I smile back. ‘Well, what I wanted to say was –’
‘What did she mean about a red Whiteley?’
‘Hm?’ I pretend to study the Sandys again. ‘Oh, um John Porter. Do you know John? The conservator? He’s helping with the Landseer repair? John Porter is working on a Whiteley for a private client and we got into a discussion about Whiteley’s preferred colour palette and why he did those few red paintings.’
‘But it sounded like one red Whiteley in particular, “the problem of the red Whiteley,” that girl said.’
‘Semantics.’ I wave a dismissive hand. ‘Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I accept. I’d be delighted to work with you here, Barbara.’ It comes out in a bit of a rush but it has the desired effect.
‘Splendid! I wasn’t sure, but I’m so glad you’ve agreed, Alex. I have such plans and I know you’ll see my vision.’
I nod and grin like an idiot. Now that I’ve said it, it’s real, and the stress I’ve been feeling about Meredith and the job offer is swept away by a wave of excitement. At least I think so. When it comes to stress versus excitement, the two feelings aren’t all that different physically. It’s just the spin my brain is putting on the situation.
Barbara is still talking. ‘As soon as the exhibition is open and bedded down, we can get to work. When can you start? Next week?’
I hesitate, not wanting to look desperate. ‘If I can move a few things around that should be all right.’
‘Excellent.’ She grabs me in a hug, taking me by surprise so it’s a moment before I can relax my stiff arms and back enough to return the gesture. ‘We’re going to do great things.’
‘I’m keen to get started. Thank you again for believing in me.’
‘You’ve always been on my radar, Alex.’ She steps back and gives my shoulders a harder-than-necessary squeeze.
‘I should let you get back to all this,’ I say, gesturing around me. Then I turn and head for the exit.
‘Alex.’
I’m already halfway across the floor when she calls and when I turn, Helen of Troy looms over her shoulder and seems to be directing her sulky gaze straight at Barbara.
‘See you at the opening.’
I nod and raise a hand in farewell, and now the excitement is gone and I’m wondering if perhaps I’m doomed to be Cassandra.
There’s nothing for me to do here today, at least not in an official capacity, but I feel as though I can’t leave. Just in case something happens. It’s not as though I have any income-generating work to do. Even the scrappy weekly auctions won’t be on view for several days, so the only option is a ring-around of my long-standing clients to check if anyone is feeling in the mood to buy. I’m not quite that desperate, so I decide to find somewhere inconspicuous to sit and get a jump-start on my career as a curator by jotting down ideas for exhibitions and research. I figure I can position myself so I can sort of keep an eye on the comings and goings of the MIMA staff – or more particularly see who, if anyone, makes a trip to the storage area – but after scouting around I realise there’s nowhere short of sitting myself at Kev’s desk, and that hardly counts as inconspicuous. In the end I settle for the copy room, which is close enough to the elevator for me to monitor its travels, and I can sit there for ages without looking any dodgier than the average slacker. The only thing is, I have to jump up every time I hear the elevator to check which floors the car stops on.
I manage to pass a few hours like this, until I admit to myself the whole thing is a useless exercise. There’s no point to the list until I know what Barbara wants me to work on, and there’s no point watching the lights as an elevator moves between floors when I have no idea who or what is actually in the elevator. Slapping my notebook shut, I wander out of the copy room and head for the conservation studio. A couple of people pass me in the hallway, and it feels as though they’re staring especially hard. It could be the result of the gossip John and I have been trying to stir up, or maybe news has gotten out about my imminent appointment to staff. Or it might just be my paranoia.
When I poke my head around the door of the conservation studio, I’m surprised to see it looking empty, and for a moment I wonder if something else has happened and all staff have been sent away. Then I look toward the back corner and see John and Fiona still at work.
I start forward, then instantly stop; I’ve stepped in something. A broad layer of sand is spread just inside the doorway. Next to it is a small yellow A-frame sign with the words, caution, wet floor, and a picture of a person slipping over.
‘What happened?’ I call to John and Fiona.
They both turn to look at me.
‘John spilled some solvent,’ Fiona says. ‘And then he spent ages standing there warning everybody who came and went, even after we put the sand and sign out.’
I take an exaggerated step to avoid the rest of the sand and head toward John and Fiona. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘Special meeting with some sort of counsellor to make sure everyone’s basically okay after Meredith’s death,’ John says, then turns to Fiona. ‘Which you should have gone to.’
‘This has to be finished.’ She shrugs and turns back to the canvas.
‘Fiona.’ I stop a few steps away. ‘Maybe John’s right.’
‘I’m fine.’ She wipes the back of her left wrist across the side of her forehead. ‘I’m better off working rather than having some stranger ask me how I feel.’
John looks at me and shrugs. ‘I tried to tell her I could finish the in-painting and that maybe a person wouldn’t know she needed to talk about it until she was actually given the chance, but Fiona won’t have a bar of it.’
‘I’m right here you know.’ Fiona rests her brush on a tray and turns, looking first at John, then at me, eyes stretched wide as if to prove their tearless status.
I hold up both hands. ‘Sorry. Not my business.’
‘But you were working closely with Meredith, so you must feel like shit. No one will condemn you for letting a bit of emotion show. And yes, since we’ve been working together these last few days, I do feel it’s my business.’ John gives a single emphatic nod of his head.
Fiona puts both hands up to her face. ‘Maybe when this is over. I know Meredith would have been all about the work first, so that’s what I’m doing.’ She looks up and bites her lip, eyes still big, but now suspiciously shiny.
John puts an arm around her shoulder. ‘I’m just worried about you. But do what you need to do, as long as you don’t push yourself too hard, and promise me you’ll talk to someone if you need to.’
Fiona nods and sniffs and we all stand there awkwardly. I glance toward the corner; the paint, and the footprint in it, is gone.
‘It’s been cleaned,’ I say.
‘About time,’ Fiona replies.
John gives me a minute shrug and grimace. ‘Must’ve got to it last night.’
Damn. I should have taken a picture, but it’s too late now. I sigh and step up closer to the canvas. ‘So, show me what you’ve been doing.’
‘Fiona’s nearly done with the painting, so then we’ll just need to give it a few hours before we varnish.’
‘But the whole thing won’t actually be dry for a few days, right?’
‘Right, but it will be fine for the exhibition tomorrow night. You’d have to look hard and look at exactly the right bit of the painting to notice anything. And with the great work Fiona’s done, even then it would be difficult.’ John sounds a bit overly hearty, but the painting is looking really good.
I look at my watch. There’s still a few hours left of the working day. ‘So will you be wrapping up a bit early today?’
‘What do you think, Fiona? Finish the painting and then leave the varnish till first thing tomorrow? Makes sense.’
I’m thinking Fiona really needs to go home early. The more I look at the poor girl, the mor
e I’m convinced that she’s struggling to put a brave face on things. From John’s tone, I figure he thinks the same thing.
‘Shall I leave you to get back to the painting then? John, I can meet you in the carpark at say, three-thirty. Would that work?’
‘Yup, we’ll be done and tidied up by then, no trouble. By the way, did you get my message earlier?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I try to keep the sarcastic edge from my tone and mostly succeed. ‘I was with Barbara when your lackey found me and she was most interested in the red Whiteley.’
John grins and is about to reply when Fiona lets out a choked sob and pushes past us, running for the storeroom. John and I stare at each other for a moment.
‘When Giles called everyone for this counselling thing, he told us the police have ruled it a suicide,’ says John. He turns to stare at the door Fiona just used, a frown creasing his forehead.
‘Huh,’ I say. ‘Did he tell you what –’
‘The autopsy found she’d swallowed ethylene glycol.’
‘Wait, what? The stuff you put in your car radiator? Antifreeze?’
‘It’s also in paint solvents, like Cellosolve. It wasn’t a huge amount, apparently, but enough.’
‘Doesn’t mean she took it voluntarily.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ John sighs. ‘And according to the cops, that also explains the mess. You take that stuff and it’s like you’re drunk. Or heavily intoxicated, to use the coroner’s words.’
‘They think Meredith staggered around for a while and tripped over the bin or something?’
John nods. ‘Apparently it could have been a while before she slipped into a coma or … But it doesn’t really explain the Alizarin Crimson all over the floor. Or maybe it does. Who knows what you might do if you were off your head to that degree?’ He’s quiet for a moment. ‘But at least I’ve made some progress on another front.’ He’s still staring toward the storeroom.
‘Yeah, Man Proposes is looking great.’
‘Not that. My little experiment.’ John gestures at the sandy doorway.
‘Huh?’
‘I deliberately dropped the solvent. Then I stood there so I could check out everyone’s footprints in the sand. And now I know what sort of shoe made the print you saw in the paint.’
I stare at him for a moment. ‘That is bloody genius.’
John buffs his nails on his shirt, then blows on them.
‘So? Tell me! What sort of shoe is it?’
‘The good news is, that distinctive print is made by a Converse sneaker.’
‘You said that guy with the ponytail – Phil – was wearing Converse! I think I saw him today, too!’
‘Yep, he was the one who tracked through my sand trap.’
‘Shit.’ I run my hands through my hair. ‘That was such a brilliant idea.’
‘Yeah, I thought so too. It’s not definitive proof that Phil’s involved, but it’s pretty damning.’
A muffled sob comes from the storeroom.
‘We have to talk to Giles about Phil, but right now, it sounds like I’d better let you sort Fiona out.’ I clap him on the shoulder and turn for the main door.
John glances from me to where Fiona disappeared, a wide-eyed look on his face. ‘Alex –’
‘Sorry, John.’ I shake my head. ‘You know her better and you also know I am not very good at girly confidences, while you – I hate to say it, but it’s true – have considerable experience with emotional women.’
He sighs and flaps his hand, signalling I should go. ‘This could take a while. Better make it quarter past four in the carpark.’
I lift a hand in acknowledgement but don’t turn around as I lengthen my stride, leaving before John can change his mind.
***
At four-fifteen I’m lounging against the back of the van hoping John isn’t going to keep me waiting too long. The carpark has emptied out quite a bit, most visitors to the Museum presumably trying to beat the peak hour rush, and the air is heavy with exhaust fumes. It’s also still very warm, but now the heat has lost its dry edge and I wonder if it’s a sign we’re finally going to get some of that promised rain. For a moment I consider going back and waiting at the top of the stairs in the fresh air, but I don’t move. Murphy’s law says the moment I disappear into the stairwell will be the moment John steps out of the elevator. I don’t want to phone and look clingy, especially if he’s in the middle of something. Instead I flip through my notebook, glancing randomly at various ideas and jottings without really giving them much thought. I’m trying to look as if I’m supposed to be here meeting someone, instead of just loitering with intent, waiting for a quiet moment to boost a car. Maybe I should assuage the concern of passers-by with a sigh, an eyeroll and the breezy excuse, ‘Locked the keys in’. But then again, there are no passers-by. I sigh anyway and look at my watch: four twenty-five.
It’s quiet down here. I can hear the hum of traffic out on Southbank Boulevard where the carpark empties back into the life of the city; there is a stuttering buzz emanating from one of the nearby fluorescent lights and somewhere in the distance, the steady drip of water. Occasionally the elevator dings, footsteps sound, a car door slams and an engine rumbles to life, then the quiet re-establishes itself. Pushing my butt off the back of the van, I take a few steps down the lane of cars and empty spaces until I can see the glass door to the stairs. As I stand there staring, the elevator pings again and when I hear the double chirp of a car’s electronic lock, I turn to head back to my place against the van. Just as I get there, I hear a door open and close. It seems like it came from the direction of the stairs, but the way sound bounces down here I can’t be sure.
‘John?’
I crane my head back toward the stairs, but from here my view is obscured by cars and a concrete pillar. After a moment of nothing happening I give up and lean back on the van. Then I see John, stepping into the lane from between the parked cars. His shoulders are rounded, he’s taken off his glasses and his footsteps are slow and a bit erratic. John’s exhausted. He still hasn’t noticed me propped against the van, so I take the opportunity to study my friend. I think I can detect a few small patches of grey in his rumpled, sandy brown hair, and there is a shadow across his jaw. I hope it’s not the beginnings of a van Dyck beard, John’s go-to style when he’s feeling the angst-ridden artist. Most of all, I notice how tired his eyes are looking and it makes me wish I could fast-forward to the day when Sue is out of his life and he can breathe again.
Further down the lane, a car pulls out of a space and turns toward us, heading for the exit. Its engine pulses with the throatier note of diesel fuel as it slowly begins to pick up speed.
‘Car coming, John.’
John looks up and I flap my hand sideways, signalling him to move to the edge of the lane. ‘Car.’
As the word leaves my mouth, there is a sudden roar and the car leaps forward, barrelling toward John, who has stopped to look over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching kidney-like grille of a BMW. My brain is trying to process the situation – does the driver not see John? Is it an old person who meant to hit the brake? – and at the same moment I am sprinting, reaching for my best friend.
‘John!’ I’m not sure if I scream it out loud or just in my head, but I know I won’t get there in time.
There is an odd thump and then I’m watching the navy-blue Beemer flash past, tinted windows obscuring my view of the driver. I don’t wait to see it leave the carpark; across the lane, John is on the ground, not moving. An image of Edouard Manet’s The Dead Toreador flashes into my mind and I push it away.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’ I run toward John, looking left and right, but no one is around to help, no one to be a witness, no one but me and my still-unmoving friend. I have my phone out to dial triple zero but I’m not sure how it got into my hand.
‘Ow, fuck.’ John’s right arm bend
s at the elbow, comes up to his temple.
‘John? John.’ I skid to a stop and drop to my knees next to him. ‘Don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘I think I’m okay. Just – ow!’
‘Did you hit your head? Can you move your feet? I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘Shhh. Just a sec. Help me sit up.’
‘Are you sure? What if you have a spinal injury?’
‘Alex, it’s okay. I mostly got out of the way. It just clipped my hip and knocked me down. Arsehole. Not you, the driver.’
I put an arm around John’s shoulder and carefully ease his torso upright. He sits there, both legs sticking out in front of him like a discarded marionette. I sit next to him and realise I am shaking all over.
‘Are you sure I shouldn’t call an ambulance? You might have broken something.’
‘I’m pretty sure there’s nothing broken, but give me a minute and then we can see what happens when I try to stand.’
I tip my head back and blink fast and hard, take a couple of shuddering breaths. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘For a moment I thought I was too. If you hadn’t shouted I probably would be.’ He wipes a hand slowly down his face, then offers me a weak grin. ‘It was a dark car, right? So at least I know it wasn’t Sue. Unless she borrowed it. But I’d be really upset if it had been a white BMW.’
‘I can imagine. And let’s not even think about whether the car insurance would cover damage sustained when a wife tries to mow her husband down with the family sedan, which means this must be just the curse of Man Proposes, God Disposes, rather than the actions of a disgruntled spouse.’
‘Of course! The curse. It was funnier when I was only pretending to be a potential victim.’
We sit there, leaning our shoulders together and not speaking. John’s breathing settles, my heart rate drops, and we keep sitting there.
‘Was that deliberate?’ John doesn’t look at me but turns to stare in the direction the car travelled.
Painting in the Shadows Page 19
