A Fatal Façade

by Linda M. James

  She tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs to her prayer-room, where the Madonna was waiting for her.

  All too soon she heard Mark calling her. She ignored him as she recited her Hail Marys. She couldn’t be disturbed while she prayed. There was so much she must atone for.

  Mark got out of bed and went into their en-suite for his usual power-shower, knowing exactly what Angelica was doing. Why was she always praying? What the hell did she have to seek forgiveness for? He couldn’t understand her or her religion.

  Half-an-hour later, they were having breakfast together. While Angelica had a shower, Mark had filtered their favourite Ethiopian coffee and heated up the croissants they had every morning. They sat opposite each other, smiling at the glow in the other’s face from the summer sun slanting through their windows, then Angelica tensed before saying lightly:

  ‘I thought I’d go to Sotheby’s this evening. There’s a special auction on.’ She studied her croissant as she spoke, not wanting to see Mark’s customary reaction. ‘What do you think?’

  There was silence in the room for a long time. She played with her croissant, littering the floor with flakes. She desperately needed Mark’s approval, just as she had always needed her parents’, but had got something else entirely.

  ‘You know what I think about you buying more religious icons you don’t need, but you still do it, so it doesn’t matter what I think, does it?’ Mark spoke as if the words were painful. ‘Your parents left you a wealthy woman.’

  Angelica looked at him with such vulnerability that Mark wished he hadn’t spoken; her wealth had always been a barrier between them.

  ‘But I want your approval more than anything else in the world, Marky.’

  She came and kissed him. Immediately, Mark wanted to carry her upstairs and make love to her, but a small question stopped him: do you need my approval more than you need religious icons? He glanced at the clock, not knowing if he was ready to hear the answer. Shit. He was late.

  ‘Got to go. Kiss me again tonight and I’ll show you how much I approve of you.’

  She smiled at him with such love that he felt he was the luckiest man alive.

  At 6.30 p.m., a taxi drove Angelica down New Bond Street and glided to a stop outside Sotheby’s. She got out and paid the driver; ignoring his appreciative look. As she walked up to the glass doors, she saw that the foyer was packed with people. She knew why, of course. It was evening of the Old Master and British Painting Sale and every art collector in London was there. Angelica prayed that that they weren’t all there to bid for the item she’d come for: Correggio’s painting of Madonna and Child With The Infant Saint John The Baptist. No one could want it as much as her. She didn’t want it as an investment, but because of the way the Madonna’s right hand touched her baby’s arm and cheek – there was so much love in the gesture. It mattered far more to her that mere money. She strolled through the foyer; smiling briefly at the few people she knew and went into the auction room as if she had all the time in the world and her stomach wasn’t cramped with tension. The need to have the painting was so great she felt faint. She sat down quickly and took some deep breaths; determined to outbid everyone else in the room. She hadn’t been to the auction house for six months, but she knew most of her potential rivals by sight, although most of the men wanted more than just the sight of her. Sitting two rows in front of her was the odious Mr. Halabi who was always trying to get her to have dinner with him. Someone at the last auction had told her that he was one of the wealthiest men in the world; oil poured out of him. If he was interested in the painting, she had no chance of buying it at all. She opened her bag and fingered her rosary, praying that he wouldn’t want it. Sitting three rows in front of him were the Norwegian collectors Mr. and Mrs. Engelson; they waved when they saw her. Angelica smiled at them, delighted by the fact that they were both atheists and never bid for religious paintings. Who else might be bidding for it? She scanned the room until she caught sight of Mr. Abramova; the Russian billionaire; why were all the wealthiest people here today? she wanted to scream.

  The moment Paolo entered the auction room, he saw her and stopped walking; she reminded him of the Madonna in his favourite painting by Salvi. He had to meet her, whatever it cost him. There was a seat empty near her; he hurried to get it before anyone else did. As he moved across the row behind her, people greeted him and he smiled back at them; it was always good to have allies; you never knew when you might need them. He sat down and studied her, wondering why she sat so tensely on her chair. As she turned her face to look around, her blonde hair shone as if it had been polished and he saw her perfect Madonna profile; Paolo was mesmerized by her; he wanted to touch her hair, her face, but refrained. He looked around, wondering who could get him an introduction, but before he could speculate any further, the auctioneer started the bidding and all Paolo’s attention was focused on him; he was waiting for Lot 57; the painting he was determined to have.

  The auctioneer glanced over at the painting before turning to the buyers. ‘Now we come to the highlight of this evening’s sale – Correggio’s Madonna and Child With The Infant Saint John The Baptist. A rare opportunity to purchase one of the most magnificent examples of sixteenth-century Northern Italian painting in the world. And I have one million pounds starting on the phone.’

  One million! Angelica felt the room swaying around her. They were starting the bidding almost at the limit of her buying power. She tried to steady herself to see who was going to bid before she raised her paddle. Soon the bidding was feverish as people constantly raised their paddles from all quarters of the room as they competed with the phone bids. The auctioneer’s voice was almost as feverish as the bidding.

  ‘I have 1,10 in the room, 1,500 up front, 1,800 on the phone, 2 million from an absentee bidder, 220 up front, 230 in the room, 240 against the phone. Any advance on 240?’ the auctioneer’s eyes swept the room; the tension was unbearable. Angelica felt her heart race as the auctioneer looked at her; she raised her paddle. ’250 in the room.’ There was a lull in the bidding and Angelica felt sick; how on earth could she afford 2.5 million pounds! Suddenly the auctioneer’s feverish voice was off again. ’260 on the phone, 270 from an absentee bidder.’ He paused, then looked around the room. ‘I’m bid 270, ladies and gentlemen…any advance on 2.7 million pounds?’ Another slight lull as people held their breath. Would anyone bid against Mr. Abramova? The auctioneer raised his gavel ‘Going at 270.’ Suddenly, someone raised his paddle. The auctioneer said: ‘Nearly too late, sir…280 in the room, 290 on the phone, 3 million pounds up front. Any advance on 3 million pounds? 320 at the back, 340 on the phone…any advance on 340? 350 in the room…350 in the room. Any advance on 350?’The auctioneer’s eyes swept the room before he brought his gavel down hard onto the black lectern. Sold for 3.5 million pounds to Mr. Paolo Cellini.’

  Paolo felt as if he’d climbed Everest. He’d outbid them all, even if it had cost him far more than he had anticipated. A number of people around him congratulated him and he smiled at them. He knew he’d made an excellent investment, but it wasn’t just an investment; He loved Correggio’s brushstrokes; the way he created a lasting luminescence in the Madonna’s porcelain face; in the sheen of her red dress and blue cloak. The painting was a masterpiece. He glanced at the blonde woman in front of him and was surprised to see her body shaking. He wanted to tell her that she could see the painting any time she wanted, but before he had a chance, she shot up out of her seat, raked him with her eyes and stormed out. Paolo’s elation punctured in a second; he realized, too late, that he wanted her more than he wanted the painting.

  He looked around. A few people who’d been bidding against him frowned at him, but he ignored them. Someone must know who she was. He suddenly spotted Jonathan Cranbrook on the other side of the room, getting up to leave. Paolo found him incredibly boring, but he seemed to know the names of everyone at the auctions. He’d have to speak with him; it was going to be excruciating as the man could b
ore for Britain, but if he wanted the information he’d have to act fast. He hurried after him having already arranged that Sotheby’s debit his account when he won the bid as he knew he would.

  He caught up with him in the foyer. ‘Jonathan! You’re leaving early.’

  He turned around to smile at Paolo. ‘Things to do, places to go. Congratulations, Mr. determined-to-get-the-painting-whatever-the cost, Cellini!’

  He guffawed with laughter as if he’d actually made a joke and Paolo forced himself to join in as if Jonathan Cranbrook was the wittiest man alive.

  ‘Out of my league this evening, Paolo. Been betting too much, I’m afraid.’ The man continued boring Paolo about his gambling debts while Paolo arranged his incredibly interested face until he wanted to scream Chiudi la bocca! into the man’s face. After a few minutes, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He glanced at his watch and feigned surprise.

  ‘I’m really late for an appointment, Jonathan. Oh, before I forget, could you tell me the name of the blonde woman sitting in front of me?’

  Jonathan Cranbrook roared with laughter as if he’d been expecting this question all the time. ‘I should be charging for this. You can’t imagine how many fellows want to meet her. Last week it was—’

  ‘Yes, I can, actually. Really in a hurry here, Jonathan. ’ Paolo desperately tried to remain calm.

  ‘She’s called “The Ice Queen”. None of the fellows have even got her to smile at them, let alone talk to them.’ He guffawed with laughter again. Paolo walked off before he punched the man in his stomach.

  CHAPTER 17

  14th December 2012

  Jack crawled through the heavy London traffic as he chauffeured Mrs. M back from her doctor.

  ‘I hate doctors, Jack. They keep telling me that all my aches and pains are caused by old age.’

  He smiled at her briefly in the rear mirror, before turning the corner into Holland Park Avenue. In front of him was another long queue created by temporary traffic lights because of more road works. He swore under his breath.

  ‘I remember driving with one of my boyfriends through London fifty years ago,’ Mrs. M said. ‘It was my first night at the Old Vic. I was terrified because Lawrence Oliver was in the cast and I was a nobody. Reggie, my boyfriend, picked me up from my flat and drove like a lunatic along this very road at 70 mph. It seemed very daring then, but we hardly saw any other cars. He dropped me right outside the theater and parked his car. No yellow lines and no traffic jams. Imagine that.’

  ‘I can’t, Mrs. M – look at that bloody idiot racing through the lights on red!’ Jack shouted. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. As the traffic increases, the standard of driving decreases. Imagine what it will be like in thirty years.’

  ‘Good grief, Tom will nearly be my age,’ Jack said without thinking and immediately regretted it.

  ‘Who’s Tom?’

  ‘My son,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had a son. How old is he?’

  ‘Twelve.’ Jack didn’t want to speak about Tom; he’d told his grandparents he didn’t want to see his father so Jack had to ring them to find out when they were visiting Lucy so that their visits didn’t clash. Talking about him brought the pain out into the open and he preferred it closed in a tight box.

  ‘What’s he like?’ Mrs. M’s question jolted Jack back into the present.

  He didn’t want to answer; didn’t know how to answer. What was his son like? He didn’t know anymore. He’d become a distant stranger and Jack didn’t know how to reach out to bring him closer.

  ‘I’d rather not talk about him, Mrs. M.’ The traffic was at a stand-still so Jack delved into his pocket and gave her a photo of Tom before turning back to the road. Anything to stop her asking any more questions. ‘This was taken last year when Tom was eleven.’

  She took it off him. ‘Sorry. You must think I’m a nosy old bat.’ She watched his hands tighten on the steering wheel as the lights changed; he carried on driving in silence.

  Ten minutes later, Jack turned into Royal Crescent, maneuvered the Daimler into a space outside her apartment and stopped.

  ‘Your son reminds me of you, Jack,’ Mrs. M said handing the photo back to him.

  ‘Someone else said that recently.’

  ‘Then it must be true.’ She leaned over to touch his shoulder. ‘Whenever anyone in my family had problems my grandmother used to come out with a terrible old cliché but it seemed to work: “A trouble shared is a trouble halved”. Now help me out of the car and I’ll see if my ridiculous arthritic hips move.’

  Jack got out of the Daimler and opened the back door to help her. She got out with great difficulty. ‘The doctors are right. Don’t get old, Jack,’ she said, smiling at him.

  He gave her a glimpse of a smile before saying, ‘I’ll try not to, Mrs. M.’

  It took Jack a long time to help Mrs. M into the lift and to her apartment. She sat down with relief and said. ‘Will you join me for some tea? I have a jewel of a helper who organizes everything for me.’

  ‘Chauffeurs don’t normally drink tea with their employers, Mrs. M.’

  ‘But I’m not a normal employer, Jack, and you’re certainly not a normal chauffeur. Now go into the kitchen and get the tea. Alice will have left everything ready.’

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting opposite each other. Mrs. M watched Jack’s eyes roaming around the apartment, trying to avoid eye contact. ‘Do you know what my biggest regret is, Jack? Not having children – three husbands but no children. You’re a lucky man.’

  Jack made a dismissive sound at the absurdity of her statement. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’ She watched Jack’s eyes crease with pain. She knew he didn’t want to talk and she also knew that if she was going to help him he must – and she was determined to help him.

  ‘What happened between you and your son?’ She finished her tea and waited as Jack stared at one of her posters.

  ‘He blames me for his mother’s illness.’

  Why – did you make her ill?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Jack snapped. ‘Sorry…it’s just that every-thing…everything I do or say to my son is wrong at the moment. I wasn’t there when my wife needed oxygen last week and he saved her life. Only…’ Jack didn’t know if he could say the words out loud.

  ‘Only?’ Mrs. M said gently.

  ‘Only she doesn’t want to be saved. She wants to die.’

  ‘Why?’ Mrs. M hid her shock at his words. Life was still precious to her, in spite of her words to Jack about old age.

  Jack put his cup down on a small table, leant back against the armchair and closed his eyes, feeling utterly exhausted. ‘She has Muscular Dystrophy; she’s dying a slow, undignified death and she hates it.’

  Mrs. M wasn’t prepared for such an awful revelation. She had imagined his wife as a vigorous woman. ‘Oh, Jack. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I make flippant remarks while you have all these terrible problems.’

  Jack opened his eyes and looked at her for the first time since they’d sat down together. ‘I’d prefer the flippant remarks to the reality of trying to reach out to a son who doesn’t want to speak to me.’

  ‘He obviously loves his mother a great deal.’

  ‘We both do. Before she became ill she was the fulcrum that steadied our lives. We both want her to live and she wants to die.’

  Mrs. M looked at him a long time before saying: ‘Perhaps the greatest love of all is helping those we love to die, Jack.’

  The words pole-axed Jack: did she know what she was saying? ‘It’s illegal, Mrs. M.’

  ‘So are many things in our society, but people still do them. You just have to find the courage.’

  CHAPTER 18

  14th December 2012

  After leaving Lucy lying asleep in hospital, Jack realized that he couldn’t go home to a desolate, empty house that was no longer a home. He wandered around the streets of London, wonde
ring whether going to a strip show in Soho would only make him feel even more depressed. The wind sliced through his jacket as he turned a corner and a flurry of rubbish danced along the street into his face. Where the hell could he go on a freezing night and feel human? He shoved his hands into his pockets and touched a small card. Sheltering in front of a shop-window laden with tatty Christmas decorations, he took it out of his pocket. The Blue Notes Nightclub. He hailed a passing taxi.

  It was the first time Jack had been to a club since he had married Lucy. He’d forgotten how desperate lonely men could look. Did he look as desperate as they did? The club wasn’t very full. Piped music was playing; there was no sign of a band or Bianca. Perhaps it was her night off. The place wasn’t lifting his depression at all. He was just about to leave when he saw the man with the granite face he’d seen at Cellini’s funeral but there was no hint of a cold smile on his face now. He kept glancing nervously at the door as if he was expecting someone at any moment as he gave the barman some instructions. Jack’s depression disappeared in a second. So this man knew Cellini well enough to go to his funeral and something linked to his death was making him very nervous. Jack swayed a little as he sauntered over to him, giving an impression of relaxed drunkenness.

  ‘Hello!’ Jack took Rico’s hand and shook it vigorously which threw him. ‘We’ve met before.’

  The man looked worse at close quarters; his suit seemed to be hanging off him. ‘I don’t think so, sir.’ He disengaged his hand from Jack’s. ‘I remember all our customers.’

  ‘No, we haven’t met here. At Paolo Cellini’s funeral.’ Jack’s lie slipped out as easily as saliva.’ He watched Rico’s eyes tighten, then immediately relax. He smiled at Jack and he knew he was dealing with an expert in deception.

  ‘I don’t remember…will you excuse me?’ Rico started to move off.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll remember how distraught Bianca was. I had to stop her collapsing onto Cellini’s grave with grief.’