We stopped outside the National Portrait Gallery and saw that it was open late – there was a special Lucien Freud retrospective taking place.
‘Have you ever been inside?’
‘No,’ Artie said, shaking his head.
‘And I take it you’ve never seen Lucien Freud’s work either?’
‘Is he the guy who paints people all queer, with the big thighs and fallen chins and all that?’
I laughed. ‘God, Artie, sometimes you’re so Leitrim. But, yes, he’s the guy.’
‘Nope, I’ve never had the pleasure and clearly you think I’ve been missing out. Will we go in?’
I pointed at my ice-cream, which was only half eaten. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’
‘Oh, come on, Darcy, don’t pretend to be dainty. Horse it into you.’
I did as I was told, gobbling the last of my cone in two bites. ‘All gone.’
‘Not quite,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s all over your face.’
‘Oh.’ I began dabbing furiously. ‘Have I got it?’
‘No, go again.’
I did.
‘There’s still some on your … Oh, here, let me.’ He rubbed his finger against my cheek. ‘Gone now.’
We found ourselves staring at each other, and I had a sudden urge to grab Artie’s hand and put it back on my face.
‘Come on so,’ Artie said, and turned away. I could see he was blushing.
We went into the gallery, where I handed in my coat and bag. Artie waited for me a few feet away. Had he always been so tall? Had his hair always been so curly?
To me, Artie was as much a part of the Leitrim landscape as the glacial lakes or the rolling drumlins. To see him in urban London was weird. Not bad, just odd. I wondered if he ever felt homesick for Ireland, like I did.
I asked him as we walked along the galleries, taking in the ‘quare’ paintings of Mr Freud.
‘Homesick?’ Artie repeated. ‘Well, I’m here with Shannon now, so obviously that helps a lot. But, yes, I suppose, sometimes, a little.’
‘It must have been hard to leave Leitrim, given you were so attached to the place. What did you do with Mutt?’
‘He died a few years ago, and I didn’t replace him.’
‘And your parents must have been really sad to see you leave.’
‘Dad passed away last year, and my mother moved to Spain to live with her sister. So …’
‘God, Artie, I’m so sorry.’ I found myself placing my right hand on his arm and rubbing his jumper.
Artie looked down, then back up at me. ‘Thanks, Evie. It’s okay. I’m okay.’
I dropped my hand.
We wandered around for over an hour, studying the paintings.
‘Do you like the way he depicts people?’ I asked Artie, after a while.
‘I don’t know if “like” is the word,’ he said. ‘But there seems to be an honesty to it.’ We were staring at a picture of a huge woman reclining on a couch, her thighs and breasts colossal.
We moved on to another: a man splayed on a bed, revealing his testicles and penis in an almost obscene gesture.
‘That’s the way the human body is, isn’t it?’ he said quietly. ‘Fleshy, sagging, but also compelling. Beautiful, even.’
‘Shannon isn’t exactly saggy.’
‘Well, no,’ he said, beginning to walk in the opposite direction.
Why had I mentioned Shannon? What the fuck was wrong with me?
A few minutes later, the tannoy announced that the gallery was closing and that all visitors should make their way towards the exit.
‘Will we go for that drink now?’ I asked, hoping he would say yes.
Artie looked at his watch. ‘I really should get home, Evie. I told Shannon I’d be back by half ten.’
‘Oh,’ I said, sure the disappointment was written all over my face. There was an awkward pause.
‘Oh, Jesus, now you’re making me feel guilty,’ he said. ‘Okay, let’s go for one, but then I really need to be making tracks.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Just the one.’
In the bar, we drank our one drink, then, while Artie was in the loo, I ordered a second for both of us.
‘Ah, Jesus, Evie,’ Artie said. ‘What did I say to you?’ But he sat down again and took a slurp anyway.
Over our pints we reminisced about the past, the characters we knew, the evenings in Leitrim by the lake.
‘I really do need to get going now,’ Artie said eventually, putting on his jacket and checking to see if he’d left anything behind. ‘You want to come with me? Walk to the Tube together?’
‘I think I’ll stay out a little longer,’ I said, not meeting his eye. While I’d been in the loo, Saffie had texted. She and Pandora were going clubbing and wanted to know if I’d join them. They had coke.
‘Are you sure?’ Artie asked. ‘It’s getting pretty late.’
‘Don’t worry, Grandad, I’m a big girl now,’ I said, squeezing his elbow gently. ‘But I’ll walk with you to the station, if that’s okay?’
A crooked smile formed on his lips. ‘Of course it’s okay. Just don’t call me “Grandad” ever again.’
‘Understood,’ I said, grinning.
As we strolled along, I realized the weather had turned a lot cooler, and I had a sudden urge to link arms with Artie, to feel the heat of him. I moved in closer, ready to take his hand, but at the last minute I drew back, suddenly afraid.
‘Well, that’s me now,’ he said, at the station. ‘It was great to see you again, Evie.’ He pecked me on the cheek, but just as he did so, somebody tumbled against us, pushing our bodies tightly together.
‘Sorry, mate,’ the guy shouted, but neither of us responded. For a second we just stayed there, our faces touching, eyes locked.
‘Artie,’ I whispered. He didn’t move.
He’d never looked more beautiful to me than he did then. A group of Friday-night revellers swirled around us but all I wanted to do was lose myself in Artie’s face, the lines of it, the contours. I lifted my hand, and brushed his hair away from his eyes. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
He didn’t say anything – just continued to stare at me.
Around us people were still swirling; in the background there was the far-off din of trains.
I moved my head just a fraction, near enough so I could feel his breath. ‘Artie … My darling Artie.’
And then, as if by magic, we kissed.
43.
Rachel: day ten, 10 a.m.
I debated ringing Lorelei about the second TBM email, but I figured she was doing enough unpaid work for me already, so I kept it to myself. I thought back to the creepy email.
I am watching you.
Was he? Or was it all just one monumental bluff?
I’d give it another few days. See if the little fucker got back in contact. If he did, maybe I’d consider mentioning it to Lorelei. If not, I’d keep shtum.
I still had one final destination to check out: Evie’s office. It had dawned on me that this building held a potential mine of information: her computer for one, her emails, not to mention any thoughts her colleagues might want to share about Evie’s recent behaviour.
All in all I had high hopes.
But when I reached the Business Matters headquarters – a higgledy-piggledy collection of offices wedged above a tanning shop in Greenwich – something about the place made my heart sink.
As did Evie’s boss, Nigel.
‘So sad,’ he said, shaking his head when I introduced myself to him. ‘Eve was on top of the world. Everything to live for …’
‘She’s not dead,’ I snapped.
‘I never said she was.’
‘You used the past tense.’
‘Well, Jesus, she is in a coma,’ Nigel said, his face changing from fake concern to annoyance. ‘Was there something you wanted?’
‘Yes, actually, there is. I need to check Eveline’s emails.’
‘You what?’
‘I’m trying to find out what led my sister to crash and I need to read her emails. I need access to her files.’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Durant –’
‘Ms Darcy,’ I interrupted.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Darcy,’ Nigel repeated. ‘But there’s hyper-sensitive information on Eve’s desktop. It’s absolutely out of the question.’
‘Hyper-sensitive? You make it sound like she was working for the CIA.’
‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. My hands are tied.’
If only, I wanted to add. And your legs and arms too. Then I’d drop you down a large manhole. How had Evie managed to work with this Neanderthal?
Nigel stood up, flicked something off his shoulder. ‘So if that’s all, Ms Durant – sorry, I mean Ms Darcy …’ He smirked.
‘Can you at least show me Evie’s desk, so that I can take home a few of her mementoes? I promise I won’t look at anything sensitive, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
He was clearly dubious. ‘Fine,’ he muttered, then stomped out of the office, without saying anything, forcing me to scamper after him, like a puppy. A few seconds later he stopped in front of a tiny work-station.
Two men raised their heads briefly to see what all the fuss was about, although no formal introductions were offered. I could only assume they were George and Tom, Evie’s closest colleagues.
‘Take what you want,’ Nigel said, flinging one arm in the direction of Evie’s belongings. He seemed delighted that I had scuttled after him.
‘Not much, is there?’ I was surprised that Evie’s desk was so bare. The only non-work-related thing I could see was a small poster with Van Gogh’s Starry Night on the front and a packet of mints. Not exactly a huge selection.
‘Do you mind giving me a few minutes?’ I said, trying to sound coaxing. ‘It’s just I’d like to remember Evie quietly …’
‘I thought you said she wasn’t dead.’
‘She isn’t,’ I growled, feeling my right arm twitch. Lorelei had taught me how to throw a mean right hook and I was tempted to use it.
‘Ah, Mr Lytham, so that’s where you are. They’re waiting for you in the boardroom.’ A tiny blonde girl, presumably a secretary, had appeared in front of Nigel, holding a clipboard.
‘You go on, Nigel. I’ll help her out if there are any issues.’ One of the two men was speaking now but I had no idea if it was George or Tom.
‘All right, then,’ Nigel said, sniffing. ‘But remember what I said about all files being confidential.’
I nodded deferentially. ‘Of course.’
After Nigel had fucked off, the kind man stuck out his hand. ‘I’m George, by the way. So nice to meet you. You must be Rachel.’
‘Yes, I am. Evie told you about me, then?’
‘Of course. Famous author. We’re honoured.’
‘I don’t think he is.’ I nodded in the direction of Nigel’s retreating back.
‘Oh, pay no attention to him,’ George said, grinning. Under his breath, he added, ‘Bit of an arse.’
I sat at Evie’s desk, and drummed my fingers. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any way I could get into Evie’s emails, is there?’
George raised an eyebrow. ‘After what Ivan the Terrible just said on that subject?’
‘I know, but …’
‘Don’t think so,’ George said, writing something quickly, then dropping it casually on Evie’s keyboard.
‘Well, I’m just off for a coffee,’ he declared loudly. ‘You coming, Tom?’
The other man, who had yet to introduce himself, glanced up at his colleague, then over at me. ‘Oh, right, sure,’ he said, the penny dropping. As they were leaving, George whispered, ‘I’d say you have about a quarter of an hour.’
When they were gone, I grabbed the piece of paper and read it. Good boy, I thought. George had supplied me with the password to get into Evie’s computer, as well as her username. I powered it up, quick as I could, then logged in. Instantly dozens of emails swam in front of my eyes and, without wasting any time, I began searching for my three main suspects: my father, Donnagh and Artie.
Much to my dismay, each name drew a blank. Evie clearly didn’t mix work correspondence with play. Although, given that she had a boss like Nigel, it was hardly surprising.
After giving up on the emails, I began flicking through some of the folders on Evie’s desktop, hoping to find a Word document or jpeg that might give me some clues. But pretty soon I realized it was a hopeless task. Going through all Evie’s files would take ages and I reckoned I had only a few more minutes before Nigel reappeared.
I threw a pen at the dividing wall of Evie’s cubicle and sighed. Why was it that nothing I did seemed to work out? Why was everything so bloody hard?
All of a sudden, I heard somebody cough beside me and I glanced up.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I stuttered, putting my hand to my heart. ‘I thought you were Nigel.’
‘Don’t worry. Nigel’s still in that meeting. I’m Tom.’ He stuck out his hand and I shook it, taking in his appearance as I did so.
He was short and balding, dressed in the uniform of all men in the creative sector: jeans, with runners and a hoodie. The slogan on his top read: ‘Have you switched it off and on again?’
‘So, let me guess,’ I said. ‘You’re the IT guy, right?’
‘Yeah,’ Tom said. ‘As well as the graphic-design guy, the audio-visual guy, the content-marketing guy …’
‘Nigel’s quite the slave-driver, I take it?’
Tom tossed his eyes to Heaven. ‘You could say that, yes.’
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then: ‘So how’s she doing? Eve, I mean.’
‘The same,’ I replied. ‘Still in a coma.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that, Rachel,’ he replied, looking genuinely forlorn.
‘Everything okay back here?’ George said, arriving at his desk with a takeaway coffee, glancing from side to side.
‘Fine,’ I said, switching off Evie’s computer. I didn’t want to admit the whole thing had been a fiasco. Not after George had been so lovely.
The three of us stood there for a few seconds in awkward silence. Everything seemed so confusing right now.
‘Did either of you think Eveline was a bit off before the accident? Was she acting strangely or out of character?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ said George, scratching his head and looking vaguely uncomfortable. Tom just shook his head.
‘And this Donnagh guy. Did you meet him? Did they seem happy?’
Tom cleared his throat. ‘He popped into the office once or twice but that was it. She didn’t seem unhappy.’
‘Okay,’ I said, crestfallen. Yet another blind alley. Where did my sister actually reveal herself, if not at work or at home?
‘Do you know if she was depressed? Or took a lot of drugs?’ I couldn’t believe I’d just asked that question, but now that it was out I was relieved. I couldn’t keep tiptoeing around the situation.
George glanced nervously at Tom. ‘Maybe a bit,’ he said, still scratching his head. ‘As for being depressed, who isn’t? Especially if you work in this place.’ He attempted a smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Please, George, please tell me anything you think would be helpful. I’m working almost entirely in the dark here. I feel as if I don’t know who my sister was.’ The last few words were wobbly, and I could see panic descend over George’s face for fear I might start blubbing.
‘Look, Rachel,’ he lowered his voice, ‘Eve struck me as the kind of person who had her demons, but she never opened up about that kind of thing. We had a laugh here, occasionally went for a pint after work, but that was it. We didn’t do deep and meaningful with each other.’
‘Okay,’ I said, thankful he’d told me that much at least.
Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘I did think it strange she was in a relationship with Donnagh Flood, though. When she was originally asked to inte
rview him she refused. Looked like she was going to vomit at the thought, actually.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. But obviously something must have changed – I’m not sure what.’
I looked at Tom, who was nodding. ‘Tom, do you know anything? Anything at all that could help me.’
He pushed his glasses back against his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, I wish I did, but I can’t add anything to what George just said. Honestly, I can’t.’
‘Shit! Nigel’s coming back,’ George whispered. Both men immediately retreated to their desks and put on their headphones.
‘Collect your mementoes, Ms Darcy?’ Nigel boomed, casting me a look so smarmy I felt an instant desire to shower. When I looked down, I had nothing in my hands.
‘I couldn’t find one worthwhile thing to take from this office,’ I said, returning Nigel’s hostile look. ‘Funny that.’
‘You’ll probably want to leave,’ he said, ‘if we’ve proved to be such a waste of space.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m going,’ I said, mouthing a silent thanks to George and Tom.
‘Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,’ I heard Nigel say, as I made my way to the lift. But I knew he was watching my arse as I went.
It was an hour later and I was back in the flat, curled up in an armchair. I’d been so distracted I’d barely noticed it, but now, for the first time, I realized how beautiful it was – antique, with a pastel blue finish – and I wondered if Evie had reupholstered it. It was the kind of thing she might have done at one of her evening classes.
The trip to the office had been such a massive waste of time. That numbskull, Nigel, had made me want to hit him, and even though George and Tom had been lovely, they’d offered no new information. Nothing that could help me, at any rate.
As I was thinking this, my phone started ringing, and my heart missed a beat. Could it be TBM? Had he somehow figured out my phone number now too? But when I glanced down I saw it was Jacob.
For a moment I wavered, a part of me desperate to speak to him, but in the end I let it go to voicemail. About a minute later, my phone pinged, alerting me to a new text message: Rachel, I need to talk to you urgently. Ring me back.
I gazed at my phone, my fingers hovering over the dial button. It made me shake just to contemplate it, but I knew I should do as he asked – I should talk to Jacob. However, at that moment I heard a key in the lock – Donnagh’s – and then his voice booming into the silence: ‘Rachel, you home?’
Sisters and Lies Page 20