by Penny Feeny
‘I think you’ll find he is.’
‘I mean, legal processes in this country are such a nightmare. It would make all the difference to have a really good lawyer, someone you can rely on…’ Something in his expression alerted her. ‘David! Why are you pulling a face? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. Cool it. No call to get uptight.’
‘Look, the last thing I need is you going back on your word. It was your idea we met for a casual drink, right? You made out I was in for a wonderful surprise, that your mate was the answer to a maiden’s prayer, and he could probably walk on water at the same time.’
‘Back off, Gina.’
‘But he’s not the hotshot lawyer you promised when you called me, is he?’
In truth, David had been as cagey as usual, but she’d detected a suppressed note of excitement which had raised her hopes.
‘Hon, I said no such thing.’ He leaned back, threading his fingers together and cracking his knuckles. The overhead spotlight exaggerated the artificial straw of his hair and the coarse, much darker stubble on his chin; it illuminated the pale creases at the corners of his eyes and the tiny reminders of cosmetic surgery behind his ears. ‘How about we start over?’
‘Start over?’
‘You come into the gallery and take a seat. I offer you a drink. We’re civil to one another.’ As he took her empty glass, the bell rang. ‘There!’ he said in triumph. ‘You see, I have not let you down.’
Gina stayed in the office, restoring her shoes to her feet, listening to the exchange of greetings, the click of the double doors as they closed against the night. David was a ghostly figure in white. His guest, in a sober dark suit, was harder to discern. She could tell only that he was tall. Even when he appeared in the doorway and she saw his face, with its trimming of beard, it took her a moment to recognise him.
‘May I introduce Franco Casale,’ said David. ‘Gina Stanhope.’
‘Piacere.’ Casale extended his hand.
‘We already met,’ said Gina, shaking it briefly and returning to her seat. ‘At the opening.’
‘You did?’ David was perplexed. ‘You never said.’
‘You never told me who was coming here this evening.’
‘I have given you my card,’ said Casale. He reached into his pocket as if about to produce another.
She said quickly, ‘Sorry, I lost it. But I don’t remember it describing you as an avvocato.’
‘He isn’t,’ said David, waving the wine bottle. He refilled Gina’s glass and handed a fresh one to Casale.
Start over, he had said. What on earth did he mean, if this was the kind of nonsense he was going to come up with? ‘Then you’ve got me here under false pretences. I thought I’d made it absolutely clear I was looking for a good lawyer.’
‘So is Boletti,’ giggled David. ‘Franco here has had him under investigation.’
Gina set down her wine, not wanting to spill it. ‘You’re a cop!’ she said in disbelief.
‘He’s a tax man, hon.’
‘A what?’ Wasn’t this worse? ‘You are kidding me!’ Nobody ever declared their full earnings but David’s dealings with art and artifacts, with objects whose price related to the amount clients were prepared to pay as opposed to any intrinsic value, surely he was the last person to want a tax official sniffing around. Unless he was bribable… She assessed Casale again; he looked dead straight to her – he had a fastidious manner that reminded her of Felix – but you never could tell.
Seeing her expression David said, ‘No worries. We’re small fry to Franco. He’s in the tax fraud section; he’s only interested in the big guys. I know you figured a bar would be a neutral meeting ground, but there are confidentiality issues. You understand? But Franco was happy to come over here and share the good news with you.’
‘What good news?’ said Gina. She was finding it difficult to accept that the man hadn’t switched sides. Up until now she’d seen him as her nemesis: Bertie’s fixer. The one giving directions and chortling as he brushed flecks of dust from his lapels; encouraging Bertie to sabotage her show, spy on her visitors, bugger up her mortise lock. But according to David he’d done none of those things. He was on the side of law and order, incorruptible, whiter than white.
‘We have been pursuing Boletti for some time,’ said Casale. ‘He has failed to pay not only his income tax, but his property taxes too.’
‘Like half the rest of the country, you mean?’
He was unperturbed. ‘In his case, there are considerable sums at stake.’
‘He’ll slither away from you. You’ll never catch him.’
‘Regrettably he has made too many enemies. And this has helped us acquire the evidence we need.’
Gina recalled Bertie’s frequent meetings with ‘the bank’ – whoever they were. He’d never given her details of names or functionaries, he’d kept everything vague. She wondered if blackmail were involved or if he’d simply become too greedy. Clearly she wouldn’t have been the only person he’d pissed off. He had it coming, she thought, with a delicious shiver of vengeance. ‘I hope you’re going to bankrupt him.’
‘Not personally,’ said Casale. ‘Men like Boletti know how to protect their individual wealth, but the company is in trouble. The assets have been frozen.’
‘What does that mean?’ He had an attractive smile, she decided, open, simpatico. Why had she once thought it sinister? Good posture too, confident without being arrogant, though she could see he was brimming with satisfaction at the outcome of his investigations. And with reason. A warm flush of joy began to seep through her veins.
David cut in. ‘It means he can’t throw you out, because he won’t be owning the building much longer.’
‘It’s up for sale?’
‘It’s possible the apartments may be sold off separately.’
‘So it’s possible,’ said Gina carefully, with a covert nod at the hidden safe, ‘that I might be able to afford to buy the one I live in? Christ knows, it needs an awful lot of work. David, you bastard, why are we drinking white wine? Why not champagne?’
‘I must warn you the process will be slow,’ said Casale.
‘At least you won’t have that hound dog sniffing around, denouncing you, sending you notices to quit,’ David said. ‘You can sleep easy.’
‘Do I still have to pay the rent?’
‘We don’t perform miracles. But the income will not go to Boletti.’
Gina savoured this. Part of her, the subversive, contrary part had enjoyed confronting each little skirmish – she recalled with pleasure the tightening of his hand on the Alfa’s steering wheel and the grim set of his mouth when he saw her nestling against Mitch – but ultimately she’d known Bertie held the cards that mattered. She was grateful to all those unseen creditors, construction companies, bank officials, whatever, whose grievances had toppled him. She couldn’t have won by herself.
‘And you can guarantee, can you, there’ll be no leap in the shares of glue manufacturers?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Roberto Boletti is a devious man with a warped sense of humour. And I’ll bet he’s got some tricks up his sleeve that you haven’t thought of.’
‘For this reason,’ said Casale, ‘I hoped to speak to you when we met here before, but I had chosen the wrong moment…’
‘Timing,’ agreed Gina, who could now be magnanimous, ‘is everything.’
A text message chimed on David’s phone. ‘Sergio’s going to fix a booking for dinner. You’ll join us?’
‘Sure.’ Then she realised he was speaking to both of them as, after a brief hesitation, Casale nodded.
‘I’ll call him back,’ said David, wandering out of the room.
She wanted to chase after him. She wanted to protest that this was going too far, she didn’t need any well-meaning friends to set her up on a date with a tax man. Though she could imagine David’s response: This guy’s saved your ass, hon. Why not be grateful to be onsi
de with the angels for once?
Casale made some throat-clearing sounds and she waited. She couldn’t help being wary; she didn’t want to be caught out, leaping to any more false assumptions.
‘Photography fascinates me,’ he said. ‘With its ability to convey more than the eye can see. I have been very taken with your work.’
‘Really? I’m surprised you should say that. I know I didn’t give you much of a hearing at the opening; all the same, I had the impression you were trying to undermine me.’
‘Why?’ He raised his glass and she noticed expensive cuff links.
‘Because you refused to believe my story.’
‘Ah, the Trevi Fountain… Comunque, it wasn’t true, was it?’
‘Not exactly,’ she admitted. ‘Though some elements were. And I had been considered for the campaign. In the end it couldn’t happen in the Trevi because there were too many problems with security and road closures and so forth. But you should never call a person a liar in public. And in Italy too!’
‘I think we had a misunderstanding.’
‘We had a misunderstanding all right. And it was my fault, I know. I had you confused with someone else.’
‘I was referring to your reason for becoming a photographer.’ He glanced down at her ruby red shoes and smiled his slow warm smile. ‘Wet feet?’
Gina arched her instep, admiring the slender shaft of her heel, the neat curve of her toe. Then she stood, rising to his level. It seemed important to explain herself. ‘I used to get so fed up with people thinking that I changed career because I was getting too old to model. All that rot. I’m not saying it didn’t play a part, but I was actually much more concerned with what I could do, what I could create, with a camera. Only I hate coming across as pretentious. Put it down to being a Brit: if you go on about your artistic vision you’re deemed to be some kind of pseud. So instead I embroider a silly tale, which backfires. The wet feet, well, that was just a bit of fun really…’ She was floundering but she thought he’d followed her; he’d shown he had a sense of humour.
‘I liked listening to you,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed your account. I could see you in your black dress in the fountain. And the necklace breaking… You created a remarkable image. You do, in fact, create wonderful images. I tried to buy one of your prints but David told me it wasn’t for sale.’
Scarcely a week ago had come the thrill and then the disappointment of his offer. And in the meantime Mitch, Sasha and Ruby had blown into her life and blown out again. A week, was that all? ‘Now that was a true story,’ she said, ‘which got me lots of hassle. Up to my neck in hot water rather than cold. It was one of those reckless moments…’ She shrugged and continued. ‘My hands are tied so I can’t really say any more about Aftermath, I’m sorry.’
David returned, slipping his smartphone into his back pocket, twirling his key fob. ‘You guys done?’ he said. ‘Andiamo.’
Gina scooped her bag off the sofa and shouldered it, ready to follow him. She took a step, then halted. She wasn’t hungry yet and there were other priorities to consider. ‘Could you give us ten minutes?’ she said. ‘I don’t think we’re quite finished. There’s wine left in the bottle. And could you turn on the lights next door?’
‘In the gallery?’
‘Yes, darling. It’s a bit gloomy and we need to be able to see properly. Franco would like to get a closer acquaintance with my work.’
David snapped on the master switch and in the sudden illumination the walls came to life: the boys with their ball games, the ramshackle campsites, the men’s scarred torsos and damaged limbs – all bathed in deep velvety shadows.
This time she would handle her prospective purchaser more carefully, treat him with respect. Everybody deserved a second chance.
AFTERMATH
2013
A wedding. Tonight.
It’s a thousand miles away and Sasha would love to be there. Instead she’s rushing out of the house, hoping she won’t be late for her lecture. The strange conversation she’s just had is buzzing in her head. Less than an hour ago, flicking onto Gina Stanhope’s Facebook page she’d seen that Gina was preparing for a second exhibition, a solo one this time. Sasha made a sudden bold decision to Skype her and Gina responded with more warmth than she’d hoped for. Sasha needn’t have worried; she’s kept her word about the Aftermath photos.
She also has to credit Gina with bringing her parents back together. Corinne was rocked by the tragic story of baby Thomas, that was clear, but then she rallied. She turned down the job offer from Dundee and accepted a local promotion instead. Sasha’s dad brought home a silky-haired puppy the day after, to celebrate. She’s going home this weekend to see him – luckily her boyfriend Adam has a car.
She’ll get a stitch if she doesn’t slow down. What a piece of news – Sami getting married to a Polish juggler! They’ll be like strolling players, she thinks, entertaining tourists and school parties. Father Leone is officiating and Gina will take the pictures. Sasha is delighted for him, of course, but she had to ask – how could she not? – whether Joe would be a wedding guest too. But it seems that Sami’s contact with Joe is erratic. Nothing’s been heard of him since the break-out from the centre for identification and expulsion in Turin. Lots of detainees escaped, Gina has told her; he may still be trying to get to the UK.
After her lecture, she’ll head straight over to her volunteering project. Every Thursday she helps to prepare and dish up lunch to the asylum seekers who drop into the Centre for advice on legal issues, housing, English lessons. Most of the other volunteers are immigrants who’ve been through the mill themselves; she’s the only student.
The Centre is housed in what was once a large Victorian priory, red sandstone with high ceilings and tall windows, tiled floors that echo. When Sasha gets there she will hang up her coat on the row of pegs – which makes her feel like she’s back at school – and go through to the large busy kitchen. She will mash tinned tuna and sweetcorn together and spread the mixture onto baguettes. Then she’ll wrap the filled rolls in paper napkins and carry them through on a tray to the serving counter.
Many of those who drop in are regulars, but sometimes there are newcomers too: men who’ve been journeying for years and finally arrived. Today, after what Gina has told her, if she spots a slim young man in the queue who hasn’t been before – perhaps he’ll have a beanie hat pulled down to his thick dark eyebrows – she won’t be able to help herself. Although it’s completely irrational, her glance will stray to his hand as it reaches out for a roll. And she will look for a flash of silver circling his wrist.