In the end it was her new editor who solved her conundrum. The first part of the solution was him saying, ‘I need the story, and I need it in the next half an hour because we’re going to print.’ The second part was him saying, when she quickly explained her quandary, ‘Well, what’s the story?’ She started to launch into it, but he stopped her and said, ‘Sell it to me in a headline.’ She immediately said, almost without thinking, ‘Fire hero is ex-prisoner’.
‘There you go,’ said Rob. ‘Don’t over-think it. Present the facts. People aren’t stupid, they’ll work it out for themselves.’
‘But—’
‘And now we have twenty-five minutes.’
‘But what if I—’
‘I’ll fix it. That’s my job.’
So she wrote it in ten minutes and sent it through. Five minutes later he called her in and nodded at his screen and said it was grand – dramatic, balanced and sympathetic. There was Sean’s photo of Dillon in the back of the ambulance and her headline, Fire hero is ex-prisoner.
‘Oh good. Do I get a gold star?’
‘No, you get another story.’
She smiled and went back to her desk. Then she came straight back to his office and said, ‘My friends aren’t going to be happy with it. Dillon’s not going to be happy with it.’
She nodded down at the screen, and then raised her hand and placed it across the top of Sean’s photo, so that the upper part of Dillon’s face was masked.
‘This way,’ she said, ‘he’ll be able to walk the streets and not many people will recognize him. Maybe he can get his life back together.’
‘You think he deserves a second chance?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And everyone lives happily ever after?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Well, it’s a nice thought. But no. It’s not our job to make people happy, Alix. We’re here to report the news. And hopefully sell a few copies in the process. Good story, good photo, now on to the next one.’
Rob reached forward and pressed the send button.
CHAPTER 3
MR TURNER’S PRIZE
His name was too good not to win the Turner Prize. It was a headline waiting to happen. He was, of course, already an acclaimed artist, but because he was called Richard Turner the critics and cynics, often one and the same thing, considered and concluded that he was halfway to being crowned already. He was on the shortlist, the announcement was a week away, and the local boy made good had chosen not to spend the last few days before it glad-handing around London but back home, opening a small retrospective in an old pal’s gallery, a thank you for all his help on the way up. It would have been considered one of the hottest tickets in town in any town, but the fact that it was Bangor and the gallery only held a hundred people meant that they really were like gold dust. Or, at least, fairy dust.
It was a big thing for the town, but Rob was finding it hard to get excited. He’d worked in Manchester and London and seen plenty of big things and next big things and usually they turned out to be not that big or interesting at all, a mixture of hype and enthusiasm throwing up a kind of protective heat shield around works in which he was hard pressed to discern anything of value. Of course, it was all subjective. He didn’t know much about art, but he knew what he disliked.
This evening he was one of the last to arrive at Easel. That’s what the owner, Aiden Marten, called the gallery. Easel. Rob wondered why he didn’t go the whole hog and call it Paint Brush. It was already nearly full. Rob had an earphone in. He’d only been in town for a few weeks so not everyone knew him yet, but those who did recognize him didn’t try to engage him in chat because he looked like he was concentrating on whatever important information was coming through to him; they didn’t know he was listening to the football commentary, and that he would much rather have been at home watching the game on the telly, with a carry-out from the Hong Kong Palace on his lap and a beer in his hand. Rob didn’t make any attempt to dissuade them. If it looked like someone was about to approach, he put his finger to his ear and walked away muttering to himself. He didn’t mind the wine, though. He had downed two or three glasses already. He wasn’t a natural conversationalist, and he floundered at small talk with strangers in general and the kind of people who came to small private art galleries in particular. It wasn’t because they were rich, because mostly they weren’t, it was because they put on airs and graces the way they put on their make-up or after-shave; that is to say, generously. Case in point: Janine. She was on the far side of the room, war paint on, chatting, schmoozing, laughing too loudly, and all the while with a smug grin on her face that seemed to expand every time her eyes met Rob’s. She had been back in work for two weeks. She had been as good as gold. She was getting more advertising than ever. And Rob knew she was laughing at all of them. She had stolen tens of thousands of pounds from the paper, come up with a frankly unbelievable story about being forced to pay protection money, and then persuaded someone to beat her up to back up her claim. At least, that was how Rob was seeing it. She was bad to the bone.
And then he saw Alix entering the gallery, with Sean and his camera trailing behind, and he found himself beaming at her. Alix looked – well, fabulous. She was a good-looking woman anyway, he’d thought that from the moment he first saw her at Billy Maxwell’s funeral, plus she was smart and bolshie and sometimes a bit too convinced of her own abilities, but this night – something about her, the shape of her sky-blue summer dress, the heels, the eye-liner even, just everything, she just looked really lovely. He knew it was probably the wine, but he couldn’t help thinking it, and smiling at the same time.
The first thing she said was, ‘What’re you looking so pleased about?’
‘Me? No, not me,’ he said, flustered, the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Just listening to the match, they’ve scored...’ He pointed at his earphone, and then pulled it out.
‘Who’s they?’
‘Tottingham,’ he said.
‘Tottingham?’
‘I mean...’
But she’d already turned to snatch a glass of wine off a fast-moving teenage waiter. As she turned back to him Janine was just passing, probably in pursuit of the same waiter. But she took time to look Alix up and down and say, ‘Very nice. Big date?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Alix. ‘Working.’
‘Well, they’re being very generous with the advertising. Be sure to give them a good review.’
Alix shook her head and said, ‘It’s not all about money, Janine.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Janine laughed and continued her pursuit.
Alix gave Rob an exasperated look and said, ‘She’s probably promising them all kinds of favours. She just doesn’t get that we need to maintain editorial integrity or whatever we do write has no kind of value... I mean...’
‘It’s very early in the evening to be talking about editorial integrity, Alix.’
Alix laughed and took a long sip of her wine. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re right, and she’s probably just winding me up.’
‘Probably,’ said Rob.
‘It took me for ever to get ready, then the car wouldn’t start. Thought I was going to be late, got a taxi in the end... Do you think I’m overdressed?’
‘No... not at all... you look...’ He waved his free hand. ‘Suitably dressed.’
‘Suitably dressed?’
‘Nicely well dressed.’
‘Nicely well dressed? You should do our fashion column, you’re very perceptive.’
‘Not really my field,’ said Rob. He looked across the gallery. There was a microphone being set up on a small stage made out of a packing case. He hadn’t spotted the artist yet. When he looked back to Alix she was studying one of the paintings on the wall beside him. It consisted entirely of alternating strips of black and white paint. ‘So, what do you think?’ he asked.
‘I love it,’ said Alix. ‘I’m a big fan.’
‘Really? It just looks like a zebra crossing to me
.’
‘That’s because you’re not looking at it properly.’
‘I think you’ll find that I am.’
‘No, you’re just looking at the surface.’
‘The surface is all I can see.’
‘You have to look between the lines. Literally, in this case.’
Rob made a show of trying to look between the lines by putting his face right up close.
‘The only thing you’re going to get out of doing that,’ said Alix, ‘is an epileptic fit.’
‘Ah,’ said Rob, ‘a painting which should come with a health warning, now I see what you’re getting—’
He was disturbed by a loud knocking sound coming from the speakers, and they turned to see that Richard Turner – the unmistakable Richard Turner, because his face had been everywhere this past few weeks – was on the small stage, wearing a white jacket, with nicely combed hair and a pair of what had to be designer glasses perched on the end of his thin, sharp nose, with another man, slightly taller, a little dishevelled-looking, standing beside him and now saying ‘Testing, testing’ into the mike.
‘Aiden Murray,’ Alix whispered in Rob’s ear. ‘He owns the gallery.’
Rob nodded. He wasn’t thinking about Aiden Murray, but about Alix’s perfume and how close she’d been to his ear. He gave a little shiver, and said to himself, ‘Catch yourself on, Rob – no more wine for you.’ And in support of that decision he drained the glass he had. Alix touched his arm. He turned. She had another glass for him. He smiled at her and took it and sipped. It would have seemed like bad manners not to.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please,’ Aiden Murray asked in a somewhat reedy voice. ‘It gives me very great pleasure to welcome you all here tonight, and in particular to welcome an old friend of the gallery. Please give a big shout-out to the wonderful Mr Richard Turner.’
Aiden stepped to one side as Richard moved up to the microphone to the accompaniment of enthusiastic applause.
Rob gave Sean, who was standing drinking wine, a poke in the back and said, ‘Shouldn’t you be...?’ and nodded at his camera.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Sean. He looked around for somewhere to put his glass, but there was nowhere convenient, so he handed it to Rob before swinging his camera round and pressing forward.
‘Thank you – it is indeed wonderful to be... home,’ Richard Turner began. ‘And it’s a great comfort to me to see that so many of you have aged as badly as I have.’ They laughed. ‘Seriously.’ They laughed some more. He was polished and professional and charismatic. ‘It’s a great pleasure to be back in town after so long – and all I can say is – what’ve you done with the auld place?’
More laughter. They were like putty in his hands until someone shouted out: ‘Well, why don’t you piss off back to London then, you thieving bastard?!’
A hundred heads swivelled to the back of the room. Most of them were actually looking in Rob’s general direction, and probably thought it was him until a smaller man, middle-aged and with long grey hair in a ponytail and holding a glass of red wine, stepped out from behind him and shouted: ‘You fuckin’ fucker,’ his words thick with drink. Rob felt a tug on his jacket and saw that Alix, possibly fearing some kind of violence, had grabbed hold of his sleeve.
‘I’ll have a glass of what he’s drinking,’ said Turner.
There was more laughter.
‘Ah, fuck off’, cut through it.
On the stage, Turner held his hand up to his eyes as if he was shielding them from a bright light as he peered at the drunk. His brow furrowed and then he smiled and gave his heckler the thumbs-up. ‘Pat? Is that you? Sure haven’t seen you in ages!’ He put his hand over the mike, and nodded at the gallery owner beside him, who stepped forward. Turner whispered something to him, nodded, then spoke into the mike again. ‘Sure I’ll see you later for a wee drink. Anyway, folks, it is wonderful to be home, and to see these paintings, mostly from early in my career, on display – Aiden here was such a great supporter of me way back in the day, but not just of me, of many, many local artists, many of you here tonight. Let’s hear it for Aiden!’
Turner started to clap, and everyone joined in. As they did, two security men Rob hadn’t previously noticed appeared and went to grab Pat the drunk. Pat saw them coming and tried to escape, but they caught hold of his arm and swung him round, and as they did his glass of wine went flying. Most of it sprayed across Rob and Alix. The security men finally got a proper grip on him and began to drag him away, leaving another flurry of swear words in his wake. Rob started to wipe the wine off his suit, although because it was black you couldn’t really see any difference – but then he saw Alix staring aghast at her dress.
‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. It looks like I’ve been shot or something.’
‘No... no...’ said Rob, trying to keep his face straight, ‘you would hardly notice...’
Before she could respond, Alix’s elbow was grasped from behind. She turned to find Richard Turner himself standing there.
‘I’m really sorry about that,’ he said.
‘No... no worries... It’s fine...’ Alix put her hand out and Turner clasped it. ‘It’s really a pleasure to meet you... I’m a big fan... The exhibition... It’s fabulous...’
‘I’m so pleased you like it.’
Turner nodded at Rob, and then he paused, and a look of vague recognition crossed his face. But before he could say anything, Aiden appeared beside him and said, ‘Sorry, Richard, but there are so many people who want to meet you. Lady Clandeboye is gagging to say hello...’
Turner raised an eyebrow at Alix, finally let go of her hand, and allowed himself to be led away, though not without another glance at Rob.
Alix immediately said, ‘Do you know him?’
‘I do believe I do, I just didn’t realize it until right now. Our paths crossed briefly, years ago.’
‘God, I opened my mouth and all this rubbish came out.’
‘Nothing new there.’ She made a face, but added a grin to it. A girl came past with another tray of wine glasses and they each grabbed one. ‘Still, might be worth finding out what that was all about. The drunk fella.’
‘Absolutely. I mean what kind of a nut job does something like that?’ She began to examine her dress again, but then looked up suddenly. ‘You mean I should do it now?’
‘Strike while the iron is hot,’ said Rob.
Alix, her usual enthusiasm bolstered by drink, gave him the thumbs-up, handed him her glass, and spun away. She staggered a little on her high heels, before disappearing into the crowd.
Rob looked at the two glasses of wine.
Ah well, he thought.
An hour later and the crowd had thinned to a handful. Sean was happy with his photos and away off to capture the climax of a darts final and Rob was outside with Alix. His apartment was within walking distance but he was waiting with her until her taxi came. Her house was also within walking distance, given a decent pair of shoes, but not in skyscraper heels. Alix had smuggled out a glass of wine and was still sipping.
‘Is Turner gone yet?’ Rob asked. ‘I didn’t see him come out. Maybe he went out the back way.’
Alix moved to the gallery window and went to put her head close so she could peer in, but misjudged it and her forehead banged off the glass. She fell back, cursing and laughing at the same time, lost her balance and began to topple over. Rob, only slightly more sober, caught her as she fell, and for a moment she was in his arms, and their faces were really close together, and their lips could easily have met. He held her there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, and she wasn’t objecting at all, and he might well have attempted something if the door beside them hadn’t suddenly opened. Richard Turner stepped out. Alix’s eyes were blissfully closed, but Rob’s were open enough to see Turner giving him the thumbs-up. It did rather bring him to his senses, and caused him to withdraw enough of his support for Alix that she let out a cry and her eyes snapped open; she looked hor
rified as she flapped her arms and tried to regain her feet. Rob began to apologise for letting go of her, but Alix was suddenly focused on Turner. A taxi was just pulling up and the artist and the gallery owner were now stepping towards it. As Aiden opened the back door and ushered the artist in, Alix came rushing up.
‘Mr Turner! Mr Turner... it’s me... I spoke to you earlier, you said you’d talk to me once all the fuss had died down... I work for the local paper?’
Aiden moved between Alix and the artist and said, ‘And as I told you earlier – call the office and we’ll try and set something up...’
‘But I need it for tomorrow, if there’s any way...’
Richard Turner’s grinning face appeared by Aiden’s midriff. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said, ‘too late now. But you looked like you were busy anyway.’ He gave her a wink and sat back. Aiden closed the door and stepped back as the taxi pulled away.
Alix glared after it.
Aiden shrugged and said, ‘Artists, they’re very temperamental,’ and then moved past her back to his gallery.
Alix swore, and then looked about her, wondering where Rob had gone. She tottered across to the gallery door. There were three or four stragglers still finishing their wine, but no sign of Rob at all. Behind her, another taxi pulled up. She looked back into the gallery, shook her head, and then stomped across to the car and climbed in.
*
She was dying in the morning. Barely made it to work. Head going to explode. In the office kitchen she wolfed down pills from the medicine box while supercilious Pete asked if she’d had a good night and then said Sean had said that she and Rob seemed to be getting on like a house on fire. She said yeah, right. She got behind her desk and put her earphones in and pretended that she was transcribing an interview when actually she was listening to whale songs and desperately willing her head to improve. Rob kept one eye on her from his office. His memories of the previous night were kind of vague, but he definitely remembered the near-kiss and though he hadn’t previously given a single thought to Alix that was anything other than strictly professional, he now found that every thought might be described as unprofessional. She had been drunker than he was; she probably wouldn’t remember.
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