was repeatedly drawn to his eyes. She turned away and could feel his gaze like a hand on her hair, her neck, her back. Her mouth was growing dry. They moved to the next painting and he followed, but this time he tilted his head slightly as he stood and frowned. That tripped her up again, made her wonder what he was thinking when she should have concentrated on what she was saying.
As they moved on again, she hung back and got close to him.
‘Stop it,’ she said.
‘Stop what?’ He shrugged, all innocence. ‘Standing here and listening? What’s the problem? It’s a free country isn’t it?’ He patted her on the arm. ‘Now, don’t be nervous, you’re doing OK … for a beginner. Isn’t she?’
The last question was aimed at the de Janvers family and they all said ‘yes’, except for one of the sons who did a turning ‘so-so’ motion with his hand.
Tate laughed. ‘There you go. So, what’s next?’
‘You’re going to leave. You’re going to bugger off,’ she said with as much force as she could get into a whisper and went back to stand in front of the group and talk about Van Gogh.
‘Oh, and just a suggestion,’ he called out, before she had even finished her first sentence, ‘cut the swearing and smile now and again. The public like that. Lightens the whole thing up.’
The de Janvers nodded and she was thrown again. As the paintings passed and he kept watching, she felt the frustration and anger build in her. And, as they neared the halfway point of the tour, there was something else building in her that grew stronger every time she saw him watching her: the fear that he was peeling away everything and getting inside her, making her feel as exposed as if he’d just undressed her.
‘Before we go upstairs,’ she said hurriedly, ‘we’re going to take a detour—’
‘Oh crap,’ Tate said. ‘Not the sad woman and the baby.’
When Grace could think about what happened next with any degree of objectivity, she pictured herself as a firework, deceptively harmless-looking and with a very long fuse, but finally exploding as gunpowder met flame.
‘Don’t you dare start on her. You leave her alone,’ she heard herself shout, registering that this was the second time she had raised her voice that day. She also registered that the de Janvers were staring at her, several other people in the gallery had turned to look and Tate was now right in front of her.
‘Hey, keep a lid on it,’ he said. ‘You go see sad lady if you like. I just feel you’ve bored these nice people enough.’
‘Stop it,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve made your point; you’ve paid me back for Esther. But leave the icon alone.’
He shook his head, widened his eyes. ‘Paid you back? You’re joking. You, Miss Nicey-Nicey, left me to Esther for a friggin’ hour. I had to hear every one of her travel plans, including flight times. I thought I was gonna be there all night.’
‘Well, that’s what you get when you stir people up, go ou
t of your way to show them what a free spirit you are and how they ought to be one too.’
Grace sensed that he was actually getting annoyed now – his eyes were stormy green. He took a step closer. She stood her ground. ‘Oh, that’s what I’m doing, am I?’ he said. ‘Not just being friendly? You see, maybe you don’t recognise “friendly”. You with all your rules, looking down your English nose at me. “Don’t breathe my air, Tate.”’
‘You’re a stirrer – a great big spoon on legs. You’re stirring up all kinds of people: Esther, Alistair …’ She stopped herself from saying Gilbert.
‘You sure they’re the only ones? ’Cos know what? You’re looking pretty stirred up yourself. Touch of the real Gracie slipping out from under all that ice, huh?’ He stopped talking and suddenly his expression cleared and he clicked his fingers and pointed at her, ‘That’s it, that’s who you’ve been reminding me of. Yup, got it now: George.’
She was confused enough about what he meant to stop talking, and during that lull she saw Norman look into the room. The way he was frowning and the realisation that more and more people were watching them made her lower her voice. If they weren’t careful, they were going to get thrown out.
‘I do not know a George,’ she said quietly but with feeling. ‘I have no interest in a George. Now please, go away.’ She turned to the de Janvers. ‘I’m sorry.’ She straightened her jacket and pulled back her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry … let’s—’
There was a tap on her shoulder and Tate’s mouth was close to her ear. She remembered the time he’d blown on it, in the dark.
‘George is my cousin. He’s an actor, Gracie. Hell of a lot of enthusiasm, but he stinks. Always seems as if he’s just playing at being someone else. You’re better than him, but you’re still not quite good enough. Cracks appearing, Gracie. Cracks definitely appearing.’
‘Well, let’s hope you fall down one of them and disappear. And let’s hope you do it before you inflict your wonderful video installation on the world. God, the old masters must be quaking in their frames.’ She stepped away from him. ‘So, if you’ll just follow me …’ She started shepherding the de Janvers towards the door. She checked to see if Norman was still looking at them but he wasn’t there any more, and then very distinctly she heard two loud clunks as if someone were throwing heavy things to the floor. There was a hissing noise, a weird sound that she couldn’t place, but as she strained to listen, all at once it was as if someone had taken a fistful of pepper and rubbed it into her eyes and onto the lining of her mouth and throat. She felt tears spring up and as she tried to rub whatever it was away, they streamed between her fingers and down her cheeks. Her nose was running too – it was unstoppable – and her throat felt as if it were swelling so much that she struggled to breathe. She began to panic. She was aware of attendants running towards and past her; she caught a glimpse of Lilly tanking up the stairs, her arm held over her nose and mouth, and of the de Janvers coughing and flailing around and trying to help each other to the door. Now a hand was on her arm, pulling at her, and she heard Tate’s muffled voice saying, ‘Come on, get moving, we’ve gotta get some fresh air,’ before everything disappeared under the jarring, screaming noise of the gallery’s alarms. It was hard to know if it was her ears, her eyes or her chest that hurt the most as she was stumbling after Tate, his hand locked round her wrist, bumping into people and coughing, slipping on the stairs, joining the mass of bodies trying to get to the door, and then they were out in the fresh air, gulping in great lungfuls of it.
‘Stay here,’ Tate said to her as she tried to open her eyes. ‘Don’t move.’ Still struggling to breathe normally, she attempted to peer around to see if, among all the other people bending forward with their hands braced on their knees or sitting with the heels of their hands over their eyes, she could see the de Janvers. She couldn’t, but felt strangely dislocated from that as if this were all happening on a screen in front of her. The gallery alarm was still ringing out and now there were sirens added to it. Police cars were arriving in the courtyard.
Tate was back. ‘Hold out your hands,’ he ordered and when she didn’t, she felt him take hold of her wrist again. ‘Cup your hands – I’m gonna pour some water in them. Give them a wash and then I’ll give you some more; you need to bathe your eyes. Tear gas, nasty stuff.’
‘How do you know?’ she said, fumbling around to do what she was told.
He snorted. ‘Friend of mine did a “happening” with it once. Let a canister off in a huge multi-storey car park; thought it would just make people cry a bit. Wanted to show how the world’s love of the combustion engine was really a source of sorrow, that kind of crap. Big mistake. Still getting the ass sued off him.’
Bit by bit, she was able to open her eyes properly and keep them open, and she saw him bathing his too, his eyelids looking puffy and his nose red. She saw him take a drink of water, slosh it around his mouth and spit it on to the cobbles. She did the same and he smiled at her.
‘Looks funny, seeing you spit.’
Now, when she felt grateful to him, when they were bonding over what had happened to them, this was when she had to be careful.
‘I ought to find the de Janvers,’ she said, although she dreaded the thought of standing up and walking.
‘No need. They’re out on the street, sitting on the kerb. They’re safe; saw them when I went to get the water.’
It felt hard to say ‘thank you’ to him, but she did.
‘That’s OK.’ He smiled at her again, a self-conscious one this time it seemed to Grace, and they didn’t say anything for a while, both of them watching the people still coming out of the gallery and the police going in. The crowd had grown bigger: some people standing around and talking, high on adrenalin, some still dabbing and wiping and sitting propped against bollards and walls. A few were on their mobiles and Grace wondered if it was loved ones they were texting or just splurging their experience on Twitter.
She still felt removed from it all, confused about what had just happened, and she guessed Tate was too because he called over to a couple of men in suits who were standing nearby, ‘Any idea what’s happening?’
‘We think,’ the elder one said, ‘someone’s tried to steal something.’ His companion nodded. ‘Won’t have got anywhere, security’s so tight. Even if they got something off the wall, they won’t get it out.’ He was indicating the number of police cars and, as if to underline the fact that no one was going anywhere, Grace saw that the gateway leading out to the Strand was full of men and women in uniforms. She turned to the other exits. Same.
‘They’ll be wanting to take witness statements, I suppose,’ Grace said, a piece of information she’d picked up from years spent listening to her father.
She was right – they did – and it was when a policewoman came round to take their names and contact details that Grace found out the man in the suit was wrong. ‘They’ had managed to get something off the wall, and get it out of the building. Or maybe ‘they’d’ hidden it somewhere in the building. Whatever: it was missing.
‘What was it?’ Grace asked, suddenly not looking at things happening on a screen, but knowing she was right there on the cobbles, her eyes stinging, her nose running and water all down her jacket.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ the policewoman said.
She didn’t need to be told. Grace just knew it would be the icon.
CHAPTER 24
Violet felt that the least your guest could do when you had spent six days cleaning the house, making sandwiches and cakes, rinsing cups and saucers and plates, shining the cutlery, putting down fresh paper on the route from the front door to the sitting room and to the downstairs toilet … the least your guest could do was sing for her supper. By that she supposed she meant be lively and talk a lot, particularly about what Violet wanted to talk about. Although, now Violet thought about it further, ‘singing for your supper’ was an expression her mother had used and she wasn’t completely sure it was about
being lively and talking a lot; it might actually involve singing.
Anyway, Grace could certainly be a lot more forthcoming and not sit there like a wet weekend – another of her mother’s expressions, which seemed to apply in this case even though it was Tuesday. Violet supposed she ought to be more sympathetic and perhaps more grateful: Grace could very well have postponed her visit after the upset yesterday. But my goodness, she was being irritating.
Violet was eager to get on to the subject of Tate and when Grace wasn’t just staring at the rug, she was chewing unenthusiastically on an egg and cress sandwich and not being particularly careful about how many crumbs she dropped on her plate. Violet was pleased to see that Grace was at least trying to keep both of her feet neatly on their allotted pieces of paper.
Yes, Grace was definitely looking peaky. Slightly bloodshot eyes. Still neat, though. Neat hair, neat clothes, neat nails. Very glossy hair. Gilbert said she was neat at work as well, and very, very organised. He liked her a lot, said she was good-looking. Well, that was allowed because it was obvious that Grace wasn’t Gilbert’s type. But what about those other women Tate had brought into Gilbert’s life?
‘It was just so quick … so brutal,’ Grace said suddenly, and Violet forced herself to agree: ‘Awful, awful,’ but made sure she added, ‘that’s what I said to Gilbert when he told me all about it.’ She hoped that conveyed to Grace that she felt there was nothing left to be said on this subject. She’d heard more than enough. Gilbert hadn’t stopped going on about it when he came home from work last night, and he’d rung again today, just to keep her up to date – how the police had been to the office to take statements from Tate and Grace, how the Russian picture of Ivon someone was still missing and how people were whispering that it must have been an inside job, despite the gallery having been searched right down to the baby-changing room.
There had been lots of other snippets and details but Violet had a hazy recollection of them. Tear gas was one and a thing called liquid plastic, which had been painted over some of the cameras inside and outside the gallery so they weren’t actually recording anything.
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