by Janet Pywell
The collar of his trench coat is pulled up in a fashionable manner, his manicured hands are clasped in his lap and Armani aftershave lingers in the black cab.
‘Is she excited about her portrait?’ I imagine it hanging on the wall of the theatre along with her contemporaries, famous in the world of music and opera. I don’t tell him that I spent the best part of last night Googling her and I found newspaper reports about the Golden Icon and an account of the events during Josephine’s final performance as Tosca, and interestingly the events leading to Raffa’s death.
‘She can’t wait to get started tomorrow.
‘She’s certainly had a chequered past,’ I say, glancing out of the window at Parliament Square and the illuminated face of Big Ben as we head along the embankment. ‘What do you think about Karl Blakey’s article and Alexandru Negrescu’s account of the missing Vermeer?’ I ask. ‘Karl hinted that Josephine stole a painting from an apartment in Germany. The newspaper articles say her ex-husband blackmailed her to go to Munich to recover a stolen Golden Icon. He wanted to use it to pay off the debts in his failing construction business in Dublin.’
‘She told me in Dresden that as soon as she saw the Golden Icon she knew she must return it to Italy,’ Javier says. ‘She had no intention of keeping it.’
‘It took her a few weeks before she returned it. Do you think she thought about stealing it?’
‘She’s not like that.’
Well, at least if they think the Vermeer in Munich was the original then the painting in Mrs Green’s house must be a forgery. You can rest easy now, Javier.’
‘Mrs Green told Roy it is the original and if anything happens to Mrs Green the painting shouldn’t belong to him – or to an art dealer. If it is the original Vermeer it belongs to the Isabella Stewart Museum. It was stolen from there,’ he insists.
‘She was only saying that to get Roy to move in. It’s just a good forgery.’ I squeeze his arm and the taxi pulls to the kerb. ‘Forget about it. Trust me.’
Javier pays the fare and as we walk toward the theatre in Covent Garden he links his arm though mine. ‘After I’ve finished painting Josephine’s portrait I’ve been offered work back in Spain. There’s some restoration work in a church near Toledo and I am thinking of taking it – just for a few months...’
‘Restoration work?’
‘Yes.’
I know artists can augment their income by preserving and renovating artwork, paintings, buildings and statues. It all depends on what their interest is and their experience or artistic background. This would be perfect for Javier but I don’t want him to leave England or me. Not just yet. Not until the time is right.
‘And your portrait work?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You may get another commission after Josephine.’
‘Perhaps I may but I don’t have to live in London to do it.’
We mix with the remaining stragglers heading into the foyer. We are late and I am aware of my rapidly beating heart and my growing fear. I have a sense that my life is about to change and that events are happening in our world that neither Javier nor I can control. It is as if destiny is taking a hold of our lives and the period of calm that we have known is preceding a tempest that is about to be unleashed upon us. Change would normally excite me but for some reason a shiver of fear causes me to falter and Javier steadies my step.
In the auditorium I pull my black hat from my head and take a bulldog clip from my pocket to secure my hair, careful of my pearl necklace and drop earrings. I straighten my black and red giant poppies print dress and black leggings and Javier places his hand in the middle of my back and escorts me to the front row of the Stalls.
Javier’s recent interviews have increased his celebrity status and his profile with the media has escalated. He is aware of his public image and he has enlisted my help. Attending the ballet is all part of his increasing high profile; paid for and organised by Nico Vastano, thoroughly enjoyed by Javier and hated by me.
He scans the seats around us and just as the lights dim he raises a hand to wave. I marvel at how quickly he is adapting to life in the limelight and how much he might miss all the adoration and attention in Spain.
During the first Act of Swan Lake my mind wanders. Josephine was never a dancer but I think of the live performances on stage, the grease paint, the lights, the anticipation and the glory of an acclaimed performance. A yawn wells up from inside and I cover my mouth.
In profile Javier’s face is engrossed with appreciation, rapt in concentration and I think perhaps had he not been an artist a life on stage would have suited him. I imagine him taking a bow, his smile wide and his eyes shining with delight. He would revel in the fame and glory not unlike Josephine Lavelle.
Another yawn. My eyelids are heavy.
Maybe he has more in common with her that I thought. He would also like to be revered and known for the recovery of stolen artwork as much as he would for painting the portrait of a once loved opera star. He is strong in his ambition but fickle in emotion and I would not trust him with my life or my feelings. He wants the Vermeer for different reasons. I must stay alert and guard against his inquisitiveness. I want this sorted out and over with.
I sigh and return my attention to the stage. Josephine Lavelle is in London. Annie should finish painting soon and I will invite Mrs Green and Josephine Lavelle to dinner and keep an old lady happy. We could persuade Javier that it isn’t an original and just a good forgery – and what a big joke it has all been – especially if I have already made the switch.
At the interval I applaud and return Javier’s enthusiastic smile. His grey suit and pale lilac shirt accentuates his olive skin and his fingers are firm when he reaches over and squeezes my fingers.
‘Look! Up there,’ he whispers, nodding at the box. ‘It’s Alexandru Negrescu, I recognise him from the newspaper article.’
The Romanian has black eyebrows, a hooked nose and thin lips. Beside him are two young girls. Their hair and makeup are perfect and their bodies stick-thin like teenage models.
‘His daughters?’ Javier asks, as if reading my mind.
Along the rows of the audience I see a familiar face and I nudge him. ‘Karl Blakey.’
‘He’s a friend of the Romanian. We’ll just have to avoid him.’
‘Not such a friend that he’s invited to sit in the box with them.’ I return my attention, once again to the stage thinking of Josephine. All her years of training, hard work, dedication and devotion are over, all those years of practise and perfection are finished. Now she is an ordinary mortal with only Andreas for company as her protégée. Why did she never have a family? Was she too busy?
Perhaps she is lonely? I understand sadness and isolation and I am curious about those people like me. Mrs Green lived alone and saw no one until we became friends and I understand her, as I may perhaps understand Josephine Lavelle. My dinner party for lonely people – it will be a great distraction. Josephine is a challenge but I will not let Javier go easily.
The audience is hushed and lights dim for Act Two. I look along the row at the rapt faces all caught up in the anticipation of the performance. It would make a great photograph and I remember Josephine’s voice over dinner in Dresden, tinged with a hint of an American accent, her tone crisp and factual.
The stage is a place where I will no longer walk and a place where I will no longer perform. Gone are the cheers and applause they have all died. All I have are memories. But they are mine. I have known the power of true glory but now everything is over. Gone in the blink of an eye.’
Early the next morning Javier is excited. He is meeting Josephine.
‘Andreas is with her,’ he says.
‘She brought him with her? What is he going to do – watch you?’ I ask.
‘I have no idea but he’s not welcome in the studio. He can go sightseeing.’
‘Maybe she wants a chaperone?’ I smile.
‘I thought I’m the one who needs protec
ting?’ His kiss is soft on my cheek.
‘I think she likes her men young and virile. You’re a perfect stud muffin. Behave!’ I call out as he slams the front door.
Annie arrives a little later and although she is quiet as she paints I am aware of her presence in the room and the soft scraping and slushing of the wet roller as it glides across the wall.
It’s hard to concentrate. She’s in the lounge stretching over the fireplace and moving resolutely toward the dusky Argentinean scene.
I want to say, be careful – Javier’s drawing is important. But she is lost in thought – focused on another world.
After percolating fresh coffee I go to my bedroom. It’s my haven. I am taking a risk with Annie in the house but I have to formulate my plan. I have been in a vortex of confusion but now I am determined. I must be prepared. I must swap it this week. With careful and quiet movements, I remove my forgery from the wardrobe and check it carefully. It looks cracked and old. I have been diligent in choosing the right sized canvas and I cannot help but stand back and admire my work, and even though I know it wouldn’t pass a chemical test it was impressive. It was ready.
Raffa would approve and so too would Dolores my art teacher from the University in Madrid. She’s retired now. I remember the look of disbelief when I told her I was giving up art in favour of photography. The long cheroot had fallen from her lips but her dark eyes had not wavered and she had nodded curtly. She knew me well enough not to argue.
I sit on my bed, edgy and nervous. The more I think about the Vermeer the more unsettled I become. The implications of its theft are becoming complicated – until recently it was a relatively simple plan but the odds are stacking up against me. Roy, Javier and Karl Blakey are all chasing it and now my mission is urgent.
Josephine saw a Vermeer in a flat in Munich. How is that possible? It must have been a fake but Karl Blakey believes it was the original, which means the one hanging in Mrs Green’s house couldn’t possibly be.
Josephine must be mistaken.
I cannot lose focus. I will succeed. I wrap the forgery in hessian and place it carefully back in my wardrobe.
Last week Mrs Green couldn’t see the robin in the garden. Could she be fooled so easily with her favourite artist?
I consider the possibilities of swapping it while Roy is away and I think it’s the best idea. I cannot wait for her to die – she could live a long time besides – if she suspected anything she would accuse Roy of cheating her and stealing it from her – not me.
She trusts me.
I should test her eyesight one last time. Suddenly, excited by the idea I jump up. I need some fresh air.
Why wait?
Why didn’t I think of this before?
I can make the swap today. Tonight?
I have a key. I could wait until Mrs Green was sleeping – this afternoon – and sneak into her house. Would she notice? Would Annie?
I grab my jacket and call out. ‘I’m going to get some milk from the corner shop, do you want anything?’
My plan is already formulating in my mind. It would be easy. I could be gone by next week.
‘No thanks, although a doughnut would be lovely, I’ll have to collect Max in twenty minutes but I’ll look in on Gran before I go.’ She doesn’t stop painting.
‘Okay. I won’t be long.’ I slam the front door shut behind me and outside I inhale deeply.
Freedom.
It is fresh, cold and damp and I welcome the elements on my skin. A strong wind runs through my hair and through my thin jumper and black leather jacket. On impulse I cross the road and skip through the small alley to the river, playing air guitar to Dire Straits, Money for Nothing.
Why wait?
The brown current is flowing briskly and a few ducks quack in greeting, flapping their wings, waddling on the embankment searching for food in the muddy tide. I twang a few invisible chords at them and shout aloud: ‘Yey!’
Further along the tow path a man walks a white terrier and in the distance a familiar figure is striding away from me.
Javier? He’s wearing his brown jacket with the collar pulled up around his ears. He disappears around the bend in the river. I’m sure it’s him. Wasn’t he meeting Josephine today? I walk quickly. He moves out of sight so I run, hoping to catch him cutting through the alley. But on the road the stranger in the brown jacket has disappeared.
I check both directions but the street is empty. I turn toward Chiswick peering into passing cars knowing Javier doesn’t drive in England but checking anyway.
A Land Rover cruises past. The woman at the wheel is wearing sunglasses and she stares back at me.
Overhead a white jet rumbles making its descent to Heathrow. It drones in the sky and I turn to see it tilt its wings. Then forgetting Javier I head into the corner shop and my body is filled with adrenaline.
Tonight.
I choose a newspaper, fresh milk, a bag of jam doughnuts and a packet of chocolate biscuits. My conversation with Aaron is the same as usual. He talks about Salman’s school work then about the laziness of his eldest son who is at Leeds University.
‘He says he studies as many hours a day as I work here, in this shop. But he doesn’t know what hard work is. They have it too easy now.’ Aaron’s bloodshot eyes sparkle and he hands me my change.
My mind is a cacophony of ideas and jumbled thoughts but I mumble a suitable reply and take my shopping. Next week I could be in South America. I am crossing the small road that leads behind my apartment to Max’s nursery when I see a metallic powder blue Mercedes parked up on the kerb.
Didn’t Annie say Roy is working in Slovenia this week?
Still uneasy at his recent threat and with Annie decorating my home my pulse races and I quicken my pace, my heart thumping wildly and in time with my heavy step. I fling open my front door and pause with my hand still on the handle. Annie is washing brushes at the sink with her back toward me. The tap is gushing water and when she turns around she appears breathless and her face is flushed.
‘Is Roy here?’
Her grey eyes darken. ‘No. Why?’
‘I thought I saw his car parked in the road leading to the nursery.’
‘He’s not due back until Friday – tomorrow night.’
Annie scrapes paint from the thick brush with an expert’s ease. Her long fingers stroke the brush against the tin, almost lovingly. There is something in the slow ease of her wrist and the slight tremor in her hand. She seems out of breath and perhaps a little nervous. Was it because I mentioned Roy?
She looks questioningly at me. Her eyes shine brightly and when I say nothing she lays the brush down on an old newspaper. ‘I’m going to pop home. Gran wasn’t feeling too well this morning. I’ll just check and see how she is. I’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll still have a time for a donut before I collect Max. Pop the kettle on.’ She grins and rubs my arm as she passes me on her way out.
I dump my shopping on top of the counter and regulate my breathing, forcing my lungs to move slowly and rhythmically and my hands to stop shaking. Is it the thought of the swap making me unsettled?
Javier has an interview with a prestigious art magazine on Saturday and I have agreed to meet Josephine for lunch beside the river. Could this be what is making me nervous?
I shake my head. The room looks different. I stare hard concentrating and then it dawns on me. Annie has painted over Javier’s mural. It’s gone. I stare at the spot where it had been. No! How could she have painted over it?
I have a sudden urge to speak to Javier. I need to hear his voice I dial his number and it clicks to voicemail but I don’t leave a message.
Was he walking along the river just now?
Impossible.
I fill the kettle. I am placing mugs on the counter when the door bangs open.
‘Come, quickly! Oh my God, Mikky, I think she’s dead.’
I run. I jump the wall between our pathways and stumble on a plastic car in the hallway. The grandfather clock
clicks, whines and chimes three. My senses are heightened: stale cheese, burnt toast and aftershave. She is asleep in her chair at the kitchen window.
‘Mrs Green?’
Annie kneels beside her. ‘I don’t think she’s asleep,’ she whispers.
Mrs Green’s mouth sags open and her eyes are closed in a dreamless and eternal sleep. Her fingers are limp and cold.
‘Gran…Gran,’ Annie calls softly.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I whisper but I know it’s too late.
Annie doesn’t move so I pull my mobile from my pocket and as I speak I watch Annie pick a discarded cushion up from the floor. She hugs it tightly to her chest while shaking her head from side to side. Her bewildered grey eyes are wide with disbelief. ‘Roy will never forgive me. He will kill me.’
A sense of loss washes over me and I cannot believe the old lady’s life is over. In my mind I see blinking red lights from a pinball machine, flashing vividly and repeatedly: Game Over.
I lean against the kitchen table. My legs feel weak and a pocket of tears wait at the base of my throat. Outside in the garden goldfinches feed happily and the chirping robin perches on the fence. Now it is time, the moment I have waited and planned. I must grab my opportunity. There’s not a moment to lose.
The rest of the day passes in timeless slow motion. The doctor is called, the police arrive and an autopsy will be performed. It has to be tonight that I make the switch.
By eleven o’clock I am exhausted. Javier returns home and we discuss the events of the day. I am sad but wired. ‘Were you on the towpath this morning? I called out and ran after you.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ he replies. He yawns. He is tired. He has started a new project and his mind is elsewhere – probably with Josephine.
‘Did it go okay?’
‘Yes.’
He’s too tired to speak. He hugs me goodnight and I wait, sitting in the lounge, staring out into the street then my patio. I wander and pace and I realise Javier didn’t notice his mural has gone.