Sherie pulled a face.
‘You can have fish,’ he added.
Sherie was still moving through the photos. ‘I’ve found another one too. Rosemary Tallow. She’s graduating from Cornell. Her end of year show collection is sensational. I think we should recommend her to Lownden Price for the foyer. But we commission something special. She’s done this incredible painting which is her dead father’s face – from a distance. Up close it is hundreds of smaller fragments – all her childhood memories of him. Look!’
Geoffrey peered at the screen.
‘I was thinking she could work from a photograph of the founder’s face,’ Sherie continued. ‘Or the current Chairman’s–’
‘Oh, he’d adore that darling. Ego the size of Milton Keynes.’
‘And paint in things to do with the bank’s history. Money and buildings and bridges, bags of gold, whatever … They’d need to make some suggestions.’
‘I said I’d see him once you were back. It’s a brilliant scheme.’
Sherie nodded. ‘I think she’s going places.’
Geoffrey wrote her name on his old-fashioned blotter, which was covered with doodles. ‘What else has she got? We should suggest a couple of pieces from the show for investment – if you’re right about her, they’ll soar.’
‘I’d recommend these.’ Sherie was already scrolling through to more. ‘I think when she’s settled into a style these will be the ones to watch. A really unusual use of space. It’s very confident for someone so young …’
Geoffrey leaned forward, his chin resting on his steepled fingers as Sherie worked through the rest of the photographs, listening intently as Sherie picked out the ones she thought showed the most originality, pointing out the work that had already sold before the night. ‘The photo isn’t doing it justice,’ she said, tapping on a multi-coloured canvas. ‘The luminosity she’s achieved is astonishing. I spoke to her tutor. He said she’s the best natural talent they’ve had through there in a long time. There’s a buzz building among the collectors already.’
She stopped. There was a pause. Then Geoffrey brought his pen down on his blotter like an auctioneer who’d just closed a sale.
‘Good! Let’s do it!’
Sherie would have been happy to go straight to the station and head for home but Geoffrey was in expansive mood and wanted the full lunch experience. It was his way of showing he was pleased with her. And although she did not feel like eating, as usual she had to play the game.
As they walked through the sunshine from his Covent Garden office on the third floor above a print shop on Bedfordbury, towards Maiden Lane, Sherie reflected what a happy stroke of luck she’d had the night they’d been introduced at a private view in a gallery off Charlotte Street, some twenty-six years before.
‘Geoffrey Davenport. Knows everybody,’ her companion – a sweet young journalist called Simon she’d bonded with over the wait for champagne – had told her, as he’d led her across the room to the flamboyant figure in cravat and waistcoat. ‘A terrible tart but what he doesn’t know about paintings …’
Geoffrey had shaken her hand and immediately demanded to know what she thought of the artist exhibiting. Not much, had been the answer, but – afraid she might be criticising a friend of his – she had gone to great lengths to justify her answer. Geoffrey had said nothing while she was speaking but when she’d finally tailed off, embarrassed, had given a whoop of triumph.
‘Yes! Absolute crap, darling. Couldn’t agree more!’
She’d somehow been tagged onto a group going for supper down the road in Chez Gerard and, sandwiched between Geoffrey and his much younger partner Richard, picking at frites, had loved the conversation about up and coming artists, the rise of the young British set and why Damien Hirst’s sheep had been such a hit. Geoffrey had fired questions at her throughout. By the end of the night, Simon had asked her for a date and she’d been offered a job.
‘I don’t know anything about art-consultancy,’ she’d said nervously. And Geoffrey had shrugged. ‘Neither did I twenty years ago. You’ve got a good eye. It’s all you need.’
She and Simon had fizzled out after a few drinks but Geoffrey had taught her about auctions and valuations and shipping and restorations and who to watch and who to talk to and now he no longer wanted to travel so much after his heart attack, and she had a fat contacts book and a good record of hitting the spot for his wealthy clients, she was his right hand.
He still enjoyed the wheeling and dealing and client meetings, would buy by phone or in person if it was London or home counties. But she was the one who flew around the world when flying around the world was necessary.
Even when there was a request from a big advertising agency in Manchester – it was she who got on the train. In return, Geoffrey was increasingly generous with bonuses and cuts of commission.
‘Are you supposed to eat that sort of thing?’ she asked him now, as he sat back at his favourite table in Rules and surveyed her across the thick white tablecloth, and the waiter poured red wine.
‘The anti-oxidants in that, cancel out the fat content,’ Geoffrey told her, indicating his glass.
Sherie smiled. ‘If you say so.’
‘I think it was you who told me.’
‘I don’t think it was.’
She heard her phone beep again from her handbag and kept her eyes on Geoffrey. ‘You’re popular today,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘My sister’s had an offer on her house. In a flap about moving.’
‘Is that it?’ He was watching her as if waiting for her to say more.
‘How’s Richard?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘In a terrible sulk over the car. I want another Jag – he is absolutely insisting on some sort of Audi – won’t listen to reason at all.’
Sherie raised an eyebrow. ‘Doesn’t sound like him.’
‘Only I see the real Richard,’ said Geoffrey theatrically. ‘He is a nightmare, darling, an absolute beast when he wants to be …’
Sherie laughed. ‘I don’t know how you’ve managed to put up with him these thirty years …’
‘Have I told you what I’m buying him for his fiftieth?’
‘No, but do.’
‘A string of lavatories would you believe!’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
Geoffrey sighed. ‘I offered a silk smoking jacket, a diamond encrusted money clip, a gold tooth-pick holder – all spurned! He wants a hefty donation made to Water Aid or some such, to pay chaps to build facilities in Africa. Charmingly known as bog-builders. He says it will help prevent the spread of disease. Apparently goats are so last year …’
Geoffrey took a sip of wine. ‘So I’m giving him a hundred of the things – it’s setting me back five grand.’
‘How lovely.’
‘Yes, it is delightful of, me isn’t it. And dinner at Le Gavroche, of course! I’ve been my own worst enemy over the years – given the boy such expensive tastes. It’s all charity this and donation that and help the world’s poorest. But he still wants lobster and Laurent Perrier when his birthday comes around.’
Sherie thought about her own impending big birthday and felt the familiar prickle of anxiety in her solar plexus. Charlotte was trying to organise another get-together to discuss the party. She must remember to text back later. As if on cue she heard her phone beep again, just as her grilled plaice was placed in front of her.
Geoffrey was too busy exclaiming over his pudding to notice. There was a companionable silence as he tucked in. Sherie leant down and slid a hand into her handbag, feeling for the side button that would silence the handset.
She took a small mouthful of the wine in front of her, not really wanting to drink this early in the day but knowing of old it was simpler to have a little bit than refuse altogether. She topped up her water glass and offered the jug to Geoffrey. He shook his head.
‘I knew there was something else to tell you,’ he said, dabbing at his mouth with the linen nap
kin. ‘Edwin’s got a friend who wants a ‘statement piece’ for his boardroom. In Newcastle of all places. Can you go up and see him?’
Sherie nodded.
‘Marvellous. I’ll send you the details. Edwin says he’s loaded and will probably want something for himself at home if we play our cards right. He’s built some sort of Bel-air style mansion over Whitely Bay– Oh look–’ Geoffrey was immediately distracted. ‘There’s Dylan Rogers the old reprobate.’ Geoffrey waved across the room. ‘Wonder if Sotheby’s have got anything interesting coming up …’
Geoffrey had got to his feet and after briefly introducing her, was deep in conversation with ‘Dylan’ a few feet away. Sherie took the opportunity to delve into her handbag. She looked at her phone. There was indeed one text from her sister, but also … The anxious knot tightened further.
She’d blocked him once and thought he’d gone but now here he was contacting her on WhatsApp under another number. She knew it was him immediately – ball-breakers like you … She took a sharp intake of breath. What was wrong with the bloke?
‘Not hungry?’ Returning, Geoffrey looked at her largely untouched fish. ‘I was hoping you’d join me in cheese …’
She’d forced down a little stilton to keep her boss happy, but as she came up the escalator at St Pancras, Sherie still felt slightly sick. She wished she had told Roz the truth when she asked. Roz would have been calm and sensible. Would have said it wasn’t Sherie’s fault …
Or would she? Still the nagging voice in Sherie’s head reminded her that she had let him into her house. She had encouraged him to think …
She shook herself. She had only kissed him back for a moment. And since then she had been kind and firm – she hadn’t done anything to deserve this. Had she? She looked down to her mobile and the latest message. She would block him again but he could get through to her on yet another number. He knew her phone number and it wasn’t something with her hundreds of work contacts that she could easily change.
He also knew where she lived.
Sherie had ordered a cab to collect her from Broadstairs station. The driver was one she often got. ‘You all right, love?’ he said cheerily, as he swung the car out of the station car park towards St Peter’s. ‘Good day in the smoke?’
She gazed out of the window with relief as minutes later, they turned into Reading Street and drove past the familiar cottages, glad that she’d only had to spend a short time in the capital. As the car went past the church and pulled up on the gravel in front of the graceful grey stone façade of her home, she smiled at the driver in the mirror.
‘Thanks Tony.’ She handed him a note, signalling him to keep the change, pushing down the unease that had dogged her on the journey and looking forward to getting out of her heels and formal clothes.
It was only half past six and the June sun was still warm. She would take her book and sit in the garden …
She let herself into the bright hallway and began to shake off her jacket, jumping as she heard a small clatter coming from the kitchen.
‘Who’s there?’ Her heart was pounding. Fuck. Had he somehow got in and was waiting for her? She couldn’t stop herself screaming as a figure appeared beyond the stairs.
‘Christ I’m sorry.’ Nate looked stricken at her obvious alarm. ‘I thought you may have been held up. Marquis was yowling – I came in to see if he needed feeding. I just gave him some biscuits and–’ He held up the patterned tin. ‘I’m sorry Sherie – I thought it would be OK to use the key. I thought you wanted me to check him if you were late and …’
She swallowed hard. ‘Yes, yes, it’s fine – I’m so sorry. It was really kind of you. I – it just made me jump …’
‘You looked terrified. Is everything all right?’
He came towards her and put a hand on her shoulder.
Sherie flinched and he immediately dropped his arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, quietly.
‘It’s really OK. I um – I–’ She stopped. What could she possibly offer as a reason for her behaviour? ‘I thought perhaps I’d been burgled,’ she finished, forcing a smile. ‘So I’m really glad it was only you!’
He smiled too, watching her carefully. ‘I’ll let you get on.’
‘OK thank you.’ She had scooped Marquis up into her arms and was holding him against her, comforted by his warmth and the reassuring rumble of his purrs.
‘I’ll just be upstairs,’ said Nate, his face still full of concern.
He moved towards the front door.
‘Shall we go for that drink later?’ Sherie blurted it, suddenly afraid of the evening stretching ahead of her on her own.
He turned back and grinned. ‘It’s pie night. Are you hungry?’
Chapter 14
The White Swan, just over the road, was busy. Nate, calling out a cheery greeting to Kate the landlady, grabbed them the last table in the corner of the saloon bar and pulled out his wallet. ‘Which one are you having?’
‘Please let me.’ Sherie stood up and picked up her bag. ‘You’ve been so helpful to me.’
He didn’t protest but sat back down while she got him a pint of Gadds and ordered their food. She was suddenly glad to be in the warmth and buzz of the pub and as she sipped at her rosé, the tight knot of anxiety in her middle loosened a little. Sherie made a conscious effort to push her worries to the far corners of her mind and gave Nate a big smile as she put his beer in front of him.
‘Finished that painting yet?’
‘Nearly.’
She’d put her phone on silent and buried it in the bottom of her handbag. She’d now blocked him twice. Surely he wouldn’t have a third number to contact her with. He was clearly deranged and would soon be dating someone else he could obsess over. She’d looked at the site and he was still there, still available …
She kicked the bag under the table and kept her eyes fixed on Nate as he told her about his choice of work for the Margate show that was coming up. ‘You still coming to the private view?’
‘Sure. I’ve got the date in my phone.’ Had she imagined the sensation of it vibrating beside her foot? ‘Unless I have to go somewhere at short notice. My boss wants me to go Tyneside at some point soon.’
She began to tell him about the artists she’d recently discovered, relaxing further as they had another drink and began to eat. The pie she’d chosen was good – chicken and leek in a rich creamy sauce, the pastry buttery and flaky. For the first time in days, Sherie felt hungry.
‘I hope I’m not being boring,’ she said between mouthfuls. ‘I can talk about art endlessly. Roz is always interested in what I’ve been doing – she knows a huge amount – she should be running that gallery – but the others begin to glaze over if I go on too much …’ She stopped and laughed. ‘And my sister tells me to shut up!’
‘Well I’m finding it fascinating.’ Nate sounded sincere. ‘It must be wonderful doing what you do. Being paid to hang out at art shows. My idea of heaven!’
‘Well there’s a stroke of luck!’ Fay was suddenly towering above them. ‘Last two seats in the house and they’re next to someone we know!’
Sherie shuffled her chair sideways to make room. It wouldn’t occur to Fay that she and Nate might not want to be interrupted. Len was looking apologetic. ‘Are you sure–?’
‘Of course.’ Nate smiled easily, holding out his hand to the other man and introducing himself. ‘Hi Fay – we met briefly when you–’
‘Oh yes – I remember who you are.’ Fay grinned at him and twisted round to look at the blackboard. ‘So what do you recommend – steak or chicken? I suppose you’re having organic lentils and mung beans?’ She looked at Sherie and grinned again.
Sherie smiled back. ‘The free-range chicken one is delicious.’
‘I’ll have that then. You’re a red meat man, aren’t you Len? What’s everybody drinking?’
Half an hour later, Sherie had to admit, Fay could be fun. Nate was laughing uproariously at her account of that d
ay’s removals – ‘right bloody mare of an afternoon’ – and how she had dealt with a customer whose cup of tea had been knocked off the windowsill when her washing machine was being carried in.
Fay rolled her eyes. ‘I mean, in fairness, Matt did look half-asleep and I had a word in his shell-like after, but give me strength. I went up there as a courtesy to check she was happy with everything – it’s a house on four floors and she’s been in overdrive for weeks about whether we’d be able to get the beds up the stairs – and she must have mentioned this bloody broken handle at least five times.’
‘I was charm personified for quite a while and then I’d had it. ‘It’s a mug that came free with petrol,’ I said. ‘Not priceless china. Have a word with yourself, love.’’
Fay gave a bark of laughter. ‘Funny thing is, I went and bought her another mug and she was thrilled to bloody bits with it. And I had got it from the garage!’
‘Yeah, she was your new best mate by the end of it.’ Len shook his head indulgently.
‘Pah! Don’t need any more of them.’ She grinned at Sherie again. ‘You lot are enough of a handful.’
Fay leant back and stretched as Len carried their empty dishes to the bar and Nate went for more drinks. ‘Time for a fag I think!’
Sherie followed her gaze to the door, where a tall fair man was walking purposefully through. ‘Oh my god!’ Her hand flew to her mouth before she realised she was wrong. ‘Er – sorry thought it was someone else.’
Fay frowned. ‘You’re jumpy. I noticed you watching the door earlier. Who are you expecting?’ She looked at Sherie shrewdly. ‘Or dreading?’
Sherie hesitated. ‘You know I had that date Roz asked me about on Charlotte’s birthday?’
Fay shook her head. ‘No, not really. But go on.’
‘Well I did, and he seemed very nice and I–’ Sherie felt her face flush – ‘I invited him back for coffee.’
‘No law against that.’ Fay gave a dirty chuckle. ‘I think that’s what I called it when I took Cory home with me the first time. And?’
The Big Five O Page 10