by L. S. Hilton
‘Judith Rashleigh?’ The accent was a soothing bath of Irish bonhomie. Cameron was a big, shambling man with a thick head of coffee-coloured hair, attractive for a straight guy who worked in the art world.
‘Cameron – what a nice surprise!’ I didn’t think I needed to mention that I’d been lurking about hoping to see him.
I stepped up to him and offered my cheek for the now-obligatory metropolitan kiss and we bobbed awkwardly at one another the way Londoners still do.
‘I’m just checking in. Are you staying here?’
‘Sadly not. But Rome in August? It must be business. How’s the gallery?’
We chatted for a few moments while he went through the business of handing over his passport and credit card. It was an appointment with a client that brought him to Rome. I got in quickly with the information that I had left British Pictures – I didn’t imagine Rupert and co thought enough of me to bother saying anything unpleasant, but it was better not to seem to be hiding anything.
‘You staying here?’
‘No. With some friends, actually. The de Grecis.’
I said it as if he ought to know them. There had been a Francesco de Greci at my college; we’d screwed once. His family had a street named after them in Florence.
‘Lovely.’ He seemed taken in. I made as if to leave. ‘I was just collecting something. So . . . it was nice to see you.’
I hovered, knowing he would ask me to lunch, and when he did I pretended surprise and looked at my watch and said that would be lovely. While he went up to his room I quickly loaded my bags into a cab and paid the driver to take them to a small hotel I remembered in Trastevere. The de Grecis, I decided, had a charming old villa up beyond the Borghese.
‘Do you know Rome well?’ He still wore his navy suit, though the collar and tie had been replaced with a crumpled white linen shirt. There was a swag of paunch at his waist, but he was a good-looking man, if one liked things on that scale.
‘Hardly at all.’ Always better to play the novice.
So we talked of other places we knew in Italy as he led me down through the gazing crowds. After the thick gold blanket of dusty heat that lay across the open spaces, the tight, dim streets felt vicious and secretive. We came out in a small piazza whose dinginess suggested the restaurant would be good. The groups of men eating under the awning spoke with Roman accents, a few beleaguered politicians’ lawyers, I imagined, imprisoned here while the rest of their city’s inhabitants were spread over the beaches of the peninsula. A solitary tourist in a baseball cap and sweat-ringed shirt read a French guidebook. I let Cameron order, saying nothing but an appreciative grazie. I wanted to charm him, to make him feel good. He drank a negroni sbagliato, we had razor clams and a delicate fresh pasta with rabbit and candied orange peel. After the first bottle of Ligurian Vermentino he asked for another, though I was still finishing my first glass, topped up with water. He was a good man for talking to women, I had to give him that, full of easy compliments and gossip and taking the trouble to ask for your opinion and look like he was paying attention to it. When I judged he was sufficiently confidential, I asked him who his mysterious client was.
‘Well,’ he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, ‘would you believe I’ve a Stubbs to be selling?’
‘A Stubbs?’
I practically choked on my makeshift spritzer. Why was Stubbs doing this to me? I’d always rooted for him, the northern boy pushed aside by the London snobs. Was he my personal chimera, a kind of horse-headed albatross?
Then Cameron pulled a folded catalogue from the breast pocket of his jacket and the razor clams nearly reappeared for an encore. I didn’t need to look at it to recognise it, just the way I didn’t need to look at it to guess immediately what Rupert had been up to, and why he’d fired poor Dave and me for snooping. The only thing that surprised me was how extraordinarily thick I’d been, swotting along, playing the ideal employee, when anyone with real experience would have twigged straight away that Rupert had been working a scam.
Cameron hadn’t bothered asking exactly when I had left British Pictures and I hadn’t bothered telling him, so I could exclaim as though I was seeing the Stubbs for the first time. I scanned the pages, making appreciative noises, noting that Rupert had at least bothered to add my research on the Ursford and Sweet sale to the provenance. Cameron had had it on a tip, he said, wasn’t quite sure until it had been cleaned up and then offered it for auction, until he’d thought better of it and found himself a private buyer. I could hardly believe my own dimness. They were in it together – presumably that was what they had been whispering about at the Tentis party. They had put up the money to buy the picture from the Tigers together, listing it at British Pictures to gloss over any doubts about authenticity, then they would have withdrawn it from the auction and sold it on beyond the eyes of anyone who could say otherwise.
I had been right. It was not a Stubbs and Rupert had never believed it to be so. He would have called Mr and Mrs Tiger to ruefully confirm that their ‘Stubbs’ was merely a ‘school of’, an imitation by a minor artist of the period. Hence the cross-purpose awkwardness of our conversation on the phone. Then Cameron, pretending to be acting independently, would have purchased it. Once it was legally in Cameron’s possession, the painting would have been ‘cleaned’ by a man in from Florence or Amsterdam in an industrial workshop in the East End, and, lo and behold, it turns out to be genuine after all. The hoo-ha of the projected sale rendered the provenance impeccable via the stamp of the world’s greatest house; it would all make the buyer feel they were getting a bargain. The two of them had never intended for the painting to reach a public sale. That explained the low reserve – if a seller withdraws a piece too close to the auction, they are required to guarantee the reserve fee as a fine to the house. The 800K was a manageable amount for Cameron to produce, assuming he and Rupert were expecting a much higher price from their buyer. What had they paid the Tigers? Mrs T had sounded pretty pleased when I had called her. Say 200K, which meant that with the reserve fine a million all told. Serious money, then, which made me wonder how much they were coming in for from the eventual buyer.
It was brilliant, and perfectly legal, if the picture was real. Mr and Mrs Tiger might have seen their picture offered as a Stubbs and made a noise, but then it was withdrawn before the sale, false alarm. Any enquiries and Rupert could say that they had bought it and thought they’d got lucky, then reverted to the original valuation on investigation. Probably blame the ‘intern’. And even if it wasn’t genuine, and I was convinced of that, the client could sit it in a vault for a year and then offer it to some even more naive buyer, new money from China or the Gulf somewhere, with the back-up of the catalogue I held in my hand, and take the profit.
If there’s anything that being a woman has taught me, it’s when in doubt, play dumb.
‘That’s wonderful, Cameron,’ I breathed. ‘Go on, how much?’
‘Judith!’
‘Go on. I can keep a secret. Who would I be telling?’
He held up five fingers with a gleeful grin. Five million. Still low. Stubbs could easily fetch ten. The 1765 canvas ‘Gimcrack on Newmarket Heath’ had made over twenty from Piers Davies in New York a couple of years ago. But five would be cash, effectively. High enough to be genuine, low enough to make the client feel they’d been brilliant. Clever.
And then, just for a moment, I felt outside time. I saw myself again, ten years ago, my first time in the Uffizi, standing in front of Artemisia’s Judith Slaying Holofernes. It’s a standard subject, the Jewish heroine murdering the enemy general, but Artemisia makes it raw, almost unpainterly. When you look at the delicately enamelled sword at Holofernes’ neck, you see that it’s not laid there ceremonially, suggestively, but caught in the flesh at an inelegant angle, quite the wrong angle for a graceful composition. This is from the hand of a woman who had sliced off the head of fowls in the kitchen, wrung rabbits’ necks for the pot. Judith is butchering him properly, gr
imly sawing through the sinew, her muscular arms tense with effort. There’s something domestic about it; the plainness of the sheet, the ungainly spurt of the blood, a curious sense of quietness. This is women’s work, Artemisia is saying, impassive. This is what we do. I saw my wrists resting lightly on the edge of the table next to my espresso cup with its twist of lemon as though from far away, yet in the sudden amber stillness of that moment I felt surprised that the jump of my pulse wasn’t rattling the china. I had made her so many promises, that girl in the museum. I owed her. So I knew then that I was going to steal that painting.
‘I don’t suppose you might be good enough to let me see it? I’d so love to.’
‘Sure. Why not right now?’
I demurred. My friends were waiting for me. But perhaps this evening – for a drink? And then dinner and a whole lot more, I implied, if his etchings were up to scratch. I looked into those smiling Irish eyes and reminded myself that they had lost me and Dave our jobs. I’d been right; Rupert was bent and so was Fitzpatrick.
I told Cameron that I had to run, but I waited while he keyed my number into his snazzy thumbprint-recognition phone, bent to kiss him goodbye, letting my mouth hover just a moment too long at the very corner of his own, so that my hair fell across his face in a dappled curtain of Roman shadow.
I was already working it out as I strolled away. I could do this. I could really do this. But I had to be calm now, to think of the next thing and nothing else. I had to be sure of the connection between Cameron and Rupert. Cameron had said he had had the painting on a ‘tip’, but that didn’t necessarily prove it had come from Rupert. I had to confirm the mystery buyer whose name Mrs Tiger hadn’t been able to recall. I found a cab back to my bland modern hotel on the other side of the Tiber and after finding my room asked for the business centre. While I waited for the slow Italian dial-up to connect, I made a shopping list on the back of a napkin. I Googled Cameron first, then a couple of previous pieces he’d sold, then the Stubbs picture, the Goodwood fake. If I was going for a job interview it was only reasonable I’d do a bit of research. The sale of the Goodwood picture was indeed no longer due to proceed. I looked at my watch; it was just after four Italian time, so there was a good chance Frankie would be in the department. I still had her mobile number.
She answered and we exchanged a few rather awkward remarks about our summers before I asked her.
‘Listen, I need a favour. The Stubbs – the one that was withdrawn. Can you find me the name of the seller? The one who bought it from the original owners?’
‘I don’t know, Judith. I mean, the way you left like that. Rupert said –’
‘I don’t want to embarrass you, Frankie. I understand. I can get it for myself if it feels difficult.’
A pause on the line.
‘OK, then,’ she answered hesitantly. I could hear rummaging and then she read out from what was obviously the catalogue.
‘It just says “Property of a Gentleman”. ’
‘No, I know that. You’ll have to go to accounts – they’ll have it because they’ll have issued a scrip for the reserve and then the withdrawal fee. It won’t take a minute.’
‘I really shouldn’t do this, Judith.’
I felt a horrible stab of guilt. I’d already lost Dave his job. But I knew I could make it right. Consequences can be a form of cowardice. I’d been a coward when Rupert confronted me, but after all that had happened I knew I just wasn’t like that anymore. While Frankie hesitated, I considered the trajectory that had brought me here. All I needed was a few more breaks and I’d be ready to unfurl my new iridescent wings in the sun. Poetic, really.
‘I know, but I’d really, really appreciate it.’ I tried to make my voice both embarrassed and pleading.
‘I would help, but really – I don’t want to do anything wrong.’
Good old Frankie. She wasn’t bent. But then, she could afford not to be.
‘There’s a chance of a job and I need to look good. You know Frankie . . . I’m really short.’
Mentioning actual poverty to someone like Frankie had the same effect as the word ‘period’ on the games teacher at school. I heard her making up her mind.
‘Alright then. I’ll try. I’ll text it to you. But you mustn’t ever, ever tell.’
‘Honour bright.’
I had a good look at a map of Rome and bought an open train ticket to Como from the Trenitalia site. Just rehearsals. I might not do anything at all. My phone pinged.
‘Cameron Fitzpatrick x.’
‘Thanks a million!! xxxx’ I pinged back. Or maybe five.
15
Later, I had a lot of time to think about when I’d made the decision. Had it been swelling inside me all along, waiting, like a tumour? Was it the moment when Rupert packed me off like a servant without a reference, or the drained resignation in Dave’s voice? Was it when I agreed to work at the Gstaad Club or to Leanne’s stupid plan to have ourselves a night out, or when I closed the door on James’s body and took the Ventimiglia train? If I was being romantic, I could argue to myself that the decision was made for me long ago, by Artemisia, another young woman who understood hate, who had left her no-mark husband and come to these very streets to paint a living for her family. But none of that would be true. It happened when I went upstairs to my room and quietly changed my teetering cork-heeled wedges for flat sandals. My hands shook as I fastened each buckle. I stood up slowly and set off straight away for the Corso Italia.
In Zara I found a plain linen dress, a short A-line, with deep pockets. Close up, it was easy to see it was poorly made, but it was simple enough that with good accessories it looked expensive. I took two, one in black and one in navy. In a sports store I bought a pair of shorts, two sizes too big, and a pair of chunky white trainers. I added an ‘I Heart Rome’ T-shirt from a tourist booth on a nearby corner. I paid visits to two more tacky souvenir shops, then at the bottom of the Via Veneto I found a lightweight Kenzo raincoat in a bright fuchsia-and-white print. It looked quite striking. In a smart tabaccaio, the kind that sold silver photo frames and humidors, I bought a heavy cigar cutter and one of the fat leather pocket tubes that the guys back on the boat had used to transport their Cohibas. I also picked up a black nylon backpack, loose enough to slip my own leather tote inside, and called at a farmacia for a pack of maxi-sized sanitary towels and some wet wipes. By the time I had finished, it was after six. I felt a moment of regret for the Pinturicchios at the Vatican. I wouldn’t get to see them now, but I wanted to take the time to bathe and blow-dry my hair for my date with Cameron.
I rejoined him at the Hassler around eight. He was waiting for me in the lobby and suggested a drink, but I said I’d love one later. On the way to the third floor in the lift I dropped a few unsubtle hints about how eager I was to work for a private gallerist when I returned to London. The de Grecis, conveniently, were dining with relatives that evening. As soon as we entered his room I slowly slipped off the new Kenzo coat and dropped it over the back of the chair. I could feel his eyes moving slowly up my legs, and I let him feel me feeling it and flashed him a smile under lowered eyes. The room felt too intimate, as hotel rooms always do. Behind elaborate triple curtains the window was open onto a scruffy ventilation shaft. A small wheeled suitcase lay unzipped on the luggage stand and a pile of papers and keys occupied a corner of the desk. On the bed lay a cheap black plastic case, the kind art students use, but when Cameron bent to unfasten it I saw that it was expertly padded and lined. Reverently, he lifted out the picture in a plain metal frame.
‘You didn’t crate it?’
‘Too much fuss – Italian bureaucracy.’ So no one knew he had brought it in, except Rupert and the client.
There it was, the Duke and Duchess at their eternal picnic, the trio of horses thundering over the gallops. It looked gaudier in the bluish twilight of Rome – perhaps the Chinese appreciated a nice shiny varnish. He stood behind my shoulder as he looked, but he was no Colonel Morris. He would wait f
or his pudding.
‘So,’ I said, ‘I’m very impressed by the business part. Now, d’you fancy yourself as Marcello Mastroianni?’
‘La Dolce Vita at your command, signorina.’
I told him I’d found the restaurant in my guidebook, though it was one I had known when I’d been studying in the city. It was very old-fashioned, off the Piazza Cavour opposite Sant’Angelo, on the piano nobile, with a covered loggia where one could eat outside. By the time we had finished the stuffed courgette flowers and the grilled fish Cameron was ordering a third bottle. I might have been chewing straw, it was so difficult to force anything past the bolus of tension in my throat. Cameron was not an easy man to read – sure, he’d give you the stars from the Oirish sky to pin on your jacket if you asked him, but beneath the charm I was seeking what it was that he longed for, the little switch that, if I pressed it just right, would deliver him to me. It’s there in all men, and the trick is simply finding it and then, if you care to, making yourself into whatever it is they can’t quite admit to themselves that they want you to be. As the falling light turned the remains of the wine in the bottle from dull jade to viridian, Cameron took my hand across the table. I turned my wrist and he brought it to his lips.