The Improbability of Love

by Hannah Rothschild

  ‘Hello, Mum, let’s go now,’ said Annie.

  Evie looked terrible. Her pale-yellow trouser suit was stained with blood and vomit and her left eye looked like a swollen, blue plum.

  ‘It’s been awful, darling,’ Evie began to cry. ‘I didn’t mean to, but it was the anniversary of daddy’s death and—’ Annie went over to her mother and put her arms around her.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum, don’t worry. Let’s go home and get you cleaned up. Where’s your bag?’

  ‘Bloody bastard stole it. Now he’s pressing charges. It’s a conspiracy.’ Evie shot a furious look at the sergeant.

  ‘The publican said she came in with nothing, started abusing him when he wouldn’t serve her and then she smashed a mirror.’

  ‘If the Earls of Moray could hear you; you’re no better than those miscreants in the cells. Annie, they locked me up,’ Evie said plaintively.

  ‘Time to go now.’ Annie steered her firmly towards the door.

  ‘Where’s the car?’ Evie looked up and down the Edgware Road expectantly.

  ‘We’re going on the tube.’

  ‘Doesn’t he give you a car? I thought that was the whole point of working in films: private planes and limousines.’

  ‘In Hollywood, maybe. Come on, the walk will do you good.’

  ‘My heel’s broken, I can’t.’

  ‘There’s no other way. I’ve just enough cash to get us home on the tube.’

  ‘No cars. No money. Slog. Slog.’ Evie muttered and grumbled.

  Annie walked beside her mother, wishing that she’d never come to get her. It was always the same. Tears of rage and frustration pricked her eyes. She walked faster, determined to leave Evie behind.

  ‘Annie? Wait.’

  Annie heard the uneven steps break into a run.

  ‘Don’t leave me.’

  Annie didn’t answer; she kept up a steady pace.

  Evie changed tack. ‘I never wanted to be like this,’ she said, starting to cry. ‘I hardly touched a drop. I met a man. He left me. I got sad.’

  Annie turned around to see her mother standing alone in the middle of the pavement, a tired, emaciated middle-aged woman and her heart filled with pity. Evie started to hobble towards her, one heel flapping out to the side. Annie kicked off her ballet pumps.

  ‘Wear these, Mum.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got thick socks on.’

  ‘Would you do that for me? Really?’ Evie said, slipping her feet into Annie’s shoes. ‘They’re lovely and warm. I do love you, Annie.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go home.’ Annie held out her hand and Evie took it.

  At the flat, Annie ran her mother a bath and laid out some clean clothes on the bed. Evie sat at the kitchen table looking around the room.

  ‘Were you expecting someone for lunch?’ The table was still set for two.

  ‘Dinner last night. He didn’t show up.’ Annie poured some boiling water into two cups, dunked a tea bag in both, and handed one to her mother.

  ‘Sorry.’ Evie smiled sympathetically.

  Annie shrugged.

  ‘Anyone special?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I won’t say the obvious.’ Evie wrapped her fingers around the mug.

  ‘So don’t.’

  ‘You need a proper man.’

  ‘Not now, Mum.’

  ‘If only you’d been more . . .’ Evie stopped short.

  ‘Your bath’s ready.’ Annie was too tired to fight.

  ‘Anyway, I love you for being you,’ said Evie, trying to make amends.

  ‘It’ll be getting cold.’ Annie was feeling less and less patient. She took her cup of tea and went to the window.

  ‘You wouldn’t have a hair of a dog in any of those cupboards?’ Evie asked hopefully.

  ‘No.’ Annie started to clear the plates away. The set table was an unwanted reminder. She grabbed the knives and forks in one hand and stuffed them, ends down, into a jug.

  Darling, you look a bit washed-out – is everything okay?’

  ‘Everything is fine – please have a bath.’

  Annie filled the kettle with fresh water and plugged it into the wall.

  ‘The thing about you, Annie, is you’re determined to Chiku.’

  ‘Chiku?’

  ‘Chinese saying – it means “eat bitter”. Make life difficult for yourself. One day you’ll be grateful for Desmond leaving you, setting you free from that drab existence. You were suffocating slowly.’

  Annie spun round and faced Evie, her eyes blazing. ‘Either get in the bath or I’m going to.’ Annie felt the need to put a door between them quickly.

  Evie struggled to her feet and walked towards the bathroom. She stopped in front of the picture. ‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing at it.

  ‘What does it look like?’ Annie said sarcastically.

  ‘Who’s it by?’

  Picking up the picture, Evie looked it at for a long time. Going over to Annie’s desk she shone the anglepoise lamp so that the light hit the centre of the painting. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘A junk shop off the Goldhawk Road.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Evie. ‘It reminds me of those lovely pictures in the Wallace Collection. Your dad used to take me there. It was always warm. We used to sit on the benches in the galleries and make up stories to go with the paintings.’

  ‘The Wallace Collection,’ said Annie. ‘How odd. That’s why I bought it.’ Her thoughts flicked back to Robert and she flushed with fresh shame. What made her think he might stick around?

  ‘Your dad had a favourite. I can’t remember the painter’s name. Flagon, Fraggin, no, Fragonard, that was it – a girl on the swing. Very like this. Really light-hearted things, musicians and parties. Your dad loved him. So unlikely, really. You’d think a motorcycle racer would go for something solid, like that Laughing Cavalier. He’s there too.’

  ‘That’s the painting I liked too,’ Annie said with a slight shiver. She knew so little about her father and what he liked. He had died when she was two; she did not even have a photograph of them together.

  Turning the light slightly, Evie peered into the painting. In its glare, the dancer became animated. The yellows and golds of her dress seemed to flutter and tremble and the foliage behind her shimmered. On the floor, the young man looked up in rapt admiration.

  Annie gasped. ‘It seems to come alive.’

  Evie held the picture in one hand, licked her finger and gently rubbed it over the figure of the dancer. Again, the colours shone and sparkled.

  ‘I think it’s something special,’ said Evie, suddenly sober. ‘You should go along to the Wallace. We could go.’

  Annie smiled. One of her mother’s endearing qualities was the ability to see hope in any situation. How else had she managed to survive this long, pick herself up, dry out, find new jobs, new places to live, embark on yet another love affair?

  ‘The bath will be stone cold by now,’ Annie said taking the painting and pointing towards the door.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling about it,’ Evie grumbled as she walked across the room. ‘You should never discount one of my feelings.’

  Chapter 4

  Rebecca Winkleman, Carlo Spinetti’s wife, worked with her father, Memling, at Winkleman Fine Art Ltd and hid her emotions behind a cold expression. Only her immediate family knew this was a front: Rebecca was cripplingly shy and convinced that disaster lay at each turn. Every plane she boarded was certain to crash; her deals were bound to fail; at any given moment, she was certain to be unmasked as an incompetent usurper.

  Terrified of being judged or exposed as someone who had won her position through nepotism, Rebecca worked longer hours and took fewer holidays than anyone else in the company, including her father. She rehearsed facts and opinions before every meeting and lay awake most nights fretting about stray remarks or the occasional mistake. Her doctor recommended Valium, which she refused to take in case it dulled her intellect. Anoth
er suggested psychotherapy, but the thought of talking to a stranger was absolute anathema. She suffered from terrible nightmares – her screams were so loud that her bedroom was soundproofed and Carlo had moved to the room next door. About once a week she woke shaking and drenched in sweat.

  Rebecca dressed to attract as little attention as possible; her clothes were plain, beautifully cut and unrevealing. By day she wore trouser suits in navy blue or black with a crisp white silk shirt. At night she opted for the simplest black cocktail dress and sensible court shoes. Her blonde hair was cut into a severe bob, her nails kept short and polished. She wore minimal jewellery: diamond stud earrings and a necklace of the finest pearls. Though she would never dream of leaving the house ‘without her face on’, her make-up routine never extended beyond a dab of concealer, pale lipstick and a few brushes of mascara. She had inherited her father’s pale blue eyes but hid them behind heavy-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses. Asked to describe her looks, Rebecca would say, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘Ordinary’; others thought of her as being on the beautiful side of handsome.

  Annie had only glimpsed her employer’s wife once but she was aware of the gossip: Rebecca was seen as a woman trapped between an unfaithful husband and an overbearing father. Annie, like everyone else, assumed that it was fear of being alone and unloved that kept Rebecca with her spendthrift, philandering spouse and that Carlo, terrified of being poor, led a compromised existence as a kept man. Few guessed the real reason: the Spinettis loved each other, admittedly in an unconventional and unusual fashion, and had worked out a way to accommodate each of their peccadillos. Rebecca adored his Italian use of hyperbole, his spontaneity, carnality and his childish need to be praised, cosseted. She was delighted by the way Carlo’s emotions whirled like a weather vane in a high wind so that every gust, every nuance of mood was displayed for all to see. Though his films were widely panned, Rebecca found beauty and originality in every shot. The rare occasions he entered her bedroom made up for the weeks of unrequited desire. She was fantastically proud of his aquiline profile, his curly hair, his bow-shaped mouth and perfect teeth. Above all she was a pragmatist and recognised that her workaholic tendencies were as unpalatable as his sexual proclivities. Carlo liked his wife’s cool intellect, her beauty and her wild insecurities. Being the only person who could manage her panic attacks and restore her confidence made him feel omnipotent and protective. Though he was addicted to falling in love, Carlo could only indulge his fantasies knowing that Rebecca was at home, unswervingly devoted and committed. For Carlo, this solid foundation overlaid with the frisson of guilt made every dalliance pleasurable.

  When the Winklemans’ chef, Monsieur George, suffered a stroke, Carlo asked Annie to cover until he returned to work. Although George was Michelin-starred and Cordon Bleu-trained, Carlo assured Annie that the work was easy. Colleagues advised against the move: Rebecca was almost as hard on her employees as she was on herself.

  ‘At least go for the interview,’ Carlo said. He did not need to add that his wife was making his life a misery; everyone in the office knew that.

  *

  Carlo Spinetti’s film company was based in a large warehouse in Bermondsey. Like many fashionable contemporary offices, the building had been stripped to a semi-industrial finish, with the functional ‘guts’ of the premises – the pipes, brickwork and air-conditioning ducts – left uncovered. Young production associates and runners wore a uniform of blue jeans and T-shirts. A hum of constant chatter, music and telephones bounced off the concrete open-plan floor.

  Arriving at the front door of Winkleman Fine Art in Curzon Street, Annie was struck by the total contrast between the husband’s and the wife’s establishments. The grand eighteenth-century mansion was set back from the street and bordered by iron railings. Four stone steps, each as broad as an elephant’s head, led up to polished mahogany doors. It took Annie a few moments to find a discreet brass bell. A voice asked her politely to face a security camera placed above the lintel. She gave her name and waited. Noiselessly the door swung open and she was met by a liveried doorman. Two guards stationed in a marble hallway looked her up and down, making it clear that Annie was not the usual type of visitor. The doorman led her into the first inner sanctum: a heavily carpeted drawing room with French windows overlooking an Italianate garden. The walls were lined with silk damask and hung with the finest art that Winkleman had on offer. Annie had been warned that neither Rebecca nor her father Memling, the head of the firm, would be there to welcome her – this pleasure was reserved for important guests only. Most clients were met by one of eight permanent sales staff, which included three former museum directors. Tradesmen were sent to the back entrance. Unlike the buzzy atmosphere of Carlo Spinetti’s studio, the Winkleman gallery was as quiet and gloomy as a mausoleum. Nothing to detract from the art on display.

  If Annie was offered and accepted this temporary secondment, she would, like other employees, enter via the mews at the rear. The Winklemans owned every building facing and backing on to that block of Curzon Street. Four were part of Winkleman Fine Art; the other three were the family’s private residences. Memling lived in one, Rebecca and her family in another and the third was for entertaining clients. There was an underground tennis court and a swimming pool for use by the family only. A retinue of eight uniformed Filipino servants saw to the cleaning. There were two chauffeurs, a resident masseuse, a full-time dog walker and a part-time tennis coach, and personal trainer.

  A middle-aged woman dressed in a smart black suit, with steel-grey hair pulled into a tight chignon, her face free of make-up, came forward to greet Annie.

  ‘I am Ms Winkleman-Spinetti’s executive assistant, Liora van Cuttersman. Please come with me.’

  Annie was led down a thickly carpeted passage to a small waiting area with two leather chairs separated by a low coffee table covered with art magazines. On the wall opposite was a small but exquisite painting of a Madonna and Child. Annie noticed that there was no protective glass or red rope separating the viewer from the work of art. Putting down her rucksack, she could not resist taking a closer look. The Madonna’s face was flat and two-dimensional, her expression mournful and unanimated, the Christ Child looked more like a wizened old man than a baby.

  ‘It’s by Duccio – late thirteenth century,’ said a clipped voice.

  Annie spun around to see Rebecca Winkleman-Spinetti. She was, Annie thought, extraordinary-looking. Rebecca’s eyes were pools of iridescent turquoise set off by milky white skin and hair. The only other dash of colour on the moon-like face was Rebecca’s surprisingly fleshy mouth, plush in a pale pink lipstick.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Annie said, thinking more of Rebecca’s face than the painting.

  ‘One of the greatest works we have had the pleasure of handling,’ said Rebecca. Then, checking her watch, she summoned Annie into her office, ‘I only have a few minutes to spare.’

  Annie followed her through a pair of double mahogany doors and into a long, book-lined room, marvelling at Rebecca’s elegant figure encased in a perfectly cut, creaseless black cashmere suit. Next to her, Annie, who was wearing baggy trousers and a duffle coat, felt like a tramp.

  ‘Did you bring a CV?’ Rebecca asked.

  Annie handed over a piece of A4 paper. Rebecca glanced down and then turned the paper over, expecting to see more.

  ‘It’s short,’ she said.

  ‘I spent fourteen years building up one business.’

  ‘Were you hit by the recession?’

  ‘The business was always in good shape; the partnership foundered.’ Annie blushed and looked out of the window, hoping that there would be no more personal questions.

  Looking at the younger woman, Rebecca wondered why she did not make more of herself – buy something decent to wear, apply some make-up. At least, she thought, my husband won’t be sleeping with her; Carlo only likes the done-up types.

  ‘Apart from night classes at the local college, your only experience with food is runn
ing a specialist cheese shop in a West Country market town?’ Rebecca spoke in a clipped, high-pitched voice. Annie noticed that Rebecca’s hands shook slightly, causing the paper to vibrate, and there was a tiny spasm in the muscle of her left cheek. What made this woman radiate nervousness? It certainly wasn’t her.

  ‘I am mainly self-taught,’ Annie admitted. ‘We also had a café beside the cheese shop and I made fresh food daily. Salads, sandwiches and cakes.’

  ‘Our business has to be associated with the finest quality in all things,’ Rebecca said.

  ‘Everything was homemade and fresh. We had full marks on TripAdvisor,’ Annie said defensively. Should she tell Rebecca that regulars drove across Devon to eat her cheesecake and pies, and that a queue always formed half an hour before opening time on a Friday, bread-baking day?

  Rebecca shrugged and turned her attention back to Annie’s CV.

  ‘Your only hobby is listed as cooking?’

  ‘It’s an obsession more than a hobby.’

  ‘You don’t have any other interests?’

  ‘Do you?’ Annie asked. She was not being insolent; she was genuinely interested.

  The faintest smile passed over Rebecca’s lips. ‘No,’ she hesitated. ‘I suppose my whole life is art.’

  ‘So maybe we are not so different,’ Annie said.

  Rebecca looked at the young woman with her cloud of unruly auburn hair, her duffle coat and scuffed Doc Martens and doubted that they had much in common.

  ‘My husband speaks highly of your skills. What do you do for him?’ Rebecca said.

  ‘Honestly, not that much,’ Annie admitted. ‘I love hard work and cooking, but as Mr Spinetti is not in production there isn’t much going on. I make a lot of coffee and the odd bowl of pasta.’

  Rebecca looked at her watch. A prospective client was due in shortly. This idea of Carlo’s was hopeless: she would find a relief chef via an agency.

  Turning to Annie she said. ‘I don’t see how we can take a risk on you; there is nothing in your CV to suggest competence.’

  Annie winced. ‘I made a mistake and let my love life and work get tangled up together. It has left me in rather a bind.’