by Rose Edmunds
‘So—where will you start?’ George asked. ‘I’m sure you must have given it some thought.’
‘Better—I have a plan. Logically, the hunt must begin at the painting’s last known location—Castle Strnad, in the Bohemian Paradise. In my view, the major weakness in Novak’s approach was his failure to get Rudolf Strnad, the castle’s current owner, on side. I’ll not make the same mistake. So, I found Strnad on LinkedIn and sent a message requesting a meeting.’
‘What pretext did you give? I’ll bet you didn’t mention the art?’
‘Too right—it may be a sensitive topic. I said I was on a career break and writing a thriller, but I’ll come clean when I get there.’
‘Do you think he did steal the pictures?’
‘Nope. I’ve done my due diligence on him and he’s a model of propriety. He had to fight tooth and nail to reclaim the family estate, drawing on all his experience as a lawyer in the US. Why would he jeopardise all that by committing a crime?’
‘But can he help you?’
‘I’ll find out soon enough. I expect Novak showed up, ranted at Strnad and put his back up, so Strnad didn’t give him any information. If I approach him in a more circumspect way, he might be willing to assist. At the moment, I’m more worried about whether he responds to my request, because otherwise I’m stuffed. But assuming he does, are you up for visiting the castle?’
‘I’ll stay here if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I was planning on more sightseeing.’
The way George was haring around trying to piece together his life worried me, and I was sure he’d benefit from a break. But he was resolute on the point.
‘Mel could go with you.’
‘Good idea—I’ll ask her.’
While I’d find an entire day with her irritating, Mel would be perfect for detecting whether Strnad was hiding anything.
‘I like her, Amy. She has something.’
Yeah—I thought—sex appeal in spades. If only you’d seen her before her makeover.
‘You only exchanged a few words with her.’
‘I know, but she seems nice and I’m looking forward to finding out more over dinner.’
Jeepers—that was a scary thought. We’d had minimal time to prepare our back story. Could Mel really pull off the deception? Come to think of it, could I?
10
‘So, Mel—what was Amy like at school?’ George asked, as we sat in the Rotunde restaurant taking in the elegant surroundings of the circular room.
‘An absolute terror, unlike me—I was a goody two shoes. Scholarship girl, you see—always felt I had to behave impeccably. But Amy was so naughty. I remember once she...’
‘Oh look there’s Professor Beresford.’ George had cut her off in full flow and thereby denied me hearing whatever yarn Mel might have spun. ‘We can’t let him sit on his own.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it would be rude. And anyway, I’m far too exhausted sit down with him later, so we might as well talk to him now.’
It must be fun, I thought, to be eighty-four. The slightest murmur about being tired had everyone acceding to your demands, however unreasonable. Surely George must appreciate my horror at enduring an entire meal with the pompous windbag, particularly at my expense. But then again, Mel’s Oscar-winning performance might be wearing a little thin by the end of the evening. Beresford’s presence would take the focus off our fake friendship and allow Mel to observe the repellent little shit at close quarters.
‘OK, but Mel should suss him out before we tell him too much though.’
Mel and George exchanged a glance to which I could attribute no meaning.
‘As I’ve said before, I don’t see what worries you. He’s a typical academic.’
‘Precisely,’ I replied.
‘Give me five minutes with the man,’ quipped Mel, ‘and I’ll tell you if he’s trustworthy.’
She’d always been conceited, even in her poxy little payroll job, but Mel’s new swagger was now wholly disproportionate to her meagre achievements. Her unexpected transformation grated on me, for reasons I couldn’t analyse, but I was stuck with her for the duration.
Beresford accepted our invitation with alacrity and appeared genuinely pleased to join us.
‘One becomes so tired of dining alone on these trips,’ he said, as the waiter set another place at the table. ‘And I fancied eating somewhere decent tonight.’
Especially if someone else is paying, I thought.
As he eyed up Mel, he slicked back his hair and adjusted his tie—classic male preening gestures. Jealousy gnawed at me—what the heck did she have that I didn’t? There’d been no admiring glances in my direction, only his snooty disdain. Mel simpered at him, lapping up all the attention, and strangely oblivious to Beresford’s lack of charisma.
‘How did your lecture go?’ I asked, trying to be polite. I braced myself for the puffed up, self-congratulatory response.
‘Very well, thank you—it was such familiar material. The only problem is a foreign audience—they never get the jokes.’
It was hard to imagine Beresford’s efforts at humour resonating with British audiences either—he didn’t seem a natural comic. But I stifled the urge to make a cutting comment, and agreed what a tricky problem this must be.
True to my request, George skilfully deflected Beresford’s enquiries about Novak. Instead, he stuck resolutely to discussing my non-existent school friendship with Mel, a topic that inexplicably also fascinated Beresford.
‘And what was your school motto?’ Beresford asked Mel.
Ah ha—now he was trying to one up her too. It stood to reason he’d eventually latch onto Mel as an easier target than polished, professional Amy.
‘In Pulvere Vinces,’ I said, coming to Mel’s rescue.
‘Oh how marvellous,’ he said. ‘Not to be taken literally, I assume.’
We all laughed, although probably only Beresford and I understood the phrase. It meant, you can’t win without getting dirty, or literally “in dust you conquer”.
At school, the motto had always amused me because in my case it could, and indeed should have been taken literally. I had to overcome the difficulty of living in the house my mother had hoarded to the gills, plenty dusty and with broken plumbing. Still, it would be inappropriate to share this with Beresford.
Mel leant over towards Beresford, flashed him an engaging smile, and said, ‘Do you think I’m so dumb I’d forget my school motto and the translation?’
I had to admire her technique in handling him. She was openly daring him to call her out on her stupidity, which left him nowhere to go.
‘Oh no—whatever gave you that idea?’ he said, sounding pained.
Either because I was paying, or due to the “Mel” effect, we managed to pour a surprising volume of alcohol into Beresford. I drank only a token amount in view of the wine at lunchtime and the Margarita. As I tucked into veal schnitzel with potato salad—yes, too many calories again—I noticed a surprising phenomenon.
Long after her lack of intelligence become plain, Beresford still drooled over Mel. And after his unfortunate misstep with the Latin motto, he bent over backwards to ingratiate himself with her, and positively revelled in any comments showing her lack of refinement.
‘Oh, Mel—you are so refreshing,’ he said as he laid down his cutlery, having demolished a huge plateful of venison loin and sausage. ‘I’ve never met anyone quite like you before.’
And for Mel’s part, she too gave every appearance of enjoying Beresford’s company, and basking in his compliments. But instead of deferring to him or paying homage to his superior intellect, she pushed back at everything he said. And weirdly, he loved it.
Mel didn’t eat much though. She’d ordered a small chicken Caesar salad (with the sauce on the side), and consumed only lettuce leaves plus a few morsels of the meat. For heaven’s sake, even allowing for the calories in her revolting cocktails, it wasn’t so very hard to stay slim.
&
nbsp; ‘I must pop to the little girls’ room,’ I said, which was our prearranged cue to exchange views on the learned professor.
‘Oh I must powder my nose too,’ said Mel, ‘if you’ll excuse us.’
***
‘No prizes for guessing—you think he’s OK.’
‘I swear, he’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever met,’ she said. ‘He must have rumbled me as a pea brain, but see how he goes out of his way to put me at my ease. Honestly, I can’t imagine why you’re concerned. I’d trust him absolutely.’
‘Hm—his fawning over you seems to have addled your brains.’
‘No way,’ she said, taking a perfume atomiser out of her handbag and applying a liberal squirt. I’m not sure why it annoyed me so much that she’d usurped my perfume, but it did. ‘You’re the one who’s being irrational, Amy—somehow he pushes all the wrong buttons with you.’
I was even less willing to be frank with her than with George, but had to concede privately that my prejudices may have influenced my judgement.
‘He’s scarily naïve,’ she added. ‘And never married either.’
I hadn’t heard him say so, but she must have elicited this information from him while George and I were having a parallel conversation.
‘Gay?’
‘Why do you say so—because he doesn’t fancy you?’
‘Don’t tell me you find him attractive.’
It was a possibility almost too bizarre and disgusting to contemplate, but her answer didn’t surprise me after observing her antics at the dinner table.
‘In a strange way, yes. I feel he’s never made the best of himself, and he’s ripe for transformation.’
‘Like you were,’ I retorted, going for the jugular. But nothing could rattle Mel tonight—she was riding on the crest of a wave.
‘You nailed it—exactly like me.’
She clearly regarded him as a work in progress, to be moulded according to her will. And you know what—I almost pitied the poor bugger.
‘But you’re sure he’s on the level?’
‘Positive. And in case you’re worried, I never lose my head over a man.’
From what I’d seen of Mel, I didn’t doubt this. And in the same vein, I shouldn’t let my astonishment at her burgeoning crush on Beresford affect the decision. In any event, I had little choice but to accept her verdict, for what was the alternative? As she was always keen to point out, I had a weak track record in evaluating the trustworthiness of others.
With Beresford awarded a tentative thumbs-up from me, we returned to the table and exchanged details of the day. George ordered an ice cream, and Beresford tiramisu. Mel declined a dessert and I followed suit, resisting the temptation to torment her by eating something deliciously decadent.
Beresford was encouraged by my news, even though my visit to Strnad Castle might prove to be a dead end.
‘I’m impressed you extracted so much information from him,’ he said, if a little grudgingly. ‘Do you have a copy of the list of paintings? I’d love to see that.’
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
‘Shame—it would be fascinating to see whether he keeps other treasures elsewhere. Still, I suppose you did your best…’
His tone hinted at a sub-par performance and I seethed inwardly. Even though I’d handled Stanislav brilliantly, Beresford still found my efforts lacking, and this haughty condemnation came from a man who had made zero progress himself.
We left Mel and Beresford to an animated debate about whether the Mona Lisa’s facial expression was happy or sad. Back in the room, I eschewed the minibar, showered and waited for Mel.
I waited, and waited…
And finally drifted off to sleep.
11
When I woke up the next morning, Mel had still not returned.
I could scarcely credit that she’d slept with the revolting Beresford, yet this was the only conceivable explanation for her absence. Still, at least she’d eliminated the competition for the bathroom, and I moved swiftly to capitalise on this.
Even after several months, it amazed me how much short hair speeded up the morning routine. I’d cut it for an undercover project, and while I regretted much about this chapter in my life, the hair had been a resounding success. How had I wasted so many hours blow-drying and straightening, essentially to conform to men’s expectations? Often now, I didn’t even bother with a hairdryer. How ironic that the legacy of a near-fatal project was a huge saving of time.
As I zipped up my jeans, I tried to ignore the uncomfortable tightness around the waist. They were bespoke Levis, but tailored for a different body. Five pounds overweight doesn’t sound much, but if you’re petite and naturally slender it makes a real difference. I paired the jeans with a grey cashmere sweater from Jaeger, slouchy enough to cover the muffin top. And as everyone knows, a muffin top covered by clothing doesn’t exist.
I was applying my makeup when Little Amy’s reflection appeared in the mirror, wearing torn jeans, Doc Martens and an oversized shirt. As if to indicate her discomfort with the grunge fashion scene, she wore the shirt open with a teeny figure-hugging crop top displaying a washboard tummy.
‘See—Mel can hook a man no problem. It’s that short hair—they mistake you for a dyke.’
They did not!
‘And I bet she weighs less than you…’
Enough. Pregnancy had changed my body, in ways skinny Little Amy couldn’t hope to understand. I was about to say so, when Mel burst into the room, smug as anything.
It irked me to see her so cheerful, but don’t imagine I envied her—even the mental image of Beresford naked made me want to vomit. Nor was I in any position to take a moral stance on a one-night stand. No—what riled me was the predatory, opportunistic way in which she’d pursued Beresford, and her triumph at bagging her prey.
‘Don’t tell me—you took his virginity,’ I said, in sarcastic tones.
‘Oh no—he’d had sex before, but it had been a while. And he was so polite and thoughtful—didn’t want to take advantage of me after I’d been drinking, or to disrespect my body…’
Typical of these “politically correct” men—they know it’s unacceptable to just screw a woman, especially if she’s tipsy, and they’re always keen to communicate their hesitance. But funnily enough, this elaborate foreplay of pontification never stops them.
‘But he disrespected your body anyway…’
‘Oh no—he was so gentle. And although he’s lovely, I feel as if I’m the one using him.’
‘Yep—she’s definitely using him,’ said Little Amy, who now lay stretched out on the bed, Doc Martens and all.
‘And what are you using him for?’ As if I couldn’t guess.
‘Well, I can’t help but see the advantages of cultivating him,’ she said, though having the grace to blush.
‘He won’t have much dosh as an academic.’
Having said that, I remembered a friend of my mother who never married and lived like a monk in a rented room. He’d accumulated massive savings and, identifying a source of funds for her compulsive shopping, my mother had actually made a play for him. Shame she didn’t twig he was a closet gay, too inhibited to experiment, let alone come out.
‘Oh it’s not about the money,’ she protested, making me even more suspicious. ‘Although, funnily enough, he’s well off—I mean not as rich as you, but his father died last year, and left him a few million.’
More than my current net worth, which Mel may or may not have appreciated. And totally worth her time to pursue.
‘And Maurice is so green he hasn’t cottoned on that he could pull practically any woman he wanted with his level of wealth.’
‘I thought it wasn’t about the money.’
‘Well, you know… I might have to marry him though.’
‘Marry him! You must be kidding me. Screw him if you must, clean out his bank account, but marriage is a long term investment.’
‘Except in your case,’ said Little Amy, unnecessarily
.
‘Oh I don’t agree, if we got divorced I’d scoop half the jackpot. Besides, it might not be so awful being a professor’s wife. And he’d pay for Joey, I’m sure.’
The sole praiseworthy facet of Mel’s personality was her utter devotion to her disabled brother. But for the need to fund his £4,000 a month care fees, I’m almost certain she would never have strayed onto the wrong side of the law. And who could say what I’d have done in her position? As she’d once told me, it’s easy to be ethical with a million quid in the bank. But even for Joey’s sake, shackling herself to Beresford seemed a drastic move.
‘And I do adore him,’ she said, though this sounded like an afterthought to justify her stance.
‘Can you not see what an arrogant piece of shit he is?’
‘Arrogant? I don’t see that all.’
‘I mean, how can someone deem themselves to be above normal communication channels?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘His wilful refusal to use a mobile phone, and despising those who do.’
Mel laughed.
‘Rubbish. He simply doesn’t see the point of the technology. He’s not getting at you, Amy, that’s just your insecurities talking.’
‘As I told you,’ Little Amy said.
‘And he doesn’t make you insecure. I mean…’
‘Go on—say it—with my two GCSEs.’
‘Exactly—is he aware that this is the pinnacle of your scholastic achievement?’
‘Now who’s being snooty and arrogant?’
It was infuriating. Little Amy reckoned I wouldn’t answer her back with Mel present, and delighted in venting her spleen without fear of reprisal.
‘I told him I had nine,’ said Mel. ‘I mean, as a scholarship girl at that posh school of yours, nine would be about the minimum don’t you think?’