by Rose Edmunds
‘OK. Any bubbly?’
It was hard to envisage an occasion less suitable for champagne, but what the heck. I removed the two small bottles from the fridge.
‘Is “Mo” terribly upset?’
I fervently hoped so.
‘Yeah—he doesn’t get how anyone could hate him so much.’
Which was part of his problem.
‘But he appreciates you weren’t yourself, with that bump on your head.’
‘I didn’t bump my head and I totally was myself. I hate the arrogant little prick and I’m not sorry.’
Which wasn’t strictly true—I was sorry, but only for having shown myself up in public, not for telling him the truth.
‘To be fair,’ Mel said as I poured out the fizz, ‘Mo doesn’t like you much either.’
I suppose it should have occurred to me earlier that my dislike of Beresford might be reciprocated. But I’d been so hung up on his shortcomings, I’d failed to consider how he might perceive mine.
‘Why on earth not?’
‘He says you’re shallow.’
‘No!’
This was hugely insulting, especially as once again he applied a dual standard to Mel and me.
‘I don’t agree,’ she added. ‘But he has a bee in his bonnet about City fat cats—parasites, he says.’
‘But payroll clerks who rip off their employers are paragons of virtue?’
‘Payroll manager,’ she corrected me. ‘And to be fair, I’ve glossed over that.’
‘Anything else he doesn’t like while we’re on the subject?’
‘Yes—the way you’re always sniping behind people’s backs. And truth be told, I sort of agree with him there, as I’ve mentioned before. You have a nasty habit of making negative judgements. Still…’
She hesitated, sensing she was in danger of provoking another outburst.
‘…I like you, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’
Bollocks to that. The sole purpose of her visit to Prague seemed to be winding me up—flaunting her new sexy image, falling for the most annoying man on the planet, eating less than an anorexic mouse.
‘I refuse to apologise—Mo had it coming.’
‘OK—fair enough—I’ll tell him.’
She knocked back her champagne in three big gulps, before saying, ‘I guess I haven’t been much help to you.’ Her guilty facial expression might almost have been genuine.
‘Oh I disagree—I asked you to evaluate Beresford and you’ve done that with immense thoroughness.’
‘But I’ve abandoned you when you needed support. You’re upset—I can tell—not just this evening, but there’s been something bugging you ever since I arrived here.’
I thought I’d been doing a great cover up job of my misery, but I hadn’t fooled Mel for a minute. Though I couldn’t bear to explain about Zowie—not yet—maybe when I was stronger, or preferably never.
‘No I’m fine, but I’m well pissed off about the hire car.’
‘Why—it’s insured isn’t it…?’
To distract her from her probing into my general mental welfare, I chose to confide in her about the drunk driving charges.
‘You were unlucky,’ she said. ‘Even a lightweight like Mo might get caught out—except he doesn’t drive.’
I resisted the lure of another rant about Luddites who opted out of the twenty-first century.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake don’t tell him. Otherwise I’m sure I’d never hear the last about how fast the human body metabolises alcohol and how to estimate the residue…’
‘Oh no—you’ve got him all wrong, he’s not like that at all.’
‘Not with you no—he worships the ground you walk on.’
‘Are you jealous?’ she asked, doubtless hoping that I was.
‘No of course not,’ I replied, rather too quickly.
But I was jealous, not of her bagging him, but of his unconditional love for her. And of Mel herself, for escaping her mousy, dreary life, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. I’d once been a butterfly, but I’d flown too close to the sun.
‘Anyway, sounds as if you’ve chummed up pretty close with this Rudi guy.’
‘Not that close.’
‘And you’re certain he’s on your side?’
‘Yes. Although you say I’m a terrible judge of character, I warmed to him, and there was no reason for him to help me, but he did.’
She said nothing, but I sensed her scepticism.
‘And you fancy him?’
‘A little, yes,’ I conceded.
‘Hey—you might end up as a princess in a castle, if you played your cards right.’
‘If things were different…’
I broke off, not wishing to share any more with Mel, but she homed in on the sentiment.
‘What things? You’re not still with that policeman, are you?’
‘No—it ended badly. I don’t want to talk about it.’
Because if I shared the messy ending of the relationship, I’d have to tell her about Zowie.
‘Fair enough,’ she said, evidently disappointed that no more information would be forthcoming. ‘I ought to be getting back—Mo will be wondering why I’ve been so long.’
‘What next for you two?’
I was conscious we would all be returning to England shortly, and what that might mean for Mel.
‘You know, it might be the real thing,’ Mel confided. ‘He’s the sweetest guy I ever met, and I’ve got a hunch he might be about to propose.’
No—surely not. The bile rose in my throat. As a savvy, twenty-first century con woman, why the hell did she need to act out a Jane Austen novel? I’d convinced myself Beresford’s money was the sole draw, but now I feared she had a sincere affection for him that transcended the con.
‘Oh, Mel—no. Wheedle his PIN out of him, fleece him, shag him even. But please, in the name of God, don’t even consider marrying him.’
‘Why not?’
‘For starters, you’d be bored out of your skull. How tedious going round all those galleries and having to bullshit about your art knowledge.’
‘I don’t need to bullshit,’ she said. ‘He tells me I’m a blank canvas and he loves it. All I know is whether or not I like a picture, and he asks me why and I tell him. And he says it’s so refreshing to connect with someone who approaches art with an uncluttered mind, free of prejudices or pretention. For in the final analysis,’ she said, no doubt echoing one of Beresford’s tweedy pronouncements, ‘the primary function of art is to stir the emotions.’
‘But he’s so much older than you.’
‘Only twenty years. And the University Superannuation Scheme has no actuarial reduction of the widow’s pension for young spouses—you can even remarry without losing it.’
‘Jeez,’ I said. ‘You’re not planning to do away with him…?’
The thoroughness of her research appalled me, although in many respects I was more comfortable with the concept of her conning Beresford than being attracted to him.
‘I’m shocked you’d even think so. But he’s got a heart defect, and I’ve gone easy with him so far but already he’s sounding me out about being more adventurous in bed…’
‘But guess what, you wouldn’t consider doing anything too naughty unless you were married.’
Mel giggled.
‘No—I’m proper shy. I’d need to trust a man completely, and I’m gently steering him towards the idea.’
This was better, and I almost pitied Beresford. He was putty in the hands of an experienced operator, with no idea he was being played.
‘But could you bear to be with him until he dropped off his perch?’
‘Oh, I think so. I wouldn’t be bored—I’d decorate the house and we might try for a baby. Because I get the impression he’s keen on the idea of a child with my looks and his brains.’
The pain of imagining Mel with a baby stabbed me directly in the heart, and I had to stifle a sour comment about a child inheriting Beresford
’s looks and Mel’s brains.
‘Do you ever want children?’ she asked, unaware of my pain.
Another of the strange spasms, intensified by all the bruises, shot through me as my body was screaming out that I did.
‘I thought not,’ I answered honestly, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’
‘Well then, first you need your man, and that Rudi sounds a hot prospect to me. We could have a double wedding in the castle! Now I really must go.’
With that she departed, leaving a cloud of Coco fragrance behind her.
‘Double wedding—no way that’s happening,’ said Little Amy.
And for once, we were in total agreement.
17
At breakfast the next morning, I blanked Beresford, nodded at Mel and made straight for George, who was already well underway with his customary fruit and muesli.
‘How are you?’
I ached from top to toe, and wore dark glasses to disguise the black eye. And I was still fragile emotionally, a state cruelly heightened by Mel’s ebullience.
‘I’m fine,’ I lied.
‘Are you sure you don’t require medical attention?’
‘Hell no—I made it through the night—just need time to heal.’
‘I suppose we’re more or less done here now, aren’t we?’
‘Yep—more or less. I’ll try and lean on Stanislav, but if I fail you’ll have to wheel out the big guns and prove you two are brothers. That’ll be down to the lawyers though.’
‘I’m weighing up whether to visit Theresienstadt before we leave. Do you think I should?’
The answer was a screaming no from my viewpoint. How could it benefit him to see where his mother had died?
‘Would it help you?’ I asked, without volunteering my view.
‘I’ve no idea, but I feel I must.’
The dreaded “closure” again. George never used this therapists’ jargon word—he talked instead about confronting his past and coming full circle. But all the same, closure was what he meant and craved. In George’s position I would have passed on the trip but then again, maybe I’d never achieved closure precisely because I avoided any painful activity that might facilitate it.
‘You should go,’ I replied, with as much conviction as I could muster. And added as an afterthought, ‘Shall I come with you? I’ve no car, and it may be problematic hiring another one, but I expect we can take a bus tour.’
His face lit up.
‘If you’re sure, that would be nice—thank you.’
I tapped away at my phone. George, in common with many of his generation, didn’t approve of people fiddling with their phones in public. But he seemed impressed when I announced I’d found a trip leaving at ten and lasting about eight hours, with an English-speaking guide.
‘Can you book it on that device?’
‘Sure.’
And two minutes later I’d completed the reservation. I had little enthusiasm for the expedition, which was bound to be miserable, but I hoped focussing on George’s sadness might lessen my own pain.
Our tour party consisted mainly of Americans, some of whom mistook us for an English aristocrat and his illicit girlfriend. It must have been the combination of George’s old-fashioned charm, together with my fur coat and dark glasses, which created this illusion. But George made no effort to disabuse them, as I think he secretly enjoyed people assuming I was his bit of stuff. And it would have been cruel of me to pop his balloon.
‘Gee—is that a real fur coat?’ asked Phyllis, a Midwestern grandmother with heavy thighs and permed hair.
‘Oh no,’ I lied. ‘It’s a top of the range fake.’
‘I thought so. I told Bill, and he said it was the real McCoy, but what do men know?’
Bill shrugged his shoulders and smiled benignly. He knew better than to contradict his wife.
The visit was predictably dispiriting, but strangely uplifting too. Incredibly, in an apparently forlorn situation, hope survived, especially among the children. Their artworks showed the sun shining and depicted happier times, with the anticipation of better days ahead. My eyes filled with tears as I remembered how Little Amy had learned to suppress hope, to avoid the disappointment that invariably followed. But Little Amy had every expectation of surviving to adulthood and escaping, whereas these children did not. Arguably they didn’t understand the full horror of their predicament, but even so their refusal to be cowed was humbling. I had at least the luxury of unscrambling the damage inflicted by my traumatic childhood. And while I couldn’t change the past, I could and should seize control of the future.
George was subdued throughout the tour, perhaps preoccupied with exactly where and how Eva had died. He remained quiet on the journey back to Prague, leaving me alone with my thoughts, which turned to the missing painting.
Beresford and Mel’s comments about Rudi weighed on me, and I speculated about his motivations and whether he’d betrayed me. While for all practical purposes this didn’t matter now, the possibility still irked me, as I’d be disappointed to chalk up yet another error of judgement. He hadn’t come across as the murderous type, yet since only he had the name of the party official, what other explanation could there be? Look how easily he’d closed down our enquiries by stating that Hana, the son’s wife, couldn’t help us. Perhaps Novak was right, and Rudi had stolen the two paintings then fabricated Živsa’s involvement to cover his tracks. But despite all these inconvenient facts, I was still reluctant to abandon my faith in him.
I dozed off, exhausted by the emotion of the day, only to wake with a start as the tour bus hit a bump in the road. Boy, my “accident” had made me jittery. But with the shock came a revelation—Brabec, the old man, also knew Živsa’s name. And though it was highly unlikely he’d set off in pursuit of the artwork, perhaps he’d disclosed the name to someone else. And something else had been simmering away in the back of my mind—an anomaly in Rudi’s grandfather’s journal.
His wife is gone though and I dare not ask.
I now realised what was odd about this sentence. According to George, Jan Novak had not married until 1955. Had Novak been married before and kept quiet about it? And were there any other journal entries shedding light on this?
I decided to put both these questions to Rudi, even though they were merely loose ends in an investigation that had spluttered to a halt. Moreover, if Rudi was one of the bad guys, he would lie about Brabec anyway. But in many respects, lies were preferable to loose ends.
***
‘Now you’re not to be cross with me,’ said George, on our way back to the Alcron. ‘But I’ve fixed up for us to have dinner with Beresford and Mel tonight—at my expense.’
He’d saved this disclosure until the end of the day, presumably to prevent me from ruining our outing by banging on about it.
‘Oh no—must we?’
My cheeks flushed at the memory of what Little Amy had referred to as my epic rant. Besides, I ached all over, and had a black eye. A sociable evening with Beresford would be an even greater ordeal than usual.
‘You need to make your peace,’ he added. ‘If only for Mel’s sake.’
I so didn’t need to make my peace. I was entitled to my opinion of the revolting piece of human excrement, and on balance he’d had it coming to him.
‘Actually, I am cross with you. Mel’s fine and she already apologised for Beresford’s behaviour. She tried to stop him winding me up, but he’s so socially inept he didn’t pick up on the cues, even when she was kicking him under the table.’
‘Sorry, but it’s all arranged now. Can’t you grit your teeth and get through the evening?’
‘I guess I’ll have to,’ I said, resigned to my fate.
‘Good—I hoped you’d see sense. I’ve booked a place called the Café Imperial for seven-thirty. I’m told it has a famous chef and is among the finest restaurants in Prague. We were lucky to get in.’
Or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it.
18
&
nbsp; I showered and put on a knitted dress from Phase Eight, then took it straight off when I saw the profile of my stomach in the mirror. As Little Amy had pointed out in all her brutal honesty, there was nothing more gutting than being stuck with baby weight and no baby.
Pregnancy had not only altered my body, but also my mind. I’d become a different person, someone exhausted by pretending to be the perfect woman with the perfect life. But that didn’t stop me trying—I was damned if I’d let Mel see me so fat.
I changed into a black Nicole Farhi dress with a flared skirt, much more forgiving of my figure failings, before spraying on the Coco perfume that Mel had hijacked. After a few moments’ deliberation, I opted to stick with the dark glasses—better to appear eccentric than have people mistake me for a victim of domestic abuse. And although we’d agreed to meet in the bar for pre-drinks, I downed a mini bottle of champagne from the now replenished minibar—justified, as I needed to fortify myself.
I was not the only one in gloomy spirits, and our melancholy mental static seemed to ricochet off the Imperial’s original Art Nouveau ceramic tiling. Never had such splendid surroundings and excellent food been more wasted on a group of diners.
Theresienstadt had brought George no solace—if anything, it had opened new wounds. He gamely tried to keep the conversation going, but his heart wasn’t in it. The Imperial was another of these places virtually unchanged in the past eighty years—not the wisest venue for someone in George’s frame of mind. Once more, I fancied he was yearning wistfully for a different life.
Meanwhile Beresford had lost much of his swagger. An unparalleled opportunity for self-aggrandisement had been snatched from him, and his disappointment was plain to see. Nevertheless, he oozed understanding about my outburst the previous night and was most solicitous about my health, though he stopped short of an actual apology. I could easily have made effusive apologies and blamed my “head injury”, but having vented my true hostility, putting it back in its box would be a retrograde step.
‘I can’t imagine what I said to provoke such an outpouring of bile,’ he said, fishing for reassurance.