‘And a gambler,’ said Archie.
‘It’s so easy to hide. It’s not like being an alcoholic, when you can tell if someone’s been drinking. Of course, I could sometimes tell by his moods whether he’d won or lost, but what I had no idea about was the amount of money he was putting on. Thousands. Thousands and thousands.’
‘Ouch.’ The most Archie had ever put on was fifty quid.
Emmie looked down at her lap. ‘I didn’t read the warning signs. I trusted him too much. He helped me with the business. Well, of course he did – he wanted to get his hands on ready cash. And to be fair, with his help, I did really well. He helped me to apply for a bank loan, and a grant, and found me a workshop, and did all my publicity – he had loads of posh contacts, and they started coming to me for hats. And he made me charge properly for them – hundreds of pounds – and they were happy to pay. And suddenly I was making a profit – a good one.’
‘You’ve obviously got a talent.’
‘Yes. But spotting a con man isn’t one of them.’ A bitterness had crept into Emmie’s tone, which didn’t suit her. ‘One day he emptied my bank account. I’d been stupid enough to make him a signatory. Turns out he had a tip from a stable lad. A dead cert.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘No. Especially in this case. The horse didn’t even make it out of the starting gate.’ Emmie paused. She was finding this part of the story hard to tell. ‘And I lost eleven thousand pounds of hard-earned money that was going to be a deposit on a shop.’
‘Oh dear.’ That seemed like a massive underreaction, but Archie wasn’t sure what else to say. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t premeditated. I’m sure it just happened. That one day he just couldn’t help himself. That’s what happens to addicts.’
He said this as if he had expert inside knowledge, which he didn’t.
‘Either way, I lost everything. My money. And him. Of course, he made me all sorts of promises, about it never happening again, but the trust was gone. I couldn’t give him a second chance. Could I?’
‘No.’ Archie was very definite. ‘It’s too much responsibility for you and too much temptation for him. You did the right thing. He sounds a bit of a cad.’
A cad? Where did that word spring from? Why was he talking like Bertie Wooster all of a sudden? Because Emmie was sitting there as if she had stepped from the pages of PG Woodhouse, that’s why. She looked as if she was off to spend the weekend at a house party in the country. He imagined a Silver Shadow Rolls Royce drawing up at the station, and an elegant friend jumping out to collect her, complete with a saluki on a lead.
‘A cad?’ She was laughing now, which was good. ‘Anyway, listen – I’m sorry. I think I needed to get that off my chest.’
‘It’s fine. I understand. It passed the time.’
There was an awkward silence. Emmie cleared her throat.
‘Are you . . . are you missing your friend?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.’ Archie looked down. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m going to be very good company on this trip.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
On impulse, Emmie leaned forward and laid her hands over his. Archie froze. He realised this was the first physical contact he’d had with anyone since Jay’s death, apart from the occasional pat on the arm or handshake. As an executor to Jay’s will, and the one to whom he had entrusted everything, it had been weeks of paperwork, solicitors, accountants, bureaucracy, decisions, signatures, formalities.
Yet Archie wasn’t used to close contact and he felt a bit embarrassed. He disentangled his fingers, cleared his throat and picked up his glass.
‘Anyway, I think we both owe it to ourselves to make sure we enjoy this journey. Even if neither of us is here under ideal circumstances.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Emmie. ‘It’s the journey of a lifetime. Let’s forget the past for the time being and make the most of it.’
As the train wound its way through the Weald of Kent, where the blossom was just starting to unfurl and tiny lambs frolicked in the fields, the two of them chinked glasses over the table.
A
s the Pullman wound its way through the Garden of England towards the east coast, Imogen sat in the carriage named Zena, cocooned in the burnished glow of her art deco marquetry. The place setting opposite her had been tactfully removed, but in fact she didn’t mind being on her own. She was quite used to travelling solo on business, and had perfected the art of dining alone without feeling self-conscious.
While she ate her brunch, she drew out her iPad, eager to re-read the email she had received just before her head had finally hit the pillow the night before.
Dearest Imogen,
We were so thrilled to get your email and learn of your decision. We have long felt that Sabol and Oostermeyer could be your spiritual home, and we know we can give as much back to you as you can give to us. Surely the perfect working relationship?
Why don’t you get on a plane and come discuss it with us as soon as you can? There is a lot to talk about, and a lot we can help you with. We understand that this is a big change for you and we would like to do everything we can to make it a happy and stress-free change.
This is hugely exciting for us.
Let us know your plans.
With warmest regards
Kathy and Gina
This was the biggest decision she had ever made. It felt as if she were about to step off the edge of the world. She took a sip of her Bellini to quell her nerves. She was doing the right thing, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been to New York before. She and Adele went every other year. And Kathy Sabol and Gina Oostermeyer were almost like family. They would sweep her up and look after her in their inimitable way – she would be fussed over and paraded proudly and within two weeks she would feel like a native New Yorker. She imagined herself in an apartment in Manhattan, hailing a yellow cab, picking up her dinner from Dean and DeLuca, going out to the Hamptons with friends at the weekend, dressed for success, manicured and blow-dried, high heeled . . .
Exciting though the prospect was, it was also daunting. Imogen had lived in Shallowford all her life. She had always had her grandmother by her side. Not that she was in Adele’s shadow, or couldn’t make a decision without her, but Imogen recognised that perhaps her grandmother held too great an influence over her, even if it was subconscious on both of their parts.
There had never been any doubt in Imogen’s mind that she would follow her grandmother into the business. She had known it right from the start. She had ended up virtually living at Bridge House with her grandparents as a child, because her parents worked abroad so often. She went with Adele to picture sales, auctions, public galleries, private views. She went to the picture restorers and the picture framers, and learnt how to bring a painting back from the dead. At eighteen, she insisted she didn’t want to go to university. She wanted to start work in the gallery. But Adele had insisted equally forcefully that she should go and get some experience.
‘Coming straight to work for me would be far too claustrophobic. I want you to spend time with other people your age, get some independence. Broaden your mind. The art world is very small and insular, and if you are to be a success in it you need to develop other skills. You need to be influenced by people other than me. You need to question yourself, and other people.’
So Imogen had dutifully gone to study fine art. And the day after her graduation, she had presented herself in her grandmother’s gallery in Shallowford.
‘You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. I want to take over when you retire,’ she told her. ‘So I might as well start now.’
Adele had relented, with reluctance. ‘I’ll give you two years,’ she said.
Those two years, however, had grown into nine. Only now it was time to move on. The timing was perfect. Except for one small thing . . .
She wasn’t going to think about Danny. She wasn’t going to think about them laughing in bed while Top Cat kneaded the duvet with his paws, mewing indignantly above them. She wasn’t going to think about curling into him on the sofa with a glass of wine while they watched a movie. There was no point. They had no future together. It was just a fling. It had been breathtaking, but he didn’t want to be part of her world.
She pulled her iPad towards her, suddenly terrified that she was going to cry. What was she crying for? Danny McVeigh had been to
prison
, for heaven’s sake. How could she ever have imagined it would work? What they’d had was a temporary high. It was best to move on now, before the cracks appeared. At least this way they could preserve the memory.
Even if the memory made her feel unnaturally warm. Or was it the heating in the carriage that was making her cheeks pink? To distract herself, she pulled up her internet browser and typed
Jack Molloy
into the search engine. To her surprise, his name came up first on Wikipedia.
JACK WILLIAM MOLLOY (21 September 1924) is an Anglo-American art dealer, critic and curator.
Born in the United States, Molloy attended Trinity Pawling in Massachusetts and then the Ruskin School in Oxford. Whilst there he met the society heiress Rosamund Dulverton, whom he later married. He began work as an art dealer, and later became a respected curator. In the early 1960s he nurtured the young Reuben Zeale, putting together his first exhibition. He moved on to become an influential and respected, if sometimes savage, art critic, and made as many enemies as friends. He became a prominent media personality, and occupied a number of roles at the Arts Council as well as being a Trustee at the Tate Gallery. He was awarded a Golden Lion at the 1993 Venice Biennale for curating a retrospective of Reuben Zeale’s work.
His wife Rosamund died in 2003. They have three daughters: Silvestra, Melinda and Cecily.
Jack Molloy now lives on the Venetian island of Giudecca.
Imogen was fascinated. She felt she should have been aware of Jack Molloy’s existence. After all, Reuben Zeale was one of the most influential artists of the late twentieth century. His paintings – usually nudes or portraits – were extremely collectable. He had died in the early nineties, and the art world had considered his premature death a tragedy, though not surprising. Zeale’s lifestyle had been gruesomely unsustainable and at odds with the beauty of his work. He was a drunk, volatile, bisexual, bipolar – and vodka and anti-depressants were not good bedfellows. If Jack Molloy had been Zeale’s mentor, he hadn’t done a very good job of looking after him.
Imogen clicked onto
Images.
There were plenty of photos of Jack Molloy. He was an arresting man, tall, with a shock of black hair and eyes that looked right through you. As he grew older, his eyes had become hooded, but he still had a hypnotic gaze as he stared at the camera with a rather world-weary smile. There were frequently women in the photographs with him. Powerful, but manipulative, Imogen decided. And attractive. Although he wasn’t classically good-looking, she could sense his allure even from the photos.
He must be someone Adele had come across during her career. They were a similar age, after all. Were they friends? Business acquaintances? Or something more? And why had she been sent to collect the painting? Why didn’t Adele go, or simply have it sent over? Imogen sensed a story: something she was being drawn into.
She searched for
The Inamorata.
There was nothing relevant in the results that sprang up. Only the dictionary definition.
‘A woman with whom one is in love or has an intimate relationship.’
She closed down her browser, feeling slightly disconcerted, then leant her head back and shut her eyes. The late night combined with the Bellini was suddenly catching up with her. Who was Jack Molloy to Adele? And why did he have
The Inamorata
? She could feel herself drifting off as she wondered what the connection was.
A
dele stood on the platform at Filbury waiting for the train up to Paddington. She didn’t want to wait in the café, drinking undrinkable tea, in case someone she knew caught sight of her and wanted to engage her in conversation, which would mean she would have to start equivocating. Besides, it reminded her too much of
Brief Encounter,
and she had always thought Celia Johnson the most awful drip. She would have cheerfully pushed her under that train, she thought.
In the end, after much deliberation, she had rejected the shantung and decided to wear a two-piece suit. It seemed more businesslike than a dress. And besides, she knew it thoroughly became her; in mustard wool, the jacket was very fitted and showed off her waist, and the large buttons made it chic. With cream high heels, and a matching bag and gloves, she felt as confident as she was ever going to feel.
The train pulled in and Adele hurried up to the first-class carriage. Again, there was less chance of seeing someone she knew in here. She settled into her seat, and as the train pulled away she breathed in the smell of burning coke that drifted in through the open window. Only half a mile away, William would be examining patients in his surgery, oblivious to her incipient treachery.
Only it didn’t need to be treachery. Adele told herself that she didn’t need to go anywhere near the Savoy once she arrived at Paddington. She could go to an exhibition, or a show, or shopping, or call on one of several friends who would be only too pleased to see her. It would be a perfectly pleasant day out.
She couldn’t remember the last time William had taken her up to town. They used to go quite often, out for dinner and then maybe dancing, but their trips had dwindled of late, even though they should have increased now the boys were at school. Perhaps she should insist, or arrange it herself. But it was hard to know these days if he was going to be late home.
Just before midday she was at Paddington. She stood on the concourse for a moment, as men with bowler hats and young girls with cigarettes milled round her. Then she made her way out onto Praed Street. The traffic seemed heavier than ever – vans and Vespas jostled with taxis at the traffic lights. She found a cab with its light on and jumped in.